Four days of Jean Gourdon

== FOUR DAYS OF JEAN GOURDON ==
=== By Émile Zola ===
=== This translation from French appeared in International Short Stories in 1910 ===
=== I. SPRING ===
On that particular day, at about in the morning, the sun entered
with delightful abruptness into the little room I occupied at the house of my
uncle Lazare, parish priest of the hamlet of Dourgues. A broad yellow ray fell
upon ray closed eyelids, and I awoke in light.
My room, which was whitewashed, and had
deal furniture, was full of attractive gaiety. I went to the window and gazed
at the Durance, which traced its broad course amidst the dark green verdure of
the valley. Fresh puffs of wind caressed my face, and the murmur of the trees
and river seemed to call me to them.
I gently opened my door. To get out I had
to pass through my uncle's room. I proceeded on tip-toe, fearing the creaking
of my thick boots might awaken the worthy man, who was still slumbering with a
smiling countenance. And I trembled at the sound of the church bell tolling the
Angelus. For some days past my uncle Lazare had been following me about everywhere,
looking sad and annoyed. He would perhaps have prevented me going over there to
the edge of the river, and hiding myself among the willows on the bank, so as
to watch for Babet passing, that tall dark girl who had come with the spring.
But my uncle was sleeping soundly. I felt
something like remorse in deceiving him and running away in this manner. I
stayed for an instant and gazed on his calm countenance, with its gentle
expression enhanced by rest, and I recalled to mind with feeling the day when
he had come to fetch me in the chilly and deserted home which my mother's
funeral was leaving. Since that day, what tenderness, what devotedness, what
good advice he had bestowed on me! He had given me his knowledge and his kindness,
all his intelligence and all his heart.
I was tempted for a moment to cry out to
him:
"Get up, uncle Lazare! let us go for a
walk together along that path you are so fond of beside the Durance. You will
enjoy the fresh air and morning sun. You will see what an appetite you will
have on your return!"
And Babet, who was going down to the river
in her light morning gown, and whom I should not be able to see! My uncle would
be there, and I would have to lower my eyes. It must be so nice under the
willows, lying flat on one's stomach, in the fine grass! I felt a languid
feeling creeping over me, and, slowly, taking short steps, holding my breath, I
reached the door. I went downstairs, and began running like a madcap in the delightful,
warm May morning air.
The sky was quite white on the horizon,
with exquisitely delicate blue and pink tints. The pale sun seemed like a great
silver lamp, casting a shower of bright rays into the Durance. And the broad,
sluggish river, expanding lazily over the red sand, extended from one end of
the valley to the other, like a stream of liquid metal. To the west, a line of
low rugged hills threw slight violet streaks on the pale sky.
I had been living in this out-of-the-way
corner for ten years. How often had I kept my uncle Lazare waiting to give me
my Latin lesson! The worthy man wanted to make me learned. But I was on the
other side of the Durance, ferreting out magpies, discovering a hill which I
had not yet climbed. Then, on my return, there were remonstrances: the Latin
was forgotten, my poor uncle scolded me for having torn my trousers, and he
shuddered when he noticed sometimes that the skin underneath was cut. The
valley was mine, really mine; I had conquered it with my legs, and I was the
real landlord by right of friendship. And that bit of river, those two leagues of
the Durance, how I loved them, how well we understood one another when together!
I knew all the whims of my dear stream, its anger, its charming ways, its
different features at each hour of the day.
When I reached the water's edge on that
particular morning, I felt something like giddiness at seeing it so gentle and
so white. It had never looked so gay. I slipped rapidly beneath the willows, to
an open space where a broad patch of sunlight fell on the dark grass. There I
laid me down on my stomach, listening, watching the pathway by which Babet
would come, through the branches.
"Oh! how sound uncle Lazare must be
sleeping!" I thought.
And I extended myself at full length on the
moss. The sun struck gentle heat into my back, whilst my breast, buried in the
grass, was quite cool.
Have you never examined the turf, at close
quarters, with your eyes on the blades of grass? Whilst I was waiting for
Babet, I pried indiscreetly into a tuft which was really a whole world. In my
bunch of grass there were streets, cross roads, public squares, entire cities.
At the bottom of it, I distinguished a great dark patch where the shoots of the
previous spring were decaying sadly, then slender stalks were growing up,
stretching out, bending into a multitude of elegant forms, and producing frail
colonnades, churches, virgin forests. I saw two lean insects wandering in the
midst of this immensity; the poor children were certainly lost, for they went
from colonnade to colonnade, from street to street, in an affrighted, anxious way.
It was just at this moment that, on raising
my eyes, I saw Babet's white skirts standing out against the dark ground at the
top of the pathway. I recognized her printed calico gown, which was grey, with
small blue flowers. I sunk down deeper in the grass, I heard my heart thumping against
the earth and almost raising me with slight jerks. My breast was burning now, I
no longer felt the freshness of the dew.
The young girl came nimbly down the
pathway, her skirts skimming the ground with a swinging motion that charmed me,
I saw her at full length, quite erect, in her proud and happy gracefulness. She
had no idea I was there behind the willows; she walked with a light step, she
ran without giving a thought to the wind, which slightly raised her gown. I
could distinguish her feet, trotting along quickly, quickly, and a piece of her
white stockings, which was perhaps as large as one's hand, and which made me
blush in a manner that was alike sweet and painful.
Oh! then, I saw nothing else, neither the
Durance, nor the willows, nor the whiteness of the sky. What cared I for the
valley! It was no longer my sweetheart; I was quite indifferent to its joy and
its sadness. What cared I for my friends, the stories, and the trees on the
hills! The river could run away all at once if it liked; I would not have
regretted it.
And the spring, I did not care a bit about
the spring! Had it borne away the sun that warmed my back, its leaves, its
rays, all its May morning, I should have remained there, in ecstasy, gazing at
Babet, running along the pathway, and swinging her skirts deliciously. For
Babet had taken the valley's place in my heart, Babet was the spring, I had
never spoken to her. Both of us blushed when we met one another in my uncle
Lazare's church. I could have vowed she detested me.
She talked on that particular day for a few
minutes with the women who were washing. The sound of her pearly laughter
reached as far as me, mingled with the loud voice of the Durance. Then she
stooped down to take a little water in the hollow of her hand; but the bank was
high, and Babet, who was on the point of slipping, saved herself by clutching
the grass. I gave a frightful shudder, which made my blood run cold. I rose hastily,
and, without feeling ashamed, without reddening, ran to the young girl. She
cast a startled look at me; then she began to smile. I bent down, at the risk
of falling. I succeeded in filling my right hand with water by keeping my
fingers close together. And I presented this new sort of cup to Babet' asking
her to drink.
The women who were washing laughed. Babet,
confused, did not dare accept; she hesitated, and half turned her head away. At
last she made up her mind, and delicately pressed her lips to the tips of my
fingers; but she had waited too long, all the water had run away. Then she
burst out laughing, she became a child again, and I saw very well that she was making
fun of me.
I was very silly. I bent forward again.
This time I took the water in both hands and hastened to put them to Babet's
lips. She drank, and I felt the warm kiss from her mouth run up my arms to my
breast, which it filled with heat.
"Oh! how my uncle must sleep!" I
murmured to myself.
Just as I said that, I perceived a dark
shadow beside me, and, having turned round, I saw my uncle Lazare, in person, a
few paces away, watching Babet and me as if offended. His cassock appeared
quite white in the sun; in his look I saw reproaches which made me feel
inclined to cry.
Babet was very much afraid. She turned
quite red, and hurried off stammering:
"Thanks, Monsieur Jean, I thank you
very much."
As for me, wiping my wet hands, I stood
motionless and confused before my uncle Lazare.
The worthy man, with folded arms, and
bringing back a corner of his cassock, watched Babet, who was running up the
pathway without turning her head. Then, when she had disappeared behind the
hedges, he lowered his eyes to me, and I saw his pleasant countenance smile
sadly.
"Jean," he said to me, "come
into the broad walk. Breakfast is not ready. We have half an hour to
spare."
He set out with his rather heavy tread,
avoiding the tufts of grass wet with dew. A part of the bottom of his cassock
that was dragging along the ground, made a dull crackling sound. He held his
breviary under his arm; but he had forgotten his morning lecture, and he
advanced dreamily, with bowed head, and without uttering a word.
His silence tormented me. He was generally
so talkative. My anxiety increased at each step. He had certainly seen me
giving Babet water to drink. What a sight, O Lord! The young girl, laughing and
blushing, kissed the tips of my fingers, whilst I, standing on tip-toe,
stretching out my arms, was leaning forward as if to kiss her. My action now
seemed to me frightfully audacious. And all my timidity returned. I inquired of
myself how I could have dared to have my fingers kissed so sweetly.
And my uncle Lazare, who said nothing, who
continued walking with short steps in front of me, without giving a single glance
at the old trees he loved! He was assuredly preparing a sermon. He was only
taking me into the broad walk to scold me at his ease. It would occupy at least
an hour: breakfast would get cold, and I would be unable to return to the
water's edge and dream of the warm burns that Babet's lips had left on my
hands.
We were in the broad walk. This walk, which
was wide and short, ran beside the river; it was shaded by enormous oak trees,
with trunks lacerated by seams, stretching out their great, tall branches. The
fine grass spread like a carpet beneath the trees, and the sun, riddling the
foliage, embroidered this carpet with a rosaceous pattern in gold. In the
distance, all around, extended raw green meadows.
My uncle went to the bottom of the walk,
without altering his step and without turning round. Once there, he stopped,
and I kept beside him, understanding that the terrible moment had arrived.
The river made a sharp curve; a low parapet
at the end of the walk formed a sort of terrace. This vault of shade opened on
a valley of light. The country expanded wide before us, for several leagues.
The sun was rising in the heavens, where the silvery rays of morning had become
transformed into a stream of gold; blinding floods of light ran from the
horizon, along the hills, and spread out into the plain with the glare of fire.
After a moment's silence, my uncle Lazare
turned towards me.
"Good heavens, the sermon!" I
thought, and I bowed my head. My uncle pointed out the valley to me, with an
expansive gesture; then, drawing himself up, he said, slowly:
"Look, Jean, there is the spring. The
earth is full of joy, my boy, and I have brought you here, opposite this plain
of light, to show you the first smiles of the young season. Observe what
brilliancy and sweetness! Warm perfumes rise from the country and pass across
our faces like puffs of life."
He was silent and seemed dreaming. I had
raised my head, astonished, breathing at ease. My uncle was not preaching.
"It is a beautiful morning," he
continued, "a morning of youth. Your eighteen summers find full enjoyment
amidst this verdure which is at most eighteen days old. All is great brightness
and perfume, is it not? The broad valley seems to you a delightful place: the
river is there to give you its freshness, the trees to lend you their shade,
the whole country to speak to you of tenderness, the heavens themselves to kiss
those horizons that you are searching with hope and desire. The spring belongs
to fellows of your age. It is it that teaches the boys how to give young girls
to drink--"
I hung my head again. My uncle Lazare had
certainly seen me.
"An old fellow like me," he
continued, "unfortunately knows what trust to place in the charms of
spring. I, my poor Jean, I love the Durance because it waters these meadows and
gives life to all the valley; I love this young foliage because it proclaims to
me the coming of the fruits of summer and autumn; I love this sky because it is
good to us, because its warmth hastens the fecundity of the earth. I should
have had to tell you this one day or other; I prefer telling it you now, at
this early hour. It is spring itself that is giving you the lesson. The earth
is a vast workshop wherein there is never a slack season. Observe this flower
at our feet; to you it is perfume; to me it is labour, it accomplishes its task
by producing its share of life, a little black seed which will work in its turn,
next spring. And, now, search the vast horizon. All this joy is but the act of
generation. If the country be smiling, it is because it is beginning the
everlasting task again. Do you hear it now, breathing hard, full of activity
and haste? The leaves sigh, the flowers are in a hurry, the corn grows without
pausing; all the plants, all the herbs are quarrelling as to which shall spring
up the quickest; and the running water, the river comes to assist in the common
labour, and the young sun which rises in the heavens is entrusted with the duty
of enlivening the everlasting task of the labourers."
At this point my uncle made me look him
straight in the face. He concluded in these terms:
"Jean, you hear what your friend the
spring says to you. He is youth, but he is preparing ripe age; his bright smile
is but the gaiety of labour. Summer will be powerful, autumn bountiful, for the
spring is singing at this moment, while courageously performing its work."
I looked very stupid. I understood my uncle
Lazare. He was positively preaching me a sermon, in which he told me I was an
idle fellow and that the time had come to work.
My uncle appeared as much embarrassed as
myself. After having hesitated for some instants he said, slightly stammering:
"Jean, you were wrong not to have come
and told me all--as you love Babet and Babet loves you--"
"Babet loves me!" I exclaimed.
My uncle made me an ill-humoured gesture.
"Eh! allow me to speak. I don't want
another avowal. She owned it to me herself."
"She owned that to you, she owned that
to you!"
And I suddenly threw my arms round my uncle
Lazare's neck.
"Oh! how nice that is!" I added.
"I had never spoken to her, truly. She told you that at the confessional,
didn't she? I would never have dared ask her if she loved me, and I would never
have known anything. Oh! how I thank you!"
My uncle Lazare was quite red. He felt that
he had just committed a blunder. He had imagined that this was not my first
meeting with the young girl, and here he gave me a certainty, when as yet I
only dared dream of a hope. He held his tongue now; it was I who spoke with
volubility.
"I understand all," I continued.
"You are right, I must work to win Babet. But you will see how courageous
I shall be. Ah! how good you are, my uncle Lazare, and how well you speak! I
understand what the spring says: I, also, will have a powerful summer and an
autumn of abundance. One is well placed here, one sees all the valley; I am
young like it, I feel youth within me demanding to accomplish its task--"
My uncle calmed me.
"Very good, Jean," he said to me.
"I had long hoped to make a priest of you, and I imparted to you my
knowledge with that sole aim. But what I saw this morning at the waterside
compels me to definitely give up my fondest hope. It is Heaven that disposes of
us. You will love the Almighty in another way. You cannot now remain in this
village, and I only wish you to return when ripened by age and work. I have
chosen the trade of printer for you; your education will serve you. One of my
friends, who is a printer at ,
is expecting you next Monday."
I felt anxious.
"And I shall come back and marry
Babet?" I inquired.
My uncle smiled imperceptibly; and, without
answering in a direct manner, said:
"The remainder is the will of
Heaven."
"You are heaven, and I have faith in
your kindness. Oh! uncle, see that Babet does not forget me. I will work for
her."
Then my uncle Lazare again pointed out to
me the valley which the warm golden light was overspreading more and more.
"There is hope," he said to me.
"Do not be as old as I am, Jean. Forget my sermon, be as ignorant as this
land. It does not trouble about the autumn; it is all engrossed with the joy of
its smile; it labours, courageously and without a care. It hopes."
And we returned to the parsonage, strolling
along slowly in the grass, which was scorched by the sun, and chatting with
concern of our approaching separation.
Breakfast was cold, as I had foreseen; but
that did not trouble me much. I had tears in my eyes each time I looked at my
uncle Lazare. And, at the thought of Babet, my heart beat fit to choke me.
I do not remember what I did during the
remainder of the day. I think I went and lay down under the willows at the
riverside. My uncle was right, the earth was at work. On placing my ear to the
grass I seemed to hear continual sounds. Then I dreamed of what my life would
be. Buried in the grass until nightfall, I arranged an existence full of labour
divided between Babet and my uncle Lazare. The energetic youthfulness of the
soil had penetrated my breast, which I pressed with force against the common mother,
and at times I imagined myself to be one of the strong willows that lived
around me. In the evening I could not dine. My uncle, no doubt, understood the
thoughts that were choking me, for he feigned not to notice my want of
appetite. As soon as I was able to rise from table, I hastened to return and
breathe the open air outside.
A fresh breeze rose from the river, the
dull splashing of which I heard in the distance. A soft light fell from the
sky. The valley expanded, peaceful and transparent, like a dark shoreless
ocean. There were vague sounds in the air, a sort of impassioned tremor, like a
great flapping of wings passing above my head. Penetrating perfumes rose with
the cool air from the grass.
I had gone out to see Babet; I knew she
came to the parsonage every night, and I went and placed myself in ambush
behind a hedge. I had got rid of my timidness of the morning; I considered it
quite natural to be waiting for her there, because she loved me and I had to
tell her of my departure.
"When I perceived her skirts in the
limpid night, I advanced noiselessly. Then I murmured in a low voice:
"Babet, Babet, I am here."
She did not recognise me, at first, and
started with fright. When she discovered who it was, she seemed still more
frightened, which very much surprised me.
"It's you, Monsieur Jean," she
said to me. "What are you doing there? What do you want?"
I was beside her and took her hand.
"You love me fondly, do you not?"
"I! who told you that?"
"My uncle Lazare."
She stood there in confusion. Her hand
began to tremble in mine. As she was on the point of running away, I took her
other hand. We were face to face, in a sort of hollow in the hedge, and I felt
Babet's panting breath running all warm over my face. The freshness of the air,
the rustling silence of the night, hung around us.
"I don't know," stammered the
young girl, "I never said that--his reverence the curé misunderstood--For
mercy's sake, let me be, I am in a hurry."
"No, no," I continued, "I
want you to know that I am going away to-morrow, and to promise to love me
always."
"You are leaving to-morrow!"
Oh! that sweet cry, and how tenderly Babet
uttered it! I seem still to hear her apprehensive voice full of affliction and
love.
"You see," I exclaimed in my
turn, "that my uncle Lazare said the truth. Besides, he never tells fibs.
You love me, you love me, Babet! Your lips this morning confided the secret
very softly to my fingers."
And I made her sit down at the foot of the
hedge. My memory has retained my first chat of love in its absolute innocence.
Babet listened to me like a little sister. She was no longer afraid, she told
me the story of her love. And there were solemn sermons, ingenious avowals,
projects without end. She vowed she would marry no one but me, I vowed to
deserve her hand by labour and tenderness. There was a cricket behind the
hedge, who accompanied our chat with his chaunt of hope, and all the valley, whispering
in the dark, took pleasure in hearing us talk so softly.
On separating we forgot to kiss each other.
When I returned to my little room, it
appeared to me that I had left it for at least a year. That day which was so
short, seemed an eternity of happiness. It was the warmest and most
sweetly-scented spring-day of my life, and the remembrance of it is now like
the distant, faltering voice of my youth.
=== II. SUMMER ===
When I awoke at about in the morning on that particular
day, I was lying on the hard ground tired out, and with my face bathed in perspiration.
The hot heavy atmosphere of a July night weighed me down.
My companions were sleeping around me,
wrapped in their hooded cloaks; they speckled the grey ground with black, and
the obscure plain panted; I fancied I heard the heavy breathing of a slumbering
multitude. Indistinct sounds, the neighing of horses, the clash of arms rang
out amidst the rustling silence.
The army had halted at about , and we had received orders
to lie down and sleep. We had been marching for three days, scorched by the sun
and blinded by dust. The enemy were at length in front of us, over there, on
those hills on the horizon. At daybreak a decisive battle would be fought.
I had been a victim to despondency. For
three days I had been as if trampled on, without energy and without thought for
the future. It was the excessive fatigue, indeed, that had just awakened me.
Now, lying on my back, with my eyes wide open, I was thinking whilst gazing
into the night, I thought of this battle, this butchery, which the sun was
about to light up. For more than six years, at the first shot in each fight, I
had been saying good-bye to those I loved the most fondly, Babet and uncle
Lazare. And now, barely a month before my discharge, I had to say good-bye
again, and this time perhaps for ever.
Then my thoughts softened. With closed
eyelids I saw Babet and my uncle Lazare. How long it was since I had kissed
them! I remembered the day of our separation; my uncle weeping because he was
poor, and allowing me to leave like that, and Babet, in the evening, had vowed
she would wait for me, and that she would never love another. I had had to quit
all, my master at ,
my friends at Dourgues. A few letters had come from time to time to tell me
they always loved me, and that happiness was awaiting me in my well-beloved
valley. And I, I was going to fight, I was going to get killed.
I began dreaming of my return. I saw my
poor old uncle on the threshold of the parsonage extending his trembling arms;
and behind him was Babet, quite red, smiling through her tears. I fell into
their arms and kissed them, seeking for expressions--
Suddenly the beating of drums recalled me
to stern reality. Daybreak had come, the grey plain expanded in the morning
mist. The ground became full of life, indistinct forms appeared on all sides; a
sound that became louder and louder filled the air; it was the call of bugles,
the galloping of horses, the rumble of artillery, the shouting out of orders.
War came threatening, amidst my dream of tenderness. I rose with difficulty; it
seemed to me that my bones were broken, and that my head was about to split. I
hastily got my men together; for I must tell you that I had won the rank of
sergeant. We soon received orders to bear to the left and occupy a hillock
above the plain.
As we were about to move, the
sergeant-major came running along and shouting:
"A letter for Sergeant Gourdon!"
And he handed me a dirty crumpled letter,
which had been lying perhaps for a week in the leather bags of the post-office.
I had only just time to recognise the writing of my uncle Lazare.
"Forward, march!" shouted the
major.
I had to march. For a few seconds I held
the poor letter in my hand, devouring it with my eyes; it burnt my fingers; I
would have given everything in the world to have sat down and wept at ease
whilst reading it. I had to content myself with slipping it under my tunic
against my heart.
I have never experienced such agony. By way
of consolation I said to myself what my uncle had so often repeated to me: I
was in the summer of my life, at the moment of the fierce struggle, and it was
essential that I should perform my duty bravely, if I would have a peaceful and
bountiful autumn. But these reasons exasperated me the more: this letter, which
had come to speak to me of happiness, burnt my heart, which had revolted against
the folly of war. And I could not even read it! I was perhaps going to die
without knowing what it contained, without perusing my uncle Lazare's
affectionate remarks for the last time.
We had reached the top of the hill. We were
to await orders there to advance. The battle-field had been marvellously chosen
to slaughter one another at ease. The immense plain expanded for several
leagues, and was quite bare, without a house or tree. Hedges and bushes made
slight spots on the whiteness of the ground. I have never since seen such a
country, an ocean of dust, a chalky soil, bursting open here and there, and
displaying its tawny bowels. And never either have I since witnessed a sky of
such intense purity, a July day so lovely and so warm; at the sultry heat was already
scorching our faces. O the splendid morning, and what a sterile plain to kill
and die in!
Firing had broken out with irregular
crackling sounds, a long time since, supported by the solemn growl of the
cannon. The enemy, Austrians dressed in white, had quitted the heights, and the
plain was studded with long files of men, who looked to me about as big as
insects. One might have thought it was an ant-hill in insurrection. Clouds of
smoke hung over the battle-field. At times, when these clouds broke asunder, I
perceived soldiers in flight, smitten with terrified panic. Thus there were
currents of fright which bore men away, and outbursts of shame and courage
which brought them back under fire.
I could neither hear the cries of the
wounded, nor see the blood flow. I could only distinguish the dead which the
battalions left behind them, and which resembled black patches. I began to
watch the movements of the troops with curiosity, irritated at the smoke which
hid a good half of the show, experiencing a sort of egotistic pleasure at the
knowledge that I was in security, whilst others were dying.
At about we were ordered to advance. We went down the
hill at the double and proceeded towards the centre which was giving way. The regular
beat of our footsteps appeared to me funeral-like. The bravest among us
panting, pale and with haggard features.
I have made up my mind to tell the truth.
At the first whistle of the bullets, the battalion suddenly came to a halt,
tempted to fly.
"Forward, forward!" shouted the
chiefs.
But we were riveted to the ground, bowing
our heads when a bullet whistled by our ears. This movement is instinctive; if
shame had not restrained me, I would have thrown myself flat on my stomach in
the dust.
"Before us was a huge veil of smoke
which we dared not penetrate. Red flashes passed through this smoke. And,
shuddering, we still stood still. But the bullets reached us; soldiers fell
with yells. The chiefs shouted louder:
"Forward, forward!"
The rear ranks, which they pushed on,
compelled us to march. Then, closing our eyes, we made a fresh dash and entered
the smoke.
We were seized with furious rage. When the
cry of "Halt!" resounded, we experienced difficulty in coming to a
standstill. As soon as one is motionless, fear returns and one feels a wish to
run away. Firing commenced. We shot in front of us, without aiming, finding
some relief in discharging bullets into the smoke. I remember I pulled my
trigger mechanically, with lips firmly set together and eyes wide open; I was
no longer afraid, for, to tell the truth, I no longer knew if I existed. The only
idea I had in my head, was that I would continue firing until all was over. My
companion on the left received a bullet full in the face and fell on me; I
brutally pushed him away, wiping my cheek which he had drenched with blood. And
I resumed firing.
I still remember having seen our colonel,
M. de Montrevert, firm and erect upon his horse, gazing quietly towards the
enemy. That man appeared to me immense. He had no rifle to amuse himself with,
and his breast was expanded to its full breadth above us. From time to time, he
looked down, and exclaimed in a dry voice:
"Close the ranks, close the
ranks!"
We closed our ranks like sheep, treading on
the dead, stupefied, and continuing firing. Until then, the enemy had only sent
us bullets; a dull explosion was heard and a shell carried off five of our men.
A battery which must have been opposite us and which we could not see, had just
opened fire. The shells struck into the middle of us, almost at one spot, making
a sanguinary gap which we closed unceasingly with the obstinacy of ferocious
brutes.
"Close the ranks, close the
ranks!" the colonel coldly repeated.
We were giving the cannon human flesh. Each
time a soldier was struck down, I was taking a step nearer death, I was
approaching the spot where the shells were falling heavily, crushing the men
whose turn had come to die. The corpses were forming heaps in that place, and
soon the shells would strike into nothing more than a mound of mangled flesh;
shreds of limbs flew about at each fresh discharge. We could no longer close
the ranks.
The soldiers yelled, the chiefs themselves
were moved.
"With the bayonet, with the
bayonet!"
And amidst a shower of bullets the
battalion rushed in fury towards the shells. The veil of smoke was torn
asunder; we perceived the enemy's battery flaming red, which was firing at us
from the mouths of all its pieces, on the summit of a hillock. But the dash
forward had commenced, the shells stopped the dead only.
I ran beside Colonel Montrevert, whose
horse had just been killed, and who was fighting like a simple soldier.
Suddenly I was struck down; it seemed to me as if my breast opened and my
shoulder was taken away. A frightful wind passed over my face.
And I fell. The colonel fell beside me. I
felt myself dying. I thought of those I loved, and fainted whilst searching
with a withering hand for my uncle Lazare's letter.
When I came to myself again I was lying on
my side in the dust. I was annihilated by profound stupor. I gazed before me
with my eyes wide open without seeing anything; it seemed to me that I had lost
my limbs, and that my brain was empty. I did not suffer, for life seemed to
have departed from my flesh.
The rays of a hot implacable sun fell upon
my face like molten lead. I did not feel it. Life returned to me little by
little; my limbs became lighter, my shoulder alone remained crushed beneath an
enormous weight. Then, with the instinct of a wounded animal, I wanted to sit
up. I uttered a cry of pain, and fell back upon the ground.
But I lived now, I saw, I understood. The
plain spread out naked and deserted, all white in the broad sunlight. It
exhibited its desolation beneath the intense serenity of heaven; heaps of
corpses were sleeping in the warmth, and the trees that had been brought down,
seemed to be other dead who were dying. There was not a breath of air. A
frightful silence came from those piles of inanimate bodies; then, at times,
there were dismal groans which broke this silence, and conveyed a long tremor
to it. Slender clouds of grey smoke hanging over the low hills on the horizon, was
all that broke the bright blue of the sky. The butchery was continuing on the
heights.
I imagined we were conquerors, and I
experienced selfish pleasure in thinking I could die in peace on this deserted
plain. Around me the earth was black. On raising my head I saw the enemy's
battery on which we had charged, a few feet away from me. The struggle must
have been horrible: the mound was covered with hacked and disfigured bodies;
blood had flowed so abundantly that the dust seemed like a large red carpet.
The cannon stretched out their dark muzzles above the corpses. I shuddered when
I observed the silence of those guns.
Then gently, with a multitude of
precautions, I succeeded in turning on my stomach. I rested my head on a large
stone all splashed with gore, and drew my uncle Lazare's letter from my breast.
I placed it before my eyes; but my tears prevented my reading it.
And whilst the sun was roasting me in the
back, the acrid smell of blood was choking me. I could form an idea of the
woeful plain around me, and was as if stiffened with the rigidness of the dead.
My poor heart was weeping in the warm and loathsome silence of murder.
Uncle Lazare wrote to me:
"My Dear Boy,--I hear war has been
declared; but I still hope you will get your discharge before the campaign
opens. Every morning I beseech the Almighty to spare you new dangers; He will
grant my prayer; He will, one of these days, let you close my eyes.
"Ah! my poor Jean, I am becoming old,
I have great need of your arm. Since your departure I no more feel your
youthfulness beside me, which gave me back my twenty summers. Do you remember
our strolls in the morning along the oak-tree walk? Now I no longer dare to go
beneath those trees; I am alone, I am afraid. The Durance weeps. Come quickly
and console me, assuage my anxiety----"
The tears were choking me, I could not
continue. At that moment a heartrending cry was uttered a few steps away from
me; I saw a soldier suddenly rise, with the muscles of his face contracted; he
extended his arms in agony, and fell to the ground, where he writhed in
frightful convulsions; then he ceased moving.
"I have placed my hope in the
Almighty," continued my uncle, "He will bring you back safe and sound
to Dourgues, and we will resume our peaceful existence. Let me dream out loud
and tell you my plans for the future.
"You will go no more to , you will remain
with me; I will make my child a son of the soil, a peasant who shall live gaily
whilst tilling the fields.
"And I will retire to your farm. In a
short time my trembling hands will no longer be able to hold the Host. I only
ask Heaven for two years of such an existence. That will be my reward for the
few good deeds I may have done. Then you will sometimes lead me along the paths
of our dear valley, where every rock, every hedge will remind me of your youth
which I so greatly loved----"
I had to stop again. I felt such a sharp
pain In my shoulder, that I almost fainted a second time. A terrible anxiety
had just taken possession of me; it, seemed as if the sound of the fusillade
was approaching, and I thought with terror that our army was perhaps
retreating, and that in its flight it would descend to the plain and pass over
my body. But I still saw nothing but the slight cloud, of smoke hanging over
the low hills.
My uncle Lazare added:
"And we shall be three to love one
another. Ah! my well-beloved Jean, how right you were to give her to drink that
morning beside the Durance. I was afraid of Babet, I was ill-humoured, and now
I am jealous, for I can see very well that I shall never be able to love you as
much as she does, 'Tell him,' she repeated to me yesterday, blushing, 'that if
he gets killed, I shall go and throw myself into the river at the spot where he
gave me to drink.'
"For the love of God! be careful of
your life. There are things that I cannot understand, but I feel that happiness
awaits you here. I already call Babet my daughter; I can see her on your arm,
in the church, when I shall bless your union. I wish that to be my last mass.
"Babet is a fine, tall girl now. She
will, assist you in your work----"
The sound of the fusillade had gone farther
away. I was weeping sweet tears. There were dismal moans among soldiers who
were in their last agonies between the cannon wheels. I perceived one who was
endeavoring to get rid of a comrade, wounded as he was, whose body was crushing
his chest; and, as this wounded man struggled and complained, the soldier pushed
him brutally away, and made him roll down the slope of the mound, whilst the
wretched creature yelled with pain. At that cry a murmur came from the heap of
corpses. The sun, which was sinking, shed rays of a light fallow colour. The
blue of the sky was softer.
I finished reading my uncle Lazare's
letter.
"I simply wished," he continued,
"to give you news of ourselves, and to beg you to come as soon as possible
and make us happy. And here I am weeping and gossiping like an old child. Hope,
my poor Jean, I pray, and God is good.
"Answer me quickly, and give me, if
possible, the date of your return. Babet and I are counting the weeks. We trust
to see you soon; be hopeful."
The date of my return!--I kissed the
letter, sobbing, and fancied for a moment that I was kissing Babet and my
uncle. No doubt I should never see them again. I would die like a dog in the dust,
beneath the leaden sun. And it was on that desolated plain, amidst the
death-rattle of the dying, that those whom I loved dearly were saying good-bye.
A buzzing silence filled my ears; I gazed at the pale earth spotted with blood,
which extended, deserted, to the grey lines of the horizon. I repeated: "I
must die." Then, I closed my eyes, and thought of Babet and my uncle
Lazare.
I know not how long I remained in a sort of
painful drowsiness. My heart suffered as much as my flesh. Warm tears ran
slowly down my cheeks. Amidst the nightmare that accompanied the fever, I heard
a moan similar to the continuous plaintive cry of a child in suffering. At
times, I awoke and stared at the sky in astonishment.
At last I understood that it was M. de
Montrevert, lying a few paces off, who was moaning in this manner. I had
thought him dead. He was stretched out with his face to the ground and his arms
extended. This man had been good to me; I said to myself that I could not allow
him to die thus, with his face to the ground, and I began crawling slowly
towards him.
Two corpses separated us. For a moment I
thought of passing over the stomachs of these dead men to shorten the distance;
for, my shoulder made me suffer frightfully at every movement. But I did not
dare. I proceeded on my knees, assisting myself with one hand. When I reached
the colonel, I gave a sigh of relief; it seemed to me that I was less alone; we
would die together, and this death shared by both of us no longer terrified me.
I wanted him to see the sun, and I turned
him over as gently as possible. When the rays fell upon his face, he breathed
hard; he opened his eyes. Leaning over his body, I tried to smile at him. He
closed his eyelids again; I understood by his trembling lips that he was
conscious of his sufferings.
"It's you, Gourdon," he said to
me at last, in a feeble voice; "is the battle won?"
"I think so, colonel," I answered
him.
There was a moment of silence. Then,
opening his eyes and looking at me, he inquired--
"Where are you wounded?"
"In the shoulder--and you,
colonel?"
"My elbow must be smashed. I remember;
it was the same bullet that arranged us both like this, my boy."
He made an effort to sit up.
"But come," he said with sudden
gaiety, "we are not going to sleep here?"
You cannot believe how much this courageous
display of joviality contributed towards giving me strength and hope. I felt
quite different since we were two to struggle against death.
"Wait," I exclaimed, "I will
bandage up your arm with my handkerchief, and we will try and support one
another as far as the nearest ambulance."
"That's it, my boy. Don't make it too
tight. Now, let us take each other by the good hand and try to get up."
We rose staggering. We had lost a great
deal of blood; our heads were swimming and our legs failed us. Any one would
have mistaken us for drunkards, stumbling, supporting, pushing one another, and
making zigzags to avoid the dead. The sun was setting with a rosy blush, and
our gigantic shadows danced in a strange way over the field of battle. It was
the end of a fine day.
The colonel joked; his lips were crisped by
shudders, his laughter resembled sobs. I could see that we were going to fall
down in some corner never to rise again. At times we were seized with
giddiness, and were obliged to stop and close our eyes. The ambulances formed
small grey patches on the dark ground at the extremity of the plain.
We knocked up against a large stone, and
were thrown down one on the other. The colonel swore like a pagan. We tried to
walk on all-fours, catching hold of the briars. In this way we did a hundred
yards on our knees. But our knees were bleeding.
"I have had enough of it," said
the colonel, lying down; "they may come and fetch me if they will. Let us
sleep."
I still had the strength to sit half up, and
shout with all the breath that remained within me. Men were passing along in
the distance picking up the wounded; they ran to us and placed us side by side
on a stretcher.
"Comrade," the colonel said to me
during the journey, "Death will not have us. I owe you my life; I will pay
my debt, whenever you have need of me. Give me your hand."
I placed my hand in his, and it was thus
that we reached the ambulances. They had lighted torches; the surgeons were
cutting and sawing, amidst frightful yells; a sickly smell came from the
blood-stained linen, whilst the torches cast dark rosy flakes into the basins.
The colonel bore the amputation of his arm
with courage; I only saw his lips turn pale and a film come over his eyes. When
it was my turn, a surgeon examined my shoulder.
"A shell did that for you," he
said; "an inch lower and your shoulder would have been carried away. The
flesh, only, has suffered."
And when I asked the assistant, who was
dressing my wound, whether it was serious, he answered me with a laugh:
"Serious! you will have to keep to
your bed for three weeks, and make new blood."
I turned my face to the wall, not wishing
to show my tears. And with my heart's eyes I perceived Babet and my uncle
Lazare stretching out their arms towards me. I had finished with the sanguinary
struggles of my summer day.
=== III. AUTUMN ===
It was nearly fifteen years since I had
married Babet In my uncle Lazare's little church. We had sought happiness in
our dear valley. I had made myself a farmer; the Durance, my first sweetheart,
was now a good mother to me, who seemed to take pleasure in making my fields
rich and fertile. Little by little, by following the new methods of
agriculture, I became one of the wealthiest landowners in the neighbourhood.
We had purchased the oak-tree walk and the
meadows bordering on the river, at the death of my wife's parents. I had had a
modest house built on this land, but we were soon obliged to enlarge it; each
year I found a means of rounding off our property by the addition of some
neighbouring field, and our granaries were too small for our harvests.
Those first fifteen years were uneventful
and happy. They passed away in serene joy, and all they have left within me is
the remembrance of calm and continued happiness. My uncle Lazare, on retiring
to our home, had realised his dream; his advanced age did not permit of his
reading his breviary of a morning; he sometimes regretted his dear church, but consoled
himself by visiting the young vicar who had succeeded him. He came down from
the little room he occupied at sunrise, and often accompanied me to the fields,
enjoying himself in the open air, and finding a second youth amidst the healthy
atmosphere of the country.
One sadness alone made us sometimes sigh.
Amidst the fruitfulness by which we were surrounded, Babet remained childless.
Although we were three to love one another we sometimes found ourselves too
much alone; we would have liked to have had a little fair head running about
amongst us, who would have tormented and caressed us.
Uncle Lazare had a frightful dread of dying
before he was a great-uncle. He had become a child again, and felt sorrowful
that Babet did not give him a comrade who would have played with him. On the
day when my wife confided to us with hesitation, that we would no doubt soon be
four, I saw my uncle turn quite pale, and make efforts not to cry. He kissed
us, thinking already of the christening, and speaking of the child as if it were
already three or four years old.
And the months passed in concentrated
tenderness. We talked together in subdued voices, awaiting some one. I no
longer loved Babet: I worshipped her with joined hands; I worshipped her for
two, for herself and the little one.
The great day was drawing nigh. I had
brought a midwife from 
who never moved from the farm. My uncle was in a dreadful fright; he understood
nothing about such things; he went so far as to tell me that he had done wrong
in taking holy orders, and that he was very sorry he was not a doctor.
One morning in September, at about , I went into the room of
my dear Babet, who was still asleep. Her smiling face was peacefully reposing on
the white linen pillow-case. I bent over her, holding my breath. Heaven had
blessed me with the good things of this world. I all at once thought of that
summer day when I was moaning in the dust, and at the same time I felt around
me the comfort due to labour and the quietude that comes from happiness. My
good wife was asleep, all rosy, in the middle of her great bed; whilst the
whole room recalled to me our fifteen years of tender affection.
I kissed Babet softly on the lips. She
opened her eyes and smiled at me without speaking. I felt an almost
uncontrollable desire to take her in my arms, and clasp her to my heart; but,
latterly, I had hardly dared press her hand, she seemed so fragile and sacred
to me.
I seated myself at the edge of the bed, and
asked her in a low voice:
"Is it for to-day?"
"No, I don't think so," she
replied. "I dreamt I had a boy: he was already very tall and wore adorable
little black moustachios. Uncle Lazare told me yesterday that he also had seen
him in a dream."
I acted very stupidly.
"I know the child better than you
do," I said. "I see it every night. It's a girl----"
And as Babet turned her face to the wall,
ready to cry, I realised how foolish I had been, and hastened to add:
"When I say a girl--I am not quite
sure. I see a very small child with a long white gown.--it's certainly a
boy."
Babet kissed me for that pleasing remark.
"Go and look after the vintage,"
she continued, "I feel calm this morning."
"You will send for me if anything
happens?"
"Yes, yes, I am very tired: I shall go
to sleep again. You'll not be angry with me for my laziness?"
And Babet closed her eyes, looking languid
and affected. I remained leaning over her, receiving the warm breath from her
lips in my face. She gradually went off to sleep, without ceasing to smile.
Then I disengaged my hand from hers with a multitude of precautions. I had to
manoeuvre for five minutes to bring this delicate task to a happy issue. After
that I gave her a kiss on her forehead, which she did not feel, and withdrew
with a palpitating heart, overflowing with love.
In the courtyard below, I found my uncle
Lazare, who was gazing anxiously at the window of Babet's room. So soon as he
perceived me he inquired:
"Well, is it for to-day?"
He had been putting this question to me
regularly every morning for the past month.
"It appears not," I answered him.
"Will you come with me and see them picking the grapes?"
He fetched his stick, and we went down the
oak-tree walk. When we were at the end of it, on that terrace which overlooks
the Durance, both of us stopped, gazing at the valley.
Small white clouds floated in the pale sky.
The sun was shedding soft rays, which cast a sort of gold dust over the
country, the yellow expanse of which spread out all ripe. One saw neither the
brilliant light nor the dark shadows of summer. The foliage gilded the black
earth in large patches. The river ran more slowly, weary at the task of having
rendered the fields fruitful for a season. And the valley remained calm and
strong. It already wore the first furrows of winter, but it preserved within it
the warmth of its last labour, displaying its robust charms, free from the weeds
of spring, more majestically beautiful, like that second youth, of woman who
has given birth to life.
My uncle Lazare remained silent; then,
turning towards me, said:
"Do you remember, Jean? It is more
than twenty years ago since I brought you here early one May morning. On that
particular day I showed you the valley full of feverish activity, labouring for
the fruits of autumn. Look; the valley has just performed its task again."
"I remember, dear uncle," I
replied. "I was quaking with fear on that day; but you were good, and your
lesson was convincing. I owe you all my happiness."
"Yes, you have reached the autumn. You
have laboured and are gathering in the harvest. Man, my boy, was created after
the way of the earth. And we, like the common mother, are eternal: the green leaves
are born again each year from dry leaves; I am born again in you, and you will
be born again in your children. I am telling you this so that old age may not
alarm you, so that you may know how to die in peace, as dies this verdure,
which will shoot out again from its own germs next spring."
I listened to my uncle and thought of
Babet, who was sleeping in her great bed spread with white linen. The dear
creature was about to give birth to a child after the manner of this fertile
soil which had given us fortune. She also had reached the autumn: she had the
beaming smile and serene robustness of the valley. I seemed to see her beneath
the yellow sun, tired and happy, experiencing noble delight at being a mother.
And I no longer knew whether my uncle Lazare was talking to me of my dear
valley, or of my dear Babet.
We slowly ascended the hills. Below, along
the Durance, were the meadows, broad, raw green swards; next came the yellow
fields, intersected here and there by greyish olive and slender almond trees,
planted wide apart in rows; then, right up above, were the vines, great stumps
with shoots trailing along the ground.
The vine is treated in the south of like a
hardy housewife, and not like a delicate young lady, as in the north. It grows
somewhat as it likes, according to the good will of rain and sun. The stumps,
which are planted in double rows, and form long lines, throw sprays of dark
verdure around them. Wheat or oats are sown between. A vineyard resembles an immense
piece of striped material, made of the green bands formed by the vine leaves,
and of yellow ribbon represented by the stubble.
Men and women stooping down among the
vines, were cutting the bunches of grapes, which they then threw to the bottom
of large baskets. My uncle and I walked slowly through the stubble. As we
passed along, the vintagers turned their heads and greeted us. My uncle
sometimes stopped to speak to some of the oldest of the labourers.
"Heh! Father André," he said,
"are the grapes thoroughly ripe? Will the wine be good this year?"
And the countryfolk, raising their bare
arms, displayed the long bunches, which were as black as ink, in the sun; and
when the grapes were pressed they seemed to burst with abundance and strength.
"Look, Mr. Curé," they exclaimed,
"these are small ones. There are some weighing several pounds. We have not
had such a task these ten years."
Then they returned among the leaves. Their
brown jackets formed patches in the verdure. And the women, bareheaded, with
small blue handkerchiefs round their necks, were stooping down singing. There
were children rolling in the sun, in the stubble, giving utterance to shrill
laughter and enlivening this open-air workshop with their turbulency. Large
carts remained motionless at the edge of the field waiting for the grapes; they
stood out prominently against the clear sky, whilst men went and came unceasingly,
carrying away full baskets, and bringing back empty ones.
I confess that in the centre of this field,
I had feelings of pride. I heard the ground producing beneath my feet; ripe age
ran all powerful in the veins of the vine, and loaded the air with great puffs
of it. Hot blood coursed in my flesh, I was as if elevated by the fecundity overflowing
from the soil and ascending within me. The labour of this swarm of work-people
was my doing, these vines were my children; this entire farm became my large
and obedient family. I experienced pleasure in feeling my feet sink into the
heavy land.
Then, at a glance, I took in the fields
that sloped down to the Durance, and I was the possessor of those vines, those
meadows, that stubble, those olive-trees. The house stood all white beside the
oak-tree walk; the river seemed like a fringe of silver placed at the edge of
the great green mantle of my pasture-land. I fancied, for a moment, that my
frame was increasing in size, that by stretching out my arms, I would be able
to embrace the entire property, and press it to my breast, trees, meadows, house,
and ploughed land.
And as I looked, I saw one of our
servant-girls racing, out of breath, up the narrow pathway that ascended the
hill. Confused by the speed at which she was travelling, she stumbled over the
stones, agitating both her arms, and hailing us with gestures of bewilderment.
I felt choking with inexpressible emotion.
"Uncle, uncle," I shouted,
"look how Marguerite's running. I think it must be for to-day."
My uncle Lazare turned quite pale. The
servant had at length reached the plateau; she came towards us jumping over the
vines. When she reached me, she was out of breath; she was stifling and
pressing her hands to her bosom.
"Speak!" I said to her.
"What has happened?"
She heaved a heavy sigh, agitated her
hands, and finally was able to pronounce this single word:
"Madame----"
I waited for no more.
"Come! come quick, uncle Lazare! Ah!
my poor dear Babet!"
And I bounded down the pathway at a pace
fit to break my bones. The vintagers, who had stood up, smiled as they saw me
running. Uncle Lazare, who could not overtake me, shook his walking stick in
despair.
"Heh! Jean, the deuce!" he
shouted, "wait for me. I don't want to be the last."
But I no longer heard Uncle Lazare, and
continued running.
I reached the farm panting for breath, full
of hope and terror. I rushed upstairs and knocked with my fist at Babet's door,
laughing, crying, and half crazy. The midwife set the door ajar, to tell me in
an angry voice not to make so much noise. I stood there abashed and in despair.
"You can't come in," she added.
"Go and wait in the courtyard."
And as I did not move, she continued:
"All is going on very well. I will call you."
The door was closed. I remained standing
before it, unable to make up my mind to go away. I heard Babet complaining in a
broken voice. And, while I was there, she gave utterance to a heartrending
scream that struck me right in the breast like a bullet. I felt an almost
irresistible desire to break the door open with my shoulder. So as not to give
way to it, I placed my hands to my ears, and dashed downstairs.
In the courtyard I found my uncle Lazare,
who had just arrived out of breath. The worthy man was obliged to seat himself
on the brink of the well.
"Hallo! where is the child?" he
inquired of me.
"I don't know," I answered;
"they shut the door in my face--Babet is in pain and in tears." We
gazed at one another, not daring to utter a word. We listened in agony, without
taking our eyes off Babet's window, endeavouring to see through the little
white curtains. My uncle, who was trembling, stood still, with both his hands
resting heavily on his walking-stick; I, feeling very feverish, walked up and
down before him, taking long strides. At times we exchanged anxious smiles.
The carts of the vintagers arrived one by
one. The baskets of grapes were placed against a wall of the courtyard, and
bare-legged men trampled the bunches under foot in wooden troughs. The mules
neighed, the carters swore, whilst the wine fell with a dull sound to the
bottom of the vat. Acrid smells pervaded the warm air.
And I continued pacing up and down, as if
made tipsy by those perfumes. My poor head was breaking, and as I watched the
red juice run from the grapes I thought of Babet. I said to myself with manly
joy, that my child was born at the prolific time of vintage, amidst the perfume
of new wine.
I was tormented by impatience, I went upstairs
again. But I did not dare knock, I pressed my ear against the door, and heard
Babet's low moans and sobs. Then my heart failed me, and I cursed suffering.
Uncle Lazare, who had crept up behind me, had to lead me back into the
courtyard. He wished to divert me, and told me the wine would be excellent; but
he spoke without attending to what he said. And at times we were both silent, listening
anxiously to one of Babet's more prolonged moans.
Little by little the cries subsided, and
became nothing more than a painful murmur, like the voice of a child falling
off to sleep in tears. Then there was absolute silence. This soon caused me
unutterable terror. The house seemed empty, now that Babet had ceased sobbing.
I was just going upstairs, when the midwife opened the window noiselessly. She
leant out and beckoned me with her hand:
"Come," she said to me.
I went slowly upstairs, feeling additional
delight at each step I took. My uncle Lazare was already knocking at the door,
whilst I was only half way up to the landing, experiencing a sort of strange
delight in delaying the moment when I would kiss my wife.
I stopped on the threshold, my heart was
beating double. My uncle had leant over the cradle. Babet, quite pale, with
closed eyelids, seemed asleep. I forgot all about the child, and going straight
to Babet, took her dear hand between mine. The tears had not dried on her
checks, and her quivering lips were dripping with them. She raised her eyelids
wearily. She did not speak to me, but I understood her to say: "I have
suffered a great deal, my dear Jean, but I was so happy to suffer! I felt you
within me."
Then I bent down, I kissed Babet's eyes and
drank her tears. She laughed with much sweetness; she resigned herself with
caressing languidness. The fatigue had made her all aches and pains. She slowly
moved her hands from the sheet, and taking me by the neck placed her lips to my
ear:
"It's a boy," she murmured in a
weak voice, but with an air of triumph.
Those were the first words she uttered
after the terrible shock she had undergone.
"I knew it would be a boy," she
continued, "I saw the child every night. Give him me, put him beside
me."
I turned round and saw the midwife and my
uncle quarrelling.
The midwife had all the trouble in the
world to prevent uncle Lazare taking the little one in his arms. He wanted to
nurse it.
I looked at the child whom the mother had
made me forget. He was all rosy. Babet said with conviction that he was like
me; the midwife discovered that he had his mother's eyes; I, for my part, could
not say, I was almost crying, I smothered the dear little thing with kisses,
imagining I was still kissing Babet.
I placed the child on the bed. He kept on
crying, but this sounded to us like celestial music. I sat on the edge of the
bed, my uncle took a large arm-chair, and Babet, weary and serene, covered up
to her chin, remained with open eyelids and smiling eyes.
The window was wide open. The smell of
grapes came in along with the warmth of the mild autumn afternoon. One heard
the trampling of the vintagers, the shocks of the carts, the cracking of whips;
at times the shrill song of a servant working in the courtyard reached us. All
this noise was softened in the serenity of that room, which still resounded with
Babet's sobs. And the window-frame enclosed a large strip of landscape, carved
out of the heavens and open country. We could see the oak-tree walk in its
entire length; then the Durance, looking like a white satin ribbon, passed
amidst the gold and purple leaves; whilst above this square of ground were the
limpid depths of a pale sky with blue and rosy tints.
It was amidst the calm of this horizon,
amidst the exhalations of the vat and the joys attendant upon labour and
reproduction, that we three talked together, Babet, uncle Lazare, and myself,
whilst gazing at the dear little new-born babe.
"Uncle Lazare," said Babet,
"what name will you give the child?"
"Jean's mother was named
Jacqueline," answered my uncle. "I shall call the child
Jacques."
"Jacques, Jacques," repeated
Babet. "Yes, it's a pretty name. And, tell me, what shall we make the
little man: parson or soldier, gentleman or peasant?"
I began to laugh.
"We shall have time to think of
that," I said.
"But no," continued Babet almost
angry, "he will grow rapidly. See how strong he is. He already speaks with
his eyes."
My uncle Lazare was exactly of my wife's
opinion. He answered in a very grave tone:
"Make him neither priest nor soldier,
unless he have an irresistible inclination for one of those callings--to make
him a gentleman would be a serious----"
Babet looked at me anxiously. The dear
creature had not a bit of pride for herself; but, like all mothers, she would
have liked to be humble and proud before her son. I could have sworn that she
already saw him a notary or a doctor. I kissed her and gently said to her:
"I wish our son to live in our dear
valley. One day, he will find a Babet of sixteen, on the banks of the Durance,
to whom he will give some water. Do you remember, my dear----? The country has
brought us peace: our son shall be a peasant as we are, and happy as we
are."
Babet, who was quite touched, kissed me in
her turn. She gazed at the foliage and the river, the meadows and the sky,
through the window; then she said to me, smiling:
"You are right, Jean. This place has
been good to us, it will be the same to our little Jacques. Uncle Lazare, you
will be the godfather of a farmer."
Uncle Lazare made a languid, affectionate
sign of approval with the head. I had been examining him for a moment, and saw
his eyes becoming filmy, and his lips turning pale. Leaning back in the
arm-chair, opposite the window, he had placed his white hands on his knees, and
was watching the heavens fixedly with an expression of thoughtful ecstasy.
I felt very anxious.
"Are you in pain, uncle Lazare?"
I inquired of him, "What is the matter with you? Answer, for mercy's
sake."
He gently raised one of his hands, as if to
beg me to speak lower; then he let it fall again, and said in a weak voice:
"I am broken down," he said.
"Happiness, at my age, is mortal. Don't make a noise. It seems as if my
flesh were becoming quite light: I can no longer feel my legs or arms."
Babet raised herself in alarm, with her
eyes on uncle Lazare. I knelt down before him, watching him anxiously. He
smiled.
"Don't be frightened," he
resumed. "I am in no pain; a feeling of calmness is gaining possession of
me; I believe I am going off into a good and just sleep. It came over me all at
once, and I thank the Almighty. Ah! my poor Jean, I ran too fast down, the
pathway on the hillside; the child caused me too great joy."
And as we understood, we burst out into
tears. Uncle Lazare continued, without ceasing to watch the sky:
"Do not spoil my joy, I beg of you. If
you only knew how happy it makes me, to fall asleep for ever in this armchair!
I have never dared expect such a consoling death. All I love is here, beside
me--and see what a blue sky! The Almighty has sent a lovely evening."
The sun was sinking behind the oak-tree
walk. Its slanting rays cast sheets of gold beneath the trees, which took the
tones of old copper. The verdant fields melted into vague serenity in the
distance. Uncle Lazare became weaker and weaker amidst the touching silence of
this peaceful sunset, entering by the open window. He slowly passed away, like
those slight gleams that were dying out on the lofty branches.
"Ah! my good valley," he
murmured, "you are sending me a tender farewell. I was afraid of coming to
my end in the winter, when you would be all black."
We restrained our tears, not wishing to
trouble this saintly death. Babet prayed in an undertone. The child continued
uttering smothered cries.
My uncle Lazare heard its wail in the
dreaminess of his agony. He endeavoured to turn towards Babet, and, still
smiling, said:
"I have seen the child and die very
happy."
Then he gazed at the pale sky and yellow
fields, and, throwing back his head, heaved a gentle sigh.
No tremor agitated uncle Lazare's body; he
died as one falls asleep.
We had become so calm that we remained
silent and with dry eyes. In the presence of such great simplicity in death,
all we experienced was a feeling of serene sadness. Twilight had set in, uncle
Lazare's farewell had left us confident, like the farewell of the sun which
dies at night to be born again in the morning.
Such was my autumn day, which gave me a
son, and carried off my uncle Lazare in the peacefulness of the twilight.
=== IV. WINTER ===
There are dreadful mornings in January that
chill one's heart. I awoke on this particular day with a vague feeling of
anxiety. It had thawed during the night, and when I cast my eyes over the
country from the threshold, it looked to me like an immense dirty grey rag,
soiled with mud and rent to tatters.
The horizon was shrouded in a curtain of
fog, in which the oak-trees along the walk lugubriously extended their dark
arms, like a row of spectres guarding the vast mass of vapour spreading out
behind them. The fields had sunk, and were covered with great sheets of water,
at the edge of which hung the remnants of dirty snow. The loud roar of the Durance
was increasing in the distance.
Winter imparts health and strength to one's
frame when the sun is clear and the ground dry. The air makes the tips of your
ears tingle, you walk merrily along the frozen pathways, which ring with a
silvery sound beneath your tread. But I know of nothing more saddening than
dull, thawing weather: I hate the damp fogs which weigh one's shoulders down.
I shivered in the presence of that
copper-like sky, and hastened to retire indoors, making up my mind that I would
not go out into the fields that day. There was plenty of work in and around the
farm-buildings.
Jacques had been up a long time. I heard
him whistling in a shed, where he was helping some men remove sacks of corn.
The boy was already eighteen years old; he was a tall fellow, with strong arms.
He had not had an uncle Lazare to spoil him and teach him Latin, and he did not
go and dream beneath the willows at the riverside. Jacques had become a real
peasant, an untiring worker, who got angry when I touched anything, telling me
I was getting old and ought to rest.
And as I was watching him from a distance,
a sweet lithe creature, leaping on my shoulders, clapped her little hands to my
eyes, inquiring:
"Who is it?"
I laughed and answered:
"It's little Marie, who has just been
dressed by her mamma."
The dear little girl was completing her
tenth year, and for ten years she had been the delight of the farm. Having come
the last, at a time when we could no longer hope to have any more children, she
was doubly loved. Her precarious health made her particularly dear to us. She
was treated as a young lady; her mother absolutely wanted to make a lady of
her, and I had not the heart to oppose her wish, so little Marie was a pet, in
lovely silk skirts trimmed with ribbons.
Marie was still seated on my shoulders.
"Mamma, mamma," she cried,
"come and look; I'm playing at horses."
Babet, who was entering, smiled. Ah! my
poor Babet, how old we were! I remember we were shivering with weariness, on
that day, gazing sadly at one another when alone.
Our children brought back our youth.
Lunch was eaten in silence. We had been
compelled to light the lamp. The reddish glimmer that hung round the room was
sad enough to drive one crazy.
"Bah!" said Jacques, "this
tepid rainy weather is better than intense cold that would freeze our vines and
olives."
And he tried to joke. But he was as anxious
as we were, without knowing why. Babet had had bad dreams. We listened to the
account of her nightmare, laughing with our lips but sad at heart.
"This weather quite upsets one,"
I said to cheer us all up.
"Yes, yes, it's the weather,"
Jacques hastened to add. "I'll put some vine branches on the fire."
There was a bright flame which cast large
sheets of light upon the walls. The branches burnt with a cracking sound,
leaving rosy ashes. We had seated ourselves in front of the chimney; the air,
outside, was tepid; but great drops of icy cold damp fell from the ceilings
inside the farmhouse. Babet had taken little Marie on her knees; she was
talking to her in an undertone, amused at her childish chatter.
"Are you coming, father?" Jacques
inquired of me. "We are going to look at the cellars and lofts."
I went out with him. The harvests had been
getting bad for some years past. We were suffering great losses: our vines and
trees were caught by frost, whilst hail had chopped up our wheat and oats. And
I sometimes said that I was growing old, and that fortune, who is a woman, does
not care for old men. Jacques laughed, answering that he was young, and was
going to court fortune.
I had reached the winter, the cold season.
I felt distinctly that all was withering around me. At each pleasure that
departed, I thought of uncle Lazare, who had died so calmly; and with fond
remembrances of him, asked for strength.
Daylight had completely disappeared at . We went down into the
common room. Babet was sewing in the chimney corner, with her head bent over
her work; and little Marie was seated on the ground, in front of the fire,
gravely dressing a doll. Jacques and I had placed ourselves at a mahogany
writing-table, which had come to us from uncle Lazare, and were engaged in
checking our accounts.
The window was as if blocked up; the fog,
sticking to the panes of glass, formed a perfect wall of gloom. Behind this
wall stretched emptiness, the unknown. A great noise, a loud roar, alone arose
in the silence and spread through the obscurity.
We had dismissed the workpeople, keeping
only our old woman-servant, Marguerite, with us. When I raised my head and
listened, it seemed to me that the farmhouse hung suspended in the middle of a
chasm. No human sound came from the outside. I heard naught but the riot of the
abyss. Then I gazed at my wife and children, and experienced the cowardice of
those old people who feel themselves too weak to protect those surrounding them
against unknown peril.
The noise became harsher, and it seemed to
us that there was a knocking at the door. At the same instant, the horses in
the stable began to neigh furiously, whilst the cattle lowed as if choking. We
had all risen, pale with anxiety, Jacques dashed to the door and threw it wide
open.
A wave of muddy water burst into the room.
The Durance was overflowing. It was it that
had been making the noise, that had been increasing in the distance since morning.
The snow melting on the mountains had transformed each hillside into a torrent
which had swelled the river. The curtain of fog had hidden from us this sudden
rise of water.
It had often advanced thus to the gates of
the farm, when the thaw came after severe winters. But the flood had never
increased so rapidly. We could see through the open door that the courtyard was
transformed into a lake. The water already reached our ankles.
Babet had caught up little Marie, who was
crying and clasping her doll to her. Jacques wanted to run and open the doors
of the stables and cowhouses; but his mother held him back by his clothes,
begging him not to go out. The water continued rising. I pushed Babet towards
the staircase.
"Quick, quick, let us go up into the bedrooms,"
I cried.
And I obliged Jacques to pass before me. I
left the ground-floor the last.
Marguerite came down in terror from the
loft where she happened to find herself. I made her sit down at the end of the
room beside Babet, who remained silent, pale, and with beseeching eyes. We put
little Marie into bed; she had insisted on keeping her doll, and went quietly
to sleep pressing it in her arms. This child's sleep relieved me; when I turned
round and saw Babet, listening to the little girl's regular breathing, I forgot
the danger, all I heard was the water beating against the walls.
But Jacques and I could not help looking
the peril in the face. Anxiety made us endeavour to discover the progress of
the inundation. We had thrown the window wide open, we leant out at the risk of
falling, searching into the darkness. The fog, which was thicker, hung above
the flood, throwing out fine rain which gave us the shivers. Vague steel-like flashes
were all that showed the moving sheet of water, amidst the profound obscurity.
Below, it was splashing in the courtyard, rising along the walls in gentle
undulations. And we still heard naught but the anger of the Durance, and the
affrighted cattle and horses.
The neighing and lowing of these poor
beasts pierced me to the heart. Jacques questioned me with his eyes; he would
have liked to try and deliver them. Their agonising moans soon became
lamentable, and a great cracking sound was heard. The oxen had just broken down
the stable doors. We saw them pass before us, borne away by the flood, rolled
over and over in the current. And they disappeared amid the roar of the river.
Then I felt choking with anger. I became as
one possessed, I shook my fist at the Durance. Erect, facing the window, I
insulted it.
"Wicked thing!" I shouted amidst
the tumult of the waters, "I loved you fondly, you were my first
sweetheart, and now you are plundering me. You come and disturb my farm, and
carry off my cattle. Ah! cursed, cursed thing.----Then you gave me Babet, you
ran gently at the edge of my meadows. I took you for a good mother. I
remembered uncle Lazare felt affection for your limpid stream, and I thought I
owed you gratitude. You are a barbarous mother, I only owe you my
hatred----"
But the Durance stifled my cries with its
thundering voice; and, broad and indifferent, expanded and drove its flood
onward with tranquil obstinacy.
I turned back to the room and went and
kissed Babet, who was weeping. Little Marie was smiling in her sleep.
"Don't be afraid," I said to my
wife. "The water cannot always rise. It will certainly go down. There is
no danger."
"No, there is no danger," Jacques
repeated feverishly. "The house is solid."
At that moment Marguerite, who had
approached the window, tormented by that feeling of curiosity which is the outcome
of fear, leant forward like a mad thing and fell, uttering a cry. I threw
myself before the window, but could not prevent Jacques plunging into the
water. Marguerite had nursed him, and he felt the tenderness of a son for the
poor old woman. Babet had risen in terror, with joined hands, at the sound of
the two splashes. She remained there, erect, with open mouth and distended
eyes, watching the window.
I had seated myself on the wooden handrail,
and my ears were ringing with the roar of the flood. I do not know how long it
was that Babet and I were in this painful state of stupor, when a voice called
to me. It was Jacques who was holding on to the wall beneath the window. I
stretched out my hand to him, and he clambered up.
Babet clasped him in her arms. She could
sob now; and she relieved herself.
No reference was made to Marguerite.
Jacques did not dare say he had been unable to find her, and we did not dare
question him anent his search.
He took me apart and brought me back to the
window.
"Father," he said to me in an
undertone, "there are more than seven feet of water in the courtyard, and
the river is still rising. We cannot remain here any longer."
Jacques was right. The house was falling to
pieces, the planks of the outbuildings were going away one by one. Then this
death of Marguerite weighed upon us. Babet, bewildered, was beseeching us.
Marie alone remained peaceful in the big bed? with her doll between her arms,
and slumbering with the happy smile of an angel.
The peril increased at every minute. The
water was on the point of reaching the handrail of the window and pouring into
the room. Any one would have said that it was an engine of war making the
farmhouse totter with regular, dull, hard blows. The current must be running
right against the facade, and we could not hope for any human assistance.
"Every minute is precious," said
Jacques in agony. "We shall be crushed beneath the ruins. Let us look for
boards, let us make a raft."
He said that in his excitement. I would
naturally have preferred a thousand times to be in the middle of the river, on
a few beams lashed together, than beneath the roof of this house which was
about to fall in. But where could we lay hands on the beams we required? In a
rage I tore the planks from the cupboards, Jacques broke the furniture, we took
away the shutters, every piece of wood we could reach. And feeling it was impossible
to utilise these fragments, we cast them into the middle of the room in a fury,
and continued searching.
Our last hope was departing, we understood
our misery and want of power. The water was rising; the harsh voice of the
Durance was calling to us in anger. Then, I burst out sobbing, I took Babet in
my trembling arms, I begged Jacques to come near us. I wished us all to die in
the same embrace.
Jacques had returned to the window. And,
suddenly, he exclaimed:
"Father, we are saved!--Come and
see."
The sky was clear. The roof of a shed, torn
away by the current, had come to a standstill beneath our window. This roof,
which was several yards broad, was formed of light beams and thatch; it
floated, and would make a capital raft, I joined my hands together and would
have worshipped this wood and straw.
Jacques jumped on the roof, after having
firmly secured it. He walked on the thatch, making sure it was everywhere
strong. The thatch resisted; therefore we could adventure on it without fear.
"Oh! it will carry us all very
well," said Jacques joyfully. "See how little it sinks into the
water! The difficulty will be to steer it."
He looked around him and seized two poles
drifting along in the current, as they passed by.
"Ah! here are oars," he
continued. "You will go to the stern, father, and I forward, and we will
manoeuvre the raft easily. There are not twelve feet of water. Quick, quick!
get on board, we must not lose a minute."
My poor Babet tried to smile. She wrapped
little Marie carefully up in her shawl; the child had just woke up, and, quite
alarmed, maintained a silence which was broken by deep sobs. I placed a chair
before the window and made Babet get on the raft. As I held her in my arms I
kissed her with poignant emotion, feeling this kiss was the last.
The water was beginning to pour into the
room. Our feet were soaking. I was the last to embark; then I undid the cord.
The current hurled us against the wall; it required precautions and many
efforts to quit the farmhouse.
The fog had little by little dispersed. It
was about when we left.
The stars were still buried in mist; the moon which was almost at the edge of
the horizon, lit up the night with a sort of wan daylight.
The inundation then appeared to us in all
its grandiose horror. The valley had become a river. The Durance, swollen to
enormous proportions and washing the two hillsides, passed between dark masses
of cultivated land, and was the sole thing displaying life in the inanimate
space bounded by the horizon. It thundered with a sovereign voice, maintaining
in its anger the majesty of its colossal wave. Clumps of trees emerged in
places, staining the sheet of pale water with black streaks. Opposite us I recognised
the tops of the oaks along the walk; the current carried us towards these
branches, which for us were so many reefs. Around the raft floated various
kinds of remains, pieces of wood, empty barrels, bundles of grass; the river
was bearing along the ruins it had made in its anger.
To the left we perceived the lights of
Dourgues--flashes of lanterns moving about in the darkness. The water could not
have risen as high as the village; only the low land had been submerged. No
doubt assistance would come. We searched the patches of light hanging over the
water; it seemed to us at every instant that we heard the sound of oars.
We had started at random. As soon as the
raft was in the middle of the current, lost amidst the whirlpools of the river,
anguish of mind overtook us again; we almost regretted having left the farm. I
sometimes turned round and gazed at the house, which still remained standing,
presenting a grey aspect on the white water. Babet, crouching down in the centre
of the raft, in the thatch of the roof, was holding little Marie on her knees, the
child's head against her breast, to hide the horror of the river from her. Both
were bent double, leaning forward in an embrace, as if reduced in stature by
fear. Jacques, standing upright in the front, was leaning on his pole with all
his weight; from time to time he cast a rapid glance towards us, and then
silently resumed his task. I seconded him as well as I could, but our efforts
to reach the bank remained fruitless. Little by little, notwithstanding our
poles, which we buried into the mud until we nearly broke them, we drifted into
the open; a force that seemed to come from the depths of the water drove us
away. The Durance was slowly taking possession of us.
Struggling, bathed in perspiration, we had
worked ourselves into a passion; we were fighting with the river as with a
living being, seeking to vanquish, wound, kill it. It strained us in its
giant-like arms, and our poles in our hands became weapons which we thrust into
its breast. It roared, flung its slaver into our faces, wriggled beneath our
strokes. We resisted its victory with clenched teeth. We would not be
conquered. And we had mad impulses to fell the monster, to calm it with blows
from our fists.
We went slowly towards the offing. We were
already at the entrance to the oak-tree walk. The dark branches pierced through
the water, which they tore with a lamentable sound. Death, perhaps, awaited us
there in a collision. I cried out to Jacques to follow the walk by clinging
close to the branches. And it was thus that I passed for the last time in the middle
of this oak-tree alley, where I had walked in my youth and ripe age. In the
terrible darkness, above the howling depth, I thought of uncle Lazare, and saw
the happy days of my youth smiling at me sadly.
The Durance triumphed at the end of the
alley. Our poles no longer touched the bottom. The water bore us along in its
impetuous bound of victory. And now it could do what it pleased with us. We
gave ourselves up. We went downstream with frightful rapidity. Great clouds,
dirty tattered rags hung about the sky; when the moon was hidden there came
lugubrious obscurity. Then we rolled in chaos. Enormous billows as black as
ink, resembling the backs of fish, bore us along, spinning us round. I could no
longer see either Babet or the children. I already felt myself dying.
I know not how long this last run lasted.
The moon was suddenly unveiled, and the horizon became clear. And in that light
I perceived an immense black mass in front of us which blocked the way, and
towards which we were being carried with all the violence of the current. We
were lost, we would be broken there.
Babet had stood upright. She held out
little Marie to me:
"Take the child," she exclaimed.
"Leave me alone, leave me alone!"
Jacques had already caught Babet in his
arms. In a loud voice he said:
"Father, save the little one--I will
save mother."
We had come close to the black mass. I
thought I recognised a tree. The shock was terrible, and the raft, split in
two, scattered its straw and beams in the whirlpool of water.
I fell, clasping little Marie tightly to
me. The icy cold water brought back all my courage. On rising to the surface of
the river, I supported the child, I half laid her on my neck and began to swim
laboriously. If the little creature had not lost consciousness but had
struggled, we should both have remained at the bottom of the deep.
And, whilst I swam, I felt choking with
anxiety. I called Jacques, I tried to see in the distance; but I heard nothing
save the roar of the waters, I saw naught but the pale sheet of the Durance.
Jacques and Babet were at the bottom. She must have clung to him, dragged him
down in a deadly strain of her arms. What frightful agony! I wanted to die; I
sunk slowly, I was going to find them beneath the black water. And as soon as
the flood touched little Marie's face, I struggled again with impetuous anguish
to get near the waterside.
It was thus that I abandoned Babet and
Jacques, in despair at having been unable to die with them, still calling out
to them in a husky voice. The river cast me on the stones, like one of those
bundles of grass it leaves on its way. When I came to myself again, I took my
daughter, who was opening her eyes, in my arms. Day was breaking. My winter
night was at an end, that terrible night which had been an accomplice in the
murder of my wife and son.
At this moment, after years of regret, one
last consolation remains to me. I am the icy winter, but I feel the approaching
spring stirring within me. As my uncle Lazare said, we never die. I have had
four seasons, and here I am returning to the spring, there is my dear Marie
commencing the everlasting joys and sorrows over again.
==
Category:Published
Category:Zola