Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1886-10-13
Tales aud Sketfhes.
I'm VINTAGE TIME. +"
An UNPUBLISHED PosTHUMoUs SKETCH
BY NINE. GEORGE SAND.

Translated By Len Vanderpoole for the
". 7. Star.
Since she was a wee, toddling babe,
Lucetie had been worker in the vine
Yards. So had her mother and her grand
mother before her. Once their family had
been noble, even great; but one of those
mighty commissions which have so often
shaken France, robbed their greatest an
cestor of everything, save his wife and
children. After that they were peasants.
but remnant of the proud old blood still
ran in their veins. now and then burning in
one or another of them as it did in the
days of the familv's ancient glory. So it
was with Lucette. From the days of her
childhood, when, beside her mother, the
purple fruit had been slowly and YEARLY
stripped from the vines by her little fat
brown hands, she was never like the chill.
dren of other peasants, and never like her
own brothers and sisters.
At no time would she gambol sport and
frolic with those who sought her tor play
or partnership. and there was ever a
fash in her eyes and a curl in her lips
which forbade familiarity.
So. like some hermit or founding forest
bird. she grew up by herselt-alone.
Except in the cold months she
always lived out OF DOORS so her
health was perfect. Despite the rough
life she lived and all her toiling in the
vineyards she was daintilv and exquisitely
shaped, and her hands were as tiny and
symmetrical as those OF any princess.
True, they were brown with the sunshine,
and so were her arms away above her
elbows for that matter; but no artist or
sculptor would ever have passed them by
unnoticed, without paying that fervent
tribute which is always the award Of gen
ius to elegance and beauty.
Sui no one up to her twentieth year
had ever dared tell her that she had unu-
sual beauty and grace. There was that
degree OF regality about her every move
ment, and that cold, quiet firmness in her
voice, which prevented pretty speeches,
even from her own family.
You must unbend," said her mother
one day, "else you will never get hus-
band
What do want with husband2 No
man shall ever call me wife - she cried,
her eyes glowing like the eyes of SER
peDt.
"How else shall you livep" reioined her
mother. a coarse woman, in whom there
was only plebeian blood and who had Only
plebian instincts. How shall you live
without a husbandp Your father and
cannot keep you always"
keep mel" exclaimed Lucette. keep
me! When my work in the vineyard is
not enough to pay you and my father for
the little have from you, tell me so and
| will 90 away-but not with husband"
After that she was left alone, but her
mother thought it extremely unreasonable
and ungirl-like in Lucette not to want
husband. Many a handsome, strapping
young peasant was madly in love with
her. and she might have looked even high.
er if she wished, for the sons of some of
the gentefolk were far from blind to her
stately charms. But that same stateliness.
in her cold face, firm mouth. and daunt-
between Lucette and her admirers.
Her parents and sisters made constant
clatter about her stubbornness, but, save
that once, when the girls angry eyes
seemed to burn into her mothers soul,
they were careful that none of their
grumbling reached the ears of Lucette.
Sometimes, when she was apart, bv
herself, in some shady corner of the vine
y ard, where the fragrant grapes and their
broad, green leaves hid her from the
curious eyes which otherwise were ever
bent upon her, warm, soft yearning ten
derness would rout all her pride and
hautour. and leave her face radiantly
beautiful. Rarely. very rarely. some one
saw her thus; and if it CHANGED to be a
man, ceaseless tumult came into his heart
Strangers. passing through the country
and pausing among the vineyards, struck
with her queenliness, would turn away
with sigh, when. in answer to their ques-
tons. they were told that she was "only a
common peasants daughter"
One of them, however, Cassaban, a
Spanish sculptor, sighed so deeply that his
heart chords never again ceased vibrating
But he was great artist, and came of a
grand old family whose pulses throbbed
with the crimson tide of royalty, his
grandfather having been king. So Casa
bans pride checked the passionate words
he would otherwise have said to Lucette
He hurried away from her, but he carried
her image with him. in his heart and in
his eyes, through all his wanderings
Italy and even Spain. his own beautiful
country, failed to solace him. The
spendors of his home seemed to
mock him. and the light words of his
old friends and companions. whose
tests and ribaldry once amused him,
now wounded him like so many knives
| In vain he locked himself in his studio
with his chisels and marble; he could only
think of the bronze woman whom he had
met among the grape shippers of France
She had only given him one look, and
that was such a look as a lion might give
to mouse. Hoping to make her talk, he
had asked her some question about the
vintage, which she answered briefly and
CO div. and then turned away and walked
off with firm steps and her round shoulders
drawn up proudly-just as some high
born queen might have gone from her
lowest mental. The Woman of Bronze
he had called her-she was so like the
statute of some unknown goddess whom
the fates had endowed with life: yet
when he went away, he left his heart in
her keeping.
The months came and went, more slow
" than ever before, it seemed to him anc
vintage time was coming again. The
nearer the anniversary of his last glimpse
at Lucette approached, the more Casaban':
melancholy deepened,
You are in love, my son." said hi:
mother one day. near midsummer.
| put his nride sill daterred him from