_Done into English by the Editor_
The Iceland ships were returning--two the second day, four the next,
and twelve during the week following. And throughout the country joy
returned with them--there was happiness for the wives and mothers;
happiness too in the taverns where the pretty Paimpol girls served
drink to the fishermen.
The _Léopoldine_ was in the group of belated ones; there were
still ten missing. They could not be long now, and Gaud, in the
thought that Yann would be there within a week--an extreme of delay
which she allowed for so as not to be disappointed--was in a delicious
intoxication of expectancy, keeping the home well in order--very clean
and very neat--to receive him.
Everything being in readiness, there was nothing more for her to do;
besides, in her impatience her head could hold only the one thought.
Three more of the tardy ships now arrived, and then five. Only two
were wanting from the muster.
“Come!” they said to her laughingly, “this year it is either the
_Léopoldine_ or the _Marie-Jeanne_ that will have to stay
behind 'to sweep up.’”
And Gaud laughed--even she--more animated and more beautiful in her joy
of anticipation.
Meanwhile the days passed by.
She continued to dress every day, to put on a gay air, to go to the
harbor a-gossiping with the others. She said that it was all quite
natural, this delay. Didn’t they see the same thing every year? Oh, as
to their coming back at all--with such good sailors, and two such good
boats!
Afterwards, when she was back home at night, the old shiver of anxiety,
of anguish, would come over her.
Could it be really possible that she began to fear--already? Was there
any cause for fear? And she trembled, for having so soon been afraid.
The tenth of September! How the days flew by!
One morning when there was a cold mist over the earth, a true autumn
morning, the rising sun found her early seated under the porch of the
chapel of the shipwrecked mariners, at the place where the widows go
to pray--seated, she was, with eyes fixed and temples tense as though
held in a band of iron.
Two days ago these melancholy mists of dawn had begun, and on this
particular morning Gaud had awakened with a more poignant inquietude,
caused by this impression of winter. Why was it so this day, this hour,
this moment, more than the preceding? She knew well enough that boats
were often two weeks late--even a month.
But there was something different about this particular morning,
without doubt, for she had come to-day for the first time to sit under
the chapel porch and reread the names of the young men who had died.
IN MEMORY OF
GAOS, YVON,
LOST AT SEA
NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD.
Like a great shudder, a gust of wind was heard rising from the sea, and
at the same time something fell like rain upon the roof: it was the
dead leaves. A whole host of them were blown in at the porch; the old
wind-tossed trees of the graveyard were losing their foliage, stripped
by this gale from the sea. Winter was coming.
LOST AT SEA,
NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD,
IN THE STORM OF THE 4TH AND 5TH OF AUGUST, 1880.
She read mechanically, and through the arch of the doorway her eyes
sought to pierce the distance over the sea: that morning it was very
vague, under the gray mist, and a suspended cloud-drapery trailed over
the horizon like a great mourning-veil.
Another gust of wind, and other dead leaves came dancing in. A stronger
squall, as if the west wind that had strewn these dead over the sea
wished to torment even the inscriptions which recalled their names to
the living.
Gaud looked with involuntary persistence at an empty space upon the
wall which seemed to wait with terrible expectancy; she was pursued by
the thought of a fresh slab that might perhaps soon be placed there,
with another name which even in spirit she did not dare repeat in such
a place.
She felt cold, but remained seated on the granite bench, her head
thrown back against the stone wall.
... LOST NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD,
IN THE STORM OF THE 4TH AND 5TH OF AUGUST,
AT THE AGE OF 23 YEARS,
MAY HE REST IN PEACE!
Iceland appeared to her, with its little cemetery--Iceland far, far
away, lighted from below the sea-line by the midnight sun ... and
suddenly--still in the same empty space on the wall which seemed to
be waiting--she saw with horrifying clearness the vision of that new
slab she had imagined: a fresh tablet, a death’s-head and cross-bones,
and in the centre, within a flame, a name--the adored name of _Yann
Gaos_! Then she drew herself up straight and stiff, with a hoarse,
wild cry in her throat like a mad creature.
Without, the gray dawn-mist still hung over the earth, and the dead
leaves continued to come dancing into the porch.
Steps on the foot-path!--Was somebody coming?--Then she arose
quickly, with a swift movement readjusting her coif, and composed her
countenance. The footsteps came nearer, as though they would enter. At
once she assumed the air of being there by chance. Not for anything in
the world would she as yet seem like the widow of a shipwrecked mariner.
It was only Fante Floury, the wife of the mate on the
_Léopoldine_. She understood at once what Gaud was doing there; it
was useless to dissemble with her. And at first they stood mute, the
one before the other, these two women; all the more alarmed and angry
at being entrapped while in the same mood of fear, they almost hated
each other.
“All those from Tréguier and from Saint-Brieuc have been back for
a week,” said Fante at last, pitilessly, in a voice low and almost
irritated. She carried a taper, meaning to make a votive offering.
Ah! Yes! a votive offering--Gaud had not wished to think as yet of that
last resort of the desolate. But she entered the chapel behind Fante,
without saying anything more, and they knelt side by side, like two
sisters.
To the Virgin, Star of the Sea, they said their passionate prayers with
all their hearts. But only the sound of sobs was heard, and their rapid
tears began to fall upon the floor.
They arose together, more tender, more confident. Fante aided the
tottering Gaud, and, taking her in her arms, she kissed her.
After wiping away their tears, arranging their hair, and brushing the
saltpetre and dust of the flagstones from their skirts at the knees,
they went away without saying anything more, by different paths.
* * * * *
This September’s close was like another summer, only it was somewhat
melancholy. The weather was really so beautiful this year that had
it not been for the dead leaves that fell in a mournful shower along
the roadways one might have said that it was the gay month of June.
Husbands, fiancés, sweethearts, had all returned, and everywhere was
the joy of a second spring-time of love.
At last one day one of the delayed ships from Iceland was signalled in
the offing. Which one?
On the cliff, groups of mute and anxious women quickly formed. Gaud was
there, trembling and pale, by the side of the father of her Yann.
“I firmly believe,” said the old fisher--“I firmly believe it’s them! A
red sail, a topsail that clews up--that’s jolly well like them anyhow.
What do you say, Gaud, my girl?
“And yet--it isn’t,” he went on, with sudden discouragement; “no, we’ve
made a mistake again, the boom isn’t the same, and they have a flying
jib. Well, well, it isn’t them this time, it’s the _Marie-Jeanne_.
Oh! but very surely, my girl, they’ll not be long now.”
* * * * *
And day followed day, and each night came at its appointed hour, with
inexorable tranquillity.
Gaud continued to dress every day, somewhat like a mad woman, always in
fear of seeming to be the widow of a shipwrecked sailor, exasperated
when others glanced at her compassionately and furtively, and looking
aside so that she might not meet those glances that froze her very
blood.
Now she had fallen into the habit of going of mornings right to the
end of the headland on the high cliffs of Pors-Even, passing behind
Yann’s paternal home so as not to be seen by his mother or his little
sisters. She went all alone to the extreme point of the Ploubazlanec
land, which is outlined in the shape of a reindeer’s horn against the
gray Channel, and sat there all day long at the foot of a lonely cross,
which rises above the immense expanse of waters.
There are many of these granite crosses hereabout, set up on the
uttermost cliffs of this land of mariners, as though to implore
mercy,--as though to appease that restless, mysterious thing that
lures men away and never gives them back, and by preference keeps the
bravest, the noblest.
Around this cross of Pors-Even stretched evergreen moors, carpeted
with short rushes; and at this great height the sea air was very pure,
having scarcely any of the briny smell of the seaweed, but perfumed
with the delicious ripeness of September.
Outlined in the far distance could be seen, one after another, all the
indentations of the coast, the land of Brittany terminating in ragged
edges which stretched far out into the tranquil void of the waters.
Near at hand the reefs riddled the sea, but out beyond nothing troubled
its polished mirror. There sounded over all a soft, caressing murmur,
light and infinite, arising from the deeps of its every bay. And the
distance seemed so calm, and the depths so soft! The great blue void,
the tomb of the Gaos family, guarded its inscrutable mystery while the
breezes, faint as human sighs, wafted here and there the perfume of the
gorse, which had bloomed again in the latest autumn sun.
At certain hours regularly the sea retreated, and shallow places grew
larger everywhere, as if the Channel were slowly emptying itself; then,
with the same lazy slowness, the waters rose again, and continued their
eternal going and coming without any heed of the dead.
And Gaud, seated at the foot of the cross, remained there, in the midst
of these tranquil scenes, gazing ever before her, until the night fell,
until she could see no more.
* * * * *
September had passed. Gaud could no longer take any nourishment, she
could no longer sleep.
She remained at home now, and sat crouching with her hands between her
knees, her head thrown back and leaning against the wall behind. What
was the good of getting up, what was the good of going to bed? When
she was too much exhausted she threw herself dressed upon her bed.
Otherwise she always remained seated, benumbed; her teeth chattered
with cold, in her stony quiet; always she had that sense of a band of
iron round her brows; her cheeks felt drawn, her mouth was dry, with
a feverish taste, and at times a raucous groan rose from her breast,
spasmodically repeated again and again, while she beat her head against
the granite wall.
Or else she called Yann by his name, very tenderly, in a low voice, as
if he were quite close, and whispered to him words of love.
Sometimes she would think of other things besides him--of many little,
insignificant things; she would amuse herself, for example, by watching
the shadow of the china Virgin and the holy-water basin lengthen slowly
over the high woodwork of her bed as the sun went down. And then the
thoughts of anguish returned with more horror, and her cry broke forth
again while she beat the wall with her head.
And so all the hours of the day passed, one after the other, and all
the hours of the evening, and all those of the night, and all those of
the morning. When she had reckoned how long it was since he ought to
have been back, a still greater terror laid hold upon her; she wished
to forget all about the dates and even the names of the days.
* * * * *
Usually there are some indications concerning the wrecks off Iceland:
those who return have seen the tragedy from afar; or else they have
found some wreckage, or a dead body, or have some sign from which to
divine the facts. But no, of the _Léopoldine_ nothing had been
seen, nothing was known. The men of the _Marie-Jeanne_, 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 mystery was
unfathomable.
Waiting, always waiting, without knowing anything. When would the
moment come when she truly need wait no longer? She did not even know
that; and now she almost wished that it might be soon.
Oh! if he was dead, let them at least have pity enough to tell her!
Oh! to see him as he was at this very moment--him, or even what
remained of him! If only the Virgin, prayed to so often, or some other
such power, would grant her the blessing of showing him to her, by
some sort of second-sight--her Yann--him--living, struggling to return
to her--or else his body surrendered by the sea, so that she might at
least be sure, that she might know.
Sometimes she would suddenly have the feeling that a sail was appearing
on the rim of the horizon: the _Léopoldine_ approaching,
hastening home! Then she would make the first involuntary movement to
rise, and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true.
She would fall back. Alas! where was the _Léopoldine_ now? Where
could it be? Out afar, doubtless, at that awful distance of Iceland,
abandoned, crushed, lost!
And this ended in that never-fading vision, always the same: a wreck,
gaping and empty, rocked upon the silent sea of gray and rose--rocked
slowly, slowly, without sound--with an extreme of gentleness quite
ironical--in the midst of the vast calm of the dead waters.
* * * * *
Two o’clock in the morning.
It was at night especially that she held herself attentive to all the
steps that approached; at the least stir, at the slightest unaccustomed
sound, her temples vibrated; from being overstrained that they might
sense things from without, they had become terribly sensitive.
Two o’clock in the morning. This night as on others, hands clasped and
eyes open in the dark, she listened to the wind making its well-nigh
eternal moan over the earth.
Suddenly the steps of a man--rapid steps on the path! At such an hour,
who could be passing? She drew herself up, stirred to the deeps of her
soul, her heart ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door; some one mounted the small stone
steps.
He! Oh! joy of heaven, he! Some one had knocked, could it be any other!
She was up, barefooted; she, so feeble for so many days, had sprung up
nimbly as a cat, her arms outstretched to wind round her well-beloved.
Without doubt the _Léopoldine_ had come in at night, and anchored
opposite Pors-Even Bay; and he--he had rushed home; she arranged all
this in her mind with the swiftness of lightning. And now she tore her
fingers upon the spikes of the door--in her fury to draw the bolt it
had stuck.
Ah!... And now she slowly moved back, crushed, her head fallen upon
her breast. Her sweet mad dream was over. It was no one but Fantec,
their neighbor. She could just comprehend that it was not he, her Yann,
that no part of his being had passed through the air; she felt herself
plunged again into her old abyss, to the uttermost depths of her same
awful despair.
He apologized, poor Fantec: his wife, as Gaud knew, was very ill, and
now their baby was suffocating in its cradle, seized with a malignant
sore throat; so he had come to beg for help, while he ran to hunt up
the doctor at Paimpol.
What did all this matter to her? She had gone mad in her grief, she had
nothing left to offer to others in distress. Huddled on a bench, she
sat before him with eyes glazed, as one dead, not answering him, not
hearing him, not even looking at him. What were these things to her
that the man was saying!
He understood it all; he divined why the door had been opened to him so
quickly, and he had pity for the pain he had brought about.
He stammered out an apology: Just so; he ought never to have disturbed
her--her especially.
“I!” replied Gaud quickly, “and why not I, Fantec?”
Life had returned to her suddenly, for still she did not want to appear
despairing before the eyes of others--for that she was quite unwilling.
And besides, in her turn she pitied him; she dressed to accompany him
and found strength to go see his little child.
* * * * *
When she returned to throw herself upon her bed, at four o’clock, sleep
laid hold upon her in a moment, for she was utterly fatigued. But that
moment of immense joy had left upon her mind an impression which, in
spite of all, was persistent; she awoke soon with a shudder, rising a
little, as remembering something.... She had some news concerning her
Yann.... In the midst of this confusion of ideas which came back to
her, rapidly she searched and searched her mind for what it could have
been.
Ah! nothing, alas, nothing but Fantec!
And a second time she fell back to the depths of the old abyss. No, in
reality, nothing was changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Still, to have felt Yann there so close was as if some emanation from
him had come floating back to her; it was what they call in Breton land
a token; and she listened still more attentively for footsteps outside,
divining that some one would perhaps come who would talk to her of him.
And indeed, when the day broke, Yann’s father entered. He took off his
cap, pushed back his beautiful white locks, which were in curls like
those of his son, and sat down beside Gaud’s bed.
His heart too was in agony, for his Yann, his splendid Yann, was his
first-born, his favorite, his glory. But he did not despair, not
really, he did not despair yet. He began to reassure Gaud in a very
gentle way: to begin with, the latest ones to return from Iceland
had all spoken of the extremely dense fogs which might easily have
delayed the vessel; and then too an idea had come to him: a stop-over
at the Faroes, which are islands situated on their route, at a great
distance; and when they sent letters from there, they took a long time
to come; the same thing had happened to himself forty years ago, and
his poor dead mother had already had a mass said for his soul.... And
such a good boat, was the _Léopoldine_, and all those aboard were
such able mariners.
Old Granny Moan walked around them, shaking her head; the distress of
her foster grand-daughter had almost given her back her own strength
and reason; she tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the
little faded portrait of her Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite
wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black beadwork; no,
since following the sea had robbed her of her grandson, she believed no
longer in the safe return of sailors; she now prayed to the Virgin only
from fear, with the outside of her poor old lips, cherishing in the
bottom of her heart a grudge against her.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings, her large
sunken eyes looking with deep tenderness upon this old sire who so
much resembled her well-beloved; just to have him near her was like a
hostage against death, and she felt more reassured, nearer to her Yann.
Her tears fell silently and more gently, and she repeated again her
passionate prayers to the Virgin, Star of the Sea.
A stop-over, 'way out at those islands, to repair damages, was a likely
event. She rose, brushed her hair, and made some sort of toilet, as if
he might possibly return. Doubtless all was not lost if his own father
did not yet despair. And for a few days she again took up her waiting.
It was full autumn now, late autumn--with the nightfalls gloomy,
and all things growing dark early in the old cottage, and all the
Breton land looking sombre, too. The very days seemed but twilight;
immeasurable clouds, slowly passing, would suddenly bring darkness
at broad noon. The wind moaned constantly--it was like the sound of
a great cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane airs, or
despairing dirges; at other times it would come close to the door, and
lift up a howl like wild beasts.
She had grown pale, pale, and became ever more dejected, as if old
age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Very often she
would finger the belongings of her Yann, his fine wedding clothes,
folding and unfolding them like some maniac--especially one of his blue
woolen jerseys, which still retained the form of his body; when thrown
gently on the table, it disclosed from long usage the outlines of his
shoulders and chest; but at last she placed it by itself on a shelf of
their wardrobe, never to remove it, so that it might long preserve that
impress.
Every evening cold mists rose from the ground; then through her little
window she would gaze over the melancholy land, where little patches
of white smoke began to rise here and there from other chimneys: the
rest of the men had returned, migratory birds driven home by the cold.
And before many of these fires the evenings would be sweet; for the
spring-time of love had begun with winter, in all this country of
“Icelanders”.
Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might perhaps
have put in, buoyed up by a kind of hope, she had again begun to expect
him.
* * * * *
He never returned.
One night in August, far away in the waters of gloomy Iceland, amid a
great fury of storm, he had consummated his Marriage to the Sea--to the
Sea which had been his nurse: it was she who had cradled him, who had
made him a big and strong youth, and afterward, in his superb manhood,
had taken him back again for herself alone.
A profound mystery had surrounded the unhallowed nuptials. All the
while, dark veils trembled overhead, moving and twisting curtains
were spread so as to conceal the ceremony; and the bride gave voice,
ever seeking with louder and more awful roars to stifle his cries....
He, thinking of Gaud, his mortal wife, had battled with giant strength
against this spouse of the tomb--until the moment when he at last
surrendered, with a great cry, deep as the roar of a dying bull, his
mouth already filled with water, his arms open, extended, and stiffened
forever.
And at his wedding were all those whom he had at one time invited.
All except Sylvestre, who himself had gone to sleep in the enchanted
gardens, far, far at the other side of the earth.