Title: The Surprises of Life
Author: Clemenceau, Georges
Language: English
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                      THE SURPRISES OF LIFE

                      BY GEORGES CLEMENCEAU


    TRANSLATED BY
    GRACE HALL

    GARDEN CITY       NEW YORK

    DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
    1920

    COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY
    DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

    ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
    INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN



CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                                       PAGE

        I. MOKOUBAMBA'S FETISH                                       3

       II. A DESCENDANT OF TIMON                                    19

      III. MALUS VICINUS                                            31

       IV. AUNT ROSALIE'S INHERITANCE                               45

        V. GIDEON IN HIS GRAVE                                      61

       VI. SIMON, SON OF SIMON                                      73

      VII. AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS                                 87

     VIII. EVIL BENEFICENCE                                        101

       IX. A MAD THINKER                                           113

        X. BETTER THAN STEALING                                    125

       XI. THE GRAY FOX                                            137

      XII. THE ADVENTURE OF MY CURÉ                                149

     XIII. MASTER BAPTIST, JUDGE                                   161

      XIV. THE BULLFINCH AND THE MAKER OF WOODEN SHOES             173

       XV. ABOUT NESTS                                             185

      XVI. A DOMESTIC DRAMA                                        197

     XVII. SIX CENTS                                               209

    XVIII. FLOWER O' THE WHEAT                                     221

      XIX. JEAN PIOT'S FEAST                                       233

       XX. THE TREASURE OF ST. BARTHOLEMEW                         249

      XXI. A HAPPY UNION                                           263

     XXII. A WELL-ASSORTED COUPLE                                  275

    XXIII. LOVERS IN FLORENCE                                      287

     XXIV. A HUNTING ACCIDENT                                      301

      XXV. GIAMBOLO                                                313



THE SURPRISES OF LIFE



I

MOKOUBAMBA'S FETISH


It may be that you knew Mokoubamba who became famous in Passy for his
labours as a reseater of rush-bottomed chairs, weaver of mats, of
baskets and hampers, mender of all things breakable, teller of tales,
entertainer of the passerby, lover of all haunts where poor mortality
resorts to eat and drink. He was an old Negro from the coast of Guinea,
very black as to skin, wholly white as to hair, with great velvety black
eyes and the jaws of a crocodile whence issued childlike laughter. He
used to honour me with his visits on his way home at evening when he had
not sold quite all his wares. With abundance of words and gestures, he
would explain to me how fortunate I was to need precisely the article of
which by an unforeseen and kindly chance he was the owner. And as he saw
that I delighted in his talk, he gave free rein to that spirited
eloquence which never failed to bring him more or less remuneration.

Our latest "reformers" having put intoxication by the juice of the grape
within reach of all, Mokoubamba died on the fourteenth of last July,
from having too copiously celebrated the taking of the Bastille. No more
will Passy see Mokoubamba, with his white _burnous_, his scarlet
_chechia_, his green boots, and his drum-major's staff. A genuine loss
to the truly Parisian picturesqueness of this quarter. As for me, how
should I not miss the rare companion who had seen so many lands,
consorted with so many sages, and collected so many strange teachings?

"Mokoubamba knows the whole earth," he was wont to say, candidly adding:
"Mokoubamba knows everything that man can know."

And the generosity of this primitive nature will be seen in the fact of
his not keeping his hoard of knowledge to himself, but lavishing it upon
all comers. He was equally willing to announce what the weather would be
on the morrow and what it had been on the day before. By means of
cabalistic signs on a very grimy bit of parchment he foretold any man's
destiny: a choice destiny, indeed, of whose felicities he was never
known to be niggardly.

The poor were informed that a rich inheritance awaited them, the rich
saw their fortunes increased by unlooked-for events, love knocked at the
door of the young, children came into the world who were to be the pride
of their families, the old, beloved for their own sakes, saw their
lives stretch out indefinitely: Mokoubamba kept a Paradise shop.

One day I made bold to call him to account for this, claiming that life
held in store for us disappointments, here and there, for the purpose of
giving an edge to our pleasures, and that there must from time to time
be a discrepancy between the sovereign bliss of which he so freely held
out the hope and the sum of realized joys.

"Life," replied the wise Mokoubamba, "is a procession of delights. As
soon as one has disappeared, another has started upon its way. It may be
a more or less long time in arriving, but no one will begrudge waiting
for it, and the waiting is often the best a man gets out of it."

For a chairmender this saying seemed to me fairly profound.

"Who taught you this?" I asked.

"A fakir from Benares from whom the heavens withheld no secrets."

"You have been in India?"

"I have been everywhere."

"Mokoubamba, my friend, yours is no ordinary life. Will you not tell me
something of it? The past interests me more than the future."

"If you will order them to give me coffee and cigarettes, and if I may
drink and smoke as long as I talk, you shall have my entire history."

I nodded in assent, and Mokoubamba, taking possession of my verandah,
squatted upon one of his own mats, inhaled the perfume of Arabia,
exhaled three puffs of curly blue smoke, and seemed to lose himself in
the search for a starting point.

"What was your first occupation?" I asked by way of helping him on.

"The easiest of all," said he, with a shamefaced air. "I began by being
a minister."

"Minister!" I cried in high surprise. "Minister to whom? Minister of
what?"

"Minister to the great King Matori. Down there--down there--beyond the
Niger."

"Truly! My compliments to His Excellency! And you say the profession
seemed an easy one to you? Your colleagues up here would scarcely agree
with you."

"I speak of what I have seen. In my country those who are the masters
are always in the right. Tell me if you know of a place on earth where
it is any different? I did not know how to do anything. I could not even
have braided a mat in those days. Well, then, all that I said was
admirable, and as soon as I had given an order it was considered the
best in the world. I was myself a Fetish, my mother having given me
birth on a day of rain after a long drought which had reduced our
villages to famine."

"And what were your functions?"

"The same as elsewhere. I was purveyor of provisions to the royal
household and I reserved a just share for myself. Matori loved me very
much. But I had enemies. They persuaded him that my Fetish was stronger
than his, and as he feared my power, he sold me to an English trader who
needed carriers for his ivory. It was a long journey to the coast. If a
man fell he was gently dispatched on the spot, so that he might not be
eaten alive by the beasts, and his load was distributed among the rest
of us. Without my Fetish I should have been left behind. I may add that
being beaten with a stick helped to keep up my courage."

"And what is your Fetish?"

"At that time I did not know, but I felt it without knowing. In time we
arrived among the English. I was not a slave. Oh, no! but I had been
'engaged,' and in order that I might better fill my 'engagement' they
fastened me, with many others, to the wall of a courtyard, by an iron
chain."

"Poor Mokoubamba!"

"I was not unhappy, for they fed me very well. They wished to have us in
good condition so as to get rid of us. It was there that I learned the
art of weaving reeds and rattan, and carving curious designs upon wood.
My neighbour, the man chained beside me, was a great sorcerer in his own
land. He could carve bamboo, he could cook; he was skilled in hammering
red-hot iron, in stitching leather, in dancing; he could call up
spirits. They took very good care of him. They did not sell him, of
course, since there existed no slavery, but they bartered him for two
dozen bottles of French brandy. There was a price for you! Matori had
handed me over for a single calabash of rum and a copper trumpet."

"Poor Mokoubamba!"

"Yes, you are right! It was a paltry price. I was humiliated by it for a
long time. But as my new master used to say, I must learn to overcome
the demon of pride."

"Your new master used to say that?"

"It was like this. I was quietly sitting at my chain one day, making a
large basket, when a man dressed in black, with an edge of white around
his neck, came near me and said: 'My brother, what have you done with
your soul?' I had learned a few words of English on the journey.
However, I asked my visitor to repeat his question. He repeated it again
and again, and I finally understood that he was talking about my Fetish,
and that he wished to know what I had done with it. I answered that it
was a sacred thing, and that I had it with me, but that I would
willingly employ it in his service if he would acquire me for a sum of
money. My answer had the good fortune to please him, it seems, for on
that very evening the excellent Reverend Ebenezer Jones installed me in
his parsonage. He taught me about his great Fetish, who did not much
differ from Matori's. Is not a Fetish always something that we do not
know and that works us either good or evil? We ask it for good, and it
does not always grant it. But as I was just saying, we go on expecting
it, and that keeps us in patience.

"Ebenezer Jones told me beautiful tales full of marvels, and he always
ended with the question: 'Dost thou believe?'

"How should I not have believed him? So good a man, who daily let me
have soup with meat in it. I was baptized by him with a fine ceremony.
Before long he was so pleased with me that he made me his sexton. I was
the edification of the faithful, everyone brought me gifts, and I was
able, unknown to the Right Reverend, to treat myself to a superior brand
of _tafia_.

"Ebenezer Jones travelled about the country preaching his Fetish, and I
accompanied him. I had ended by knowing his discourses by heart, and
often at gatherings I recited portions of them after he had finished
speaking. People understood me better than they did him, which was not
to be wondered at. My 'spiritual guide' owed to me most of the success
that made him famous in his own country. This lasted for nearly ten
years.

"One day, Ebenezer having been called back to London proposed that I
should follow him. I did it joyfully, and I must say that the six weeks
I spent in that capital were one long-drawn-out feast. I was exhibited
at the Missionary Society as a model among converts. At dessert I would
rise and speak of my complete happiness, which was but natural after so
good a meal. People wept with emotion, and so did I myself. In that
country the religious fervour of elderly gentlewomen is extraordinary.
Between puddings and mince pies, it was one stream of gifts of food.
Never have I eaten so well or drunk so much.

"There, however, I was surprised to find that the English no more than
the Negroes are all of one mind with regard to their Fetishes, which I
ought to have expected. In Africa, at a six days' journey from our
church, there was a Catholic Mission. I was careful never to go near it,
since Ebenezer had warned me that they worked evil spells there upon the
poor Negroes who let themselves be deceived.

"But one afternoon in London, I was accosted by a big devil of an Irish
priest who had heard of my religious zeal. He was greatly perturbed by
the glory which the Missionary Society owed to me. He had determined to
snatch me away from Ebenezer Jones. I let him take me home with him,
where I found a table abundantly spread. Meat, pies, and preserves, and
liqueurs, oh, such liqueurs! I was deeply shaken, and could not disguise
the fact from my new friend, Father Joseph O'Meara. He increased his
efforts, and so successfully explained to me the superiority of his
Fetishes over Ebenezer's that I was obliged to agree he was right. No
sooner had I uttered the word than he baptized me on the spot, gave me a
good bed to sleep in, and on the morrow celebrated my reconversion with
a ceremony even finer than the former one. There were Fetishes
everywhere surrounded by lights. Joseph O'Meara wept for joy and so did
I. That evening there was a magnificent banquet, ... just like the
others. They had taught me a speech, but as the generous potations had
slightly clouded my memory, I was able to utter but one sentence:
'Mokoubamba is very happy, very happy.'

"And that was no lie.

"The trouble was now that Ebenezer Jones, ashamed of having allowed
Mokoubamba to be stolen from him, wished to get me back. But Joseph
O'Meara was not the man to let any such trick be played upon him. I was
treated like a prince, and kept well in sight for fifteen glorious days.
Then it was explained to me that I must go to another country so as to
escape from the machinations of the 'Evil One,' which was the name of
Ebenezer's bad Fetish. I was consequently hurried off to a mission in
Bombay where the religion was very different. Here were priests who
fasted all day long. A moiety of rice, much dust, and as much warm water
as I cared to consume. This did not suit me in the least. I wandered
about the streets looking for some Fetish willing to take an interest in
me. There are all manner of people out there. I questioned concerning
their Fetishes a Parsee, a fire-worshipper who had nothing to cook in
his dish, and a Chinaman who considering my appetite told me that I
should be born again in the form of a shark. None of them showed any
care to convert me. A Mahomedan alone seemed disposed to win me over to
his Fetish, but he wished first to take from me a portion of something
which I at that time considered very desirable. That ended it.

"I travelled, weaving baskets and mats, even as I do to-day. I lived
very poorly. Everyone in that country cares above all things for his own
Fetish, and will not change it. There is no work there for Ebenezer
Jones or Joseph O'Meara. And yet their Fetishes leave the people in
great misery. They let them starve by the hundred thousand, yet no one
has the slightest idea of turning to those Fetishes through whom other
peoples live in abundance.

"I laid this question before a fakir of Benares who was said to possess
supreme wisdom. His Fetish was a wooden bowl behind which he squatted at
the roadside by way of adoration. Looking at the thing casually, you
would have seen in it nothing extraordinary. And yet that bowl had the
property of attracting money because of the belief established by the
fakir that it brought good luck to the giver. Indeed, I have found the
same thing true here in your country. But the mendicant fakir class of
India is here divided in two classes: the beggar by trade, to whom you
give nothing because he is not 'respectable,' and the professional fakir
to whom you give everything because your success may depend on his
favour.

"The man of Benares knew this and much besides. He became my friend
because of the very simplicity of my questions. At evening he would
bestow on me the alms of a bowl of rice. Often he let me spread my
litter in his reed hut. At night under the stars he taught me concerning
the creation, and imparted to me his knowledge of all things. It was he
who expounded to me the great mystery of Fetishes, since which I have
lived without care for the morrow. Later, a Parsee, a great grain
merchant, took me to your Algiers, and thence brought me here, where I
have remained. But all that I have seen of the world has but confirmed
my belief in the profound wisdom of the illustrious fakir of Benares."

"Good. But what did he tell you about Fetishes?"

"You see ... I have no more coffee...."

"There you are, and how about this little glass of brandy?"

"With pleasure. And anyway it can be summed up in one word. The fakir
told me that the universe is but one huge agglomeration of Fetishes.
There are as many as there are creatures alive. Some are strong and some
are weak. It is a great battle as to which shall come out on top. The
wicked are those who work evil on others to get the upper hand. The
good are those who use gentleness, persuasion, art. One had better be on
the side of the good unless one is stronger than they."

"I see. But was the fakir speaking of Fetishes or of men?"

"Ha-ha! You want to know all of it! Another little glass and you shall
have your answer. Excellent! I can refuse you nothing. Well, then, the
fakir affirmed that Fetish and man are one and the same thing, for every
man makes his Fetish according to the strength of his interest in
himself, and the will power he expends in satisfying it. That is why I
am not deceiving when I foretell a happy fortune for people. It but
strengthens their Fetish, their chance of happiness is increased, they
enjoy it in anticipation."

"Then, Mokoubamba, under varying forms and shifting denominations, you
maintain that the only Fetish to whom you have remained unalterably
faithful, and which has rewarded your fidelity by pulling you through
everything in the world----"

"Is Mokoubamba himself. There is the great secret. Meditate upon it,
like the fakir----"

"I shall meditate upon it, have no fear. But do you suppose this great
secret is known in Benares alone?"

"I have often asked myself that question. Judging by actions, everyone
seems perfectly aware of what he is about. But I have never known any
one except the fakir of Benares to state things as they are."

Thus spake Mokoubamba, reseater of rush-bottomed chairs in Passy, mender
of all things breakable, entertainer of the passerby, teller of fanciful
tales.



II

A DESCENDANT OF TIMON


Timon of Athens hated all men because he had once too greatly loved
them. To whom shall the fault be ascribed, to mankind, or to Timon of
Athens? The long-standing open question does not yet appear to have been
answered. The human race continues to lay the blame on its detractors,
and the descendants of Timon, who was above all a disappointed lover of
his kind, have not ceased to find good reasons for their censure.

The special descendant of Timon who trotted me on his knee when I was a
child was an old navy doctor retired from service after a severe wound
received at Navarino. If I close my eyes, the better to call up my
memories, there arises before me a long, gaunt silhouette surmounted by
a bald head, the entire figure running to length, which is, they say,
the mark of an immoderate idealism. I remember his small, mocking green
eyes, sunk behind the brush of his formidable eyebrows. The long, white
side-whiskers, the carefully shaven lips that would stretch to his ears
in a grin like Voltaire's, accompanied by a dry chuckle, have remained
alive in my memory, as have also his wide, incoördinate gestures, his
dry, harsh voice, and his biting, wrathful utterances.

I should find it impossible at this distance to trace the life history
of Doctor Jean du Pouët, known over the entire Plain, from Sainte
Hermine to Fontenay-le-Comte, under the familiar yet respectful title of
"The Doctor." All I can say is that the Doctor, hailing originally from
L'Aiguillon, a little port of the Vendée at the mouth of the Lay, had
sailed every sea, landed on every island, visited every coast of every
continent, and made his studies of all nations on earth from life, which
enabled him to criticise his neighbours at every turn by comparing them,
disastrously for them, with heaven knows what abominable savages, in
which comparison the latter were always found far superior, with regard
to the point under discussion, to the men of the Vendée, from the Plain,
the Woodland, and the Marsh, all put together.

It was in the very heart of the Plain, in the village of Ecoulandres,
that the "Doctor" had come to settle, brought there by an inheritance
from a cousin, who had left him lord and master of an old middle-class
dwelling with large tile-paved rooms in which hung panoplies of
tomahawks, javelins, bucklers, boomerangs, in warlike wreaths around
monstrous idols, whose barbaric names, impressively enumerated by the
traveller, aroused a holy terror in the soul of the peaceable tillers of
the soil.

A little wood of elms, a great curiosity in a region where not a tree is
to be seen, surrounded the domain. It was a thin copse, the layer of
soil making but a shallow covering to the underlying limestone. This did
not prevent our stern censor from taking a certain pride in his "grove,"
without its like to the furthermost boundary of the horizon. I must even
confess that the doctor, like any other true son of the Vendée, had a
very well-developed sense of landed proprietorship. Money ran through
his fingers, and no outstretched palm ever sought his help in vain. But
the possessive pronoun rose readily to his lips when talk turned upon
the land. "My dung," "my stones," "my nettles," he was wont to say. He
adored his Plain--"Green in springtime, in summer gold," where fleecy
crops rippled under the great blue canopy,--pierced along the horizon by
steeples suggestive of distant shipping. Flights of plovers in January
and ducks in September engaged the doctor's attention. He watched for
them from a murderous shooting shelter, and invented incredible ruses to
allure them nearer. The rest of his time was spent scouring the
countryside in a jolting rural trap, hastening to the bedside of the
sick, who sent for him on any and all occasions, but did not greatly
value his visits, as he never required payment, or administered to his
patients that accompanying dose of legitimate charlatanism which forms
the chief factor in so many cures.

For the doctor was above all things outspoken. I am unaware whether some
great disappointment had driven him to misanthropy, or whether he had
merely given way to the natural bent of his character. Whatever may have
been his soul's history, it is certain that he at every opportunity
exercised his fine capacity for indignation against mankind in general,
and with particular delight against the specimens of it who happened to
be present. Never any coarse rudeness, however, and absolutely never any
active ill will. He was not to be taken at his word, his pleasure
consisting merely in satanic thoughts, the cruel expression of which
sufficed for the satisfaction of his ferocity.

You should have heard him on the subject of love, of friendship, of
gratitude. It was his joy to demonstrate that every form of courtesy
concealed a lie, by which he was no more deceived than was the person
favouring him with it. It was no pleasure trip, coming to thank him for
having saved a sick man's life. The patient and his friends heard
startling things concerning the self-interest at bottom of their
thoughts.

"Are you so glad, then, not to get your inheritance?" he would say to a
son who came to tell him of his old father's complete return to health.

And he would cite living parallels, drawn from the life of neighbouring
villages, calling the characters by name, to demonstrate what a
foundation of selfishness was covered by the veneer of affection people
are so fond of exhibiting. The peasant would listen silently, wearing a
foolish grin, pretending to be stupid in order to escape the necessity
of answering, and admitting in the depth of his inmost heart that the
doctor read him like an open book, and that one could have no secrets
from that devil of a man.

His talk upon marriage, the family, religion, property, the judiciary,
the administration itself, was directed by the blackest psychology. But
his chief victim was the _curé_ of Ecoulandres, an old friend who did
not take abuse without virulent retaliation, which led to curious
fencing bouts between the two.

The truth is that the two men had a great liking for each other. Both of
them were remnants of the France of the eighteenth century, both
suffering from the same stab of disillusion which the Revolution and the
Empire had driven into their fondest dreams. The doctor found vent in
wrath, the Abbé in resignation. Fundamentally alike in their wounded
ideality, they sought each other out in the obstinate hope of agreeing,
yet met only to offend, and to spend their strength in painful and
useless strife, parting with bruised hearts and great oaths never to
meet again, only to rush together on the following day.

The Abbé Jaud, like his inseparable enemy, was of more than ordinary
height, and without the cassock clinging to his lean sides might at
fifty paces have been taken for him. The doctor's excuse for
frequenting the Abbé was that he could talk to him without stooping.
When the two tall silhouettes were outlined against the horizon at the
edge of the plain they might have been taken for one and the same man.
They were, in truth, one man in two persons.

In their last years death naturally formed the inexhaustible topic of
their conversation. The doctor had, he used to say, determined to die
before the Abbé, in order to force him to perform an act of supreme
hypocrisy by obliging him to bury with every formality the man who,
having proclaimed himself an atheist all his days, had refused with his
latest breath to put himself in order with the Church.

"One talks like that," said the Abbé. "When on the verge of the great
step, one changes one's mind."

"Mine will not change."

"Then, my dear Doctor, I shall be under the painful necessity of letting
you go unaccompanied to the grave."

"Not so. You will accompany me. You will mutter your Pater Nosters, let
me assure you. You will sprinkle my coffin with holy water. You will
sing psalms, clad in your finest stole. You will say a mass with all the
fallals, and you will not leave me until you have provided me with a
proper passport in due form."

"Cease blaspheming, or I must refuse to listen."

"A fine way to dispose of a difficulty! Do you know where I wish to be
buried by your good agency, Abbé? In the unconsecrated part of the
graveyard. Once upon a time the earth as well as the skies belonged to
you. You laid claims to this planet as your property, and no one had the
right to rot under ground save by your leave. Six feet of sod had to be
wrested from you by main force to bury Molière! To-day, at last, we have
taken back control over our earth. We have conquered the right to a
peaceful return to nothingness. And now, to foster the illusion of
getting even, and to shut yourselves to the very end in your secular
spirit, you have devised nothing better than to create an unhallowed
portion in the field of eternal rest. The other day, when I went there
to select a spot to my liking, did not a fool of a peasant say to me:
'You mustn't be buried there, Doctor, that corner is reserved for those
condemned to death.' To be 'condemned to death' seemed to that idiot the
utmost of horror. He does not realize that he--that they--that you--that
we are all in the same case, my poor Abbé. Well, I chose my spot. I had
a great stake driven there, so that there should be no mistake. Go and
have a look at it, Abbé, for it is there that you will with pomp and
ceremony, according to your rites, deposit me in unhallowed ground."

"That will never be, my dear Doctor."

"That will surely be, my dear Abbé."

A few months later, the doctor, after lying in wait for plovers on the
Plain (it was Christmas Eve, and he was then more than eighty years
old), returned home shivering with fever. A pleurisy set in on the
following day, and soon death was rapidly nearing.

The Abbé was by his bedside, as will have been surmised. When he saw
that there was no hope of recovery:

"Come, my dear friend," he began, having sent away the bystanders, "do
you not think it fitting, in this hour, to speak seriously of serious
things?"

"Hush," said the dying man, placing a thin, feverish finger on the
priest's lips. "We have said all there was to be said, and there is
nothing more to say. Take the key under my pillow--open that drawer--and
give me my will--the drawer on the left--hand me also a pen--I wish to
add a line."

The Abbé did as he was requested. The trembling hand wrote a few words,
then the head fell back on the pillow. The old man was dying. An hour
later Doctor Jean du Pouët had breathed his last.

The will when opened ran thus:

"I die in absolute unbelief, refusing to perform any act of faith. I
bequeathe my fortune, which amounts approximately to 100,000 francs, to
the church of Ecoulandres, for the purchase, under the direction of M.
the Abbé Jaud, of ornaments of the cult, as sumptuous as the sum
permits. This in the hope that the sight of such wealth in contrast
with their own poverty will awaken appropriate sentiment in the souls
of my fellow citizens. I desire to be buried in the unconsecrated part
of the cemetery, in the spot where six months ago I caused a stake to be
driven. If the Church should refuse me her prayers, the disposition
above described will be held null and void. In that case I name as my
sole legatee Toussaint Giraudeau, apothecary of Sainte Hermine, and
President of the Masonic Lodge named 'Fraternity.' I desire him to
distribute the inheritance as he shall think best among those Masonic
activities most especially directed against superstition and mummery."

Under the signature were added these words:

"I shall be dead within the hour. Nothing to change," and the name, in a
large, shaky handwriting, which, by the emphasis of the downward stroke
told, however, of an inflexible will.

The Abbé Jaud's first impulse was one of haughty refusal, but his second
was to go and consult his bishop, who made clear to him that highest
duty lay in presenting every obstacle to Free Masonry. He was obliged to
obey. The doctor in his grave had the last word, his face twisted with
sardonic laughter under the holy water sprinkled by the discomfited
Abbé.

The infants born before their time who filled in the cemetery of
Ecoulandres, "the corner reserved for those condemned to death," gained
this much by the event, that the earth they lay in was blessed. In that
respect, at least, one of the doctor's predictions was unfulfilled.

But the Abbé's real revenge, although he was perhaps unaware of it, was
that the sight of the magnificent golden chalices and monstrances
ornamented with precious stones, far from arousing rebellion in the
hearts of the poor, as the doctor had intended, only increased the
fervour of the faithful, and provoked the piety of the indifferent by
wonder at the splendour in which the power of the Invisible revealed
itself. Victory and defeat on both sides. Blows struck in the darkness
of the Unknown. And so passes the life of man.



III

MALUS VICINUS


Saint-juirs is the name of a village in the canton of Sainte Hermine.
Lying on the slope of a hill, it overlooks a fresh, grassy valley
planted with poplars and watered by a brook which has no recorded name.
A very modest Romanesque church laboriously hoists skyward a heavy stone
belfry amid a clump of elm and nut trees. The ruins of an old castle
degenerated from the dignity of a stronghold to the simple rank of a
country residence testifies that here, possibly, some notable event may
have taken place. But as the inhabitants have forgotten it, and have no
care to search it out, they live in absolute indifference to a thing
that is not their direct business. Their village appears to them like
all other villages, their church, their houses, their fields, their
beasts, like all other churches and houses and fields and beasts. They
only vaguely take in the idea of other countries on the earth. The
newspapers tell them of unknown lands and of strange doings; it all
seems to belong to some other world. What does it matter to them,
anyhow, since they have no intention of ever stirring, and since
nothing will ever happen to them? For them the past is without interest,
and the future does not mar the peace of their slumbers. The present
means the crops, the flocks, and the weather. For the things of Heaven
there is the _curé_, for the things of earth there are the mayor, the
notary, the customs officer, and the tax collector: a simplification of
life.

Markets and fairs purvey to the restless cravings of such as are curious
about outside happenings, but no inhabitant of Saint-Juirs would
entertain the absurd idea that any trace of an event worth relating was
to be found in his own village. Love itself is without drama, owing to
the lack of stiffness in rustic morals, which precludes excesses of
imagination by reducing to the proportions of newspaper items the
conjunctions natural to our kind. There are, doubtless, disputes in
Saint-Juirs as elsewhere, in connection with property rights, for
"thine" and "mine," which are the foundation of "social order," are
likewise a permanent cause of disorder among men. Trespassing in a
pasture, the use of a well, a right of way, the branch of a tree
reaching beyond a line, a hedge encroaching upon a ditch, result in
quarrels, lawsuits, and dissension in families, the importance of which
is no less to the small townspeople than was the feud between Capulets
and Montagues to Verona. Centuries pass, the man of the past and the man
of to-day meet on common ground in displaying the same old violence, to
which sometimes even the excuse of interests involved is wanting, as
happened when Benvolio drew his sword upon a burgher of Verona who had
taken the liberty to cough in the street, and thereby waked his dog
asleep in the sunshine.

The peaceful inhabitant of Saint-Juirs is a stranger to such vagaries.
Yet a Latin inscription above a door on the church square testifies to
the fact that a local scholar took to heart those neighbourly quarrels
to the point of wishing to leave some memory of them to posterity. A
plain stone door-frame gives access to a little garden surrounded by
high walls. Behind box hedges a house may be seen, rather broad than
high, built apparently as far back as the last century, and looking much
like other houses of the period. A servant comes out carrying a laundry
basket. A woman is sewing at the window. The door closes again. Nothing
more. Mechanically the eye travels back to the cracked stone whereon
stands deeply engraved the following wise epigraph: "Malus vicinus est
grande malum."

I have often passed by, and while freely granting that a bad neighbour
is indeed a great evil, have always wondered what epic strife was
recorded by this dolorous exclamation. Was the inscription the vengeance
of the impotent, the amiable irony of a philosopher, resigned to the
inevitable, or the triumphant cry of the unrighteous, eager to deceive
by blaming for his own fault the inoffensive being who had no choice
but to remain silent? I gazed at the house of God, twenty paces distant.
I wondered whether this ecclesiastical Latin might not be ascribed to
some man of the church. Who else would know the sacred language
sufficiently well to attain this degree of epigraphic platitude? Was
there not in the mildness of the method of revenge a flavour of the
seminary? A real man harassed by a bad neighbour would have responded by
blows in kind. A priest was more likely to strike back with a sentence
out of the breviary. So I reflected, questioning the unanswering stone,
and never dreaming that chance would one day bring me the solution of
the problem.

Chance knocked at my door a few years ago in the shape of a little
account book found in the study of a lawyer, my neighbour, and fallen
through inheritance into the possession of a friend of mine. It is a
manuscript copy-book of which only a dozen pages are covered by
accounts. On the parchment cover the two words "Malus vicinus" met my
eye. Turning over the blank pages I discovered that the little notebook
had been commenced at both ends--accounts at the front, and notes at the
back of the volume. I found various items of information concerning
births, deaths, and inheritances. At the beginning the date 1811. The
well-known names of several Saint-Juirs families passed under my eyes.
Then came the fateful title "Malus vicinus," followed by a long and
terribly tangled story. It was the secret of the door that was there
revealed to me. A priests' quarrel, as I had fancied.

The Abbé Gobert and the Abbé Rousseau, both natives of Saint-Juirs, had
been ordained upon leaving the seminary of Luçon, in about 1760. The
book contains nothing concerning their families. One may suppose them
both to have been of good middle-class origin. Each manifestly had "a
certain place in the sun." They were warm friends up to the time of
their ordination, which brought about inevitable separation. Abbé Gobert
was installed as vicar at Vieux Pouzauges whose _curé_ was to sit in the
Constituency among the partisans of the new order; Abbé Rousseau was
sent to Mortagne-sur-Sèvres, in the heart of what was destined to be the
territory of the Chouans.

Concerning their life up to the beginning of the Revolution we know
nothing, except that they remained on friendly terms. They often visited
each other. The walk from Pouzauges to Mortagne following the ridge of
the hills of the Woodland is one of the most picturesque in our lovely
western France, so rich in beautiful landscapes. Very pleasant are its
valleys, watered by crystalline brooks flowing musically over pebbly
beds; they are everywhere intersected by hedges behind which in serried
ranks rise shady thickets, inviolate sanctuary of rural peace. There
might the peasant be born and die with never the least knowledge of the
outer world. Thirty years ago specimens of the kind were still to be
found. If, however, you follow one of the road-cuts under the heavy,
overarching boughs and laboriously climb the steep rise amid granite
rocks and thick tufts of gorse mingling with brambles, which drape
themselves from one to another tree stump centuries old, you emerge
suddenly and as if miraculously into the very sky, whence all the earth
is visible. Northward as far as the Loire, where rise the towers of
Saint Peter's in Nantes, westward as far as the sea, stretches an
immense garden of verdure bathed in that translucent bluish light which
unites earth and sky and gives the sense of our planet launched in
infinite space. But to this day man and beast contemplate this
marvellous spectacle with the same indifferent eye.

In those days, the preaching of the Gospel to peasants still stupefied
from serfdom, by a clergy whose leaders prided themselves upon their
unbelief, in nowise resembled the stultifying mummeries of to-day. When
Abbé Gobert and Abbé Rousseau, arm in arm, stopped at some farmhouse for
noonday rest after a frugal meal, their free speech would doubtless
startle many a modern seminarist. Their views of the future were perhaps
not very different. The ardent liberalism of the good _curé_ of
Pouzauges could not have been unknown to his vicar, and how could the
latter, open as he was to the new ideas, have refrained from unbosoming
himself to his friend?

Meanwhile, every day witnessed the rising of the revolutionary tide.
Under a tranquil surface, unknown forces were gathering for the
devastating tempests soon to rage. Finally the hurricane broke loose,
and its tornadoes of fire and iron shook the quiet Woodland. There was
no time for reflection. Everyone was swept into the conflict without a
chance to know his own mind. Abbé Rousseau, belonging to the "White
Vendée," could not refuse to follow his boys when they asked him to
accompany them, declaring that they were "going to fight God's battle."
Abbé Gobert of the "Blue Vendée" found nothing to answer when his
compatriots told him that they refused to make common cause with the
foreigner against France, and that the Revolution was nothing more or
less than the fulfilment of the Gospels on earth, despite the Pharisees
of the ancient order, who while invoking the name of heaven appropriated
all earthly privileges.

The adventures of the two Abbés during the war are not set down in the
manuscript. There is mention of Abbé Rousseau being transferred to
Stofflet's army, but no comment. Further on a note of three short lines
in telegraphic style tells us that Abbé Gobert, "following his fatal
bent," secularized himself, took up arms, and was left for dead at the
taking of Fontenay. We are not told what saved him.

The writer of the little book now makes a jump to the Consulate, and we
learn that the "reëstablishment of the cult," at the Concordat, resulted
in the installation of Abbé Rousseau as officiating priest in his native
place of Saint-Juirs. Three years later, Gobert, then a "refugee in
Paris," where he "was writing for the newspapers," returned to his old
home, his fortune having been increased by an inheritance from his uncle
Jean Renaud, owner of the house now adorned by the Latin inscription.
Destiny, after having violently separated the two men and set them at
odds in a bitter war, now suddenly brought them together in their native
place, where they might have the opportunity for an honest searching of
their consciences, for justifications, and, before the end of life,
possibly, reconciliation.

On the day after his arrival Gobert came face to face with Abbé Rousseau
in the church square. He went straight to him, with hands outstretched.
The other, not having had time to put himself on guard, was unable to
withstand a friendly impulse. The eyes of each scrutinizingly questioned
the other, but every dangerous word was avoided. The Abbé, moreover, cut
short the interview with the excuse of being expected at the bedside of
a sick man. They had parted with the understanding that they should soon
see each other again, but two days later, Gobert, going up to the Abbé
who was passing, received a curt bow from him, unaccompanied by a word
of even perfunctory courtesy. It meant the end of friendly intercourse.
The meeting between the "annointed of the Lord" and the "unfrocked
priest" had created a scandal in the community of the faithful, and
Master Pierre Gaborit, President of the vestry board, had called his
_curé_ roundly to account. Could a chaplain of the King's armies afford
to be seen consorting with a tool of Satan, a renegade living amid the
filth of apostasy, a man who, the report ran, had danced the Carmagnole
at the foot of the scaffold?

The disconcerted Abbé listened, shaking his head.

"He was a good fellow, and a godly one, when I knew him formerly, at the
seminary. He is perhaps not as guilty as they say--I hoped to bring him
back into the fold----"

"One does not bring back the Devil," replied Gaborit, violently. "You do
not wish to be a stumbling block, do you, _Monsieur le Curé_?"

"No--no----" replied the Abbé, who already saw himself denounced,
excommunicated, damned.

From that day onward relations between the priest and his ancient
comrade limited themselves to a mutual raising of the hat, for the Abbé
never found the courage to ignore "the renegade," as Gaborit would have
wished him to. That is why the latter conceived the plan of forestalling
any eventual relapse into weakness by fostering between the man of God
and the man of the Devil every possible cause for enmity.

Abbé Rousseau owned the house next to Gobert's, and Gaborit had rented
it for his newly married son. A party wall, a common well, contiguous
fields and rights of way through them, were more than sufficient to give
rise to daily friction. After some resistance, Abbé Rousseau, under the
pretext that he could have "no dealings with Satan's emissary," let
himself be convinced that he must refuse all customary "rights" to the
"enemy." Gobert's remonstrances obtained no attention, and thereupon
followed lawsuits. A bucket of lime was thrown into his well. The trees
in his orchard were hacked with a bill hook. His hens disappeared.
Investigation by a bailiff ensued, and the arrival of the police, who
had first been to take instructions at the rectory. For a trifling
bribe, the servant of the "accused" permitted the "revolutionary" cow to
stray into the clerical hay field. This time Abbé Rousseau could do no
less than to denounce the crime from the pulpit. A somewhat distorted
version of the entire Revolution was rehearsed.

Gobert, who like Talleyrand, similarly unfrocked, would perhaps have
ended in the arms of the Church, had he been important enough to
stimulate the zeal of a Dupanloup, experienced more surprise than anger
at all these vexations. What surprised him most was to find that justice
was unjust. Having become a philosopher, however, he resigned himself.
Only the loss of his friend caused him grief. He ended by suspecting
Gaborit's manoeuvres, and several times sought opportunity for an
explanation with Abbé Rousseau himself, but was met by obstinate
silence.

It was then that, for the sake of reaching his former fellow student in
spite of everything, by a word in the language familiar to both, he had
had engraved on the lintel of his door the inscription which denounced
Gaborit as the cause of their common misfortune. Daily, as he came out
of his rectory, Abbé Rousseau could read the touching appeal which laid
his guilt upon another. But the "glory of God" never permitted him to
answer, as in the depth of his heart he would have liked to do.

He was the first to die. To the great scandal of all Gobert, "the
excommunicated," followed him to the grave. On the very next day he gave
orders to have the inscription removed, since it served no further
purpose. The masons were soon at work, and a clumsy blow had already
split the stone, when the ex-abbé was carried off suddenly by a
pernicious fever. Things remained as they may be seen at the present
day. Gobert went without church ceremonies to rest in the graveyard, not
far from his old friend. They are still neighbours, but good neighbours,
now, and for a long time!



IV

AUNT ROSALIE'S INHERITANCE


Mademoiselle Rosalie Rigal was by unanimous admission the most important
person in the village. And yet the hamlet of St. Martin-en-Pareds, in
the Woodland of the Vendée, boasts a former court notary who without
great difficulty was allowed to drop out of the profession, and a
retired sergeant of police who keeps the tobacconist's shop. Around
these dignitaries are grouped a few well-to-do farmers and a dozen or
more small landowners who, although obliged to work for a living, have a
sense of their importance in the State. When they speak of "my field,"
"my cow," "my fence," the ring of their voice expresses the elation of
the conqueror who in this infinite universe has set his clutch upon a
portion of the planet and has no intention of letting go.

No one is unaware that the chief joy of country people is to surround
themselves with hedges or walls, and to despise those who cannot do as
much. That their admiration, their esteem, their respect, go out
automatically to wealth is a trait they share with city people, which
spares us the necessity of a detailed psychological analysis. Who,
then, shall explain the unanimous deference with which St.
Martin-en-Pareds honoured Miss Rosalie Rigal?

The aged spinster--she was entering upon her seventieth year--possessed
nothing under the sun but a tiny cottage, not in very good repair, but
shining and spotless from front door steps to roof tiles, at the end of
a narrow little garden scarcely wider than the path to her door. Such a
domain was not calculated to attract to its mistress the admiring
attention of her fellow townsmen. The interior of the dwelling was
extremely modest. A large oaken bedstead with carved posts, a common
deal dining table, a few rush-bottomed chairs and Miss Rosalie's
armchair, were all the furniture of the room in which she lived. On the
walls were holy pictures. On the mantelpiece a tarnished bronze gilt
clock, representing a savage Turk carrying off on his galloping steed a
weeping Christian maiden, had as far back as any one could remember
pointed to a quarter before twelve.

At the window-door leading to the street and letting in the light of day
Miss Rosalie sat with her knitting from sun-up to sun-down. Hence arose
difficulties of entrance and exit. When a visitor appeared, Miss Rosalie
would call Victorine. The servant would come, help her mistress to rise,
as she did slowly and stiffly, move the armchair, settle the old woman
in it again, propping her with special cushions in stated places, move
the foot stool or the foot warmer, push out of the way the little stand
which served as a work table, and open the door with endless excuses for
the delay.

No fewer ceremonies were necessary than in seeking an audience with the
Sun-God. If Victorine were busy with the housework, she sometimes
obliged a caller to wait. Which gave Miss Rosalie's door step a
reputation as the most favourable spot in the entire canton for catching
cold.

In spite of these inconveniences visitors were not wanting. Foremost
among the assiduous ones were the notary and the _curé_. Monsieur
Loiseau, the retired notary, was the friend of the house. A stout man,
with a florid, smooth shaven face, and a head even smoother than his
chin, always in a good humour, always full of amusing stories, yet
concealing under his idle tales and his laughter a professional man's
concern with serious matters, as was betokened by the ever-present white
cravat, badge of his dignity, which added an official touch even to his
hunting costume and to the undress of his gardening or vintaging attire.

The love of gardening was well developed in Monsieur Loiseau, and as he
was especially fond of Miss Rosalie, he delighted in coming to hoe her
flower beds, to tend her plants and water them, chatting with her the
while. The old lady during this would be seated in the garden, near a
spot where a deep niche in the wall had made it possible to cut a
loophole commanding the street. From her point of vantage she could
watch all St. Martin, and without moving keep in touch with its daily
events, which gave her inexhaustible food for comment.

So close became the friendship between these two, that the notary one
day announced that if certain old documents once seen by him at the
county town could be trusted, there was no doubt that their two families
were related. From that moment Miss Rosalie Rigal became "Aunt Rosalie"
to Monsieur Loiseau, and as the relationship was one which anybody might
claim, Miss Rosalie soon found herself "Aunt" to the entire village. She
duly appreciated the honour of this large connection, and with pride in
the universal friendliness, which seemed to her a natural return for her
own rather indiscriminate good will toward all, she let herself softly
float on the pleasure of being held in veneration by everyone in St.
Martin, which for her represented the universe.

The _curé_, who lived at two kilometers' distance, could come to see her
only at irregular intervals. But a lift in a carriage, or even a
friendly cart, often facilitated the journey, and although Aunt Rosalie
was not in the least devout, despite the saintly pictures on her walls,
the long conversations between her and the _curé_, from which the notary
was excluded, gave rise to the popular belief that they had "secrets"
together.

And the supposition was correct. There were "secrets" between Aunt
Rosalie and the priest. There were likewise "secrets" between Aunt
Rosalie and the notary, and they were, to be plain, money secrets. For
the irresistible attraction which drew all St. Martin-en-Pareds to Aunt
Rosalie's feet must here be explained. The simple-minded old spinster
supposed it the most natural thing in the world; she fancied her amiable
qualities sufficient to engage the benevolent affection of all who knew
her. Undeniably Aunt Rosalie's good humour and quiet fun were infinitely
calculated to foster friendly neighbourly relations. But there was more
to it than the uninquiring good soul suspected.

Aunt Rosalie was a poor relation of certain enormously rich people in
the neighbouring canton. She was a grand niece of the famous Jean
Bretaud, whose lucky speculations had made him the most important man in
the district. The Bretauds had entirely forgotten the relationship and,
taking the opposite course from the notary, would probably have denied
it had Aunt Rosalie claimed it.

Aunt Rosalie claimed nothing, but she did not forget her family. When
evening fell, and the blinds were closed, and the doors securely locked:
"Victorine, go and bring the documents," she would say, after a glance
all around to make sure that no one could spy on her in the mysterious
elaborations of the work under way. At these words, Victorine, with
sudden gravity, would extract from the wardrobe a little flat box,
cunningly tied with string, and place it respectfully on the table,
after having with much ado untied the knots and unrolled the complicated
wrappings which guarded the treasure from the gaze of the profane.

The treasure was simply a genealogy of the Bretauds with authentic
documents to support it. As soon as the papers had been spread out under
the lamplight, and set in order, the work would begin. The point was to
discover what catastrophes would have to occur in the Bretaud family
before the millions could fall into Aunt Rosalie's purse. A considerable
number of combinations were conceivable, and it was to the examination
of them all that Aunt Rosalie and Victorine devoted their nightly
labour. A quantity of sheets of white paper covered with pencil
scribbling showed incredible entanglements of calculation and
rudimentary arithmetical systems.

"Well, now, how far had we got?" said Aunt Rosalie.

"We had ended with the death of your grand niece Eulalie, Miss," said
Victorine.

"Ah, yes, the dear child. The fact is, that if she were to die it would
help greatly. There are still two cousins left who would have claims
prior to mine, it is true. But they have very poor health in that branch
of the family."

"I heard the other day that there was an epidemic of scarlet fever in
their neighbourhood."

"Ah! Ah!"

"And then they go to Paris so often. A railway accident might so easily
happen."

"Ah, yes! It is a matter of a minute----"

And they would continue in that tone for a good hour, warming up to it,
comparing the advantages between the demise of this one and that one.

As soon as a Bretaud received a hypothetical inheritance from some
relative, he was set down on Victorine's slip of paper as deceased.
Presently there was strewn around these gentle maniacs on the subject of
inheritance a very hecatomb of Bretauds, such as the eruption of
Vesuvius which blotted out Pompeii would not more than have sufficed to
bring about. Herself on the edge of the grave, this septuagenarian built
up her future on the dead bodies of children, youths, men and women in
the flower of life, whom she theoretically massacred nightly, with a
quiet conscience, before going to sleep, she who would not willingly
have hurt the smallest fly!

When Aunt Rosalie's table had assumed the aspect of a vast cemetery,
they began their reckonings. If only eleven people were to die in a
certain order, Aunt Rosalie would get so and so much. If fourteen, she
would acquire another and fatter sum. Change the order, and there would
be a new combination. They assessed fortunes, and if they did not agree
in their valuations, they split the difference. But whatever happened,
the discussion always ended by Aunt Rosalie receiving an enormous
inheritance. Be it noted that whenever a real death or birth took place,
the combinations were disturbed, the game had to be commenced all over
on a new basis. This afforded fresh pleasure.

But the supreme joy lay in the distribution of the heritage. Neither
Aunt Rosalie nor Victorine had any use for their treasures. Without
personal needs, the harmless yet implacable dreamers experienced before
the fantastic riches fallen to them from Heaven the delightful
embarrassment of human creatures provided with the chance to be a
shining example of all the virtues at very small cost to themselves.
Victorine had never cared to receive her wages, and did not dream of
claiming them, living as she did in the constant vision of barrelfuls of
gold. Set down in the will for 50,000 francs, no more, she was only too
happy to participate royally in her mistress's generosities.

Two account books were ready at hand. One for the distribution of
legacies, and the other for "investments." Both presented an
inextricable tangle of figures scratched out, rewritten, and then again
scratched out for fresh modifications.

"Yesterday," said Rosalie, "we gave 100,000 francs to the hospital at La
Roche-sur-Yon. That is a great deal."

"Not enough, Miss," took up Victorine. "I meant to speak of it; 100,000
for the sick! What can they do with that?"

"Perhaps you are right. Let us say 150,000."

"No, Miss, 200,000."

"Very well, say 200,000. I do not wish to distress you for so little."

"And the Church?"

"Ah, yes, the Church----"

"You cannot refuse to give God His share, Miss, after He has given you
so much!"

"Quite true. Next week I shall add something in my will."

And for an hour the discussion would continue in this tone. The results
were duly consigned to the secret account book, and then would follow
the question of investments.

"Monsieur Loiseau tells me that the Western Railway shares have dropped.
He advises me to buy Northern. He says that Northern means Rothschild,
which means a good deal, you understand, Victorine."

"That Monsieur Loiseau knows everything! You must do as he says. Me, I
don't know anything about such things."

"Well, then, put down Northern instead of Western shares. As for the
dividends, they talk of changing the rate of interest."

"What does that mean?"

"It is just a way of making us lose money."

"What then?"

"Well, then, we may have to get rid of our stock. I will talk it over
with Monsieur Loiseau to-morrow, and perhaps also with the good _curé_
who is very well informed in these matters. Make a cross before those
shares, so that I may not forget."

And Aunt Rosalie actually did ply notary and _curé_ with questions about
her investments, and the use to be made of her fortune after her death.

These two had acquired a liking for the topic. On the day when Aunt
Rosalie, questioned by him with regard to her direct heirs, declared
that as she had seen none of the Bretauds for more than forty years she
"had decided not to leave any of them a penny's worth of her property,"
the _curé_ began pleading for the Church, for the Pope, and for his
charities. His efforts were amply rewarded, for Aunt Rosalie, though not
perhaps satisfying all his demands, generously wrote him down for large
sums, of which she handed him the list, with great mystery. In return
for which she received the confidential assurance of eternal felicity,
although she never performed any of her religious duties.

The notary, scenting something of this in the air, before long
insinuated delicately that he would be glad of a "remembrance" from his
old friend. How could she refuse, when his suggestions in the matter of
investments were so valuable?

"Give me good information and advice, Monsieur Loiseau," said Aunt
Rosalie, with a kind smile. "You shall be rewarded. I will not forget
you."

And from time to time, by a codicil, of which he had taught her the
form, she would add something in her will to the sum she intended for
the good notary. Whereupon he would exert himself with renewed diligence
in her garden, which he jovially called "hoeing Aunt Rosalie's will."

Such things could not be kept secret. St. Martin-en-Pareds soon knew
that Aunt Rosalie had great wealth, which they surmised had come to her
through the generosity of her great uncle Bretaud. Having quarrelled
with her "heirs," she would leave everything to her "friends." Who could
withstand such generous affection as was exhibited toward her? Following
the example of the notary, all St. Martin had by the claim of friendship
become relatives. And visits were paid her, and good wishes expressed,
accompanied by gifts in produce, eggs, fruits, vegetables, bacon, or
chickens, all of which the good "Aunt" accepted with a pretty nodding of
her head, accompanied by an "I shall not forget you!" which everyone
stored in memory as something very precious.

Aunt Rosalie constantly received, and never gave. Even the poor got only
promises for the future. Nothing did so much to rivet her in the public
esteem. Her reputation for blackest avarice was the surest guarantee
that the hoard would be enormous.

Things had gone on like this for more than thirty years, when Aunt
Rosalie was carried off in two days by an inflammation of the lungs.
Victorine, in stupefaction, watched her die, thinking of the inheritance
which had not come, but which could not have failed to come eventually,
if only the old Aunt had continued to live. When the dead woman was
cold, Victorine, who was alone with her in the middle of night, ran to
the box of documents, muttering over and over, in an access of positive
madness: "No one will get anything, no one will get anything!" and threw
the box into the fire.

As she stood poking the bundle to make it kindle, a flame caught her
petticoats. The wretched creature was burned alive, without a soul to
bring her help.

Monsieur Loiseau, anxious for news, arrived on the spot at dawn and
discovered the horrible sight. The fire had crept to the bed. Sheets of
charred paper covered with figures fluttering about the room exposed
Victorine's crime, which had been followed by punishment so swift. When
the official seals had been removed, after the funeral, no trace of
funds could be found, nor any last will and testament. All the notary's
searching led to nothing.

It was concluded that Victorine, an "agent of the Bretauds," had made
everything disappear. Wrath ran high. There rose a chorus of angry
wailing and gnashing of teeth.

"Ah, the money will not be lost!" people said, heaping maledictions upon
the "thief." "The Bretauds will know, well enough, where to look for the
treasure!"

"Poor dear Aunt!" each of them added, mentally. "So rich, so kindly
disposed toward us! And that beast of a servant had to go and----"

As a sort of protest against the Bretauds, Aunt Rosalie was provided by
subscription with a beautiful white marble grave stone, while the
charred remains of Victorine, thrust in a despised corner of the
cemetery, were consigned to public contempt.

Such is the world's justice.



V

GIDEON IN HIS GRAVE


Everyone connected with the Cloth Market of Cracow still remembers
Gideon the Rich, son of Manasseh, who excelled in the cloth trade and
died in the pathways of the Lord. Not only for his prosperity was Gideon
notable. He was universally regarded as "a character," and the man truly
had been gifted by Heaven with a combination of qualities--whether good
or bad, yet well balanced--setting him apart from the common herd.

Gideon was a thick, rotund little Jew, amiable in appearance to the
point of joviality, with a fresh pink and white face in which two large
emotional blue eyes, always looking ready to brim over, bathed his least
words, whether of pity or business, with generous passions. Being an
orthodox Jew, he naturally wore a long, black levitical coat which
concealed his swinging woollen fringes. Where his abundant gray hair met
with his silky beard (unprofaned by shears) hung the two long _paillès_,
cabalistic locks which Jehovah loves to see brushing the temples of the
faithful. When the whole was topped by a tall hat, impeccably lustrous,
and Gideon appeared in the Soukinitza, silence spread, as all gazed at
the noble great-coat (of silk or of cloth, according to the season)
whose pockets offered a safe asylum to the mysteries of universal trade.

Never suppose that such authority was a result of chance or any sudden
bold grasping of advantage. It was the fruit of long endeavour,
continually fortunate because he never embarked on an enterprise or a
combination without laborious calculations, in which all chances
favourable or adverse had been duly weighed. Manasseh had acquired a
very modest competence in the old clothes business, and everyone knows
that the old clothes of the Polish Jews are young when the rest of
mankind consider them past usefulness. One cannot accumulate any great
fortune in this business, which is why Gideon, at Manasseh's death, sold
his paternal inheritance and went unostentatiously to occupy the meanest
booth in the Cloth Market.

At first no one took any notice of him. The shops in that market are
little more than wardrobes. The doors fold back and become show-cases.
The proprietor sits on a chair in the middle, and the passer will hardly
get by without being deluged with reasons for buying exactly the entire
contents of the shelves. Gideon, at the front of his black cave, lighted
only by the big, hollow, smouldering eyes of his mother, seated
motionless for hours on a heap of rags, thought himself in a palace fit
for kings. Dazzled but calm, he skillfully spread his striking wares to
tempt the passer. Others ran after possible purchasers, soliciting them,
bothering them. The modest display which depended upon nothing but its
attractiveness obtained favour. "It may be cheaper in there," people
said, and submitted to persuasion. It was the beginning of a great
destiny.

Twenty years later Gideon, now surnamed "the Rich," had a wife and
children, whom he kept busy under the noisy arcade brightened by the
rainbow colours of silks for sale. He had clung to his humble counter
and was never willing to change it for another. He himself was seldom
found there; he was elsewhere occupied with large transactions planned
in the silence of the night. Rachel and his two sons, Daniel and Nathan,
represented him at the Soukinitza, where he only showed himself to
inquire concerning orders. There he would chatter for hours with the
peasants on market days, to make a difference of a few kreutzers in the
price of a piece of gossamer silk. No profit is too small to be worth
making. This is the principle of successful firms. His conduct excited
the admiration of all. How, furthermore, begrudge to Gideon his dues in
honour, when he was constantly bestowing hundreds of florins upon
schools, synagogues, and every sort of charitable institution?

For Gideon had a dual nature, as, brethren, is the case with many of
us. In business the subtle art of his absorbing rapacity circumvented
any attempt to lessen his profits by the shaving of a copper. "It is not
for myself that I work," he used to say, "it is for the poor." And as
this came near being the truth, people were afraid of appearing
heartless if they opposed him. They let themselves be caught by his
smiling good humour, his friendly familiar talk, and they were, after
all, not much deceived in him, for Gideon, though a victor in life's
bitter struggle, was happiest when stretching out a brotherly hand to
the vanquished. In the same way, those American billionaires whose
immoderate accumulations of wealth spread ruin all around them will
anxiously question the first comer as to the most humanitarian way of
spending the fortune thus acquired. I know of someone who when asked by
that foolish ogre, Carnegie, what he should do with his money, answered:
"Return it to those from whom you took it!"

Gideon could hardly have looked upon the matter in that light. He would
never have asked advice of any one in reference either to amassing or to
returning money. His chief interest, very nearly as important as his
business schemes, was religion. The poetry of Judaism roused in him an
ardour that nothing could satisfy but the feeling of substantially
contributing to the traditional work of his fathers. His charitable
gifts were simply a result. His object was the fulfilment of "the Law."

Daniel and Nathan, brought up in the same ideas, lived in silent respect
for their father's authority. In Israel, ever since the days of the
patriarchs, the head of the house has been, as with all Oriental
peoples, an absolute monarch. The sons of Gideon could therefore feel no
regret at their father's generosities. Like their father, they placed
the service of Jehovah above everything else. Having, however, been
reared by him, and taught all the combinations of exchange by which you
get as much and give as little as you can, they were conscious of
possessing invincible capacities for acquisition.

"They have something better than money," Gideon would say, "they know
how to make it."

On one point alone could, possibly, some ferment of dissension in the
family have been found. Gideon took a rich man's pride in living
modestly. He never would have more than one servant in the house. The
young men, with vanity of a different kind, would have delighted in
dazzling the twelve tribes. As they were not given the necessary means,
they made up their minds to migrate. During the long evenings of whole
winter nothing else was talked of. Gideon did not begrudge the very
considerable outlay involved, knowing that it was a good investment.
Only one consideration troubled him at the thought of launching his
progeny "in the cities of the West." Under penalty of closing the
avenues to social success, they would be obliged to relinquish the
orthodox long coat and clip off the two corkscrew locks on their
temples. Without attaching too much importance to these outward signs,
Gideon grieved over what seemed to him a humiliating concession.

"Father," said Daniel, "in Russia the orthodox Jews are obliged to cut
their hair, in conformity with an edict of the Czar. But even without
_paillès_ Jehovah receives them in his bosom, for it is a case of
superior force."

"Yes, that is it, superior force," said Gideon, nodding assent. "The
only thing that troubles me is that I have always noticed that one
concession leads to another. Where shall you stop? One of these days you
may think it necessary to your social success to become Christians!"

"That!... Never!" cried Daniel and Nathan in one voice, horror-stricken.

"I know, I know that you have no such intention. Like me, you are
penetrated by the greatness of our race, and like me you stand in
admiration before the miracles of destiny. By their holy books the Jews
have conquered the West. Upon our thought the thought of our rulers has
been modelled. That, you must know, is the fundamental reason for their
reviling us; they are aware of having nothing but brutal force to help
them, and of living upon our genius. Though vanquished, we are their
masters. Even in their heresy, which is a Jewish heresy, they proclaim
the superiority of the children of Jehovah. When their God was incarnate
in man, his choice fell upon a Jewish woman. He was born a Jew. He
promised the fulfilment of the Law. His apostles were Jews. Go into
their temples. You will see nothing but statues of Jews which they
worship on their knees. How sad a thing it is, when signs of our grace
are so striking on all sides, to see the wealthiest among us seeking
alliances with the barbarous aristocracy who subjugated us. Some of
them, while remaining Jews, make donations to the church of Christ, so
as to win the favour of nations and kings. Others submit to the disgrace
of baptism. Should you, Daniel, or you, Nathan, commit such a crime, I
should curse you, if living; if dead, I should turn in my grave."

Terrified by this portentous threat, Daniel and Nathan, rising with a
common impulse, swore, calling upon the Lord, to live as good Jews, like
their forefathers.

"That is well done," said Gideon. "I accept your oath. Remember that if
you break it, I shall turn in my grave."

Nathan and Daniel acquired great wealth by every means that the law
tolerates. Gideon was gathered to his fathers. In accordance with his
will, the greater part of his fortune was distributed in charities. A
considerable sum, however, fell to each of his sons, accompanied by a
letter in which affection had dictated final injunctions. The last word
was still: "If ever one of you should become a Christian,--forswear the
pure faith of Abraham for Christian idolatry, I should turn in my
grave."

Time passed. Daniel and Nathan, loaded with riches, had friends in
society, at court, and most especially among those great lords who in
the midst of their reckless magnificence may sometimes be accommodated
by a pecuniary service. Daniel wished to marry. The daughter of an
impoverished prince was opportunely at hand. But his conversion was
required. The Vatican conferred a title upon him. From the class of mere
manipulators of money, the son of the Cloth Market was raised to the
higher sphere of world politics. Daniel did not hesitate. His absent
brother coming home found him turned into a Christian count.

No violent scene ensued between the two sons of Gideon. Nathan
understood perfectly. One thought, however, tormented him.

"I agree with you," he said, "that the Christians are but a sect of
Israel, that they are sons of the synagogue, and that you remain loyal
in spirit to our faith, though overlaid by debatable additions. The fact
none the less remains that we had given our oath to our father.... He
foresaw only too well the thing that has occurred. And you know what he
said: 'I shall turn in my grave.'"

"One says that sort of thing----"

"Gideon, son of Manasseh, was not the man to speak idle words. Think of
it, Daniel, if we were to lift the grave stone and our eyes were to
behold----"

"Nathan, say no more, I beg of you. The mere thought turns me cold with
fear."

The two brothers, formerly indissolubly united, drew away from each
other little by little: Daniel, forgetful, cheerfully disposed, a
nobleman not altogether free from arrogance, amiably deceived by his
Christian spouse, but with or without this assistance becoming the
founder of a great family; Nathan, morose, restless, smoulderingly
envious of a happiness paid too high for, in his opinion. When a
question of interest brought them together for a day, Nathan always
ended by returning to his theme:

"Our father said: 'I shall turn in my grave!'"

Whereupon Daniel, finding nothing to reply, cut short the interview.

Then, suddenly, Nathan dropped sadness for mirth, severity for
indulgence, stopped sermonizing and smiled instead at other people's
faults. The change struck Daniel the more from twice meeting his brother
without a word being spoken about their father and his terrible threat.
Finally he found the key to the mystery: Nathan had in his turn received
baptism and was about to become the happy bridegroom of a widow without
fortune whom an act of the royal sovereign authorized to bestow upon her
consort a feudal title threatened with falling to female succession. In
gratitude, Nathan had promised that Daniel and he would "supervise" a
future loan.

"So!" cried Daniel in anger, when he heard the great news. "You are
becoming a Christian, too, after viciously tormenting me on every
occasion, and reminding me of our father who on my account had 'turned
in his grave.' And I was filled with remorse. Yes, I may have seemed
happy, but my sleep was troubled. I did not know what to do. There were
times when I even contemplated returning to the synagogue. Well, then,
if what you tell me is true, if our father actually has turned in his
grave, you will admit that you are now to blame as well as I. Come,
speak, what have you to say?"

"I say," replied Nathan, undisturbed, "that I have shown myself in this
the more devoted son of the two. I take back nothing of what I said. It
is you assuredly who caused Gideon, son of Manasseh, to turn in his
grave. About that there is no doubt whatever. But thanks to the act to
which I have resigned myself, he has undoubtedly turned back again,
according to his solemn promise, and there he lies henceforth just as we
buried him, and as he must remain forever. I have retrieved your fault.
Our father forgives you. I accept your thanks."



VI

SIMON, SON OF SIMON


Simon, son of Simon, was nearing the end of his career without having
tasted the fruits of his untiring effort to acquire the riches which may
be said to represent happiness. Whether we be the sons of Shem or of
Japheth, each of us strives for the representative symbol of the
satisfaction of his particular cravings. Not that Simon, son of Simon,
of the tribe of Judah, had ever given much thought to the joys that were
to come from his possession of treasure. No, the question of the
possible use to be made of a pile of money had never occupied his active
but simple mind. The satisfaction of money-lust having been his single
aim, he had never looked forward to any enjoyment other than that of
successful money getting. Fine raiment appealed to him not at all. The
safest thing, after snaring wealth on the wing, is to conceal it under
poverty, lest we lead into temptation the wicked, ever ready to
appropriate the goods of their neighbours. Jewels, rare gems, precious
vessels, delicate porcelain, rugs, tapestries, luxurious dwellings,
horses, none of these awakened his desire. He cared nothing for them,
and had no understanding of the vain-glorious joys to be derived from
their possession. Neither did he yearn for fair persons--sometimes
containing a soul--obtainable at a price for ineffable delight. Simon,
son of Simon, had a very vague notion of the esthetic superiority of one
daughter of Eve above another, and would not have given a farthing for
the difference between any two of them.

His ingenuous desire was concerned solely with coined metal. Gold,
silver, bronze, cut into disks and stamped with an effigy, seemed to
him, as in fact they are, the greatest marvel of the world. The thought
of collecting them, carefully counted in bags--making high brown, white,
or yellow piles of them in coffers with intricate locks--filled him with
superhuman joy. And so great is the miracle of metal, even when absent
and represented only by a sheet of paper supplied with the necessary
formulæ and bearing imposing signatures along with the stamp of Cæsar,
that the delight of it in that form was no less. Some, with a cultivated
taste in such matters, tell us indeed that the delight is enhanced by
the thought of safeguarding from the world's cupidity so great a
treasure in a bulk so small.

All of this, however, Simon, son of Simon, had tasted only in dream
visions, finding it infinitely delectable even so. How would he have
felt, had reality kept pace with the flight of a delirious imagination?
But such happiness seemed not to be the portion of the miserable Jew,
who had so far vainly exerted himself to win gold. Gold for the sake of
gold, not for the vain pleasures, the empty shells, for which fools give
it in exchange. Gold was beautiful, gold was mighty, gold was sovereign
of the world. If Simon, son of Simon, had attempted to picture Jehovah,
he would have conceived of him as gold stretching out to infinity,
filling all space! Meanwhile, he trailed shocking old slippers through
the mud of his Galician village, and arrayed himself in a greasy, ragged
garment on which the far-spaced clean places stood out like spots. He
was a poor man, you would have thought him an afflicted one, but the
golden rays of an indefatigable hope lighted his life.

He walked by the guidance of a star, the golden star of a dream which
would end only with the dreamer. He was always busy. Always on the eve
of some lucky stroke. Never on the day after it. The things he had
attempted, the combinations he had constructed, the traps he had set for
human folly, would worthily fill a volume. It seemed as if his genius
lacked nothing necessary for success. Yet he always failed, and had
acquired a reputation for bad luck. He had travelled much; taken part in
large enterprises, to which he contributed ideas that proved profitable
to someone else. He could buy and sell on the largest or the smallest
scale. He dealt in every ware that is sold in the open market as well
as every one that is bargained for in secret, from honours--and
honour--to living flesh, from glory to love. And now, here he was,
stripped of illusions--I mean illusions on the subject of his
fellowman--dreaming for the thousandth time of holding a winning hand in
the game.

The sole confidant of his dreams was his son Ochosias, a youth of great
promise, initiated by him into all the mysteries of commerce. Ochosias
profited by his lessons and was not lacking in gifts, but never rose to
his father's sublime heights. He had a preference for the money trade.

"Money," said he, "is the finest merchandise of all. Purchase, sale,
loan, are all profitable for one knowing how to handle it. If you will
give your consent, father, I will establish myself as a banker--by the
week."

"You are crazy," answered Simon, son of Simon. "The money trade
certainly has advantages perceptible even to the dullest wit. But in
order to deal with capital, capital you must have, or else find some
innocent Gentile to lend it you at an easy rate. Before doing this,
however, he will ask for securities. Where are your securities?"

And as the other shrugged his shoulders--

"Listen," continued the man of experience, "the time has come to submit
to you a plan that has been haunting me and from which I expect a rare
profit."

"Speak, speak, father," cried Ochosias, eagerly, with such a racial
quiver at the words "rare profit" as a war-horse's at a bugle call.

"Listen," said Simon with deliberation, "I have long revolved in my mind
the history of my life. I can say without vanity that nowhere is Simon,
son of Simon, surpassed in business ability. Should you, Ochosias, live
to be the age of the patriarchs, you might meet with one more fortunate
than your father, but one more expert in trade--never. And yet I have
not been successful ... at least, not up to the present time. For the
future is in the hands of Jehovah alone by whom all things are decided."

The two men bowed devoutly in token of submission to the Lord.

"What, then, has been wanting?" continued Simon, son of Simon, following
up his thought. "Nothing within myself, I say it without any uncertainty
as to my pride being justifiable. Nothing within myself, everything
outside of myself. It is no secret. Everyone proclaims it aloud. Ask
anybody you please. Everyone will tell you: 'Simon, son of Simon, is no
ordinary Jew.' Some will even add: 'He is the greatest Jew of his time.'
I do not go as far as that. We must always leave room for another. But
you will find opinion unanimous in respect to one curious statement:
'Simon, son of Simon, has no luck. All that he has lacked is luck,'
There you have the simple truth. There is nothing further to say."

"Well----?" inquired Ochosias, breathlessly, scenting something new in
the air.

"Well, one must have luck, that is the secret, and, I tell you plainly,
I mean to have it."

"How?"

"It is within reach of all, my child. You cannot fail to see it. A state
institution, through the care of the Emperor Francis Joseph, Christian
of Christ, distributes good luck impartially to every subject of the
Empire, whether Christian, Jew, or Mahomedan."

"The lottery?" asked Ochosias, and pouted his lips disdainfully.

"The lottery, you have said it, the lottery which graciously offers us
every day a chance of which we neglect to avail ourselves."

"Unless, of course," mused the youth, with a brightening countenance,
"you know of some way to draw the winning number----"

"Good. I was sure that blood would presently speak. You are not far from
guessing right."

"But, come now. Seriously. You know of some such means?"

"Perhaps. Tell me, who is the master of luck?"

"Jehovah. You yourself just said so."

"Yes, Jehovah, or some god of the outsiders, if any there be mightier
than Jehovah, which I cannot believe."

"Other gods may be mighty, like Baal, or like Mammon, who ought by no
means to be despised. But Jehovah is the greatest of all. He said: 'I am
the Eternal.' And He is."

"Doubtless. There are, however, more mysteries in this world than we can
grasp, and Jehovah permits strange usurpations by other Celestial
Powers."

"It is for the purpose of trying us."

"I believe it to be so. But I have no more time to waste in mistakes.
And so I have said to myself: 'Adonai, the Master, holds luck in his
hands. According to my belief, that master is Jehovah. He just might,
however, be Christ, or Allah, or another. I shall, if necessary, exhaust
the dictionary of the Gods of mankind, which is, I am told, a bulky
volume. Whoever is the mightiest God, him must we tempt, seduce, or, to
speak plainly, buy.' That is what I have resolved to do. I shall
naturally begin the experiment with Jehovah, the God of Abraham and of
Solomon, whom I worship above all others. To-morrow is the Sabbath.
To-day I will go and purchase a ticket for the imperial lottery, the
grand prize of which is five hundred thousand florins, and to-morrow,
bowed beneath the veil, in the temple of the Lord, I shall promise to
give him, if I win----"

"Ten thousand florins!" Ochosias bravely proposed.

"Ten thousand grains of sand!" cried Simon, son of Simon. "Would you be
stingy toward your Creator? Ten thousand florins! Do you think that in
the world we live in one can subsidize a Divinity, a first-class one,
for that price? Triple donkey! Know that I shall offer Jehovah one
hundred thousand florins! One hundred thousand florins! What do you
think of it? That is how one behaves when he is moved by religious
sentiments."

The amazed Ochosias was silent. After a pause, however, he murmured:

"You are right, father, in these days one cannot get a God, a real one,
under that figure. But a hundred thousand florins! You must own that it
is frightful to hand over such a pile of money even to Jehovah."

"Ochosias, in business one must know how to be lavish. With your ten
thousand florins I should never win the grand prize. Whilst with my
hundred thousand----We shall see."

And Simon, son of Simon, did as he had said. He bought his lottery
ticket, he took a solemn oath before the Thorah to devote, should he
win, a hundred thousand florins to Jehovah, and then he waited quietly
for three months, to learn that his was not the winning number.

Ochosias and Simon, son of Simon, thereupon deliberated. To which God
should they next turn their attention? For some reason Jehovah had lost
power. Was it possible that the centuries had strengthened some other
God against him? Strange things happen. Still, Ochosias ventured the
suggestion that Jehovah with the best will in the world might have been
bound by some previous engagement.

"Any other Jew to have promised a hundred thousand florins to the
Eternal?" uttered Simon, son of Simon, sententiously. "No! I am the only
one capable of a stroke of business such as that!"

But upon the insistence of Ochosias, whose faith in Jehovah remained
unshaken, he was willing to try again. This time he waited six
months ... with the same result.

It then became necessary to make a decision, and the two men agreed that
after Jehovah the honour of the next trial was due to his son Jesus, a
Jew, offspring of the Jew Joseph and the Jewess Mary. So Simon, son of
Simon, bought another lottery ticket and hastened to the church of
Christ where, having been properly sprinkled with holy water, he knelt
according to the custom of the place, and pledged himself solemnly, in
case he won the grand prize, to present the Crucified with a hundred
thousand florins. Having given his word, Simon, son of Simon, looked all
around him in the hope of some sign, but seeing nothing that could
concern him he retired, not without repeating his promise and gratifying
the Deity with a few supplementary genuflexions.

Time passed. Simon, son of Simon, and Ochosias went about their ordinary
occupations, taking great care to utter no word that could give offence
to the Power whose favour they were seeking. Jehovah remained during
this long period exiled, as it were, from their thoughts. What if the
Other should be jealous?

And then, of a sudden, the miracle! Simon, son of Simon, won the grand
prize. At first he doubted, fearing some trick of the invisible powers.
But in the end he was obliged to accept the evidence. The Most Catholic
bank paid the money, and soon the five hundred thousand florins were
safely bestowed.

After a few twitches of nervous trembling, Simon, son of Simon, regained
command over himself. But he was visibly sunk in deep thought. Vainly
the agitated Ochosias plied him with questions. Such answers as he
obtained were vague and unsatisfactory. "Oh," and "Ah," and "Perhaps,"
and "We shall see," which in no wise revealed what lay in the other's
mind. Finally, Ochosias could no longer restrain himself. He must know
what was going on in his father's soul, for his own was torn by a
dreadful doubt. The genius of Simon, son of Simon, was marvellous, it
had opened the way for him to recalcitrant fortune, and in the natural
course of things he, Ochosias, would presently through death's agency be
placed in possession of the treasure. But here was a difficulty. Could
one grant that Jehovah had no power left and that Christ was
all-powerful? Ochosias shuddered at the thought, for, after all, if
Christ had greater power than the One who was formerly all-powerful, if
supreme power had devolved upon Christ, then to Christ must one bow.
Conversion would be inevitable. To leave the temple of Jehovah for the
altars of his enemy and pay, into the bargain, an enormous fee?
Horrible!

In hesitating and fragmentary talk Ochosias made the sorrowful avowal of
his anguish.

"Must we believe that Jesus is mightier than Jehovah? What consequences
would such a belief involve! Is it possible that the religion of Jesus
is the true one? No, no, it cannot be! What are your thoughts on the
subject, father?"

"Man of little faith, who hast doubted," spoke Simon, son of Simon,
softly, with a flash as of lightning in his eye. "Let me reassure thee
who have not doubted. Clearly I perceive the true significance of
events. Jehovah is not one whom we can deceive, even unintentionally. To
Him all things are known. He foresees all, and works accordingly. The
proof that He is mightier than Jesus is that He perfectly understood on
both occasions that I should never be able to part with the hundred
thousand florins I so rashly promised. He knows our hearts. He does not
expect the impossible. The Other was taken in by my good faith, which
deceived even myself. Jehovah alone is great, my son."

"Jehovah alone is great," repeated Ochosias, his soul divinely eased by
the lifting off it of a great weight.

And both men, with foreheads bowed before the Almighty, worshipped.



VII

AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS


Buried in silence, the city slept under the friendly moon. With the
setting of the sun, activities had slowed, then halted in temporary
death, and over the noisy pavements had fallen the peace of the grave.
Divine sleep by oblivion shielded the children of men from evil and by
dreams comforted them with hope. Some of the windows, however, were kept
alight by love, or suffering, or labour. The hushed street, touched with
bluish light, emerged from shadow here and there, and as abruptly
dropped into it again. Where three converging roads ended in a public
square, the water of fountains murmured around the great stone base of a
bloodstained crucifix.

The street of the people, "_everybody's street_," as it was also called,
was recognizable by its neglect of the customary city ordinances. A
narrow track of aggressive cobblestones, amid which the sewage trailed
its odours, wound between high, mouldy walls, and led from their dens to
the foot of the Divine Image the sad, long procession of those who are
not of the elect. The citizen's road, "_the middle road_," as some
called it, offered greater convenience to its travellers. Wide, airy,
drained according to the latest hygienic system, salubriously paved with
wood, bordered by sumptuous shops where all the pleasant things of life
were on sale, this road invited idleness to leisurely promenades,
invariably ending, however, at the foot of the cross. For greater
certainty, a moving platform took people thither, saving them the
trouble of exerting themselves. As to the way of the elect, likewise
called "_the way of the few_," it stretched along triumphantly,
indescribable in splendour, amid monuments of art, statues, marvellous
trees, blossoming bowers, fragrant lawns, singing birds, all that the
utmost refinement of luxury could devise for human felicity. There were
even, at stated hours, fair traffickers in delight, artfully adorned,
who moved about in accordance with a prescribed order, selling heaven on
earth to whomsoever had the price to pay. In commodious coaches drawn by
six gold-caparisoned horses these repaired like the rest to the
cross-roads where in His patient anguish the God awaited them.
Motionless, from the height of His gibbet, He gazed down upon it all
with ineffable sadness, as if He said: "Is this what I laboured for?"

And now, on the three avenues which even during the hours of sleep
preserve their characteristics, shadows are seen moving. Their outlines
increase in distinctness, and one after the other three human figures
issue from the three roads into the flickering lamplight of the square.

The man from "_the low road_," hugging the wall, advances timidly, with
hesitating step, yet like one driven by a higher power. A stranger to
fear, the man of "_the middle road_" advances with tranquil eye,
securely bold, knowing that others have care for his safety. _Incessu
patuit Homo._ The man from "_the road of the few_" treads the earth as
if he owned it, and seems to call the stars to witness that he is the
supreme justification of the universe. Each with his different gait,
they proceed toward their goal, which fate has made identical. At the
foot of the cross, whose massive base had until that moment concealed
them from one another, they suddenly come face to face, under the gaze
of Him whom their ancestors nailed to the ignominious tree.

Three simultaneous cries cross in the air.

"Ephraim!"

"Samuel!"

"Mordecai!"

"What are you doing here?"

"And you?"

"And you?"

Silence falls, as each waits for an answer.

"Three Jews at the foot of the cross!" said Ephraim _of the low road_.

"Three renegade Jews," said Mordecai _of the tribe of the few_, below
breath. "For we are Christians."

"Renegade is not the word, brother," objected Samuel _of the middle
class_, softly. "Apostasy is the name for those who go over to the
beliefs of the minority. The others are converts."

"Admirably expressed, Samuel," said Ephraim. "You are a wise man. Why
should I take the trouble to lie to you? I have come here alone, by
night, because having changed Lord, I need compensating gifts, and--God,
though He has become Jesus, son of Joseph, cannot hear me when His crowd
of courtiers is besieging Him with clamorous petitions. Therefore I come
sometimes to speak to Him as man to God. And who knows? Perhaps if I
help myself sufficiently my words will be heard."

"I will not deny," said Samuel, "that I am here with the same object."

"My case differs in nothing from yours," Mordecai readily owned.

"You, then, are a believer?" asked Ephraim, as if really curious, and at
the same time anxious to avoid facing the same question.

"I must be ... since I am converted," answered each of the others.

"Sensible words," observed Ephraim, after a thoughtful pause. "To
believe is to observe the forms of worship. In men's eyes, as in those
of God himself, the ceremonies of the cult class one as a believer, and
society first, Heaven later, will show approval by favours."

"As far as men are concerned, it is not difficult to satisfy them,"
spoke Mordecai. "You go to the temple at prescribed times, you perform
the rites scrupulously, with proper manifestations of zeal. And this, I
dare say, is equally satisfactory to the God."

"Certainly," said Ephraim. "But He is Jesus, son of Joseph, a Jewish God
still, and sent by Jehovah, as is proved by His success. He must be a
jealous God. Cleverness is necessary, and in my conferences with Him,
when we are alone----"

"That is it! That is it!" exclaimed the other two.

"Brother," said Samuel, "what was it that led to your--conversion?"

"It came about very naturally," replied Ephraim, "the reason for it
being the great, the only motive of men's actions: self-interest.
Self-interest, which it is the fashion among Christians to decry in
words, while adhering to it strictly in action. When it became plain to
me that the sons of Jehovah, to whom the earth was promised, were not
masters of the earth, the holy promises notwithstanding, doubts entered
my mind, which were only augmented by reflection. If Jehovah does not
keep His promises, thought I, what right has He to the fidelity of those
whom He leaves unrewarded? Give and receive is the rule. If I receive
nothing, God himself has no claim to anything from me. On the other
hand, I observed that the followers of Jesus possessed the earth,
conquered treasures which they reserved strictly for themselves, being
forever anxious to proclaim their indifference to worldly goods while
inordinately preoccupied with collecting them. Their success seemed to
me a sign. And when, after having burned, tortured, and in a thousand
ways persecuted us during the dark ages, I saw them inaugurating the
reign of justice and liberty by a return to persecution, I saw that the
hour had come. I could not, however, decide immediately. A foolish
self-respect held me back, I blush to own it. But then the head of the
commercial house in which I am employed, doing justice to my talents,
said to me:

"'What a pity that you are a Jew, Ephraim. I would gladly turn over my
business to you, but all our customers would forsake us.'

"'If that is all that stands in the way, I am a Christian.'

"'A Christian?'

"'Yes.'

"And, the day after, I was a Christian. Six months later I married his
daughter. My signature is honoured at the bank and at the church. I am
president of the Anti-semitic Committee of my district."

"That is going somewhat far," remarked Samuel.

"Jews who remain Jews are inexcusable!" said Ephraim, in irritation
against his people. "What is asked of them? A little salt water on their
heads. A great matter! Is there any question of denying Jehovah? None,
for it is our God whom, by our holy book, we have imposed upon the
Gallic barbarians. In all the temples it is Jehovah they worship. Why
should we refuse to enter? Whose effigies are they, if you please, on
the altars, in the niches? Those of Jews. All Jews! Peter, the first
pope--nothing less!--Paul, Joseph, Simon, Thomas, all the apostles. Even
to the Jewess Mary and her mother Anna, who are regularly worshipped and
who obtain favours from their son and grandson, Jesus, who Himself
proclaimed that He had come to fulfill the law of Moses. Now there is
not and there cannot be any other law than to vanquish one's rivals, and
the victory of Christ is manifestly the victory of Jehovah himself.
Christianity is the finest flower of Israel. It is the most flourishing
among the Jewish sects, and in it nothing is changed but certain words.
Shall we for the sake of a word or two forego that which makes life on
earth beautiful? The Jews will come to understand this, and if they
delay much longer the anti-semites will make them understand it."

The other two were silent in admiration.

"I suppose, brother," said Samuel after a time to Mordecai, "that your
story is practically the same."

"Not at all," replied Mordecai, curtly. "My case is wholly different. I
was rich from birth. My ancestors, a beggarly lot, I admit, had by
filing away at Christian coins made Jewish ingots, which I found in my
inheritance, and was able to increase considerably by analogous methods.
Hence, the idea could never have occurred to me to be--converted--for
the sake of gain." (This shaft was accompanied by a sidelong glance at
Ephraim, who did not flinch.) "I lived in peaceful enjoyment of the
things money can give, and it can give almost everything, as you know.
Sovereigns loved me. I entertained them in my various dwellings. They
pushed friendliness to the point of borrowing money from me which they
forgot to return. I had the friendship besides of all those
aristocracies that draw near at the sound of clinking coin, as serpents
do at the sound of the charmer's flute. Good priests came to my
antechamber on begging missions for the restoration or completion of
their cathedrals."

"I fail to see what more you could want," said Samuel.

"I wanted nothing. You have said it, brother. Count Mordecai of Brussels
was the equal of earth's kings. More princes applied for the hand of my
daughters than I had time to refuse."

"Well?"

"Well, Jehovah, or Christ, or both, placed an extinguisher over this too
bright happiness of mine."

"You are ruined?"

"Oh, no, on the contrary. Only, the wind changed. To divert the
attention of the crowd from a demagogue who shouted, 'Clericalism is the
great enemy!' the Jesuits devised the plan of raising a cry in
opposition: 'The great enemy is Semitism!' And as the Jesuits had the
whole Church behind them, and the demagogue controlled nothing but a
fluctuating crowd, a very feather in the wind, anti-semitism prospered.
Thereupon arose from somewhere or other certain so-called
"intellectuals," who defended us in the name of their "ideas." What
clumsy nonsense! And they could not be hushed up. They being our
defenders, others for that very reason attacked us. Whereas, had we,
according to our traditions, offered our backs to their blows, our
enemies would presently have desisted, from weariness. Now the harm is
done. We are contemned. No more priests after that sat on my benches. My
noble friends deserted my drawing rooms, leaving their unpaid notes in
my pocketbook. I went hunting with no company but the two hundred
gamekeepers for the battue. Society forsook me. I was no longer
"esteemed." Now, let me declare to you that there is no more exquisite
torture than to see the friendship of the great go up in smoke.
Unhesitatingly, therefore, resolutely, with the object of reinstating
myself in public favour, I turned Christian. It means nothing, as
Ephraim here demonstrated. My Christian friends came back, with
contribution boxes outstretched, just as in earlier days. My generosity
has ceased to be obnoxious. Now, as before, I build churches. So there
is nothing really new in my estate. When I shall have received some
honorary employment from the Vatican there will be nothing left to wish
for. I have all that is needed for winning in the game. As it is wise,
however, to neglect no detail, I thought that the intervention of the
Master----"

He indicated the Crucified. But Samuel gave him no time to finish.

"Brothers," he cried, "I pity you! Conversion in itself means nothing, I
agree. It is none the less true that there are traditions worthy of
respect, which one must not renounce without serious reasons. A base
money lust guided you, Ephraim. And you, Mordecai, were moved by love of
the approbation of the majority. Which shows that man is never satisfied
on earth. One for material advantages, the other for a thing as illusory
as imprisoning the wind, you have sacrificed the ideal by which alone
humanity is strong----"

"But you?" cried the others. "Why were you converted?"

"Because of opinion. I came here even now to seek fuller light from----"

"What? What is that you say? Say it over again!"

"I have changed my religion simply because my convictions have
changed."

At these words Ephraim and Mordecai were unable to contain themselves.
Leaning for support against the stone pile, they burst into laughter so
wild, so loud, at the madness of the statement, that the neighbouring
windows shook. They uttered guttural cries, they tossed into the
affrighted air grunts of raucous merriment, before the unheard-of
monstrosity of the case. There were Ohs and Ahs and Hoo-hoos and
Hee-hees, interrupted by fits of coughing brought on by strangling
laughter. Then of a sudden, reflection, following upon amusement, turned
into fury.

"Villain! Are you making fools of us? Perhaps you think us such
simpletons as to swallow your lie. Dog! Reprobate! Accursed! Bad Jew!
Raca! Raca! Take that for your belief, your convictions!"

And they fell to beating him.

"What's the matter?" cried the watchman, arriving on the scene,
attracted by the noise. "You, over there! Stop pommeling one another, or
you will go to jail. Move on! Move on!"

In less time than it takes to tell it, the three men had quieted down.
They separated hastily, without good-night, and each with nimble foot
went home to bed.

The fourth Israelite, Jesus, son of Joseph, was left alone beneath the
stars. He is still there. Without disrespect, I blame Him for not having
on this occasion put in a word.



VIII

EVIL BENEFICENCE


Beneficence is a virtue: no one will deny it. But let no one deny,
either, that there are benefactors maleficent in the extreme, through
the stupidity of their benefactions.

In the distant days of my youth there flourished in the Woodland of the
Vendée a highly respected couple, who during a period of fifty years
wearied three cantons with their "kindness."

These excellent people were, of course, possessed of great wealth, for
in order to pester one's fellowman with generosity one must have
received the means for it from heaven. They were, on top of that, pious,
again as a matter of course, for the preacher's promise of eternal
reward has killed in man the beautiful disinterestedness that is the
fine flower of charity.

The Baron de Grillères was a small noble of large fortune. Formerly a
member of the body guard of Charles X, he had little care for "Divine
Right" or a return to the splendours of the old régime, as he proved by
accepting a captaincy in the militia called out by Louis Philippe to
crush the royalist attempt at an uprising in the Vendée, in which the
Duchesse de Berry so miserably failed. I have seen in the Baron's study
a shining panoply in which his epaulettes of a royal guardsman
eloquently fraternized with his collar piece of a captain of the
National Guard in arms against the King. In the centre were two crossed
swords, one of them formerly worn in the service of the legitimate
sovereign anointed at Rheims, the other drawn from its scabbard against
that same legitimacy, to uphold the rights of the usurper.

It is certain that the excellent soldier had never perceived anything
contradictory in these two manifestations of a martial spirit. He had
consistently upheld established order, that is to say, the régime which
assured him the peaceful enjoyment of his property, and the logic of his
conduct seemed to him unquestionable, for what in the world could be
more sacred than that which promoted the quietness of his life? Totally
uneducated, barely able to write his name, he was never troubled by any
longings after learning. The Church answered for everything; he referred
everything to the Church. This principle has the great advantage of
dispensing one from any effort to think for himself.

The Baroness, of middle-class origin, and doubtless for that reason very
proud of the three gates on her escutcheon, lived solely, as she was
pleased to say, "for the glory of God." Divinity, according to this
simple soul, needed the Baroness de Grillères in order to attain the
fullness of glory. It is a common idea among believers that the Creator
of the Universe is open to receiving from His creatures pleasant or
unpleasant impressions, just as we are from our fellow-beings. These
estimable people are convinced that the Good Lord of All is pleased or
angered accordingly as they act thus or so. They hold Providence in such
small esteem as to believe that It needs defending by those same human
beings whom It could with a gesture reduce to the original dust. Do we
not often hear it said that such and such a minister or party is bent on
"driving out God" from somewhere or other, and that they would in all
likelihood succeed but for some paladin, ecclesiastical or military,
stepping in to defend the Supreme Being, unequal, apparently, to
defending Himself? This Baroness of the Vendée, dwelling in perpetual
colloquy with the Eternal, either directly or through the mediation of
the divine functionaries delegated for that purpose, had taken as her
special mission to "contribute to the Glory of God." In some nebulous
way it seemed to her that if she gave an example of all the virtues, the
Sovereign Artificer, like Vaucanson, delighted with himself on account
of his famous mechanical duck, would be puffed up with pride at His
success in producing so perfect a human specimen, and that the
admiration of the world for the genius capable of such a masterpiece
would deliciously tickle the conceit of the Almighty. One might
attribute to the Master of the Infinite less human causes of
satisfaction. But, might one say, what matter, if this rather earthly
view of Divinity incited the devout Baroness to the practice of the
virtues?

"The virtues," when one has an income of 80,000 francs, and no personal
tastes, no passion of mind or heart to satisfy, do not seem beyond human
reach. For "the glory of God" the Baroness de Grillères was in life as
chaste as an iceberg, and at death bequeathed her wealth to the rich.

God, the Holy Virgin, and the Saints bid us to give. More especially,
they are pleased if we give first of all to the Church. Chapels sprang
up in the Baroness's footprints. After a consultation with her spiritual
adviser, she had dedicated her husband to Saint Joseph. The Saint and
the Baron exchanged a thousand amenities. The one received statues and
prayers, the other, the highest example of resignation. Wherever two
avenues crossed in the park, stood a group of the Holy Family, with an
inscription showing that the Baron and Baroness de Grillères aspired to
linking their names in the public memory with those of the pair
conspicuous for the greatest miracle known on earth.

Upon every religious establishment in the surrounding country
successively were bestowed sums of money, in exchange for which the
pious donors desired nothing but a marble tablet, placed well in view,
whereon was published in golden letters that Christian charity in
connection with which the Master has said that the right hand must not
know what is done by the left. Of course, the presence of the poor, the
sick, and the infirm, in an institution conducted by some congregation,
did not actually constitute a reason in the minds of the Baron and
Baroness for withholding their gifts. They considered, however, that
direct service to God and the Saints must be given precedence, for the
heavenly powers were the ones who dispensed rewards; it might, moreover,
be feared that there was a sort of impiety in thwarting the unfathomable
designs of Providence, by attempting to alleviate the trials It had seen
fit to impose upon human beings.

When the mayor of La Fougeraie, a notorious Free Mason, headed a
subscription for setting up a public fountain in the village square, the
lord and lady of the château refused to contribute, but immediately
devoted 2,000 francs to purchasing a holy water font of Carrara marble,
on which might be seen a flight of angels carrying heavenward the
escutcheon with the three gates.

As for the poor who did not shrink from personally soliciting alms, the
Baron and Baroness alike held them in profound contempt. In the history
of every wretched beggar there invariably turned out to be some fault in
conduct making him unworthy of charity. One of them had got drunk last
Sunday at the tavern, one was accused of stealing potatoes, another had
been mixed up in a brawl at the village festival. How could disorderly
living of this sort lead to anything but mendicancy? "You ought to go to
work, my good man," they would say. "Look for employment. Do you so much
as go to mass? Do you keep Lent? Go and see the _curé_. It is to him we
give our alms, for the whole countryside knows we keep nothing for
ourselves of what the Good God has given us. It is not to the deceitful
riches of this earth that we must cling, my poor friend; for heavenly
things only must we strive. Go and see the _curé_, he is so kind. He
will know how to minister to the needs of your soul."

Sometimes the gift of a little brass medal with the image of Saint
Joseph or the Virgin Mary would accompany this homily, and the beggar,
however hardened in his evil ways, would depart with humble salutations
and a melancholy thankfulness.

It is true that vice deserves hate, but can it be denied that certain
aspects of virtue are utterly hateful? Vice, not unlikely to bring about
humility and repentance, is sometimes capable of generous actions
without hope of reward. The selfish goodness of calculating virtue sees
in Christian charity the opening of a bank account with the Creator, and
while making lavish gifts, forfeits the merit of giving, by the avowed
exaction of a profit immeasurably greater than the amount paid. The
Baron and Baroness de Grillères basked in the delight of hearing
themselves praised from the pulpit. No flattering hyperbole seemed to
them excessive, for, as they sowed money on all sides, they looked for a
great harvest of splendidly ostentatious veneration. All they lacked in
order to be loved was that they should first love a little.

Of family life they never knew anything but the companionship of two
egoisms, both fiercely straining toward an incomprehensible future
felicity, to be earned by the application of a language of love, in
which was wrapped their lust of eternity. They had for incidental
diversion the base adulation of poor relations, whose mean calculations
did not, however, escape them. But the habit of hearing, at every step,
every conceivable virtue attributed to them, was an agreeable one, and
although they knew that money counted for something in the outpouring of
eulogistic superlatives of which they were the objects, they lent
themselves easily to the sweet belief that they did, in fact, achieve
prodigies of kindness every hour of their lives. No need to say that
they never made a gift of three shirts or a pair of shoes to a grand
nephew without the fact being trumpeted abroad.

A delightful game, for the Baroness, was distributing legacies among her
relatives. Not a piece of furniture, of jewellery, or of silver, did she
possess, not a single object of commonest use, that she had not in
theory and in anticipation given to some one of her heirs. She would
open a wardrobe and show the happy prospective owner a label posted on
the inside of the door: "I bequeathe this piece of furniture, which came
to me from my dear Mamma, to my good little cousin Mary, whom I love
with all my heart." Picture the embraces, the ensuing effusions of
tenderness! Further on, the corner of a bit of paper would stick out
from under the pedestal of a clock. "I bequeathe this clock, which was
the property of my beloved Grandmother, to my grandnephew, Charles, who
will pray for his good aunt." With what ecstasy little grandnephew
Charles, led with much mystery to the spot, would with his own eyes read
the text naming him possessor of the treasure! No member of the family
was without his allotted share.

Only, the capricious Baroness, whom it was very easy to annoy, was
perpetually taking offence. For a delayed letter, for thanks which
seemed insufficient tribute to her generosity, she would declare that
Mary or Charles no longer loved her, and as she looked upon affection
merely as a marketable commodity, the little slips of paper referring to
heirship were immediately replaced by others. Mary's wardrobe would fall
to Selina. Charles's clock would leap into John's inheritance, who would
be apprised of the fact in deep secret, until presently, for some
unconscious fault, the clock would be temporarily bestowed upon
Alphonse, and the wardrobe upon Rose. Variable book-keeping, which
kindled among relatives inextinguishable hatreds. But the Baroness'
masterpiece was the marriage between John and Rose.

John was an overseer of highway and bridge construction. He loved his
cousin Mary, who contributed by her needlework to the slender family
earnings. The young people had been betrothed six months, when one fine
day, without any known reason, the Baroness declared that Rose was the
one for John, and John exactly suited to Rose. Great commotion. The fear
of being disinherited kept every one concerned in subjection to the
"dearly beloved Aunt." Mary, desperately weeping, was preached into
promising to enter a convent, the Baroness paying her dowry; this for
the dear sake of John, whose name she might unite in her prayers with
that of the Providential Aunt, who mercifully opened the way of
salvation to her. John, alas, was more easily persuaded than she, when
he learned that he and Rose together would be chief heirs; and Rose, who
had ideas of grandeur, and dreamt of nothing less than going on to the
stage, lent herself with her whole heart to the comedy of love fatly
remunerative. John was invited to give up his work and "live like a
gentleman," and Rose's natural tendencies coöperating, the young couple,
loaded down with gifts of sounding specie, spread themselves gloriously,
under the happy eyes of the Baroness, in every description of silly
extravagance.

The Baron died of an attack of gout, a disease unknown to clodhoppers.
His wealth passed to his wife. Rose and John had received on their
marriage an income of only 10,000 francs, but they had the formal
promise of the entire inheritance. Unfortunately, a week before her
death, the Baroness was shocked by "a lack of regard" on Rose's part,
which consisted in not having evinced a sufficiently vociferous despair
at the recital of her Aunt's sufferings! By a will made in her last
moments everything was bequeathed to the Church, in payment for
numberless ceremonies whereby the utmost of celestial bliss was to be
secured for the dying woman.

Rose and John, after a torrent of invectives, left that part of the
country. An income of 10,000 francs signified poverty for them. They
fled to Paris, where in less than a year John lost down to his last
penny in speculations. After that they went their respective ways, Rose
to sing in a café-concert of the Faubourg St. Martin, John to take
employment with a booking agency for the races. He has as yet only been
sentenced to one month's imprisonment for a swindling card-game.

Admirable results of an Evil Beneficence!



IX

A MAD THINKER


Among the wise, some will perhaps agree with me, the maddest madmen are
not those who are commonly called so. In great walled and barred and
guarded buildings--prisons where people who are condemned by "science,"
just as elsewhere people are condemned by "law," expiate the crime of a
psychological disorder greater than that of the majority--unfortunate
beings are kept behind bolts and triple locks, for the incoherence of
their syllogisms, while fellow mortals no more mentally stable are
allowed to do their raving out on the world's stage.

For one whole year in my youth I dwelt among the lunatics of Bicêtre. I
had many interviews with "impulsives," whom a sudden disturbance of the
organism had made dangerously violent, and who talked pathetically about
their "illness," believing it cured, whereas it was not. I held
discussions with patients suffering from more or less specific
delusions. From those now long-past associations I have retained a habit
of comparing the mentalities inside asylums with those outside, which
proceeding leads rather to the proposal than the solution of problems.

What seems clear, however, is that we have not discovered a standard of
good sense, a way of measuring reason, by which we could definitely
separate sane from morbid psychology; that, furthermore, such a method,
had we discovered it, would not help us much, considering the
disconcerting ease with which men pass from the normal to the
pathological state, and vice versa. We should need too many asylums, and
there would be too continual a coming and going in and out of them. We
should not have time, between sojourns there, to study what we wanted to
learn, to teach what we knew, to prove to each other that we are all
afloat in a sea of errors, to quarrel, to vote, to kill one another, and
to reproduce ourselves for the sake of perpetuating the balance of
unbalance amid which fate has placed us.

Let us then accept the human phenomenon as it stands, and beware of
classifications which might lead us to believe that the mere fact of
being at liberty on the public highways is a guarantee of sound mind.
Whoever doubts this may wisely consider the judgments men are pleased to
pass upon one another. Question the Christian with regard to the
atheist, he will tell you that one must be totally devoid of common
sense to deny evidence that to him seems conclusive. The Mahomedan will
not conceal from you, if you discuss Christianity with him, that one
must unmistakably be mad, to identify three in one, and believe in a
physical manifestation of God to man. The Buddhist will look upon the
Mussulman as feeble in reasoning power, and the practiser of fetishism
on the coast of Africa or of Australasia will declare all these sects
foolish, since to him the only rational thing is to worship his
fetishes, which are, strangely enough, matched in our religion by the
many miraculous statues. Lastly, let me mention the philosophers, who
agree in regarding all those people as affected with morbid
degeneration, while pitying one another because of the mutual imputation
of diseased understanding.

At the time when I, like so many others, was seeking for the absolute
truth which should give me the key to all knowledge, I made the
acquaintance of one of those same seekers, possibly mad, or possibly
gifted with more than ordinary intelligence, who applied all his mental
energy to the solution of the problem of the construction of the world,
and to answering the questions raised by the presence of man on earth.
He was one of those "unfrocked priests" whom people usually blame
because they refuse to preach what seems to them a lie. I do not give
his name, his express desire having been to pass unknown among men. He
left the priesthood quietly, and after a fairly long stay in Paris,
during which he studied medicine, returned to his native village, where
two small farms brought an income more than sufficient for his needs.

He lived alone, despised by pious relatives, who besieged him with
flattering attentions aimed at his inheritance, but were kept at a
respectful distance by his witty and well-directed shafts of sarcasm. A
veritable Doctor Faustus. Fifty years he spent in assiduous study of the
great minds that make up the history of human thought. His door was open
to the poor, but he did not seek them out, absorbed as he was in
problems allowing him neither diversion nor respite. He had no curiosity
as to what was going on in the world. His spirit lived in the perpetual
tension of reaching out toward the unknown, feverishly importuned to
deliver up its mystery, and he did not wish to know anything of men,
their conflicts, their often contradictory efforts to better their fate.
Had he lived in the midst of the Siberian steppes, or on some Malay
Island, he would not have been more entirely cut off from the
surrounding social life. The Franco-Prussian war and the Commune were as
remote from him in the depths of the Vendée as Alexander's expedition to
the Indies. When one of the farmers once tried to recall that period to
his mind: "Yes, yes, I remember," he answered, "all the fruit was frozen
that year." It was the only vestige in his memory of those terrific
storms.

He was naturally considered mad, but it could not be denied that he
reasoned pertinently on all subjects. Absorbed in books, he had for
sole company the men of all time, and felt himself far better acquainted
with Leucippus, Democritus, Epicurus, Newton, Laplace, Darwin, and
Auguste Comte than with Bismarck or General Trochu. Shut up day and
night in a great room to which no one had admittance, he lived over with
delight the vast poem of the creation of the world. In waking to
consciousness, the universe, he was wont to say, had set us a riddle,
after the manner of the Sphinx, and he, a new Oedipus, was challenging
the monster. He would tear out its secret, he would proclaim it from the
earth to the stars, while disdaining the glory dear to ordinary mortals.
For he had taken every precaution to ensure the author's name remaining
absolutely unknown when his great work should be published. In order to
avert suspicion, the book was first to be printed in a foreign tongue.

If the Abbé was mad--the peasants still called him by his ecclesiastical
title, either from old habit, or respect for his mysterious
investigations--his madness was certainly not a mania for
self-aggrandizement. Disinterested truth, truth with no other reward
than success in the effort to reach it, was the single impulse moving
this monkishly cloistered existence. One might say that there was proof
of an unbalanced mind. I will not argue the point. Absolute truth is
undoubtedly beyond our reach. It is none the less true that the
sustained effort to attain truth remains the noblest distinction of
man. If it is reasonable to desire to know, who shall say at what point
it becomes folly, through aspiration outstripping the possibility of
satisfaction? Since, furthermore, this possibility increases with the
progressive evolution of the mind, might not it follow that one who had
been thought mad, in olden days, would be called wise to-day and that
the madman of to-day will in future ages be a prodigy of luminous
intellect? Find the boundary line between reason and unreason in this
inextricable tangle!

But to return to our excellent "Abbé," with whom, by a curious chance, I
became intimately acquainted, a few months before his death, I must say
that he never troubled himself with these considerations, to him inane.
He did not deny that there were maladies of the mind, but he professed
complete scorn for the "collection of low prejudices" to which the name
of "reason" was given by the general public. "I have come too soon," he
said to me. "In a few thousand years they will erect statues to the man
who will be a repetition of me. So far, men have parted at the
cross-roads where the paths of science and faith diverge. Some day there
will be one broad highroad to knowledge. The time has not come to lay
that road. As barbarism covered over the premature flowering of Greek
thought, so our present savagery would soon crowd out truths too newly
arrived at, which only very gradually will take root in men's minds."

"Tell me," I said to him one day, "since you stand on such a height that
you are free from the pride of the precursor, that you are insensible to
human glory, that you do not even intend to leave to posterity your name
as a seeker, have you never, alone with your conscience, and stripped of
all personal interest, asked yourself whether you were sure, after all,
entirely sure, of possessing this total and absolute truth?"

The Abbé's little gray eyes twinkled. He answered with a melancholy
smile: "The final and irreparable failure of my religious faith was a
fearful blow to me. I no longer believed. What had appeared to me good
evidence on the day before looked to me from that day onward like the
irrational wanderings of delirium. But I realize to-day, after so many
years of meditation, that although my old conceptions of existence could
not stand the test of experience, yet the framework of my mind has
remained the same. I had abandoned the Theological Absolute; I was in
search of a Scientific Absolute, no more to be found than the other. I
do not regret my error, for I owe to it the greatest joys of my life.
For thirty years the marvel of seeing the veil of Isis slowly raised,
and the world, bit by bit, taken to pieces and put together again,
according to infallible laws, brought me the supreme delight of
grasping the world by thought. When I had exhausted analysis and
synthesis, I undertook to tell my discoveries, and such was my mastery
of my subject that in ten years I wrote a volume of five hundred pages,
in which, I can say it now, for I have burned it, was contained what, in
incalculable centuries to come, will be considered the treasure of human
knowledge."

"You burned this work of yours?"

"Yes, to replace it by another."

"And is this other one final?"

"You want my complete confession? I am so near death that I will afford
you this pleasure. Having finished my book, I decided to devote the rest
of my life to going over it, pen in hand, and annotating it. Alas! When
I became my own critic I found the fine frenzy of creation replaced by a
power of keenly reasoning destructiveness which I had up to that time
not suspected in myself. The creators of systems in the past were only
gifted with the power of induction and prophecy. I had the power to
dissect, to undermine my own inductions and prophecies. What we term
truth is but an elimination of errors. I thought, I still think, that I
had attained truth, pure and simple, but the edifice so laboriously
built could not escape the pitiless criticism of the builder. The same
mental gymnastics which had led to my replacing former doubts by
demonstrated affirmations now raised fresh doubts in the face of my new
demonstrations. What would have been their effect upon the unprepared
intelligences for which the result of my labour was intended? I spent
five years of painful spiritual tension in rewriting and condensing my
work."

"And this time you were satisfied?"

"No more than before. While I am writing, I am, in spite of myself,
possessed by the absolute. I take too vaulting a leap toward truth. Then
I realize that men will shrug their shoulders and call me mad, and I
question whether it is not in fact madness to try to bring to
intelligences of to-day knowledge which belongs to the far future.
Furthermore, no matter how strongly I have felt myself fortified on all
sides by evidence, a fury of criticism has hurled me to the attack of my
fortress of truth. It took two years to reduce my five-hundred-page book
to two hundred pages. Four more years of work--and a notebook of perhaps
fifty pages is all that is left--the bone and marrow of the whole
matter, for my aim has been to eliminate, one by one, every element of
possible uncertainty."

"And now there remains no doubt, I suppose?"

"Nay, doubt remains. Is it strength or weakness of mind? I cannot say.
If I have time to go on working, nothing will be left of my work, and I
shall have made the great journey, from reason that seeks to folly that
finds, and from folly that knows to reason which, very wisely, still
doubts."

The Abbé died six months later, leaving all he had to the poor. Besides
his will, not a single page of writing was found among his belongings.

The village priest came to see him in his last hour. He spoke to him of
God--bade him believe, alleging that science led to doubt--whereas
faith----

"Then you yourself are sure, are you?" asked the dying man.

"Certainly--I know with absolute certainty."

"Reverend sir, I once spoke as you are speaking. Only ignorance is
capable of such proud utterances. Grant to a dying man the privilege of
delivering this lesson. I who have aspired to know, know that you know
no more than I--even less--I dare affirm it. It is really not enough to
justify taking up so much room in the sunshine!"



X

BETTER THAN STEALING


The man from Paris is a natural object of hatred to the poacher. I refer
to the hunting man from Paris, who raises game for his own sport in
carefully preserved enclosures. This ostentatious personage, who comes
and fills the countryside with special guards to keep the aggrieved
pedestrian out of glades and plains and bypaths, seems to the rustics a
pernicious intruder, in a state of legal warfare against the countryman,
who feels himself the friend and legitimate owner of the animals, furry
or feathered, with whom his labour in the fields has made him well
acquainted. All is fair play against this "maker of trouble." The only
thing is not to get "pinched."

Then begins a warfare of ambushes and ruses with the band of
gamekeepers, who, having the law on their side, always end by getting
the better of those whose only argument of defence is the "natural
right" of a man to destroy wild life.

During the season there are almost daily exchanges of shot. Often a man
is killed, which means jail, penitentiary, scaffold. All for a miserable
rabbit! Remnants of the feudalism of birth which the effort of
revolutions has merely replaced by the feudalism of money.

The worst of it is that gamekeepers and poachers, mutually exasperated,
cling to their quarrel, and that a taste for brigandage develops in men
diverted from the unremunerative tilling of the soil by the daily
temptation of booty. Deal as harshly as you may with the poacher, you
will not succeed in discouraging him. Has anything ever cured a devotee
of roulette? And to the excitement of gambling, in this case, is added
the attraction of danger. There is no cure for it. The question of
increasing the penalty for poaching often comes up. There will be long
discussion before anything is ever done. The discrepancy would be too
great between the misdeed and the punishment. And the matter of
elections enters into it. No one is anxious to make too violent enemies
among the citizen electors.

Entirely different is the question of poaching in the happy
regions--there are not many left in France--where preserved hunting is
still at the rhetorical stage. There the poacher is merely a hunter
without a permit, and as no such thing exists as a peasant whom a hare
has never tempted to use his gun, and as a natural understanding unites
all those who are compelled to pay taxes against the State which
represents taxation and statute labour, never will you find a field
labourer ready to admit that a shot, in order to be lawful, needs the
seal of a tax gatherer.

The poacher on free territory, therefore, does not hide as does the
poacher on preserved lands. He plays a sort of tag with the rural guard,
who is by no means eager to meet him, and with the occasional
_gendarmes_, whose cocked hats and baldricks make them conspicuous from
afar. Following along hedges, looking for burrows, keeping his eyes
steadfastly on the ground, he scents out the wild creatures and knows
the art of capturing them.

How often, in the days of my youth, have I accompanied the redoubtable
Janière on his Sunday expeditions, when he would ostensibly leave the
village by the highroad, his hands in his pockets, then dash into the
fields, and miraculously find his gun hidden in a bush, a few feet from
a rabbit hole. Nor man nor beast was ever known to get the better of
him. He was an old Chouan of 1815 who, having been a poacher all his
days, and a marauder now and then, died without ever having had a writ
served on him. The entire district took pride in Janière. When he left
us for a better world: "He never once went to prison," said the peasants
by way of funeral oration. What that man could deduce from a blade of
grass lying over on one side or the other at the edge of a thicket
really approached the miraculous. He would consult the wind, the sun,
and would construct for me the train of reasoning which must have
brought the hare to the precise spot where we invariably found him. His
accommodating gun made no more noise than the cracking of a whip. The
victim, hidden in the hollow of a pollard, would at nightfall find its
way under Janière's blouse.

But whither have I let myself wander? It was of the water poacher that I
meant to speak. He, one might say, is the enemy of no man on earth.
Fish, of dubious morals we are assured, find no such personal sympathy
among us as do the furry and feathered folk. A carp, gasping on the
grass, does not bring tears to our eyes, he seems to belong to a
different world, and the police officer at war against illicit fishing,
backed up by more or less convincing arguments relating to the
restocking of rivers, has no one on his side. For this reason, my
compatriot Simon Grelu counted as many friends as there were inhabitants
in the canton. The killing of a hare in his lair rouses enmity among the
poachers who alike had their eye on him. No quarrel results from a tench
landed. Simon Grelu, besides fishing at once for profit and the love of
it, gave freely of his catch, whence came the universal good-will
accompanying him on his nightly or daily expeditions.

Our river in the Vendée, the Lay, wends its leisurely way amid reeds and
waterlilies, sometimes narrowing between rocks covered with broom and
furze and oak trees, sometimes widening under overarching alders,
onward to the meadows, where it attracts the flocks. Everywhere are
mills with their gates. It is a populous river, and no one could be said
to "populate" it more than Simon Grelu, nominally a miller's assistant,
living in the ruin of what was thought to have been a mill at the time
of the wars between the Blues and the Whites.

Simon Grelu is a great tall fellow, all legs and arms and joints, with a
long neck leading up to a long nose, which gives him the look of a
heron. From the Marshland to the Woodland there is no more noted spoiler
of rivers; he is celebrated for the constancy of his relations with the
police. Hampered by his lengthy appendages, he is perpetually letting
himself be caught, and disdaining what will be thought of it. Every
angle of every rock, every stump by the water's edge, is so familiar and
homelike to him that he cannot bear to leave his river, and rather than
make good his escape on land, prefers to have a warrant served on him,
secure in the fact that he has nothing wherewith to pay a fine.

When the police sergeant rebukes his men for their laziness, they cry
with one accord:

"Let us go and look up Grelu!"

They go, and find him without the least trouble.

That was what happened last week, and owing to it I had the pleasure of
witnessing the interview I am about to relate. I was taking a walk with
the Mayor, when Simon Grelu suddenly stood before us. More elongated
than ever, with his bony, sallow face, his pointed skull topped by a
little tuft of white hair, his mouth open in a smile truly formidable
from the threat of a single great black tooth which the slightest cough
would inevitably have flung in one's face, the heron-man stood before
us, motionless in his wooden shoes.

"I have come for my certificate, _monsieur le maire_," said he with a
sort of clucking which might express either mirth or despair.

"What certificate?"

"Why, my certificate of mendicancy, as usual, when I am caught."

"What! Again? Is there no end to it?"

"It is better than stealing, isn't it, _monsieur le maire_?"

"But you have not the choice between poaching and stealing only, Simon.
You could work."

"And do you suppose I don't work? Many thanks! Who drudges more than I
do? The whole night in the water! Those accursed policemen played a
trick on me!"

"They caught you?"

"That's nothing. They made a fool of me, _monsieur le maire_. No, it
can't be called anything else. I shall never forgive myself for being
made a fool of----"

"What happened?"

"What happened is that those policemen laughed at me all the way up and
down the river. They were half a mile away, and I could still hear them
roaring with laughter. No, I never knew I was such a dunderhead."

"But, come to the point, what did they do to you?"

"Ah--the villains! Imagine, _monsieur le maire_, it was just before
daylight, and I was quietly fishing below the mill of La Rochette. The
idea, anyway, of forbidding fishing before sunrise! Is it my fault if
fishes come out to play at night?"

"Well--what happened?"

"I was in my boat----"

"You have a boat, then?"

"No, _monsieur le maire_, I may as well tell you, for you'll know it
to-morrow, anyway, that it was your boat, which I had taken from your
dike by the big pasture."

"And where did you get the key?"

"Ah--you know--with a nail--and there is no chain----But I shut
everything up again without damaging the lock. I should not like to give
you any trouble. I washed the boat, too, where the fish had left it
muddy."

"You had caught a great deal of fish?"

"No. Ten pounds, perhaps. I had only just begun."

"I never caught that much fish in my life. How do you do it?"

"Oh--they know me. As I was telling you, I was in my--in your boat, when
I heard those d----policemen calling me. 'Hey! Grelu, come ashore! We
are serving your warrant on you!' Well, I landed, of course. I am used
to it. We chatted like friends. They carried away my fish to fry for
themselves. You won't tell me there is any justice in that, will you,
_monsieur le maire_?"

"Is that the trick they played on you?"

"Oh, no! When the police had gone, I said to myself: 'Now I'm fined, I
may as well go on fishing. I shan't be able to pay the fine, whether I
do or not. So I'll stay.' I fished and I fished. I was doing first rate.
I was happy. When, suddenly, I hear voices. The police again! Two
warrants in one night! I couldn't have that! The boat was giving me
away. But they might think I had left it there. So I hide in the water,
with nothing out but my head, and I wait. What do you think they do?
They stretch out on the grass, they light their pipes, and they begin to
talk. They had got lost, the idiots! And finding themselves back at the
mill, were looking for me to ask their way.

"As for me, I was none too comfortable in the mud. Those loafers
wouldn't go away. When one pipe went out, they lighted another. I saw
there was going to be nothing for it but to get caught again. Suddenly
one of the men says: 'Father Grelu,' says he, 'you must be cold in
there. Come and warm yourself at my pipe.' I come out, all covered with
mud, and I shake my fist at him. 'If you serve another warrant on
me----!' says I to him. 'A second warrant?' says he. 'No danger of that.
The law prevents it. We can only serve one warrant in twenty-four hours
on the same person for the same offence. What! You didn't know that,
Grelu? And that is why you stayed in the water? We were just saying: "I
wonder why he does that?" Ah, Father Grelu, we are sorry! We thought you
knew better.' And they laughed. And they laughed. I was in no mood for
laughing. Did you know that, _monsieur le maire_, that two warrants
could not be served at once?"

"No."

"Well, I know it for another time, you may be sure. And now, may I have
my certificate of mendicancy, which releases me from liability to fine?"

"Very well. Your bath might have given you pneumonia. How old are you?"

"Over seventy. No harm will ever come to me from water."

"Nor from wine, eh? It is funny, all the same, to be giving you a
certificate of destitution when I see you so often at the tavern."

"They give me credit, _monsieur le maire_. I pay them in fish. It is
better than stealing, anyway."



XI

THE GRAY FOX


After the poacher the vagabond has the place of honour in the disfavour
of the licensed citizen. A man without an abode inscribed in the tax
collector's book comes near to being a man without a country, in the
eyes of the bourgeois, inclined to regard the land of his fathers as
exclusively what one of them has frankly called it, "the native land of
the landed proprietor."

It is easy to pronounce against the unfortunate nomad the withering
sentence: "He pays no taxes." No taxes, the barefoot tramp who halts on
the edge of a ditch to eat his succinct meal? I defy him to spend the
penny just tossed him, without the State stepping in between him and his
poor bite and taking a portion of it away. How can he be fed, clothed,
and warmed without the State making its existence felt by the exaction
of a tithe? Merely tithes levied upon beggars would amount to a
considerable revenue. The beggar takes no pride in this fact, being
carelessly ungrudging of the sacrifices demanded by public duty, and
this very modesty does him wrong, for under the pretext that he is of no
social utility, householders, under-prefects, army corps commanders,
and directors of the Bank of France, all unite in imputing to him most
of the evils from which they are supposed to protect us.

In country places, the blame for whatever happens falls on the
vagabonds. Theft, arson, trespassing, who could be guilty of these
offences, if not the homeless wanderers going over the roads afoot, when
all self-respecting men have at least the use of an automobile? What
trade can they ply but taking other people's belongings, seeing that
they have nothing of their own? Hence the execration of those who have
belongings. I once knew an old philosopher who maintained that it was
better to throw bread than stones at them. Ordinarily stones are readier
to hand. When there are enough of them, the tramp gathers them into a
pile at the roadside and breaks them for honest wages. Never for a
moment believe that any one, from the President of the Republic down to
the road mender, will express the slightest gratitude to him. Like Timon
of Athens, he expects nothing from human kind.

And yet, his defence, should he take the trouble to make one, would not
be lacking in interest. Lost sentinel of the army of labour, he might
relate strange adventures in the industrial warfare, no less cruel than
the other warfare. He might find it difficult to deny a share of
shortcomings on his side--but what of the consciences of "the
righteous," oftentimes, if one could see them in nakedness?

Humanity means weakness. If the vagabond can own as much for himself, he
can bear witness to the same in the case of others. Oftener, perhaps,
than is generally believed, for peasants, like city people, are tempted
by their neighbours' property, and as the caught thief always accuses
some unknown personage of the crime attributed to him, the vagabond is
in all countries the easy expiatory victim of "the respectable."

Something of the kind happened in the affair of the "Gray Fox," which
once upon a time set my village in uproar. At that distant date one of
the notables of the hamlet, a locksmith by trade, who had "inherited
property," was Claude Guillorit. Without vanity in his Roman Emperor's
name, he carried it with the quiet dignity of a man whose future is
assured. He was a "scholar," incredibly learned in the accumulation of
miscellaneous facts which almanacs spread even in the remotest
districts. He quoted proverbs, was full of strange saws, foretold the
future--approximately. He was to be met with by night, carrying a large
basket, in search of simples, which have special virtues when gathered
after sun-down. He brewed philters for the benefit of man and beast, and
cured fevers, I must admit, more easily than he did locks.

For, in spite of his explicit locksmith's sign, locks were wrapped in
mystery for Claudit--so called "for short." Village housewives, whose
furniture knows not intricate locks, are at the end of their resources
when they have cleaned the rust off their keys, or smeared a creaky lock
with oil. If the evil persisted, in those days, the cry of supreme
distress used to be: "Go and get Claudit," even as Napoleon's cry was:
"Send forward the guard!" when he was at the end of his genius.

Accompanied by a formidable clatter of ironware, a little slim, spare,
sharp man would approach, with long gray locks swinging about his face,
after straggling from under a black round of which no one could have
declared with any certainty whether it had been a hat or a cap at the
time of the Revolution. But it was not his headgear that held the eye.
What struck one, what fixed the attention, what filled even a person
unacquainted with him with a sort of superstitious uneasiness, was the
black dart of two small, lustreless eyes, which entered one's very soul
and stuck there. When the shaft of Claudit's glance had pierced one, it
was not to be plucked from the memory. The man, however, did not concern
himself with the impression he produced; he never broke the silence
except from necessity, and then spoke only of things pertaining to lock
mending.

When he had arrived before the recalcitrant lock, he would throw on the
ground--together with the great basket from which he was never
separated, and which no one ever saw open except on one memorable
occasion--an iron hoop, whence hung an extraordinary number of queerly
wrought and bent hooks; then he would kneel down as if in prayer, and
apply his eye to the keyhole. After a moment of scientific examination:

"_Pardine!_" he would cry--it was his favourite oath--"I see nothing at
all."

In which there was nothing surprising. Claudit seemed, none the less, to
experience great relief from this first ascertainment. Then followed
questions regarding the piece of furniture, what was its history, and
the probable age of its lock, then groans over the wretched work done in
olden days. And now the moment had come for the diagnosis. Every lock
may be afflicted with any one of numerous ailments. Claudit would
enumerate them with great erudition, giving his client his choice among
the various evils.

"It may be that, or it may be something else. I am no wizard. We shall
see."

Thereupon a storm of hammerblows would beat upon the wood and the iron.
The cloudburst over, the key would function no better.

He would have to resort to subtler methods. Unperturbed, Claudit would
brandish his hoop with the pendent hooks, and having examined each with
care, would select one and insert it very deliberately, with appropriate
contortions, into the orifice where lay the seat of the trouble.
Creakings would ensue beyond anything ever heard. Up and down, down and
up, from left to right, and right to left, and all around the compass,
he would turn and twist and rub the rusty point, would force it to the
exhaustion of human strength, and, since the truth must be told, I will
confess that I have seen locks which under this violent treatment took
the provisional course of behaving themselves. Claudit would exhibit no
pride. Such triumphs of his art were not calculated to surprise him.

When the lock seemed to be entirely bedevilled, Claudit would draw from
his pocket a two-penny knife, the blade of which had gained a saw-edge
from much usage, and for the final satisfaction of conscience would do
what he could by "rummaging" with it. After that it was finished.

"The King himself could do no more," he would declare, fully assured
that Louis Philippe would have succeeded no better than he. "If you
like, I will make you a new lock."

Do not imagine that the manufacture of this lock would give Claudit any
great trouble. He sent to Nantes for his locks. He unscrewed one, and
screwed on another, and by this simple performance acquired the
reputation of a "skilled workman."

A little forge was attached to his house. It was littered with iron
junk. But no man alive ever saw it lighted, so that hens had formed the
habit of making their nest amid the cinders of the hearth, and the white
gleam of eggs was pleasant to see at the bottom of the crater where one
looked for glowing coals. I have seen as many as ten, for Claudit, owing
to an extreme love of poultry, permitted large numbers of hens to wander
at will about his dwelling.

In reality, the mending of locks and the brewing of healing philters
were merely the recreations of his life. Its passion was "the little
hen," as he tenderly called her. One of those silent passions deeply
rooted in our inmost being, for the satisfaction of which the Evil One
besieges us with temptations. It is certain that between Claudit and the
gallinaceous tribe obscure affinities existed. On Claudit's side the
sentiment might be explained by an appetite for toothsome eating. But
why did the hen feel Claudit's fascination? Why did she stand there,
stupidly motionless, fastened to the ground by the magnetism of that
black eye? They say that hypnotized hens will drop of themselves into
the fox's jaws. To quote Hamlet: "There are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

Curious as it may seem, Claudit was not the only one in our village to
cultivate a fondness for poultry. From time immemorial housewives on all
sides had complained of missing hens. Everyone blamed it on the tramps,
who were never there to answer back. Claudit more than any other
suffered from these thefts, and bewailed his losses at every street
corner. His white hen gone, his black hen and his yellow hen gone, the
thieves were cleaning him out--and the neighbours got Christian
consolation in their misfortunes from the reflection that Claudit was
even more cruelly hit than they.

Claudit, as may be imagined, was on the lookout for marauders, but in
vain. One day he saw one, but was unable to catch up with him. It was a
bent old man, dragging along a bag, full of hens, no doubt. "A regular
gray fox," muttered the wronged and indignant Claudit.

The name stuck to the unknown. His description was given to the police,
and a warning was sent out by the authorities, against the despoiler of
farms, and chief of a band of marauders, known under the name of "Gray
Fox."

One day Claudit, on his way home from a heated battle with a stubborn
lock, was crossing the village, when he stopped at sight of a crowd. An
aged tramp, bent double under the weight of a coarse canvas bag, was
struggling with the rural guard, who had found him lying asleep beside a
ditch and was accusing him of all the vague crimes reported over the
whole canton. The women had come running out of their houses, and each
of them had some accusation to bring against the malefactor. One in
particular was making an outcry:

"My cuckoo hen was stolen this morning. He took it! Come, now, give me
back my hen and go get yourself hanged elsewhere!"

"Ah! So you stole a hen, did you?" exclaimed the rural guard. "I knew
there was something wrong."

Then addressing the crowd: "The bent old man with a bag is the 'Gray
Fox,' isn't he? You are the 'Gray Fox,' aren't you? You may as well
confess."

It was here that Claudit arrived upon the scene, by good luck, for
having once seen the thief, he could identify him better than any one
else. Way was made for him, and the entire village, hanging on his lips,
waited to hear what he would say.

"_Pardine!_" said Claudit, scratching his ear, "I believe we've got him
this time. Yes, yes, I recognize him. He is the 'Gray Fox.'"

"Hoo--hoo! To prison with the Gray Fox!" howled the delirious crowd.

"Give me back my cuckoo hen!" screamed the housewife.

But the man, not in the least agitated, straightened up and said:

"So I am the Gray Fox, am I? My word! You are too great fools! Often
enough, from the other side of a hedge, I have seen him at work, your
Gray Fox. I know him. Do you want me to show him to you?"

And with a kick he overturned Claudit's basket, whence fell the dead
body of the much-lamented cuckoo hen.

The entire canton still echoes with this spectacular stroke. With blows
and kicks the Gray Fox, the real one, was led back to his lair, and
there, in a secret cellar, was discovered a collection of stolen hens,
peacefully awaiting their turn to be cooked with accompaniment of
cabbage. Everyone recognized his own hen, and everyone hastily seized
it. Even Claudit's legitimate hens went by that road. But he was not the
man to let himself be despoiled in silence.

"You say these hens are yours!" he cried. "I know nothing about it. I am
willing to give them to you. But I shall let nobody steal the hens that
belong to me."

And before a week had passed, Claudit had, by the power of speech, got
back all his hens, with, it was said, a few of doubtful ownership into
the bargain.

To this insistence and its success he owed a return of public esteem.
But when a lock thereafter required his attention he was emphatically
bidden to leave his basket at home.



XII

THE ADVENTURE OF MY CURÉ


I have had no very consecutive relations with the _curé_ of my village.
Many things stand between us. Our age, our occupations, our ideas. He
follows one path, I another. Which does not prevent our occasionally
meeting out in the country, or at the cross roads. We exchange greetings
which vary according to the time of day; we occasionally talk of the
weather, as it is, and as it should be to satisfy the peasants. In the
crops we find yet another subject for a brief conversation. But we
rarely venture beyond this circle of observations. His breviary claims
him, and the finger marking the page of his interrupted reading is a
delicate hint that the talk had best be brief. I have partridges to
deliver, and must not linger, either. There is a slight awkwardness
between us, even in saying good-bye. I am anxious not to say anything
that may offend the simplicity of his faith, but I always fear one of
those somewhat indiscreet suggestions which priests regard as part of
their duty. On his side, it is evident that he dreads my so far
forgetting myself as to make remarks which will oblige him to stand on
the defensive. I cannot help seeing that I am an incomprehensible enigma
to him, whereas his state of mind is not in the least puzzling to me.
How can I explain this mystery to him, without cruelly wounding him? We
therefore part, after a few conventional words, regretting the necessity
to stop short on the verge of a conversation which tempts us both, and
aware that we have something to say to each other which we shall never
say. To his last day he will undoubtedly regard me as an agent of the
Devil. And on my side I can only silently sympathize with his sorrow in
the recesses of my mind.

Abbé Mignot is a tall, robust, florid Burgundian, whose muscular frame
seems better suited to field labour than to the unctuous gestures of the
sacred ministry. The son of a vintner, he had begun life as a plowboy,
when an aged singer, who had been a great sinner while she trod the
boards of light opera in Paris, returned to her native village, there to
acquire spiritual merit by good works, which the remuneration for vice
out in the world enabled her to do. She reared altars, and munificently
endowed them. She enriched the church with incomparable raiment. The
pulpit praised the zeal of the excellent donor, who was earning Heaven
by the virtues belonging to old age, and by preaching austerity to
others.

One day this saintly lady, in quest of redemption, met at the edge of
the village a dishevelled boy who was subduing the fierceness of a
young bullock by the aid of sounding oaths and a shower of blows. The
picture seemed to her beautiful, even though the music was profane. She
questioned the child, whose precocious adolescence called up distant
memories connected with this same muddy, rustic setting, and being
suddenly vouchsafed light from on high, she conceived the plan of
redeeming her very earliest sin (which had led to so many others), by
means of the young bullock driver who seemed to her on the brink of
perdition. Providence, and not chance, had set on her path this
innocence to be saved from imminent peril. What an admirable priest the
youth would make, when properly scrubbed, with his great clear eyes, his
blond curls, his laughing insolence of a conquering hero! So the sinner
who had turned away so many souls from the path to Heaven would redeem
the past forever by leaving behind her an authentic servant of God, to
keep up the necessary expiatory work after her death.

All would have been well had not the vintner hung mightily back. His son
had cost him "a lot of money." He was just about to "bring him in
something" now. This was not the time for sending him away.

"If he goes," he said, "I shall have to hire a servant.... That costs a
great deal, counting his food. I can't afford it."

But the more obdurate the peasant was, the more obstinate became the
devout lady in her resolve to accomplish the duty laid upon her by
Heaven, as she declared. Negotiations were difficult, for Father Mignot
had no liking for "skullcaps," as he called priests, and a double
argument had to be used: one bag of money to repay him for his
"pecuniary loss," and a second bag to allay the scruples of
anticlericalism, aggravated by the circumstances. And this is what was
called "The vocation of Arsène Mignot."

More than twenty years later, Abbé Mignot came to us with the remnants
of his family: a widowed sister and three nephews without means of
support. As I am telling nothing but what is strictly true, I have to
admit that he met with a chilly reception. The old _curé_, whom we had
just lost, had had enough to do to guard his eighty years from the heat
and the cold, and to quaver out his masses. Our peasants are not fond of
being too closely questioned. When they saw this new man, still under
forty, carrying his need for action into their very houses, breaking,
from one day to the next, the happy-go-lucky traditions which had made
his predecessor popular, they silently assumed the attitude of
self-defence. But the _curé_, being a peasant, knew his peasants. When
he discovered his mistake, he had the sense to change his course, and to
win back the discontented, one by one, without noise or waste of words.

And so, our village would have had no story, but for a hospital
belonging to it, and standing in a hamlet two miles away. This hospital,
privately endowed, was tended by four nuns of I know not what order.
Disease, however, never marred the spot by its presence. Against the
express wish of the founder, a school had been established in it, and
any sick person coming to ask admission was told that his presence would
be dangerous to the school children, upon which he obediently went to
die elsewhere. Two elderly spinsters, who did the work of servants,
figured in the Sisters' conversation as "our incurables." By this means
they were entitled to retain the inscription on the wall, announcing
that hospital care might there be obtained.

Concerning the Sisters themselves there is nothing to say. They taught
the catechism, sang off the key at mass, and made a great show of zeal
toward the one they called "Mother." Their chief entertainment was
luncheon at the _curé's_ on Sunday after church. A sweet dish and a
little glass of Chartreuse crowned this extravagance. Then there would
be much puerile chatter on topics drawn chiefly from the _Religious
Weekly_. New recruits were proudly enumerated, eyes were rolled
heavenward at talk of "apostates," and the latest miracles were related
in minutest detail. A touch of politics occasionally spiced the heroic
resolution to brave martyrdom. At parting, all were in a state of
edification.

The trouble was that Abbé Mignot, without income, had four mouths to
feed. The cost of the luncheon could not be brought within the limits of
his budget. He made a frank confession of this to the "Mother," who
answered haughtily that privation was the luxury of her estate, and that
the Sisters would uncomplainingly return to sharing the "bread of the
sick," at the hospital. Her words came true, for the very next week
there was a patient at the hospital: the "Mother" herself, whom an
attack of erysipelas carried off in three days. The school had to be
dismissed and everything scientifically disinfected, before the scholars
could return. This duty fell upon the new Mother, a charming young nun,
whose beautiful eyes, gentle speech, and affable manners, created a
sensation in the countryside.

Mother Rosalie was gifted with a beautiful soprano voice, which proved
to be a source of divine refreshment to Abbé Mignot, who was fond of
playing the organ. There can be no music without work. Work at their
music threw the Mother and the _curé_ together. And as one study leads
to another, the visits of Mother Rosalie to Abbé Mignot came to be
fairly frequent. Presently there was gossip, and after a time what had
at first been a playful buzzing became rumblings of scandal. Is it
credible? The first threat of a storm came from the three Sisters at the
hospital. These old maids, who had until that moment been totally
insignificant, felt surging in them, of a sudden, an irrepressible wave
of spleen, intensified and again intensified by the acid of celibacy.
Although touched in a sensitive spot by the discontinuance of luncheon
at the rectory on Sundays, sole amusement of their lives, they had made
no sign. But the moment their one-time host laid himself open to
criticism, the hurricane burst, and the flood of heinous words came
beating against the very walls of the sacred edifice.

Nothing can be hidden in a village. Life is carried on in broad
daylight. The ditches, the stones, the bushes have eyes. Everyone knew
very well that Abbé Mignot and "the pretty Mother," as she was currently
called, had never met anywhere but in the church, the door of which was
open to all. The pealing of the organ and the pure voice rising to the
rafters ought, it would seem, to have counteracted the poison of
malevolent insinuations.

"Certainly," said the peasants, "they are doing no harm, _as long as
they keep on singing_!"

Occasionally, when the organ was silent, Mother Rosalie knelt in the
confessional. Busybodies, stationed behind pillars, considered that she
remained there too long, and that she confessed oftener than necessary.
This was all that any one could find to say against them. I did my best
to defend them, when occasion arose, but the only effect of my pleading,
I fear, was to give more importance to the spiteful words.

Meanwhile, Abbé Mignot and Mother Rosalie continued happy in their music
and their friendship. I never knew Mother Rosalie, and will not invent a
psychology for her. We exchanged a few words on several occasions, and I
received the impression of a remarkably refined nature. Whatever I might
say beyond this would be drawn from my imagination. With regard to the
Abbé, the reader is as well qualified to judge him as I. Bound over to
continence by an adept in the reverse, he resigned himself to inevitable
fate, the cruelty of which he had recognized when it was too late.
Heaven, chance, or destiny had thrown a friendly soul in his path, a
prisoner of the same destiny. He surrendered to the delight of the
association, happy to come out of himself, to give a little of his life,
to receive something of a human life in return, and to feel his pleasure
shared. They did not conceal themselves, having nothing to conceal. This
seemed to them a safeguard, under the eyes of their brothers in
humanity.

The "scandal" lasted three months. One fine day, without warning, an
elderly, hunchbacked Sister descended from the coach, and having entered
the hospital, exhibited, along with her titles as the new "Mother," the
order to "Sister Rosalie" to return _within the hour_ to the convent.
Sister Rosalie bowed her head in submission, asked whether time would be
allowed her for one leave-taking, and upon receiving a negative answer,
retired to her chamber, "to pray and to obey." She came out with
faltering steps, and departed never to return.

The following day was Sunday. The event had been kept secret for the
sake of a more dramatic climax. When the priest, coming before the
altar, met the shock of the sardonic joy twisting the lips of the
hunchbacked Mother and her three acolytes in the charity of the Lord, he
fell a step backward, as if mocked by Satan himself. Pale, shaken, he
was unable to restrain the trembling of his lips. The thunderbolt had
struck. In the anguish of death he retained the appearance of life, and
must play the part of a living man. By an heroic effort he regained self
command. Violently the _Introit_ rang out, as if from depths beyond the
grave, and in it were mingled the tragedy of the man and of the God.

There was but one word at the end of mass:

"_Monsieur le curé_ made the pretty Mother sing too much. She has gone
away to rest."

Last month I met Abbé Mignot out among the rocks of Deux Fontaines. He
sat with knitted brows at the foot of a bush, and nervously turned the
pages of his breviary. He was evidently making a desperate effort to
fasten down his wandering attention. He did not notice me, and had not
my dog run up to him, I should have turned and walked away, to avoid
disturbing him in his lonely struggle. When he saw me he rose, afraid of
having been caught betraying something of himself. I held out my hand
in friendship, and this time I would gladly have stopped for a talk had
I not seemed to read in his eyes an entreaty to pass on without
speaking. I obeyed the silent appeal. But yielding to an obscure need--

"_Monsieur le curé_," I said, "you ought to be careful. There are snakes
among those stones. You must have been warned before?"

"Yes, I know," he answered in a muffled voice. "This place is infested
with vipers--most pernicious beasts, _Monsieur_. I hope that on your
side you will be able to guard against them."



XIII

MASTER BAPTIST, JUDGE


What kind of justice did Saint Louis dispense under his oak tree?
History does not tell us that he was a doctor of law. Everything leads
us to suppose that he owed extremely little if anything at all to
Papinian, Ulpian, or Tribonian. He was, of course, a Saint, and those
among us chosen by Providence to make Its Supreme Will known receive
appropriate inspiration from on high. King Solomon, like other Asiatic
kings, who are by their people regarded as mouthpieces of divine wisdom,
consulted no text when he spoke the famous judgment upon which his glory
still rests.

Jews or Christians, the ancient leaders of the people judged in equity,
and without too great difficulty arrived at an approximate justice,
superior to the "judgments of God," which had too often what looked like
the iniquitous unfairness of chance. Codes, by their inflexible rules
applied to every case, have overthrown the ancient order, under which an
arbitrary procedure fitted the law to each individual transgression.
Laws and judges have since become more flexible, they would otherwise be
intolerable, but they are still too rigid to bend felicitously to the
modifications by which natural right might be promoted. In addition to
which, gratuitous "justice" not infrequently ruins the person seeking
it.

For all these reasons--fear of the law, which pounces upon poor people
they know not whence, fear of the hardened judge who refers the case to
his learning rather than to his conscience--our peasants in Western
France with difficulty make up their minds to set in motion the
so-called "protective" machinery of the law. Even the settlement of a
dispute before a justice of the peace seems an extreme measure, and they
have recourse to it only under great stress, which is a matter for
rejoicing, for such is the "social order," that without this fortunate
tendency, mankind, being entirely composed of people who complain, or
have reason to complain, law courts would need to be made big enough to
accommodate the entire human race.

In the country, sources of disagreement abound. The limb of a tree
stretching beyond a fixed boundary, a vagrant root, a fruit dropping on
the wrong side of a hedge, the use of a stream, a right of way, may
bring up interpretations of customs giving to conflicting interests
occasion for dispute. Before coming to the last expedient of going to
law, quarrels, insults, and blows perform their office of preparing the
way for reconciliation, which eventually results from nervous or
muscular exhaustion. A good hand-to-hand fight would constitute a
"judgment of God" not without its merits, but for the temptation to
"appeal" by nocturnal reprisals on innocent crops.

All that might take one very far. Which is the reason why we often find
in country districts certain natural-born arbiters, who bear the same
relation to judges that sorcerers do to doctors. The judge is the
Hippocrates of social maladies, even as the physician is the judge of
physiological disorders. The power to judge and the power to heal are
acquired by some mysterious method concerning which rustic clients and
patients have very misty notions. Judge and physician often make
mistakes, and these create in men's minds a dismay greater than the
comfort induced by their most authentic successes.

Is even learning absolutely necessary to make one competent to judge and
to heal? In olden days this ability was a gift from heaven, a matter
exclusively of divine inspiration, which invested a man with the
requisite faculties. Why should it no longer be the same? The peasant's
slow wit still clings to the old conceptions and retains the imprint of
past beliefs. He therefore prefers the wizard to the doctor, whom
science has stripped of the prestige of mysteriousness. In the same way,
he prefers--rather than to seek advice from competent sources--to
consult concerning his rights, or the conduct of his affairs, one of his
own sort, totally ignorant, and playing the part of doctor of law from
inspiration.

I once knew, long, long ago, alas, one of these improvised Solomons,
whose reputation for legal knowledge had spread from parish to parish
over a considerable area of the Woodland of the Vendée. Baptist Merian,
better known by the name of Master Baptist, was a peasant of uncouth
appearance, who personally looked after the property apportioned to him
by heaven and the inheritance laws. He was a big fellow whose
once-powerful muscles were becoming overlaid with fat as he neared his
seventieth year, the period when I first happened upon him in the
exercise of his functions. His purplish, pockmarked face very nearly
concealed in its fleshy folds two small gray eyes which pierced an
interlocutor directly through. He had a voice of thunder, and the
gestures of a thunderer. He had the imposing utterance of one passing
absolute judgments on men and things. He was like Zeus whose frown shook
Olympus, when he gave orders to take the mare to pasture or harness the
oxen to the plough. And yet he was at bottom a timorous spirit, very
attentive to the suggestions of prudence, and careful never to push any
matter to a violent issue.

His adversary, whoever contradicted him, was generally called a
"blockhead," and when Master Baptist had thus pronounced himself nothing
remained for the sentenced one but to bow his head in silence, which was
what all around him were in the habit of doing. No one could have told
whence he derived his legal authority. He made no claim to anything so
contemptible as a knowledge of the law, for he could scarcely read, and
with difficulty could sign his name. He was none too pleasant a
neighbour, and had on various occasions started lawsuits which he had
wisely brought to a close by a more or less advantageous settlement,
giving as his reason that the judge in his opinion was a "blockhead."
The consideration he enjoyed was not lessened by this, for he continued
to speak of his litigations as if he had won his cases; it was even
noticeable that the magistrate who had earned that unpleasant epithet
from his client lost, to a certain extent, the respect in which the
community had held him.

Master Baptist was not one of those geniuses who need to blow their
horn. Respectful of everybody's right to manage his own affairs, he
never ventured to offer advice to any one. At the most, if he saw a
field which did not carry out his idea of a proper rotation of crops, or
a field badly fenced, or an animal in poor condition, he would express
his view that the owner was a "blockhead," and public opinion could do
nothing but record the condemnation, from which there was no appeal. Far
from protesting against Master Baptist's uniform verdicts, people would
at the least disagreement, the first difficulty, come running to him to
explain their case, inquire what their chances were of success, and
often beg him to arbitrate.

With great dignity, with benevolence, even, he would receive these
visitors--if it were winter, by the hearth in the kitchen, which is the
countryman's parlour; if warm weather, by the house door, a few feet
from the black drain into which the sink emptied the odoriferous extract
of culinary operations. Comfortably seated in a quaint semicircular
armchair, the wool-stuffed cushion of which was covered with ticking, he
would listen to the men who had come to consult him and who remained
standing, cap in hand, while they told their interminable and tangled
stories. When they stopped for lack of breath, Master Baptist would ask
questions, which usually called forth prolix replies. Finally he would
speak:

"Peter, it is you who are the blockhead." And Peter would have no choice
but to submit to John. Both would then pull their blue caps over their
ears and sit down for a glass of white wine, which by a reversal of
ancient custom constituted the fee of judge to litigants. Often they
came from a great distance to find out which was the blockhead, and
having found out, departed content, glad to have ended the quarrel
without assistance from the omniscient bench.

It was something of an undertaking at that time to reach the
out-of-the-way hamlet where Master Baptist uttered his oracles. Now,
country roads connect "The Pines" with the rest of the world. I used to
reach it in those days by way of the rocky ridge stretching for two
miles between Mouilleron-en-Pareds and La Chataignerie. "The Rocks," as
the ridge is locally called, form the last buttress of the Woodland
hills. From the top a vast wooded stretch is visible, every field being
enclosed by a belt of tall trees. The rocks themselves are covered with
gorse and furze, and giant chestnut trees, twisted and gnarled by old
storms. Suddenly the rocks part, and in the hollow they reveal lie
meadows enlivened by the song of running water. There humble huts group
themselves in hamlets, concealed by the high trees. "The Pines," Master
Baptist's domain, was doubtless distinguished in former days by the
presence of a pine tree. The tree disappeared under the axe of time. But
a cluster of houses remains, sheltered from the world by the high
rampart of "The Rocks."

One day, as I was hunting in that neighbourhood, I suddenly from my
hill-top perceived the roofs of "The Pines," before anything had
betrayed the fact that a human habitation was at hand. The strangeness
of the place, as a place to live in, aroused my curiosity. I had met
Master Baptist at Mouilleron. The occasion seemed propitious for a
renewal of the acquaintance. I entered a courtyard littered with manure,
and there, behind a yoke of oxen drinking at a trough, I discovered the
master of the house, seated in his dooryard, surrounded by his poultry,
and busy as usual dealing justice.

It was vacation time. Baptist's son, a law student at Poitiers and a
prospective notary, was cheerfully loading dung into a cart (no one
dreamed of calling upon him for enlightenment), while the unlettered
father learnedly dispensed the law. In front of the solemn arbitrator,
and at a respectful distance from him, a man stood waiting open mouthed
for the solicited verdict. With a kindly wave of the hand, Master
Baptist motioned to me to wait until the audience should be closed. I
therefore remained where I was, and watched the plaintiff--a big,
gray-headed fellow who was mechanically twisting between his hands the
greasy crown of a brimless hat.

"You are sure that all you have told me is true?" Master Baptist was
saying, and I could see that he was inclined to apply his epithet of
"blockhead" to the absent party in the dispute.

"I have told you everything just as it is," answered the other.

"Then you may tell Michael that he is a blockhead. Be sure you tell him
so, will you?"

"Yes, Master Baptist, I will tell him this very evening. But what if he
says it isn't so?"

"If he answers that it isn't so, no later than to-morrow you will have
notice served on him."

The idea of sending his adversary a stamped document seemed to fill the
plaintiff with keen joy.

"I surely will serve notice on him!" he gleefully exclaimed.

Then, scratching his head: "But suppose he won't have notice served on
him, what then?"

At these words Master Baptist rose on a gust of excitement. I am not
aware what his idea was of a man "who will not have notice served on
him." But the case manifestly appeared to him out of all measure
horrific. An agonized silence followed. Then the storm burst.

"If he refuses to have notice served on him," thundered Master Baptist,
"you may take your two hoofs and give him a couple of swift kicks in the
shins."

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The point of law was solved. The
plaintiff, his spirit forever at rest, vigorously fell upon his judge's
hand and pressed it, along with what was left of his hat.

"That's it! That's it! My two hoofs--I will not fail!"

As for me, I was filled with admiration at the point chosen for giving
full force to the arguments of jurisprudence--the part of the leg where,
just under the skin, the tibia presents a collection of nervous fibres
which a nimble wooden shoe can crush against the bone, is certainly a
well-chosen spot, and calculated to give effectiveness to the energy of
the opposing party.

The white wine was brought. The student of law left his dung heap to
come and clink glasses.

"All the same," said the good client, dropping into his chair, "I should
like to know a question for which Master Baptist would have no answer."

"Oh, well," replied the judge, modestly, "one sees so many things. That
is how one learns."



XIV

THE BULLFINCH AND THE MAKER OF WOODEN SHOES


In connection with the scandalous conduct of a lady pigeon I shall
presently speak of comparative psychology in the world of animals. The
capacity of animals for emotion and sentiment is naturally the first
psychic phenomenon presenting itself to the observer. Their manner of
expressing the sensations received from the exterior world, and the
impulses resulting from those sensations constitute what may without
derision be called the moral life of animals, leading, just as it does
in the case of man, to the best adjustment possible between the
individual organism and surrounding conditions.

Many good people will doubtless be distressed by the idea that morality,
in which they take such pride, though not always preaching it by
example, instead of falling from heaven in the form of indisputable
commands, has its roots far down in the animate hierarchy. If they were
willing to reflect, they would be able to understand that undeniable
analogies of organism involve a corresponding analogy of function.
Nothing further is necessary to show the high significance of a study
of comparative sentimentality and the morality illustrating it,
determined by the organism that the great mass of living creatures have
in common. The amusing side of the thing is that the majority of those
who will cry out against this statement will in the same breath speak of
the "intelligence" of animals, and will quote some story about a dog or
cat or elephant, without suspecting that their very manner of presenting
the problem solves the question of its principle, and leaves them with
the sole resource of rebelling against the consequences of that
principle.

But it is not my intention to speak, as the reader may be thinking, of
Montargis' dog, or any other animal known to history, for the
astonishing proofs of sagacity he may have given. As I mean to relate a
very simple but authentic story of brotherly love between a bullfinch
and a maker of wooden shoes, my subject is more particularly the
exchange of sentiments between two species of animal, a phenomenon in
which the kinship of souls is very clearly demonstrated.

It is common enough for man to give affection to the animals that
surround him, an affection generally proportioned to the service he
expects of them. Disinterestedness is rarely coupled with power.

Man having made himself the strongest of living creatures, annexes and
subordinates such animals as he needs for the satisfaction of his wants.
The hunter loves his dog, but if the latter fails to retrieve, what
harsh words are showered on him, to say nothing of blows, the danger of
which perpetually hangs over a dog. Friendship between man and man is
all too often based upon arrangements in some way profitable to both. Is
it surprising, then, if an analysis of the affections of the more
elementary orders of the living hierarchy explains the condescension of
the strong for the defenceless weak by attributing it to self-interest?
And may not the devotion of the weak to the strong arise partly from a
need for protection? But self-interest does not account for
everything--whatever utilitarian philosophy may say.

I once knew a cock whose favourite haunt was the back of a Percheron
mare in the stable. It may be that the bird's greed relieved the
quadruped of certain irritating parasites. But why did the cock never
turn to any other than his special friend, the mare? And why would any
other fowl have been swiftly shaken off her back? The two animals "took
to each other," that is all one can say. You should have seen the mare
look over her shoulder with beatific eyes when her cock appeared, and
seen him stand on her complaisant rump, flapping his wings and crowing
triumphantly.

I say nothing of the animals in our menageries, who are trained to
tolerate one another for the astonishment of the idle spectator. They
exemplify a distortion of nature. But we see daily very strong
attachments between cats and dogs, who are natural enemies. Is the dog,
whom we accuse of servility for licking the hand of the master who beats
him, above or beneath the dignity of friendship? He is certainly not
moved by cowardice, for he will hurl himself against anyone attacking
that same brutal man of whom he might justly complain. Is it, then, that
the forgiveness preached by the Gospel is easier for him than for us?
Are dogs more "Christian" than men? That would make obvious the reason
why men often misinterpret dogs.

We cannot deny that signs of altruism, born principally of love,
manifest themselves on all sides in the animal world. The defence of the
young is the commonest instance of it. The courtship of the male is also
marked by exhibitions of generosity, even as it is on the Boulevard.
When a cock finds a worm, does he not summon his entire harem, and
magnificently toss the savoury morsel to them?

The bullfinch and the maker of wooden shoes who loved each other
tenderly had no remotest expectation of reward beside the pleasure of
living and telling their love, each in his own language at first, and
later, each, as far as he could, in the language of the other. I have
forgotten the shoemaker's name, but I could go blindfold to his house on
the main street of the village in the Vendée where I used yearly to
spend a happy month of vacation. I can see his white sign board with a
magnificent yellow wooden shoe agreeably surrounded by decorative
additions. I can see the little door with glass panes, giving access to
the shop, hardly larger than a wardrobe, where rows of wooden shoes hung
from the ceiling, were hooked to the walls, littered the floor, and even
overran into the street.

The little court behind the shop has remained particularly vivid in my
memory. That was the workshop. There, with both hands clasped around the
tool that flung chips into his face, the artist would miraculously draw
from a block of wood braced against his chest the form of a wooden shoe.
Julius II, watching the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel as they sprang
from Michael Angelo's brush, could not have been more impressed than was
my youth before the prodigies performed by the shoemaker.

He, for the increase of my pleasure, seemed to share it; he accompanied
the manoeuvres of his adze with commentaries calculated to drive well
into my soul the particular merits of his work. He was a poor, pale,
thin, fragile being, himself carved down as if by an adze, rubbed flat
and hollowed out by sickness. Folds of white skin below his hairless
chin trembled when he moved. His eyes were of no colour. He had a nasal,
far-away voice, like that of a consumptive ventriloquist. I never knew
anything about him. I do not believe he had any family--I never saw a
petticoat that seemed to belong in the house. All day long he worked at
his wooden shoes without a word, perhaps without a thought, happy in his
little friend the bullfinch on whom were centred all the emotions of his
existence.

Although I have forgotten the man's name, I remember the bullfinch's. It
was Mignon. There was nothing to make him look different from the rest
of his kind. As you entered the shop, you saw against the wall a large
cage decorated with rude carvings, on which the shoemaker had lavished
all the fancy of his art. In this, hopping from one wooden bar to the
other, was a little bright red ball with a black head, lighted by two
jet-black eyes gleaming with intelligence. The tiny hooked beak
retreating into the throat did not appear fashioned for conversation,
yet if during the shoemaker's absence you crossed the threshold, a
muffled voice, which seemed to issue from the depths of the walls,
greeted you with a cry, repeated over and over: "Someone in the shop,
someone in the shop," etc., etc. By the smothered quality, the nasal
tone, you recognized the master's voice. But it was not he who spoke,
for you could see him coming from the courtyard with his mouth shut,
while the sentinel's warning continued. It was the bullfinch, who with
unfailing vigilance stood guard over the rows of wooden shoes.

For Mignon talked like a "real person," with a dainty articulation much
clearer than that of the most accomplished parrot. The shoemaker had, I
suppose, taken him from the nest, and taught him from tenderest infancy.
In close association with, and under the suggestion of, a mentality
which spared no pains in the education of a friend, the bird had by a
loving effort raised himself to the level of the man who had lagged
behind in the evolution of his own race. They had met on the same plane,
and both having capacity for affection had seized upon each other with
atomic grapnels better than they might have done had both been human.

To please his friend, Mignon had accepted articulate speech as a means
of communication, for, needless to say, his vocabulary was not limited
to the sentry challenge: "Who goes there?" but grew daily more
extensive. On the other side, which was no less remarkable, the human
teacher had let himself be taught the fluty language of his woodland
friend. When the shoemaker wished to convey something to his feathered
comrade, he would break forth in "twee-twees," accompanied by a sort of
hoarse, throaty trill whose slightest inflection is comprehensible to
all the bullfinches in the world. They had thus two languages at their
disposal from which each could draw according to the inspiration of the
moment. A strange dialogue, in which it was often the man who said
"twee-twee," while the bird answered with dictionary words.

The door of the cage always stood open. But Mignon loved the peace of
his home. In his natural state the bullfinch prefers the most secluded
and silent spot in the forest. His character is both trusting and
contemplative. I remember once finding a nest of bullfinches in an
ancient oak. The father and mother could not believe that I was an
enemy. They perched on a bough at hardly more than a yard's distance
from me, without a flutter or a note of alarm, as if to give me time and
opportunity to admire their little ones. They made no sound until my
departure, when, as if to do the honours of the thicket, they uttered
farewell "twee-twees." As he was afraid of cats and dogs, Mignon never
went into the street. The shop and the courtyard were his whole domain,
with the cage for meals and meditation.

In the courtyard, among the reddish alder logs, Mignon would come and go
with evident enjoyment, scratching the wood to whet his beak, or
searching it for dainty bits. I can still see those splendid shafts,
golden yellow, marbled with sanguine red, on which the bird would
sometimes stand motionless, swelling his copper-coloured throat, or at
other times hop and flutter and cheep and softly twitter, to win a
glance or a silent smile from his friend. Then he would fly straight to
the shoemaker's shoulder and peck his face and say: "Good morning, my
friend, I love you, indeed I do. Have you slept well?" The answer to
which would be given in human "twee-twees," until the neglected wooden
shoe recalled the forgetful workman to his duty.

Best of all was the song and dance.

"Come now, Mignon, dance the polka for your friend."

Mignon would stretch himself proudly to his full height, uttering three
rhythmic "twee-twees," and hop from one foot to the other, keeping
perfect time. He seemed to enjoy himself hugely, and the shoemaker, who
supplemented the music by an exact imitation of it, expressed boundless
delight by the contortions of his colourless face.

A childish amusement, some will say. Yet what is more important than
loving? And if we love, what matters the way of expressing a deep mutual
tenderness? The shoemaker did not exhibit his friend's accomplishments
to the casual or the indifferent. The desire to "show off" was foreign
to these two. They simply lived for each other, and their intimacy
behind closed doors, far from jealous eyes, must have had exquisite
sweetness.

I am aware that there should be some effective ending to my story. The
truth is that I know nothing beyond what I have told. The maker of
wooden shoes and the bullfinch have remained very much alive in my
memory--the end of the episode has escaped it. Did I go there one day
and not find them? Or is it not more likely that I ceased to go there?
It was all so long ago!

I am certain that whichever of them went first was not long survived by
the other. At least, I like to think so, for if the shoemaker had
replaced Mignon by another bullfinch, or if Mignon had found it in his
heart to dance the polka for Brossard, the nailer, who used to make such
a racket on the other side of the street, I should lose a supreme
illusion concerning the heart of man and bird. If we lose our faith in
man, whom experience may lead us to suspect of selfishness, let us
retain our respectful esteem for animals.



XV

ABOUT NESTS


Children are always interested in nests--thrilled by the mystery of
them, filled with admiring wonder at the cunning of the little feathered
creature in concealing its brood from the enemy, whether it be man or
hawk, crow or magpie. The impulse to appropriate any living thing (an
instinct inherited from his carnivorous ancestors), indeed, a whole
collection of irresistible impulses direct the murderous sporting
instinct of the future lord of creation toward the delicate feathery
structure. Sympathy is as yet non-existent in the child man, for he has
never suffered. He is carried away by delight in the unknown, his eyes
widen with wonder, his hands reach out, and at the first touch
irretrievable harm is done.

But no sooner has the nest been torn from the branch, and no sooner are
the little ones, hideous in their grotesque nudity, scattered on the
ground, than he is filled with dismay, like the school boy with all the
parts of his watch spread on the table before him. Having looked at
everything, analyzed it, touched it, he could go his way with a light
heart if only he were able to fit the pieces together again, and
reconstruct a whole. But it is too late. Our first impulse is a
death-dealing one. A sense of the uselessness of destruction is
necessary to awaken pity in us for whatever has life. I have sometimes
seen those very school boys who massacre birds for fun, go back, ashamed
of the stupid wrong committed, and awkwardly try to put the nest in its
place, with the little ones in it, then go away, looking over their
shoulder to witness the gratitude due to them from the despairing family
for their generous effort. On the following day the boys return to look,
and find a graveyard.

Many birds forsake their progeny at the least break in the usual course
of things. Unaccountable panic seizes them, abruptly quenching the
overmastering love that before had governed the activities of the pair.
If you merely touch a young pigeon, the parents will from that moment
onward hear his clamour for food with indifference--they will let him
starve, while the drama of rearing new young dimly takes shape in their
mysterious minds. Other more courageous birds will fight to the end
without yielding, they will fly into snares in the attempt to reach
their brood, they will come daily to feed their young in the cage, and
if a strange egg has been introduced into their nest, whether by the
hand of man or the cunning of the cuckoo, they will make no difference
between the bastard and their legitimate offspring.

I have witnessed some fierce battles, notably that of a pair of warblers
against a magpie, who, undeterred by the stones I was throwing, managed
in less than five minutes to remove from their nest into her own, as a
treat for her young magpies, all the little warblers just full-fed with
succulent insects. Whither turn for help against the rivalry of
appetites organized by Providence? "The reason of the strongest is
always the best," sadly observes the poet philosopher. A sorrowful
avowal, that, which leaves us, for sole comfort, the hypothetical
felicity of another world. But what could be more unjust than to exclude
from a celestial paradise these secondary creatures, victims of our
common fate, who in the beginning possessed the earthly paradise, and
were driven from it in the company of our erring ancestors, without
having followed their sinful example?

Until the order of things changes, all that the weak can do is to cry
out their protest, their vain appeal to universal justice, which, deaf,
insensible, and paralyzed, sits in mute contemplation of the disorder
composing the order of the world.

Man, the supreme arbiter of the destinies of his inferiors, has
arrogated all rights. The child who lets a bird flutter at the end of a
string only to jerk it to the ground when the poor creature finally
thought itself free, lives in his own person the evolution from the
frank cruelty of the savage to the decent hypocrisies of civilized
barbarism. Man is, indeed, the first one whom animals learn to guard
against. Wherever there are no men, or few, birds are among the first to
become fearless. I have seen nests built in wide recesses and fully
exposed to view, amid the desert ruins of the citadel of Corinth.

Better still, I once knew--it is now more than fifty years ago--a
wonderful garden, in part cultivated, in part allowed to follow the
fancies of vegetation running wild, where two old people, of beloved
memory, used to walk and take their last pleasures as life neared its
close. A large, typically French garden, with symmetrical flower beds
bordered with box. A long arbour formed a wall at the farther side, and
had at each end a circular bower, bright in springtime with the rosy
blaze of Judas trees. In the centre was a fountain covered by a high
white dome upheld by three slender Ionic columns, delicately mottled
with rose-coloured lichens. At the summit of the dome the sculptor had
carved a vase of formal shape, from which sprang a sheaf of flowers that
took from the mosses overgrowing it an appearance of life. Under the
arch was a bird with spread wings, bearing the motto of the former
masters of the domain, whose name you will find in Hozier: "Altiora
contendimus omnes." The monument dated from the end of the 16th century.
Its remains, scattered in "artistic ruins," now decorate an ornamental
grove.

Never was a spot less disturbed by the activities of the world, nowhere
was solitude more calculated to win man from his fellows and leave him
to the companionship of trees and animals. Beyond the arbour lay a
meadow, a brook, woods. No human habitation anywhere near. Peace--the
great peace of nature. Sheltered by the high wall, animals lived happy
and unafraid of man, from whom they received only kindness. I can
remember goldfinch nests among the rose bushes within reach of my hand.
I was early taught to touch them only with my eyes.

In her very bedroom, the lady of the manor gave shelter to swallows.
Traces of nests may still be seen on the great rafters of the ceiling.
In spring, one day at dawn, the travellers, arriving from their great
journey, would come tapping with beak and claw at the high windows. The
aged dame would immediately rise and let in her friends. Greetings would
ensue--enthusiastic greetings after the long separation. Three or four
birds, sometimes half a dozen, would wheel about the vast chamber, with
little sharp cries expressing joy in their return and their hospitable
reception. They perched on the great wardrobes, and twittered for
happiness, their little ruby throats swelling below their black hoods.
All day long they came and went. Soon, one might see a swallow drop on
to the water of a trench, and rest there with wings outspread, then rise
into the air, and gather on her wet feathers the dust of earth needed to
make mortar for her nest. Then began the work of masonry. The
basket-shaped wall rose quickly, formed of thin layers of clay, one
above another, and as soon as the nest was finished, an indentation
fashioned in the edge by the dainty black beak informed one that the
laying of eggs had begun.

Three or four nests among the rafters became in time a whole aviary, for
the young birds, returning the following year, often selected their
birthplace as a home. There they reared their family. At first peep of
dawn, the father from outside and the mother from inside begged to have
the window opened. They met each other with expressions of delight and
flew skyward in quest of the supply of insects imperiously demanded by
the noisy and hungry nestlings. As soon as the successful hunter
appeared, and before he could fairly get his claws into the earthen
parapet, six gaping throats were outstretched to catch the prey. This
business filled the day. A newspaper, spread on the floor, received all
incongruous happenings. In the evening, when the lamp was lighted, we
were sometimes startled by a sudden outburst of quarrelling up among the
rafters. It might be that a small bird was out of his customary place,
and was beginning his apprenticeship in life by defending his rights,
as well as he could, against the selfish infringements of an
enterprising brother. A muffled call from the mother stilled the tumult,
and fear of punishment brought the children back to moderation, or
perhaps resignation. And then autumn took on the sharpness of winter,
and all the swallows, assembled on the summit of a neighbouring elm,
held a great council of departure. They talked the whole day. But their
discussion, unlike ours, was a preface to action. They started before
sunrise of the day after. Sadly their old friend bade them farewell:
"Go, my dear ones, you intend to come back, but the time is not far when
I shall no longer be here to open the window at your home coming!" The
swallows still return. But for a long time, a very long time, the window
has not been opened.

Alas! the loveliest part of the setting has likewise disappeared. The
white dome of the fountain, with its rosy colonnade, has been broken up,
and replaced by a hideous rockery in the style of Chatou. The seemly
classic rectangular flower beds, with their severe arrangement, have
made room for a wide lawn dotted with artistic plots of shrubbery. The
long arbour and the Judas trees have blazed in the fireplace on winter
evenings. But, near or far, imagination can restore them. I find myself
walking through twisted underbrush to spy upon domestic scenes in nests.
I have retained a particularly vivid memory of the tragedy which
revealed to me for the first time the distressing vicissitudes of the
struggle for life.

At the foot of the long arbour lay a dying birdling. He had as yet no
feathers, but a thin black down covered his bluish skin now painfully
heaving with the last spasms of agony. My first motion was to climb in
search of the nest from which the victim had fallen. I had not mounted a
yard from the ground before I found a little dead body similar to the
one I had just seen, and while I peered upward into the shadow, what
should tumble on to my head but a third member of the same brood. I
finally distinguished the nest, and soon little, stifled cries warned me
of something going on in it. I bent to one side, to get a better view,
and discovered in the midst of the down-lined dwelling a great grayish
black bird surrounded by three wretched wee ones who had not as yet been
tossed into the abyss, but who were rendered miserably uncomfortable by
the inordinate growth of their big brother.

A cuckoo had deposited her egg there, and the parents, stupidly
deceived, lavishing the same care upon the intruder as upon their own
young, had succeeded only in absurdly favouring the strongest.
Meanwhile, he had grown to twice or thrice the size of his "brothers,"
and without, presumably, seeking any satisfaction but his "liberty," as
the economists put it, he was taking up the room of others, for the sole
reason that the development of his organs required it.

Like all young birds, the baby cuckoo automatically flapped his wings,
to exercise his joints. In a normal nest, this movement of each inmate
is limited and regulated by the same movement on the part of the others.
But here, too great strength was in conflict with too great weakness,
and the cuckoo's thick, stumpy wings, on which feathers were already
appearing, spread to the very edge of the nest, lifting the feeble
little ones on to the monster's back, whence a shake flung them
overboard. The crime occurred even while I watched. The worst of it was
seeing the stupid parents, in spite of all, diligently feeding the
infamous fratricide. Careless of the lamentations of their own children,
they could see in the nest only the huge hollow of a voracious beak,
which gobbled whatever they brought, notwithstanding the timid efforts
of the competitors, doomed beforehand to defeat. And so the
disproportion in growth augmented daily, the one taking everything, and
the others condemned to watch him helplessly. The social question is
repeated in every thicket on earth!

_For the principle of the thing_, I replaced two little birds in the
nest. They were promptly hurled to the ground. Next day, the whole crime
was accomplished, and the false father and the false mother were still
idiotically wearing themselves out to nourish their children's murderer.
What to do about it? How many human stories there are, in the likeness
of that incident! One cannot even justly blame the cuckoo, if the great
principle: "Remove yourself, that I may have your place!" remains in
this universe the watchword added by Providence to the express
recommendation to love one another.



XVI

A DOMESTIC DRAMA


I am fond of observing animals, real ones, whose spirit has not been
perverted by the insufferable pretence and affectations which are all
too often accompaniments of the human form. Whoever watches them with a
seeing eye may gather deep lessons from the activities of animal life.
In man and beast the motions of being are governed by one philosophy,
however much trouble the sacristans of letters may take to separate
under the heads of "instinct" and "thought" phenomena differing in
degree but identical in nature.

Analogies of structure and function in the entire hierarchy of the
organic world were one day perceived, and Lamarck and Darwin drew from
these their well-known conclusions, to the confusion of biblical
tradition. Comparative anatomy and comparative physiology are now
flourishing sciences of which academicians find it less easy to
assimilate the results than to proclaim the failure. At the point we
have reached in the knowledge of vital manifestations all along the
scale of living creatures, unlimited material is day by day accumulating
for the science of comparative psychology which will soon be
established.

While experts are elaborating general laws, the profane may be permitted
to set down the observations suggested to them by the passing show of
life. In this character I wish to relate a domestic drama the scene of
which, I grieve to say, was my own garden. The actors, fair readers,
were simple pigeons. The difference between feathers and hair will
perhaps seem to you to excuse many things. You shall compare and judge.
My only ambition is to point out analogies resulting from the nature of
things, and lead such of my contemporaries as do me the honour to read
what I write, to a wider comprehension of the human soul.

Our natural tendency is to observe the thoughts and feelings of our
equals rather than those of animals. They touch us more nearly, and we
often need, in the course of our study of humanity, to balance the
indulgence of our judgments upon ourselves by the severity of our
judgments upon others. Only, man under observation has the advantage of
articulate speech, which is, of course, a disadvantage to the observer.
For everyone will agree that man makes use of this chiefly to pervert,
to conceal, or at the very least to disguise, the truth. Hence arise
difficulties of analysis, which are not encountered among the innocent
beasts of the field whom the imperfection of their organism obliges to
show themselves as nature made them. In defining the characteristics of
man, it has been said that he alone among animals is gifted with
laughter, with ability to light a fire, and to state abstractions by
means of articulate speech. We must not neglect to mention his
conspicuous faculty for lying. Animals can dissimulate, for the purpose
of seizing the weaker, or escaping from the stronger. Man alone has
received from Providence the gift of a perfect mendacity. So he often
disparages animals, and accuses them of cynicism! Ah--if dogs could
speak!

But this tale is concerned with pigeons, and when I tell you that
sitting at my work table I have my dovecote all day under my eyes, you
will understand that I am necessarily familiar with the manoeuvres of
the amorous tribe. The pigeon has a reputation for sentimentality. He is
inclined toward voluptuousness, and has officially but one mate. His
fidelity has been sufficient to arouse the wonder of man. Poetry, music,
and art, after long centuries, still find a rich subject in the
attachment of turtle doves.

"Two pigeons loved with a tender love----"

It is still usual for the fruit vender in Rue St. Denis, swooning in the
conjugal arms, to call her spouse "My pigeon!" and for him to answer in
a sigh, "My dove!" Well--at the risk of bringing disillusion to these
ingenuous souls, and driving them to search for other comparisons, I
feel obliged to establish facts in their truth, and show pigeons guilty
of human frailty.

The ones whose story it is my sad duty to record were two big blue
"Romans," united by the most demonstrative tenderness. They had no other
occupation than to bill and coo all day long. After their eggs had been
laid, they took turns at sitting on them, each for half a day at a
time--and as soon as the little ones had their first feathers, returned
to their ardent lovemaking.

One day I perceived on a chestnut tree belonging to me a big white
pigeon who seemed to find the neighbourhood to its liking. After a few
short turns about the place, the newcomer, in the course of its search
for food, settled upon the home of the two Romans, and deliberately
entered it, attracted by the buckwheat and corn. Mr. Pigeon drove the
intruder out. He returned, and the performance of expulsion began over
again. This game lasted all day.

The obstinacy of the newcomer seemed to me to indicate the weaker
sex--which diagnosis was confirmed by my recognition that the Roman
pigeon, while upholding his rights as first occupant, merely went
through the motions of battle, and never effectively attacked his
opponent. For eight days this proceeding continued. Several hundred
times a day the white pigeon flew from the tree to the dovecote, only to
turn back at the first threat of the tenant's beak, and then return at
once from her branch to the blue pigeon's door, where, owing to his
prompt hostility, she would barely alight.

Wearying of the performance, I, finally, with a desire to protect my
friends, the Romans, caught the white bird, and presented it to a friend
who was improving some property in the wilds of Sannois. My chestnut
tree relapsed into peace, and the feathered pair continued to taste the
joys of love.

Two months later, to my surprise, I perceived my white visitor on the
chestnut tree. She had already recommenced her visits to the Roman
family, and seemed very little affected by the hostile reception given
to her persistent offers of friendship. At the same time a letter from
Sannois informed me that the prisoner, taking advantage of a hole in the
netting, had escaped. Touched by the sentiment that had brought a
wandering soul back from such a distance to the home of her choice, I
resolved worthily to exercise the hospitality so perseveringly demanded
of me. I had a new house built, and I gave a beautiful husband to the
lady whose heart was so obviously oppressed by the weight of solitude.
Peace settled upon the amorous pigeon world. Each bent his energies, in
accordance with established order, to the occupation of reproducing
himself, and seemed to find happiness therein.

Who does not know that the joys of this world are brief?

One day the white lady's husband was found dead, without having given
any sign of illness. His funeral was scarcely over, I blush to say,
before the light creature began visiting the Roman pair again. I soon
noticed that the male pigeon had reached a sort of reconcilement to
those obstinate visits. He continued, to be sure, to drive the intruder
away, but so nervelessly that she returned after a few flaps of her
wings, without even bothering to go back as far as the chestnut tree.

Soon, I realized that the fascinating person with the white plumage had
free access to the home of her neighbours. When I inquired into the
reason for the Roman not barring his entrance to the stranger, I found
that his mate, hunched in a ball, was seriously ill, and that the
perturbed husband would not leave her. I greatly admired this exemplary
conduct. The trouble was that the stranger, taking advantage of the open
door, formed the annoying habit of perching there inside, day and night.
The pigeon stayed close by his mate, and hunched himself also in a ball
to express his sympathy, while the stranger looked, dry-eyed, on the
ruin of the home, and waited for her day.

As this day was long in coming, the hussy ventured to intrude upon the
sorrow of the suffering couple. Thereupon, the sick nurse, listening
only to the voice of duty, hurled himself upon the wicked beast, and
with beak and claw drove her across the threshold--even a little way
beyond. Alas! this was precisely the object of her detestable
machinations. The widow wished to be pursued. She succeeded, returning
incessantly to the charge--which obliged the pigeon to escort her out of
the house--and defending herself only enough to lend vivacity to the
encounter. Then, when the moment seemed opportune, she abruptly ceased
to resist, and crouching down, half spread her wings, asking that the
battle of conjugal duty be transformed into a lovers' contest. Rarely
has human creature given such an exhibition of immoral conduct.

I must say that the virtuous pigeon at first expressed his indignation
by coos expressive of fury. But what can you expect? The flesh is weak.
When temptation is offered every minute of the day there is some excuse
for stumbling. I was a witness of my Roman pigeon's weakening. I saw him
finally succumb to the suggestions of the wanton, and fall into sin! It
is true that, ashamed of his weakness, he immediately chastised vice by
pecking the one who had just given him delight, and quickly flew back to
the bed of straw where the invalid lay wondering at his prolonged
absence.

Every creature has its destiny. The betrayed wife refused to die. She
remained motionless all day long, ate copiously, in spite of her
illness, and did not waste away. Little by little the gallant husband
formed the habit of infidelity, and even ended by showing a grievous
alacrity in evil doing. I must, however, say to his credit, that if he
found the attraction of sin stronger now than the call of duty, he never
ceased to observe the strictest decorum under the conjugal roof. He
always treated the one responsible for his fall as a courtesan whose
acquaintance was not to be acknowledged. As soon as they were inside the
dovecote, the two accomplices were not acquainted. The Roman pigeon
lived faithfully at the side of his Roman wife. The white pigeon would
go to roost, with an assumption of indifference, on the highest perch.
Bourgeois decency was preserved. As we see it daily among human beings,
respectability among animals may be coupled with scandalous debauchery.
The sad, confiding little invalid seemed to express gratitude to her
spouse, by tender, cuddling motions, to which, I prefer to believe, he
did not submit without some feeling of shame. I should think that the
victim would have suspected something, if only because the two culprits
looked so remarkably above suspicion. But there are especial immunities.

This state of things might have endured indefinitely if the ill-starred
idea of an experiment had not come into my mind. I took away the sick
bird and isolated her for two days in a cage. I planned to observe the
psychology of her return home, fancying that a crisis would be
precipitated, from which virtue might issue triumphant.

At first the widower wished to make sure of his "misfortune." He
searched the garden, then the neighbouring roofs where he had formerly
spent long periods in the company of his better half. When he finally
believed that his legitimate mate had vanished into nothingness, he
plunged into bottomless deeps of bliss with the illegitimate one. What
an example to the inhabitants of Passy!

For two days a joy so scandalous reigned in the guilty establishment
that I could not resist the desire to break up the indecent festival. I
therefore took the unfortunate prisoner and exposed her well in view on
the lawn. As soon as the adulterous couple beheld her, the courtesan
hastened to the dovecote, doubtless to establish her rights of
proprietorship, and the faithless spouse fell furiously upon the wife
restored to his bosom. He beat her with wing and beak, uttering angry
coos. I supposed that he was calling her to account for her
disappearance, and reproaching her with what he might have considered a
prank, he whose heart should have been racked with remorse. It seemed to
me that he was driving her toward the dovecote, and thinking that it
might be well to sustain him in his demand that she resume her position
in the home, whence it was high time that the adventuress be expelled, I
myself put back the ailing pigeon in the spot from which I had taken her
three days before.

I had scarcely left her when a terrible flutter of wings warned me that
something was happening. I hastened back. The irreproachable wife was
dead, killed by the lovers, whom two days had sufficed to unite in
indissoluble bonds of infamy. The unlucky creature lay with her skull
broken open by their beaks, and the murderers sated their ferocity upon
the dead body, which I had difficulty in wresting from them.

There are no courts of law in the animal world, wherefore Providence had
no option but to crown the triumph of crime with happy peace. This it
did with its customary generosity. The two villains live happy in their
love. They have had, and will yet have, many children.



XVII

SIX CENTS


Here is the history of a man without a history. As far back as I can
remember, I can see in the great court of honour of the Manor, devoted
to plebeian uses since the Revolution, Six Cents, the sawyer, silently
occupied with making boards out of the trunks of poplars, elms, and
oaks, which at the end of my last vacation I had left green and living,
filled with the song of birds, and whose corpses I found on my return
tragically piled up for the posthumous torture by which man pursues his
work of death-dealing civilization.

Jacques Barbot, commonly called Six Cents, was in those days the
representative of industry in the rural world; he typified man in the
first stage above the purely agricultural labourer of olden times. To
prepare the raw material for the next man to use was his social
function. He had certainly never given thought to this, any more than to
the cruel fate which makes of man the first victim of his inventions,
pregnant though they be of future benefit. For how many centuries the
grinding of wheat chained the slave to the millstone, until the day
dawned when the beast of burden, the wind, water and steam, came to take
his place. Even to-day, how much serf's labour still awaits the
ingenuity of future liberators!

It is certain that Six Cents, although he expressed his views to nobody,
for discretion of thought was chief among his characteristics, did not
feel himself a slave, in his quiet patience under the common subjugation
of labour. As it happened, the machine which set him free promptly dealt
him his death blow.

Employee and employer as well, he hired a comrade, whose pay was nearly
equal to his own, and all the year round, in the cold and the rain, the
sun or the wind, he matched himself with untiring energy against the
wide-branched giants, and defeated those adversaries. The ever-renewed
struggle against the eternal resistance of the woody monsters made up
his entire life. Beyond that, no horizon, no thought; his was the
unconsciousness of the soul in the making. Gladstone, stupidly and
without the excuse of necessity, used to hack down the noble leafy
creations that form so great a part of the earth's beauty. Six Cents, as
insensible as he to the esthetic aspect of tree life, engaged in a
mortal combat to wrest his living from the obstinate fibres clinging to
life with obscure yet tenacious vitality.

On winter days, favourable for felling trees, the executioners would
arrive on the spot, axe in hand, to carry out the death sentence
pronounced by interest against life and beauty. In the desolate country,
overflown by bands of crows with their ill-omened croaking, the strokes
of the sinister axe would echo far around, as they accomplished their
work of death. The tall trunk rocks at each deeper entering of the iron,
while the plumy branches beat the air in shudders of agony. The rope
fastened to the top of the tree grows taut--a sharp blow, followed by a
long wail, and the groaning colossus falls heavily to earth. Like a hero
on the fields of Ilion hurling himself upon the spoils of the vanquished
foe, Six Cents on the instant is chopping, cutting, trimming, drawing
lines where the saw is to divide the tree into logs. Soon the stripped
shaft, chained to the sawing trestle, will show on its length as well as
its girth black lines, drawn straight by aid of a string for the
sawyer's reliance in guiding the steel teeth.

One man stands above and one below the trestle. The thin notched blade,
working its way forward with a soft swish muffled by the sawdust, rises
and falls with the rhythmic motion of the bodies alternately bending
down and straightening up. From a distance you see two men in front of
each other, one facing earthward, the other skyward, and perpetually
bowing as if in mutual greeting. When the entire existence of a human
being has for its sole activity an incessant bowing, not even to the
tree about to die, but to its corpse, into which he is driving the iron
a little further with each courteous gesture, there results a monotony
of sensation, of thought (if the two words may be used in this
connection,) progressively benumbing the spirit, or reducing it to the
minimum of cogitation compatible with a continuance of life. The inert
intelligence becomes atrophied. What is the mentality of the slave
harnessed to the millstone? Not greatly superior to that of the beast of
burden substituted for him. Six Cents, slaughtering his trees, took from
them only vegetative life. His victims unconsciously revenged themselves
by bringing him down through the continuity of enforced labour to the
lowest rank of conscious life.

One must not suppose that Six Cents was stupid. His countenance, with
its regular features, was frank and open. His eyes, which though lacking
in fire were gentle and appeared to dwell on something far away,
reminded one of those of certain dogs, "very intelligent," but incapable
of any effort beyond primitive comprehension. He was not a mere animal,
but simply an undeveloped man. He did not know how to read, nor had he
ever stopped to wonder what might be contained in a book. To saw to-day,
to saw to-morrow: a narrow cycle of dull thoughts brought him
continually back to his starting point. The wide gray velvet trousers
from the pocket of which protruded the points of a pair of compasses
distinguished him from tillers of the soil. The stamp of science and
art was upon him, but so rudimentary, that the appropriate mechanical
gesture was the Ultima Thule of his attainment. The smooth-shaven face,
framed in long gray locks, under a cloth cap in the fashion of Louis XI,
inspired respect by its placid gravity. His slow, heavy step could be
heard on the road as he went silently to his work, whereas the plowmen,
exchanging greetings as they passed one another, urged on their beasts
with shouts, held them back with oaths, or brightened the day with love
songs. Presently, they would be turning over their furrows, still
shouting, still swearing, and still singing, followed by the feathered
host, to whom the plowshare furnishes inexhaustible feasts. During this,
Six Cents, at the foot of the trestle, gazing upward open mouthed,
without sound, his attention centred upon not departing from the
straight line, would stretch to full height with arms extended, then
stoop to the ground as if to touch it, bend over only to lift himself,
and lift himself only to bend again.

And what of the interludes between work hours? There is the cheer of the
coarse but comforting repast, with the zest of its thin, sourish white
wine "warming to the heart"--the walk from work to food and from food to
work; sleep, when strength is spent, and rising when it would be
pleasant to go on sleeping. On Sundays, there is first and foremost the
joy of doing nothing, then there are the heavy conversations during
which no one has anything to say, each having no interest in any but his
own case, "feeling only his own ills," as the popular saying has it;
there is the talk about the weather, the tedium of an idle day,
occasionally the diversion of rural debate on the church square after
mass; there is communion with the blessed bottle, substituting a
paradise of dreams for the irksome reality of things. What further?

Married in a purely animal sense, as is the case with the majority of
the human race, Six Cents lived in the relation of male to female with
his "good wife," finding in marriage the advantage of partnership in
labour. Were they faithful to each other? In a village these matters,
which create so much commotion in the city, have small importance.
People are too close to nature to resist the attraction of the moment.
And I cannot see that the dwellers in cities set them such a shining
example. The distraction of fairs is unknown to the sawyer who has
nothing to sell. Thefts are too common, crimes too rare, they are not
common subjects of conversation. Finally, to satisfy the rudimentary
urge of idealism, there are politics and religion, represented by the
mayor and the priest. From the pulpit fall incomprehensible words to
which no one pays attention, since no one can see that they have any
real effect upon anything whatsoever. Religion consists principally in
believing that we must by means of certain ceremonies get on the right
side of a God who will otherwise burn us up. At the approach of death
one tries to get the balance in his favour at all costs. But this
changes nothing in the conduct of life. Local politics are in general,
as they are everywhere, a matter of business. The calculation can
quickly be made as to the value of a vote on one side or the other.
There is no other problem. This is how a great many Frenchmen still
express the "national will" concerning the most important matters of
politics and sociology. The point ever present to the mind is the
question of remuneration. But the conditions determining the wages of
labour escape the power of analysis of such fellows as Six Cents. What
can they do but say "I work too much and earn too little," and stop,
amazed before the insoluble puzzle.

One day, however, Six Cents heard news, when he happened to complain
that "Boards did not find as good market as they used to." He was told
about pines, and water power, and sawmills in Norway, and cheap
transportation, a tale which he did not entirely understand, but from
which he gathered that the evil was irremediable. He therefore resigned
himself as he had always done, bowing under the inevitable. He earned
less and still less, while working harder and harder because of arms
grown weaker, and back grown stiff with the years. In spite of the
kindly advice of philanthropical political economists, Six Cents,
wearing out his body by continual labour, had no savings. He had no old
sock filled with gold pieces against a rainy day, such as the simple
like to believe in. Why economize, when one knows that a lifetime of
pinching would lead to a ludicrously inadequate result?

Old age is upon him. Pitiless progress has done its work. Humble village
craftsmen like Six Cents are out of date. The concentration of capital
demands the mustering of labourers in the all-devouring factory. Six
Cents looks on without understanding, without complaining. He has come
to poverty, want. Utter destitution as he nears the grave seems to him
but one fate-ordained calamity more to throw on the heap with the
others. Is any one surprised at heat in summer and cold in winter? We
must accept things as they come, and if nothing comes, still be content,
since we cannot change the actual course of things. It is the same
resignation as that of beasts under the whip. Six Cents' wife with a
sack on her back goes from door to door begging for a crust or a few
potatoes, grudgingly given to her. The sawyer does such small odd jobs
as he finds to do. They keep alive, and at times appear contented.
Seated on a stone at the threshold of his hut, Six Cents watches the
world go by. The young come, merry, wilful, noisy. The aged pass,
dejected, resigned, silent.

"With all the boards I have sawed," said he, the other day, "it will
certainly be strange if four cannot be found to make my last home."

The history of a man without a history I have called this. But even
without events, without passions, without desires, without revolts,
without search for better things, and with the apathy of lifelong labour
directed to no end, is it not still a history? The evolution of human
society cannot be denied. But the time seems distant when men shall keep
abreast in their progression. Up to the present time, what a lot of
laggards! Consider the mental development of the cave man, chipping his
flint, polishing his stone axe, sharpening his arrows, dividing his time
between hunting and fighting, defending his hearth with vigilant effort,
and trying to destroy the hearth of his neighbour, and then tell me
whether the wretched man who spends all the days of his life sawing the
same board, hammering the same iron-bar, turning the same crank of the
same machine all day long--whether this man is intellectually superior
to the cave man? All this, of course, must change. Let us, in order to
help on the good work, take account as we go of the temporary conditions
of human kind.



XVIII

FLOWER O' THE WHEAT


Flower o' the Wheat was the prettiest girl in my village. Tall, well set
up, stepping along with a fine self-confidence, she brightened by her
clear laughter the fields, the woods, the deep road cuts of the Vendée.
With the first warm days of spring the milky whiteness of her skin would
be dotted over with a constellation of freckles.

The peasants used to say: "The good Lord threw a handful of bran in her
face."

Bran and flour, it would seem, for her face under the sun's rays
remained as white as if dusted over with the powder of bolted wheat.
Hence, perhaps, her surname, or possibly she owed it to her red hair,
matched rather unusually by tawny eyes. She gave one the impression of
being all of the beautiful gold-brown tone of ripe wheat. Flower o' the
Wheat was beautiful, and knew it because she was told so all day long.

The man of the fields is not by a long way insensible to beauty. His
esthetic sense is not the same as ours. He is not moved by a line, a
contour, the grace of a moving form, but he is powerfully affected by
colour, as are all whom civilization has not overrefined. Flower o' the
Wheat being a creature of living colour, had, therefore, the pleasure of
hearing herself proclaimed fair, and of having to fend off the
playfulness, and occasionally the somewhat robust caresses, of manly
youth all the way from Sainte Hermine to Chantonnay. Plant a flower
wherever you will, there the bees will congregate. Wherever you meet
beauty, you will see men coming to forage, with eyes and hands and lips.
Between city and country there is only a difference of setting.

As her fame spread beyond the borders of the canton, Flower o' the Wheat
had a throng of admirers such as had not been seen for many a day in our
neighbourhood. The pride of it shone in her eyes, dazzled by their own
attractiveness, and if she had been told of Cleopatra on whom was
centred the gaze of the world, it is not certain that she would have
thought the Egyptian queen had an advantage over the country maid. For
which I praise her, for enumerating a multitude of adorers is a foolish
pastime. Moreover, the queen was dead and the peasant girl alive: the
best argument of all.

The delightful part of the story is that Flower o' the Wheat, while
permitting herself to be admired by every man, and envied by every
woman, kept her heart faithful to the friend who had known how to win
it, in which she differed notably from Cleopatra. Now, that friend, for
I must finally come to my confession, was none other than your humble
servant. I may be pardoned the pride of that avowal: I loved Flower o'
the Wheat, and Flower o' the Wheat entertained sentiments for me which
she was not in the least loth to exhibit. I used to follow her about the
fields with her dog, "Red Socks," so called because of his four tawny
paws, and while the flock browsed very improperly beyond the limit set
by the rural guard, I told her all about Nantes, where I had spent the
winter. I amazed her with tales from my books, or else she talked to me
about animals, what they did, what they thought; she told me
extraordinary stories. Our souls were very near to each other, I will
not say the same of our hearts, for the sad part of our love was, alas,
that she was twenty and I was six--or seven, if I stood on tiptoe. This
did not make it difficult for either of us, however, to hug the other.
It was only later that I realized my misfortune.

Our best days were at harvest time. The abominable smoke of the
threshing machine had not yet invaded the countryside. The flail was
still in use. At dawn, men and women divided into groups would begin the
round of the threshing floor, their motions accompanied by the rhythmic
thud of the wooden flail, muffled by the straw on the ground; one half
of the quadrille would slowly retreat, while the other half gradually
advanced. The necessity for attention, and the sustained effort, obliged
them to be silent. But what a reaction of laughter and song when the
wooden pitch forks came into play, stacking the straw! Noonday would see
the ground strewn with harvesters taking their rest in the full glare of
the sun, for the peasant fears the treacherous shade. Upon the stroke of
a bell, the noisy concert of the flails would again fill the air on
every side.

At evening there were dances, and there were songs, in which Flower o'
the Wheat excelled. She knew every song of that region, and would sing
in a nasal, untutored voice, delicious to the rustic ear, ingenuous
poems, in which "The King's Son," the "Nightingale," and the "Rose"
appeared in fantastic splendours, joyful or sad. A local bard had even
made about Flower o' the Wheat, a somewhat free and outspoken song in
dialect, the refrain of which said that the flower of the wheat
surrenders its grain under the harvester's flail. Flower o' the Wheat
without false shame celebrated herself in song, and there were fine
jostlings if some young fellow jokingly made believe to put the refrain
into action.

Sooner or later, Flower o' the Wheat was bound to come under the
harvester's flail. And here I call the reader's attention to this story,
whose merit is that it is the story of everyone. I know of no greater
error than to suppose that extraordinary adventures are what make life
interesting. If one looks closely, one finds that the truly marvellous
things are those which happen to us every day, and that duels, dagger
thrusts, even automobile accidents, with accompanying hatred, jealousy,
betrayed love, and treachery, are in reality the vulgar incidents in the
enormous drama of our common life from birth to death.

To bring, without any will of our own, our ego to the consciousness of
this world, be subject to a fatal concatenation of joys and sorrows
dealt by the hazard of fortune, and end in the slow decay which brings
us back to the condition preceding our existence, is not this the
supreme adventure? What more is needed to make us marvel? Some, who are
called pessimists, accept it with a certain amount of grumbling. Others,
regarded as optimists, consider their misfortune so great that they
eagerly add to it, by way of consolation, the dream of a celestial
adventure which everyone is free to embellish as much as he pleases.

Flower o' the Wheat did not bother her head with any of this. She was
twenty, a more engrossing fact. She listened to the voice of her youth,
like the women gone before her, as well as those who will follow her on
this earth. In the fields, nature being so close, people are very little
hampered by the more or less fantastic social conventions, which
undertake to regulate the human relations between two young creatures
hungering and thirsting for each other.

A special sort of cake called "_échaudé_" is the chief industrial
product of my village: a cake made of flour and eggs, very delectable
when fresh from the oven, but heavy, and cause of a formidable
thirstiness, by the time it has travelled through the bracken as far as
Niort, La Rochelle, or Fontenay. Its transportation is carried on by
night, in long carts drawn by a horse whose slow and steady gait rocks
the slumbers of the driver and of the woman who accompanies him to
preside over the sale of the cakes. These carts are terrible
go-betweens. The scent of fern is full of danger. The two lie down to
sleep, side by side, under the open sky. They do not always sleep, even
after a long day's labour. The market town is far away. The unkindly
disposed and censorious are shut within their own four walls. Temptation
is increased by the jolts that throw people one against the other.
Wherefore resist, since one must finally surrender?

Flower o' the Wheat, who was in the service of a rich dealer in
_échaudés_, one fine day married her "master," after having given him,
to the surprise of no one, two unequivocal proofs of her aptitude for
the joys as well as duties of maternity. Her neighbours in the country
will tell you that there was nothing out of the ordinary in her life.
Her husband beat her only on Sundays, after vespers, when he had been
drinking too much, and she took no more revenge upon him than was
necessary to show outsiders that he did not have the last word.

I saw her again, at that time, after a fairly long period of absence.
The handful of flour and bran was still there. Her eyes had kept their
lustre, and her hair still blazed under the fluttering white wings of
her coif. But her glance seemed to me sharper, and already the curve of
her lips betrayed weariness of life. Her pretty name still clung to her,
but the flower had lost its bloom. She still laughed, but she no longer
sang. Fortune had come to her, as rings and brooches and gold chains
attested. On Sundays she wore a silk skirt and apron to church, and
carried a gilded book, a thing found useful even by those who cannot
read, since it gives them the satisfaction of exciting their neighbours'
envy.

My visits to the village had become brief and far spaced. We had lived
very far apart, when I met her one day, in one of our deep road cuts,
leading her cow to pasture. An old, wrinkled, broken, worn-out woman. We
stopped to chat. Her husband was dead and had left her with "property,"
but the children were pressing her to make over everything to them. They
would have an allowance settled on her "at the notary's," they said.

"I shall have to make up my mind to do it," she ended with a sigh. "Will
you believe that my son came near beating me yesterday, because I would
not say yes or no?"

Ten more years passed. One day, as I was going through a neighbouring
hamlet, a tumble-down hovel was pointed out to me and I was told that
"the Barbotte" was ending her days there. Flower o' the Wheat was no
more. She was now "the Barbotte," from her husband's name, Barbot.

I entered. In the half light, I could see, under the remnants of an old
mantle, the shaking head of an aged woman, with a dried-up, shrivelled
parchment face, pierced by two yellow eyes wherein slumbered the dim
vestiges of a glance. A neighbour told me all about it. The children did
not pay the allowance, which surprised no one. It was the usual thing.
From time to time, they brought her a crust of bread, occasionally soup,
or scraps of food on Sunday, after mass. The old woman was infirm, and
waited on herself with difficulty. A servant was supposed to come and
see her once a day. Often she forgot.

"Why not make a complaint?" said I, thoughtlessly.

"She spoke, one day, of letting the notary know. They beat her for it.
And who would be willing to take her message? No one is anxious to make
enemies. Her children are already none too well pleased that any one
should enter the hut. They do not want people meddling with their
affairs."

During this talk tears were shining in the blinking yellow eyes. "The
Barbotte" had recognized me.

"Don't be troubled on my account," she said in a thin voice that
betrayed the fear of being beaten. "I need nothing. My children are
very kind. They come every day. Maybe you are like the rest, sir, you
think I find time heavy on my hands. Do you know what I do, when I am
here alone? I sing, in my mind, all the songs of long ago. I had
forgotten them, and now they have come back to me. All day I sing them,
without making any noise. _I sing them inside._ One after the other.
When I have finished them all, I begin over again. It is like telling my
beads. It is funny, is it not?"

And she tried to smile.

"_Monsieur le curé_ scolds me," she took up again. "He wishes me to say
my prayers. But I have no sooner started on the prayers than back come
the songs. I cannot help it. You remember, don't you, 'The King's Son?'
Oh, the 'King's Son!' And the 'Nightingale?' And the 'Rose?' I want to
sing one for you. Out loud, instead of in my mind. Which one? 'Flower o'
the Wheat!' Flower o' the Wheat! Ah...." She seemed on the point of
singing, but dropping from it, exclaimed: "The flail of the harvester
came. The grain was taken. Nothing is left but the straw ... and that
badly damaged. It was threshed too much.... Dear sir, you who know
everything, can you tell me why we come into this world?"

"I will tell you another day, my dear friend, when I come again."

But I never went back.



XIX

JEAN PIOT'S FEAST


Without examining the question whether life is sad or gay, without
attempting to say which is right, the groaning pessimist or the optimist
singing hymns of praise, one may be allowed the remark that a great many
people encounter between birth and death a great deal of trouble.
Conspicuous among them is the multitude of wretches who from morning
until night wear themselves out in ungrateful and monotonous labour for
which they receive just enough to enable them to continue wearing
themselves out without rest or reward.

The "fortunate ones of the world," those whom the others call fortunate
because they are safe from cold and hunger day by day, readily believe
that men bowed all their lives in the slavery of labour can no more than
beasts of burden feel the cruelty of their fate. It is, in fact, a great
aid to optimism to believe that the small allowance of worldly good
which some of us can get along with, though we feel our share
insufficient, is not paid for by a corresponding amount of worldly evil
at the other end of the divinely instituted social scale. In so far as
he thinks at all, the peasant entertains the same idea about the
animals, whom he uses without forbearance, and beats unmercifully,
satisfied with the argument that "they cannot feel anything." As for
him, what exactly does he feel in connection with the good and evil of
life? In looking for an answer one should discriminate between the
peasant of the past and the peasant of to-day, who in a vague way has
been developed by military service, emancipated, not very coherently, by
the primary school and universal suffrage, to say nothing of the
railroads.

When I look at the peasant of to-day, and compare him with the one I
knew in my youth, I realize that a breach has been made in the
impenetrable hedge that once closed his horizon. I do not know whether
he is happier or less happy. He has come into relation with the rest of
the world; that is the chief difference. I do not say that he personally
has even a dim conception of things in general. I do not believe he asks
himself any troublesome questions concerning the universe. But how many
inhabitants of cities are like him in that respect? Schools have
remained a place where words are taught. Barracks teach obedience and
discourage thought, agreeing in this with _Monsieur le Curé_, who exacts
blind faith, to the detriment of reason, that instrument of the devil.
Finally, the right to vote, which makes of men with such poor
preparation the sovereign arbiters of the most important social and
political questions, the right to vote so frequently reduces itself to a
simple matter of business or local interest, that the least daring
generalizations are beyond the understanding of the average peasant.

So it happens that despite the daily advance of civilization the
countryman continues to lead an elementary kind of life, knowing little
of society save his obligation to pay taxes, finding nothing in life
beyond the necessity to work without sufficient remuneration to provide
for inevitable old age. His distractions, his pleasures, he finds in the
Church, in fairs and the shows attached, in markets and the drinking
appurtenant, with interludes of amorous expansion which will be granted
to the veriest slave by the harshest master, interested in the
continuance of a servile caste.

It is true that aside from the joys of thought our average citizen, even
with theatres and music halls, attains to no higher pleasures. To eat,
to drink, to go out of their way to strip love of the dreams and
idealism which make it beautiful, these, when all is said, compose the
everlasting "life of pleasure" of our most assiduous "racketers." As
love among peasants is unhampered by idealism, the countryman has the
two other diversions left him, eating and drinking, which few mortals
hold in contempt, as anybody can see.

My friend Jean Piot, who for many years honourably occupied in broad
sunlight a position between that of beggar and labourer by the day, or
"odd jobber," was never one of those good for nothings who grumble over
their task. In the wood yard he would do double work without flagging.
On the other hand, he would have been ashamed of himself had he not
taken as his legitimate reward an equivalent ration of "fun." Puritans,
turn away your heads! Jean Piot, after his enormous share of work,
exacted remuneration from Providence, in the shape of joys.

In his youth, labour and joy went hand in hand. If the pay was not large
in spite of the excellence of the work, neither, on the other hand, is
the expense large, when a kiss only asks for a kiss in return, when the
soup of beans, cabbage, potatoes, and the bacon to go with it, are
plentiful, when the white wine demanded by the labourer with sweat on
his brow is grudged him by no one. Jean Piot had no trade, or rather he
had all trades. He was equally good as digger, teamster, herdsman, or
plowman, he took as much pleasure in all toil connected with the earth
as if he derived strength from it for his revels.

Then old age came. Jean Piot performed fewer prodigies, and when he did
the work of one man only, the master rebuked his laziness. He had
encumbered himself on the way with a certain Jeanne, whom public opinion
reproached with having put the two or three children she had had before
her marriage into a Foundlings' Home--she was reproached, that is to
say, with having estimated that the Republic would provide better than
she could for their maintenance and education. The sin is not one for
which in the opinion of the village there is no remission. Jeanne having
become "the Piotte," showed no less ardour for work and no less love of
good cheer than did her legitimate spouse. But her best days were
already past. Illness overtook her. There were no savings. Jean Piot,
who still caroused, was now no better than an ordinary workman, and
sometimes complained of stiff muscles, though he continued to drive them
beyond their strength.

Then came stark poverty. Alas! if the ability to work had diminished,
hunger and thirst, more pressing than ever, had not ceased to claim
their dues. Jean and his wife asked first one favour of their
neighbours, then another, and when they had worn these out they applied
to their friends, finally to strangers. Thus they passed by a scarcely
perceptible transition from salaried pride to resigned beggary. Jean
Piot and his Piotte were well thought of, never having had the
reputation of being sluggards. They had, to be sure, led a merry life,
fork and glass in hand. But which of their fellow labourers had never
been tempted to drown care in the cup? People helped them without too
bad a grace. From time to time they still worked when an opportunity
came not out of all proportion with their strength, sapped by work and
disease and white wine.

Slowly, age increased the inconveniences of being alive. In spite of
all, the two seemed happy, unmindful of the humiliation of begging,--or
sometimes even taking without having begged--accepted by all as
established parasites, always ready to lend a hand if there were
pressing work. It is not certain that, counting fairly, the collected
gifts falling into Jean Piot and the Piotte's scrip amounted to more
than an equitable reward for services rendered.

However that might be, no one seemed to complain of the state of things
brought about by the natural course of events, when a strange rumour
came from the county town. Jean Piot had inherited, it was said,
inherited from an unknown great uncle, who had "had property," and left
to his numerous relatives the task of dividing a "considerable" sum
among themselves. At this news, Jean Piot held up his head, and the
Piotte, going about with her crutch, asked for alms with a braver front.
Public opinion could but be favourably impressed by the great news.
Everybody's generosity suddenly increased, to the satisfaction of both
parties.

"Well, and those potatoes that I offered you the other day? You did not
take them, my good woman--you must carry them home." The Piotte could
not remember anybody mentioning potatoes, but she trustfully took
whatever was offered. From all sides gifts poured in, along with
congratulations on the wealth to come, which was to raise the Piots from
the dignity of beggars to the higher functions of the idle living on the
labour of others. The news soon received confirmation that an
inheritance there was, of which Jean Piot was a beneficiary. Whether
large or small, no one knew.

The heirs were said to be numerous, and the most contradictory reports
ran on the subject of the division. Jean Piot said nothing except
"perhaps," or "it is not impossible," which gave small satisfaction.
Everyone knew that he had been to see the lawyer, and that he had seemed
happy when he came home. The law does nothing quickly. There was a long
period of waiting, but public generosity did not weary, and Jean Piot
and his Piotte had easily fallen into the way of being received as "the
Lord's guests."

Finally, the news burst upon the community that Jean Piot had inherited
500 francs, all told. The disappointment caused a violent reaction, and
from one day to the next, the couple found everywhere resisting doors
and frowning faces. But Jean Piot seemed not to notice them, and before
long his look of pleasure and his expressions of satisfaction gave rise
to the idea that there must be something more than appeared. "We do not
know the whole," people whispered, and each, to forestall the unknown,
entrenched himself in a position of benevolent neutrality.

Five hundred francs was after all something, and as no one supposed that
Jean Piot intended to make a three per cent. investment, many wondered
if they might not draw some small advantage from the inheritance.

"Jean," said the maker of wooden shoes, "your shoes are a sorry sight. I
will make you a pair, cheap, if you like."

No representative of commerce or industry but came with offers of
obliging the "heir" with bargains in his wares.

Jean Piot shook his head, with gracious thanks. That was not what he
wanted.

Presently it was _Monsieur le curé's_ turn.

"Jean Piot, do you ever give thought to your soul?"

"Why, of course, _Monsieur le curé_, I am a good Christian, I think of
nothing else."

"Well, and what do you do to save your soul from the mighty blaze of
hell? I never even see you at mass."

"That is no fault of mine, _Monsieur le curé_, I have to earn my living.
You know very well that I go to the church door. On Sundays people are
readier to give alms than on week days."

"You should not work on Sundays."

"No danger. I can't work any more. Begging is not work."

"Do you know what would be a good thing to do? You ought to have masses
said, to redeem your sins."

"There's nothing I should like better. Will you say some for me?"

"Good. How much will you give me?"

"How much money? Does God ask for money, now, to save me from hell? Why,
then, did he not give me money to give him?"

"Hush--wretched man----! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?"

"Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit, _Monsieur le curé_,
you shall have your share."

"You will have masses said?"

"No, I have not enough for that."

"But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say----"

"Impossible, _Monsieur le curé_, it is impossible."

"You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen."

"I wish you a good day, _Monsieur le curé_."

When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even
twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he
going to do?

Soon they knew, for without solicitation orders began to be placed with
the best tradespeople. Jean Piot had engaged and paid for the largest
stable in the village. Tables were being set up in it, and covered with
a miscellaneous collection of dishes, as if for a Camacho's banquet,
such as was never seen outside of Cervantes' romance.

The two village inn keepers had received gigantic orders for food and
drink. And Jean Piot, his eyes sparkling with pride, went with a kindly
smile from door to door, no longer to beg, but to let everyone know that
"in remembrance of their good friendship" he was going to treat the
entire countryside for three days. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday there
was feasting, junketing, merrymaking--and everyone invited! There were
cauldrons of soup; cabbage, potatoes, and beef at will, and fish, and
fowls, and cakes and coffee. As for wine, casks of it were tapped, and
it was of the best; on top of that, little glasses of spirits, "as much
as you liked."

Amazement! Exclamations! Certainly Jean Piot was an extraordinary man.
It was perhaps unwise to spend all that money at once, when he must
necessarily be penniless on the day after. But who was there to blame
him, when everybody was taking his share of the feast? Only the _curé_
shook his head, regretting his masses. But public opinion was set in
Jean Piot's favour, and not even the Church could swim against the
stream.

At early dawn on Saturday Jean Piot and the Piotte settled themselves in
the middle seats at the table of honour, and the crowd having flocked
thither in their best attire, fell upon the victuals, and washed them
down with generous potations. At first they were too happy to speak, but
how everybody loved everybody else! How glad they were to say so! On all
sides handshaking--on all sides affectionate embraces--on all sides
cries of joy! And for Jean Piot and his Piotte, what kind and laudatory
expressions! What admiration!

During three days the enormous festival took its tumultuous course, amid
the muffled crunching of jaws, the gurgling of jugs and bottles, mingled
with laughter and shouts and songs. Women, children, old
people--everyone gorged himself immoderately. When evening came, young
and old danced to the music of fiddles. The church, alas, was empty on
Sunday, and when the _curé_ came to fetch his flock--God forgive
me!--they made him drink, and he, enkindled and set up, pressed Jean
Piot's two hands warmly to his heart. All the mean emotions of daily
life were forgotten, wiped away from the soul by this great human
communion. Tramps who were passing found themselves welcomed, stuffed to
capacity, beloved----And when the evening of the third day fell, not a
soul was there to mourn the too early close of an epic so glorious. The
entire village, exhausted, was asleep and snoring, fortifying itself by
dreams to meet the gloomy return to life's realities.

When his heavy drunkenness was dispelled, Jean Piot realized, for the
first thing, that the Piotte's sleep would have no awakening.
Congestion had done for her. He had on the subject philosophical
thoughts to which he did not give utterance for fear of being
misunderstood. In the depth of his heart he felt that neither of them
had any further reason for living, since they had fully lived.

And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the
imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life
swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity
which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him,
when doors closed and when he was reproached with having "wasted his
substance"--he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the
inevitable.

For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy,
it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said.

Two days before his death, the _curé_ had come to see him.

"Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?"

"Oh, yes, _Monsieur le curé_!"

"You remember when I proposed to say masses for you? If you had listened
to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse."

"And why should I suffer remorse, _Monsieur le curé_? I have done no
harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is
beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I
had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise.
Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that
is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do
you remember? You drank a glass, and you took both my hands, just as if
I had been a rich man, _Monsieur le curé_. We were like two brothers. If
you cannot say a mass for me without money, surely you will remember me
in your prayers, will you not?"

"I promise to, Jean Piot," said the _curé_, who had grown
thoughtful.



XX

THE TREASURE OF ST. BARTHOLEMEW


St. Bartholemew is a village in the Creuse, whose exact location I
abstain from indicating lest I disturb a peaceful community by calling
up unpleasant memories. St. Bartholemew is a village like any other. It
has its main street, with old sagging houses huddled one against the
other; here and there, the discordant note of a new building with
wrought-iron gateway and gateposts topped by cast-iron vases. There are
streets running at right angles, oozy with sewage, littered with manure,
where numerous chickens scratch for their living. There are little
gardens ornamented with bright shiny balls, reflecting people and
things, and making them look ugly at close range, beautiful in the
distance, even as our eyes do.

As far as I have ever been able to judge, the inhabitants of St.
Bartholemew differ in no wise from those of other villages. There, as
everywhere in the world, people are born, they live, and they die,
without knowing exactly why, and without arriving at any reasonable
explanation of the strange event. They seem, however, quite untroubled
by the difficulty of the problem. When they come into the world, their
first business is to lament. All their life long, they lament over the
labour involved in preserving their lives, but when it comes to dying,
they cannot make up their minds to it without lamentation! What bonds
hold them so closely to earth? Although "gifted with reason," they could
not tell you. What do they see beyond the fatal impulsion which sets men
at odds in a fierce struggle for life, the results of which seem
uncommensurate with the effort expended? They have no idea. Man comes
into collision with brutal fact, and can see nothing beyond a conflict
of interests. Three persons there are, having a direct action upon him:
the _curé_, the mayor, and the rural guard, whose injunction will bring
him to court.

The _curé_ is the purveyor of ideals appointed by the government. His
church, with its pictures, its gilded candlesticks, its tapers, and its
anthems, constitutes the only manifestation of art furnished by the
powers. It provides, in addition, a body of doctrine, texts, and
uplifting admonitions, the misfortune of which is, that although
everyone repeats them, no one pays any attention to them. The practice
of the cult seems to be the important thing. As to the precepts of which
that same cult is the support, everyone applies them to suit himself.
Gifts of money, a mechanical deathbed repentance, set the sinner on good
terms with the Master of the Beyond. With regard to the common events
of life, Lourdes and St. Anthony of Padua will attend to them for a
consideration.

As the _curé_ fills the office of God's mayor on earth, so the mayor and
the rural guard are the _curés_ of that far-away terrestrial divinity
called: "the Government." What, exactly, that word means, no one has the
necessary learning to explain. All that is known (and nothing further is
required), is that it is a mysterious power, as implacable as the Other,
and that one cannot even acquire merit with it by offering one's money
willingly, for it has liberty to force open doors and drawers and take
at its convenience. No one loves it, by whatever fine name it may call
itself, for it has, like the Other, a court of demons, a fierce company
of bailiffs, attorneys, judges, and jailers, cruel and vindictive toward
poor people who have the misfortune to displease it. This conception of
the social order may not express a very elevated philosophy, but it has
the great advantage of being exactly adapted to the tangible realities
of daily life.

If it were objected that at election time the "sovereign (!) voter"
might feel that he himself is the Government, I should answer that he
does not feel it for the simple reason that it is not so. To make it
true, an understanding of things and conditions would be necessary,
which the law may presuppose, but which it has not so far been able to
bring about, either among the people, or, for the greater part, among
the delegates of the people. Promises, of course, have not been wanting,
but what has followed? One is put in mind of a flock of sheep, given
their choice of tormentors, and as the personal interest of each, clear
and conspicuous, comes before the incomprehensible "general interest" (a
Pandora's box, concealing so many things!) the representative whom it is
good to elect is the one who will tear up the greatest number of legal
summonses and substitute for them the greatest number of office holders'
receipts and tobacconist shops.

It will be admitted, I fancy, that the spiritual condition of St.
Bartholemew, as shown in all this, does not greatly differentiate it
from the rural communities known to each one of us. The special
attribute of the place, aside from its excellent _curé_, and no less
excellent mayor, was that it boasted a "fool." To be sure, St.
Bartholemew's was not the usual village fool. He was not one of those
fantastic creatures in novels, who, happening on the scene at the right
moment, save the virtuous maiden, and bring the villain to punishment
before he has carried out his dark designs. No. He was a thickset dwarf,
with a bestial, twisted face, whose peculiarity was that he never spoke.
"Yes," and "no" formed his entire vocabulary. This viaticum was,
however, sufficient to ensure his worldly prosperity, given his notions
of prosperity. His mother, who had been something of a simpleton
herself, and whom the birth of the dwarf had firmly established in the
character of a "witch," had had him, she said, by a passing travelling
salesman. The adventure was in no way novel, but the appearance of the
dwarf caused the more superstitious to believe that her travelling
salesman travelled for the house of Satan!

This might have prejudiced the community against "Little Nick," as the
simpleton was called, had he not been gifted with more than ordinary
muscular strength, which impelled him to hurl himself with hyena howls
upon any one refusing him a bowl of soup, or straw to lie on in the
stable. Beside which, a strange lust for work possessed the diabolically
gnarled body. Hard physical labour was joy to Little Nick. He worked
gladly at any occupation whatsoever, even showing rudiments of art as a
carpenter or a blacksmith, which had given rise to the suspicion "that
he was not as stupid as he wished to be thought." But as he worked for
the love of it, and never demanded payment, he was universally judged to
be an "idiot," which did not keep the farmers from contending for his
favours.

The mother lived "from door to door," begging her bread. People gave to
her chiefly from fear of her "casting an evil spell" upon them. But
Little Nick was everywhere received with open arms. A piece of bread and
three potatoes are not extravagant pay for a day's work from a man, and
Little Nick was as good as two men. From time to time he was given an
old pair of trousers, or a torn waistcoat, when his too-primitive
costume might have disgraced his fellow workers; on winter evenings he
had his place in the firecorner and good straw to sleep on in the stable
smelling of the friendly beasts.

The legend ran, I must add, if I am to be a faithful reporter, that
Little Nick had sometimes taken shepherdesses unawares in thickets or
rocky solitudes. The victims of the "accident," if there had really been
any such, made no boast of it, and the dumb boy was impeccably discreet.
It is certain that Little Nick cast upon rustic beauty tender glances
which made him more grotesque still. Young women ran from him with
grimaces of disgust and cries of horror which he did not resent. The
young men were more reserved, out of respect for his formidable fists.

Everything considered, Little Nick was one of the happiest among
mortals, practicing without effort the maxim of the wise, which is to
limit one's desire to one's means, and conceiving no destiny finer than
that with which a kind Providence had fitted him. And what proof is
there that his fellow citizens in St. Bartholemew were mentally so very
superior to him? Was it the part of wisdom to seek, or to despise,
money? The entire village was engaged in a bitter struggle for gain, and
the hardest worker rarely escaped want in old age. Little Nick worked
for the sole pleasure of using his strength, and without any effort of
his the rarest good fortune befell him.

The witch having been found dead one morning, was expedited to the
cemetery with a more than usual perfunctory recommendation from the
Church to the Saints in Paradise. Little Nick, who had been sent for,
found half a dozen neighbours in his hovel "taking stock" of his
property. He was looking about the empty place without a word, when a
chest being moved aside, a stone was exposed to view, which had every
appearance of having recently been lifted. A spade inserted under the
edge disclosed a hoard of gold: a very burst of sunshine. With a single
cry, all hands were outstretched. But the warm emanation of the metal,
inflaming the desire of all, had also waked up Little Nick. With three
blows he had thrust everyone aside, with three kicks he had emptied the
house. Half an hour later, the entire village stood in front of his
locked and bolted door, waiting for the miracle that must issue from it.
The gossips, surrounded by the gaping populace, made their report: "A
great hole full of gold! How much could there be? Ten thousand francs,
at least," said some. "Twenty, thirty," declared others.

"It would not surprise me if there were 100,000," opined one old woman.

"And then, we did not see what might be under other stones----"

"It must be the Devil's money," said the sexton. "I wouldn't take it if
it were given to me."

"Nor I," said another.

"Nor I."

"Nor I."

Everyone disdainfully refused what was not offered him.

"All the same," said a peasant, "I am his nearest relative, I am his
guardian."

"You are not!" said another, "It is I who am his guardian!"

And the discussion was soon followed by a quarrel, concerning a
relationship which no one had ever before thought of.

Presently the door opened, and Little Nick appeared.

"Good morning, Little Nick, it is I, your good friend Pierre."

"No, it is I, Jean, you know me, I am your uncle."

"No, it is I, Matthew, you remember that good soup I gave you. Come with
me. You shall have a big piece of bacon."

"Come with me!" "Come with me!"

What a lot of friends! Little Nick growls with anger, and energetically
motions them all to be gone. They obey, each meaning to return later.

On the following day, the many "guardians" betake themselves to the
justice of peace to explain matters, and lay claim to their "rights."

The magistrate comes.

"Little Nick, you have some gold pieces?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me where you have put them?"

"No."

They rummage everywhere, and find nothing. Little Nick has spent the day
in the woods. Doubtless he has buried his treasure there. They will
follow him and discover his hiding place. They must wait until then.

But already the "guardians" are wrangling over Little Nick, who does not
know which to listen to. The cleverest among them suggests his unloading
a cart of manure for him. That means pleasure. Little Nick runs to it,
and having finished his task finds himself seated at the table before a
dish of bacon and cabbage, beside his new cousin "Phemie."

Phemie is a blonde. Phemie has blue eyes. Phemie has fresh, rosy cheeks,
and large caressing hands with which to fondle her "dear little cousin,"
promoted to the dignity of "Nicholas." The "guardian" obligingly retires
after supper, leaving the two "cousins" to make acquaintance. Phemie
pours out a glass of a certain white wine for "Nicholas."

On the following day the acquaintance has progressed so well that
Nicholas has no desire to leave. He has found his real guardian. Evil
tongues are busy, but Phemie holds on to Nicholas and will never let
go.

"Have you some beautiful gold pieces?" she sometimes whispers in his
ear.

"Yes."

"Will you tell me where they are?"

"No."

But this "no" is feeble, and when Phemie adds: "If you don't tell me, I
sha'n't love you any more," Nicholas, by an expressive dumb show lets it
be known that above all things he wishes to be loved.

Months pass, and years. Little Nick lives in an ecstasy of bliss. His
pleasure in work is less keen. But evidently he has compensations, for
the fair Phemie is always with him. It is now five years since the witch
rendered up her soul to the Devil. Not a day has passed, not a night,
without Phemie questioning Little Nick about the treasure. The "Beast's"
resistance has weakened to the point that when the "Beauty" asks him:
"Will you show me where the gold pieces are?" he now answers "Yes."

"Come, let us go," says Phemie, redoubling her caresses.

Little Nick motions to her to wait, but sometimes he takes a few steps
in the supposed direction of the treasure, and Phemie is convinced that
she will soon finally wrest from him the secret of the undiscoverable
hiding place.

It is high time, for the woods around St. Bartholemew are incessantly
being searched by the villagers, and if Little Nick does not make up his
mind to speak, Phemie may be the victim of "thieves," for the gold
pieces are hers, are they not? She has surely earned them! Already, as
soon as a peasant buys a piece of property, everyone wonders whether he
may not have found the St. Bartholemew treasure.

Finally Phemie has an idea. She has noticed that when she accompanies
Little Nick on his walks he avoids the river. She leads him thither,
saying: "Let us go and have a look at the gold pieces."

Mechanically, Little Nick says "Yes" and obediently follows her.

When they have reached the wildest spot, "Is it here?" asks she,
pointing at a cavity among the rocks, covered over with bushes.

"No," says Little Nick.

"Up there, then," she pursues, pointing at a sharp rock by the water's
edge.

"Yes."

"Come."

And both of them, helping themselves with feet and knees and hands, torn
by the brambles and jagged edges, climb the steep slope to the top.

"There?" breathes Phemie, panting.

"Yes."

And Little Nick, lying flat, hanging over the abyss, extracts from an
invisible hole in the rock, where it makes a straight wall to the river,
a handful of gold pieces, which he flings, laughing, at his beloved.

There is a frightful scream. Phemie, mad with rage, rises like a fury
lusting for vengeance. The gold pieces are pasteboard, ironical gift of
the travelling salesman to the "witch," to overcome her last resistance,
and heritage of Nicholas, from which, it cannot be denied, the
"simpleton" has drawn his profit.

"Beast! Beast!" shouts Phemie, foaming at the mouth.

And as Nicholas tries to rise, she pushes him over the edge. He loses
his balance, but clinging to Phemie's skirt, drags her with him.

The river is deep in that spot. Neither of them could swim.

Their bodies were found at the foot of the rock, and the pasteboard gold
pieces scattered on the summit, whence their footprints showed that they
had fallen.

"A trick of the Devil!" said the peasants.

And there was, to be sure, something in that.



XXI

A HAPPY UNION


There are happy marriages, whatever novelists say. There are married
couples who love each other, and live happily together to the end of
their days. The conditions of this happiness, the circumstances of this
harmony may not always, perhaps, be such as one solely interested in the
aesthetic aspects of society might advocate. But what can we do? For
many centimes there is no virtue but the loftiest minds have commended
it to the world with arguments as attractive in form as they have been
sublime in purport. And have they changed us? What is the history of the
past if not the history of to-day?

There are happy unions. There are unions middling happy. And there are
unhappy unions. "I alone know where my shoe pinches," said a celebrated
American, when congratulated upon his happy home. Men or women, great
numbers can say the same, for Providence seems not to have cared to shoe
us all according to our measurements. Our subsequent behaviour is the
important thing. Advice on this point is not lacking, which is not
surprising, since we have expressly entrusted to a corps of celibates
the direction of domestic life, and the instruction of man and wife
separately in the most secret details of a relation which, by his very
profession, the instructor cannot practically know.

The authority of this advice being all that gives it interest, each
takes as much of it as he sees fit, and goes on doing what he pleases.
One cries out and the other is silent. One philosophically resigns
himself to limping all the way to the grave. Another prefers amputation
and the hope of comparative comfort with a wooden leg. Who is right and
who is wrong? Let him decide who has attained certainty in such matters.
As for me, all I dare affirm is that it is easier to theorize than to
prove, considering the variety of the problems and the complexity of the
psychology in which their solution might be found.

Let me, by way of example, briefly sketch the history, as simple as it
is true, of the happiest couple I have ever known. I will admit that it
is not a tale proper for publication in a Manual of Morals. Rarely do
bare facts, unembellished by fiction, authentically illustrate precepts
which we are more inclined to advocate than to follow. The sole merit of
this tale is that it is true, from first to last. I leave out nothing
and add nothing. I knew the people. I kept them in sight all along the
hard road that led them from crime to perfect conjugal felicity. I am
not attempting to prove any theory. I am telling what I have known and
seen.

Adèle was a handsome girl according to country esthetics. Large, strong,
of brilliant colouring, with a mop of tangled red hair and iron-gray
eyes which never dropped before those of any man. She helped her father,
Girard the fishmonger, to carry on his business. In a lamentable old
broken-down cart, behind a small, knock-kneed horse, who knew no gait
but a walk, Girard would set out at nightfall for Luçon, the large town,
and come back in time to sell his fish before midday. Immediately upon
arrival, the fishmonger, his wife and their children, each loaded with a
basket of shell fish, mullet, sole, and whiting, packed under sticky
seaweed, would disperse over the village, the outlying hamlets, the
farms, and peddle their wares.

This trade entails much travelling about and seeing many people. Bold,
and pleasant to the eye, Adèle was welcomed everywhere. No speech or
behaviour from the country lads was likely to fluster her. Peasants, who
are no more obtuse than city men, have long since recognized the value
in business of an agreeable young person to attract trade. Any country
inn that wants to prosper must first adorn itself with a pretty servant.
There is everywhere a demand for beauty. For lack of anything better,
men will philosophically fall back upon ugliness. Life takes upon itself
to accommodate almost everybody.

Adèle, not being one of those young women who are only chosen when there
is scarcity, early became the blessing of her family. The fish in her
basket seemed to leap of its own accord into the frying pan, although
the pretty wheedler took pride in selling it at a high price. Any chance
meeting on the road furnished occasion for selling her wares. Often a
kiss was added as a premium. Occasionally something more. What she lost
or what she won at this game would to-day be hard to reckon. On Sunday,
at the fair, she exhibited herself in fine attire and ornaments: these
were her profit. Her name ran from mouth to mouth accompanied by tales
to which public malice did not always need to add lies: this was her
loss. But far from being disturbed by the "_chronique scandaleuse_" she
insolently gloried in it, declaring that the hard-favoured meddlers
would have been altogether too happy had she found a chance to talk
scandal about them.

"When they are done tattling, they will stop," she used to say.

Which proved true. So that one day, when there was nothing else that
Adèle could do to astonish people, the report spread that she was about
to become the legitimate wife of Hippolyte Morin, the shoemaker. I must
add that the event was accepted by all as a decent ending to a
tempestuous youth.

"He will certainly beat her," thought the women, when they saw Morin's
infatuation.

"He will not make a troublesome husband," said the men, as they looked
at the sallow and weakly though choleric shoemaker.

Public approval was therefore unanimous. The circumstances of the
marriage were simple. Girard owed Morin 500 francs, and could not even
manage to pay the interest on them. Seeing his creditor prowling with
smouldering eyes about the stalwart Adèle, he had proposed to him to
marry the girl and give a receipted bill, and the shoemaker, overjoyed
at the thought of possessing such a marvel all to himself, had gladly
closed the bargain. As for Adèle, she had said yes without difficulty,
as she had to so many others. Hippolyte owned land. He was a good match.

They had a fine wedding, and for a full half year happiness appeared to
reign in the new establishment. Six months of fidelity were surely, for
Adèle, a sufficient concession to _Monsieur le Maire's_ injunctions.
Presently lovers reappeared, to Morin's lively displeasure. Adèle was
thrashed, as the public had foreseen. The muscular young swains none the
less made game of the husband, at best a puny adversary, as public
opinion had equally foretold. The worst of it was that the
unaccommodating shoemaker had a way of watching his rivals with a
vicious eye, while drawing the sharp blade of his knife across the
whetstone. No one in a village is afraid of kicks and blows. But no one
likes the thought of steel coming into play. And so, when the belief
was established that Morin would some day "do something desperate," the
ardour of the followers began to abate. They gradually dropped away, and
it was Adèle's turn to experience the fiercest resentment against her
sullen lord.

Three years passed in quarrels, in hourly battles. There were no
children. Grass does not grow on the high road, as Michelet observes.
One morning the news ran that Morin was seriously ill, then that he was
dead. On the day before, he had been playing bowls without any sign of
ill health. The doctor who had been sent for, shook his head gravely,
and asked to speak to Adèle in private. At the end of the interview the
bystanders noticed that Adèle kept out of sight, while the doctor,
without a word, poured the contents of the soup tureen into a jug, and
carried it away in his gig. That evening, two gendarmes came to arrest
"Hippolyte Morin's wife," accused of poisoning her husband.
Conversations in the village were not dull that evening.

The inquiry was brief. Bits of the blue shards of cantharides floating
among the bread and potatoes in the soup permitted no denial. Adèle
confessed that passing under an ash tree, and seeing some of those
insects lying dead in the grass, she picked them up, "to play a joke on
her husband." Later on, after she had been instructed by her lawyer,
she said that the aphrodisiacal properties attributed to the beetle
gave the obvious reason for the matrimonial "joke." But it being proved
that her extra-*conjugal resources in that line were rather calculated
to foster a desire to rid herself of an inconvenient husband, the story
gained small credence. Morin, who had not consented to die, was the only
witness for the defence.

"Of course it was a joke," he repeated, stupidly. "The proof of it is
that she had told me."

"And you deliberately took the poison?"

"As long as it was a joke, of course I did, your Honour."

The jury, which readily absolves husbands for a too prompt use of the
revolver in the direction of their wives, always shows itself resolutely
hostile to women who attempt to rid themselves of their legitimate
master. Two years' imprisonment were considered by the representatives
of social order a just retribution for Adèle, as well as a practical
incentive to virtue in the home.

Morin returned to his shoes, grieving over his long separation from
Adèle.

"All that was our own affair," he said. "What business was it of the
judge's?"

And many shared his opinion. A lot of noise about a "joke!" Adèle was
too good hearted a girl to have aroused any deep hatreds. As long as
Morin defended her, why should others hurl obloquy? Husbands looking at
their wives, and wives at their husbands, mostly refrained from comment.
Morin, furthermore, sure, now, of his wife's fidelity for at least two
years, poured himself out in eulogies of the great Adèle, and declared
that he had often been in the wrong.

"To whom did she ever do any harm?" he would ask everyone that came
along.

"Not to me!" "Not to me!" all would answer.

The man had received the gift of a lofty philosophy or rather, he had a
dim feeling that from all this "fuss" a great good might result from his
wife and for himself.

"When she comes back," he would say, "it will not be as it was before."

"Surely," replied the others, "a little bad luck gives one a lot of
sense!"

"Two years, that is not so much," answered Morin, who was counting the
days.

Meanwhile Adèle was silently sewing shirts, and vaguely dreaming. It
would never have occurred to her to complain. She even found a certain
contentment in this quiet after the agitations of her youth. She
tranquilly awaited the release which would take her back to her friendly
village, and to that good Morin who loved her, and whom she loved, too,
in spite of all "the judges had done to cross them," as she said after
her trial. From the very first day, Morin placed to the account of the
prisoner all the money permitted by the regulations. But she rarely
touched it, and when, on his visits, he urged her to spend it:

"I need nothing," she would say. "Keep it for yourself, my man. You must
not be ailing when I come out of jail."

And this allusion to the past made them both laugh in great good humour.

Finally the day of liberation came. Morin, as you would know, was on the
spot to fetch his wife. They flew to each other's arms, laughing aloud,
for lack of words to express their joy. It was Sunday. Adèle and her
husband reached home just as mass was over. In a twinkling they were
surrounded by the crowd, and acclaimed like conquerors. There was mutual
embracing and shedding of happy tears, and asking of a thousand absurd
questions from sheer need to talk and show how glad they were to see one
another again. Upon arrival at her house Adèle found the table spread;
at this, twenty guests sat down to celebrate her return with proper
ceremony. A grand feast, which lasted until daylight. At dessert,
friends came in, and merest acquaintances, too, swept along by the
current of universal sympathy. Bottle after bottle was emptied. There
was a great clinking of glasses. The women kissed Morin, and the men
Adèle. Never in their lives was there a more wonderful day.

And yet, from that time forward, good days followed one another without
break. Adèle remained gay, easy, and approachable, quick in the uptake
of broad jests, but Morin had her heart, and never was word or deed
charged to her account which could have given umbrage to the most
suspicious husband. Her spouse, proud of his conquest, tasted the joys
of a well-earned happiness.

They were during forty years the model of a perfect match. How many of
the people around them, with an irreproachable past, could boast an
advantage so rare?



XXII

A WELL-ASSORTED COUPLE


They were not good. They were not bad. They had neither virtues nor
faults of their own from never having done or said anything except in
conformity with what others were doing or saying. Never had it entered
their minds to desire anything on their own initiative. Nothing had ever
made them reflect upon themselves, and take a decision according to an
idea, whether good or bad, that was the result of their own
individuality rather than "established opinions."

He had been born into the cork business. She had seen the light of day
in the Elbeuf cloth trade. The arrest of a lawyer, unable to return
several millions to the people whom he had deprived of them, united
their parents in a common expression of indignation against impecunious
embezzlers. In court, under the eyes of the Christ who bids us forgive,
and amidst the encouragements of avenging law, cork and wool came
together to destroy the unfortunate lawyer whose activities were
proclaimed criminal because lacking the success which would have made
his reputation for integrity. The cork merchant and the cloth merchant,
both of them noisy about their small losses, conceived a "high" mutual
"esteem," which subsequent acquaintance converted into "friendship."

The heir to corks was twenty-three years old.

"A good sort of boy," said his father.

He was, as a matter of fact, soft, flabby, and spiritless.

The cloth heiress had just completed her twentieth year.

"The sweetest child!" bleated her mother.

The truth being that the girl's inertia took the impulsion of any
movement near her.

They were married after magnificent promises on both sides of the house.
It later appeared that the manufacturer of corks was on the verge of
failure, and that the cloth business had long since gone into the hands
of a partner. As the fraud was reciprocal, there could be no reproaches
on either side. They remained "good friends," and from the remnants of
past splendour collected a small capital with which to set up the young
couple in the linen draper's business at Caen.

The two young people, who were equally well fitted to manufacture butter
or deal in building stone, by scrupulously adhering to the rules and
regulations established for them, made a decent income from their
business. Their parents died, rather fortunately, before becoming a
burden and after inculcating into them those principles of public and
private morals which would enable them to reach the end of their career
without disaster. They had two daughters whom they married off, one into
"ribbons," the other into "hardware," while they themselves died, as
they had lived, in "linen."

"Colourless lives," some will remark.

Not everyone can write Hamlet, or discover the laws of universal
gravitation. The present order of nature stands upon a foundation of
passive beings, whence, from some combination of century-old heredities,
springs, now and then, the miracle of genius. What surprises for us,
could we examine the authentic genealogies of Shakespeare and Newton,
and see from what an accumulation of weaknesses their strength emerged!

The _processus_ of any human life is, in truth, not less a marvel. Only,
from our low level we instinctively look toward the heights. And there
is no denying that the psychology of St. Francis of Assisi is more
interesting than that of the ordinary mortal. Still, if one examines
closely, one finds that the "great man" is not different in substance
from the little man: the principal difference is that in the two cases
the forces are differently related. Infinite are the transitional types
between the two extremes, and all are worthy of analysis as human
samples capable of furnishing, according to circumstances of time and
place, acts which would remove them from common mediocrity.

What events would have been necessary to raise our two linen drapers
into the light of glory I cannot say. I should like to believe that a
great tragedy, public or private, might have called forth some act of
sublime devotion on their part, and made them illustrious in history.
But I will not conceal that nothing in their speech or actions ever
authorized such a hope.

I speak of them because I met them on my path in life. I found it
entertaining to observe them as curious specimens of the class of human
beings whose passive mentality is close to that of beasts of burden, and
who yet are fairly remarkably individualized in the deep recesses of
their inner life. Cattle have, without any doubt, ideas at the back of
their heads, as is proved when we see the drove by tacit agreement
divide among themselves the task of watching all points of the horizon,
while with half-shut eyes they ruminate in the fields where nothing now
threatens them--which performance is a reminder of the days when the
great carnivorous enemies might at any time unexpectedly come down upon
them. Still, they know but one law, the goad that drives them to the
plow or to the shambles. Bovine man taking his part, with or without
reflection, in a more complex life, develops, in addition, despite the
weight of his mental inertia, a considerable capacity for emotion, for
personal activity outside of the rules of action imposed upon him by
society, whether through its laws or its customs.

The two linen drapers of Caen, seen in the street, had the commonplace
appearance of the millions who make up the ordinary stock of humanity,
which is, in fact, what they represented. The chief trouble with
professional psychologists is that, the better to classify them, they
insist that men are all alike. It is not surprising that salient points
in character should be the first to strike the observer. The deep-seated
traits of "indeterminate" personalities are, however, worthy of
analysis, being, by the way of hereditary combinations, the productive
source of characterized energies.

Who will not have concluded from the social passivity of this couple,
stupefied with "linen," that a corresponding somnolence prevailed among
their inward activities? Yet these two amorphous creatures, who had
unresistingly taken the imprint of surrounding wills, lived a life of
their own, remote from the public eye, and felt seething in the depth of
their being intense, at times even violent, passions, which made both
the charm and the torment of their days.

Buying and selling linen had become like a physiological function of
their organs. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and dealing in linen, were all
on the same level in their minds. Both man and wife instinctively loved
money, "because one needs it in order to be honest," they used to say,
"honesty," to them, meaning keeping out of prison--but neither had even
the moderate initiative which would have increased their chances of
becoming rich. After reaching a medium degree of success in their
business, they stood still, evenly balanced between indifference and
cupidity. Outside of laws and customs, the opinion of the trade kept
them straight, like a steel corset. They went to church because "it is
customary." They even gave to the poor if someone were looking, as do so
many other charitable Christians. Then, when the doors were closed, and
their "young ladies" safely bestowed in the Convent of Mercy, where they
had been placed for the sake of "fine connections, useful in the
future," they could finally devote themselves to each other.

I said that they were neither good nor bad, meaning that they were as
incapable of useless malice as of disinterestedness. But the fact that a
moral tendency is not expressed in action does not make the tendency any
better. In deference to the requirements of law and "social propriety"
the pair lived indissolubly united. There was no breaking of marriage
vows. The model wife was really a figure too far from esthetic to
inspire a temptation of a guilty thought in even the most abandoned of
men. Besides, all her activities were centred, conformably with the
precepts of the Church and the Code, upon her "legitimate spouse." As
for the faithful husband, he at all times abstained from "sin," whether
temporary or permanent, for the peremptory reason that the "crime" was
forbidden by law, as well as doctrinally "condemned by morality." Thus
held in check by external barriers, there remained for two souls so
virtuous nothing but to be absorbed in each other, and to seek in the
intimate contact of their respective susceptibilities the satisfaction
of an ideal compatible with their natures. This satisfaction was not
denied them. It was not to be found in love. They found it in a
powerfully concentrated hatred. When it is the dominant emotion of a
life, execration, in a heart convulsed with impotence, may afford the
full amount of violent sensation by which an inferior order of humanity
is reduced to replacing the joys of love.

Husband and wife hated each other voluptuously, hated each other with a
crafty ferocity always on the alert to inflict more exquisite wounds.
And for what reason? They had perhaps never attempted to disentangle it.
A mutual disgust had come upon them in the very first days of their
marriage, upon discovering the double deception of the non-existent
marriage portions. Later on, it is true, they both resorted to identical
methods for decoying sons-in-law; they had none the less taken pleasure,
from the beginning, in secretly calling each other thieves. As,
furthermore, each had a very lively sense of the other's inferiority,
they mutually despised each other for the conspicuous inertia which
succeeded only in holding its own in the business, by the balance of
irresolution in their will.

If they could have found the courage occasionally to discharge the
overflow of wrath that gathered in the depths of their mean souls! But
the effort involved with giving free course to the mounting flood of a
repressed detestation was outside of their possibilities. All they had
capacity for was silently forcing back the desire to insult which
contorted their lips, thus aggravating the repressed rage whose seething
constituted the bitter zest of life. A passion too mighty for their
weakness, impotent to control it.

Unable to expend in speech the accumulating strength of their hatred,
they found in secret acts of aggression the only remaining outlet. How
much more satisfying than idle words was the joy of injuring each
other--outside of business, of course. When thus employed, they knew
what the object was of their living! They felt in those moments the
power of the bond that united them in the only passion for the
satisfaction of which they were necessary to each other.

The details of the petty warfare with which they opened hostilities
would fill a volume. There was, at the beginning, a series of light
skirmishes in which the first thrusts might have seemed due to chance,
had not the one who received them recognized them as hurts he would
have liked to deal. The kitchen furnished excellent occasions for
feminine attack. Too much salt or pepper, tainted meat, cold soups, were
common occurrences during the early days. It would happen on this
particular day that Madame was not hungry, while Monsieur had a good
appetite owing to the more than frugal preceding meal. Monsieur was not,
however, defenceless. Madame had a "delicate chest," and dreaded
draughts above everything. But she was obliged to get used to them and
resign herself to coughing, for by incredible ill luck there was always
a door that would not close, or a broken window pane, which obliged her
to live in a perpetual whirlwind. To balance matters, when caught in a
shower, Monsieur would find his umbrella broken and come home chilled
through. Each cared to excel in the game. They invented a thousand
complicated traps requiring careful preparation. One night, Madame,
alone in bed, had her legs scalded by the stopper suddenly coming out of
the hot water bottle. Monsieur regretted the "accident," for he had to
do double work in the shop while Madame uncomplainingly awaited
recovery. A short time after, Monsieur, jumping out of bed, cut his foot
on a piece of glass. It was his turn to limp.

So they continued, vying with each other, and increasing in efficiency.
Madame seemed to have a weakness for the elder of her two daughters.
Monsieur preferred the younger. A fine battlefield, where each could
stab the other through the innocent victim. The two marriages afforded
occasions for subtle persecution, which ended in the common regret of
feeling so good a weapon slip from the tormentors' hand.

Left alone, face to face, the two, having exhausted their whole arsenal
of perfidy, stared at each other in the stupor of a paroxysm of hatred
that made them powerless to renew their warfare. What was to be done?
Something must be thought of. Madame was the first to hit upon it.
Monsieur, suddenly taken with a violent colic, passed in one night from
life to death. At the last moment he had a suspicion. A smell of matches
was exhaled from the decoction he had been taking. He blew out the
candle, and saw phosphorescence in the glass. In the same moment death
throes convulsed him with excruciating pain. He could only point out to
his wife the damning evidence, with a single word, accompanied by
hideous laughter.

"The guillotine! the guillotine!"

He died repeating it. Mad with terror, Madame fainted. She never
regained consciousness. The terrifying name of the engine of death
fluttered on her lips with her last breath.

The tragic beauty of this ending excited the admiration of the entire
town.

"How they loved each other!" people said. "Such a well-assorted
couple!"



XXIII

LOVERS IN FLORENCE


The question of love and marriage has manifestly the most obsessing
interest for humankind. Presumably dissatisfied with the actual
experiences of life, men, women, old people and young, seek in fiction,
in dreams, the unattainable or the unattained. Life passes. Those among
us who, on the brink of the grave, question themselves honestly,
recognize that more chances of happiness were offered them than they,
fickle or wavering, made shift to grasp.

Our excellent ancestors of the "lower" animal order have a fixed period
for the joys of love, and even in monogamy, as I demonstrated in the
story of my pigeons, do not pride themselves upon a "virtue" beyond
their power. The chief feature of the "higher perfection" to which we
aspire, in word if not in deed, seems to be that we are condemned by it
to an hypocrisy born of discrepancy between the ideal and our ability to
realize it. Marriage, when considered aside from its doctrinal aspect,
is found to be a fairly effectual pledge against the straying of the
imagination which is the forerunner of human weakness. To protect the
weak, that is to say the woman and child, against the caprice of the
strong, is assuredly the duty of society. But who will claim that
marriage, as the law has instituted it, and as custom practises it,
performs that office, and does not oftener than not result in the
triumph, whether just or unjust, of man? Have we not heard, in the
discussion of the divorce law, one of the chiefs of the "advanced" party
lending his eloquence to the furtherance of the doctrine of indissoluble
marriage, while a famous radical argued that there was no equality
between the adultery of the husband and that of the wife, when viewed as
a conjugal misdemeanour justifying final separation?

The mistake lies in regarding as immutable, and acting upon it as such,
a thing that is, in fact, the most unstable and variable in the world,
viz.: the human being, in perpetual process of change. To ensure the
durability of a union for that lightning flash which we pompously term
"all time," the parallel development of two beings would be necessary,
two beings whom differing heredities in most cases predispose to the
most fatal divergences. One must admit that the chance of it is small.

I discussed this topic, only a few days ago, with a charming woman, made
famous throughout Europe by her art, who has with the greatest dignity
practiced that free bounteousness of self which men audaciously claim as
their exclusive prerogative. She ingenuously maintained that the act
which men consider of no consequence when practised by themselves has no
importance either in the case of woman, except in the event of
maternity.

"And," she said, "men take advantage of this iniquitous law of nature,
adding to it a corresponding social injustice which leaves us no choice
except between 'honour' and liberty. Fortunately life is mightier than
words, and women who are not by nature slaves will always have the
resource that masculine vanity has so foolishly made attractive by
making of it forbidden fruit."

"You assert, then," I suggested with a certain timidity, "that all women
worthy of the name either do or should deceive their husbands?"

"Oh, my assertion is merely that most women if deceived by their
husbands have the right to give back what they get. As for those who are
unfaithful to a faithful husband, I see no reason for your refusing them
the initiative you grant to the man who goes out on pleasure bent while
his chaste wife sits at home spinning her wool, and wiping her
children's noses."

"That is practically what I said; that any woman with self-respect----"

"--has the same rights as the man without self-respect----"

"--and should use them----?"

"--and may use them to suit herself without the least shadow of
remorse."

"Complete liberty, then, for each to be unfaithful to the other."

"Proclaim this maxim or not, the world has not waited for you to
formulate it before putting it into practice."

"You think, then, that in reality most women are unfaithful to their
husbands?"

"I think that in reality most men are unfaithful to their wives--and
their mistresses, too, as soon as the wife or mistress expects anything
from duty, even though unwritten duty, instead of the free attraction of
sentiment or of the flesh. I believe that most women who are unfaithful
to their husbands are unfaithful to their lovers under the same
circumstances, that is to say as soon as the lover imposes himself by
the rights of--morally--a husband, if the combination of words is
admissible. Worse than that! As fast as odious habit changes lover into
husband, and mistress into wife, the actual husband, who was the lover
in the first days of marriage, and the actual wife, who was the
legitimatized mistress upon leaving the church door, regain the
ascendency."

"Too late."

"Not always. Stop and think. Women more or less deceive their lovers
with their husbands. That is classic in happy homes."

"So one hears. But how can one be sure?"

"How many cases I might quote to bear me out! Shall I tell you a case I
have recently known?"

"Pray do."

"Very well. Last month in an Italian city----"

"Florence, naturally, I notice that you frequently go there."

"Yes, Florence. A friend of mine, a painter, went there to live three
years ago, with his wife, a woman who would not perhaps be called
beautiful, but who is really full of charm and grace. When my travels
bring me in their neighbourhood I never miss an occasion to see them,
for we are very old friends. He and I, you see, were young together for
six months. He tells me everything, and I tell him many things. Philip,
we will call him that, if you like, made a love match which, as it
happened, was excellent from a worldly standpoint, too. They were the
most utterly devoted couple for nearly four years. That is a long while.
Eighteen months ago, on one of those journeys to Florence which you have
noticed, I easily detected that Philip's wife had a lover. A young
fellow, an Italian noble with a great name and a slender purse,
beautiful as a young wild animal crouching for game--well dressed,
though not as quietly as could be, with a pretty talent for sculpture,
which he had the good sense never to mention. Their art had brought the
two men together, and Alice--we will take the chances of calling
Philip's wife by that name--had, I do not know exactly how, come under a
new attraction, the strength of which increased as time, through the
monotony of habit, blunted the formerly supreme charm of her husband.

"On his side, Philip had gradually returned to studio 'affairs,' giving
as an excuse his research after forms, attitudes, and colours, during
that relaxing of the body which follows the strain of the model's pose,
and is like life after death. He confessed all this to me without
reserve, obviously satisfied that his wife, whose 'angelic sweetness'
and 'tact' he could not sufficiently praise--was willing to leave him a
free field for his fancies.

"'I still love her!' he said, in all sincerity. 'But I have to think of
my painting, do I not?'

"Giovanni, naturally, had a great admiration for Philip's talent, and
made no secret of it. As for Alice, she regarded her husband as nothing
less than a genius. When Philip was dissatisfied with his work he was
frankly unbearable. He indulged in grumbling and complaining and bursts
of anger, followed by long periods of depression. If, on the other hand,
he had succeeded in satisfying himself, it was worse still, for then one
had to endure the recital of the entire performance, down to the least
trifling detail of composition or execution. At first one might listen
with pleasure, or at least benevolence. But the wearisome repetition
from morning until night finally became tedious, even exasperating, when
Philip, with a childish insistence, invited replies, denials, the better
to confound his opponent. The docile Giovanni and the sincerely
admiring Alice lent themselves resignedly to these gymnastic exercises
of patience, but when days and days had been spent in the occupation,
both, exhausted by their efforts, must have longed in body and soul for
a distraction more or less in accordance with current social customs. As
might have been expected, they found it in each other, and from that
moment peace descended upon the happy home.

"When I discovered the affair between Alice and Giovanni in the course
of a visit to Fiesole, where I came upon them suddenly in such a state
of blind absorption that they did not even raise their eyes at the sound
of my footsteps, I judged that passion was at flood tide. They did not
even trouble to conceal themselves, so that had I not been careful, I
should not have escaped the annoyance of an encounter, the revelations
of which could hardly have been blinked. I took the course of going
often to see Philip at his studio, where he had an important piece of
work under way, and I was able to leave town without disturbing the
happy quietude of all concerned.

"On my return the following year it seemed to me at first that nothing
had changed in the arrangement of which I had the secret. Still, Philip
seemed to me less absorbed in his art. I often caught him with his eyes
obstinately fixed upon his wife, who, while avoiding them, seemed
troubled by the obsession of his gaze. Did he suspect something? I did
not long entertain this idea, for he talked to me with such warmth
about Alice, that I could not restrain an exclamation of surprise.

"'God forgive me, Philip,' I cried. 'You are in love! And with your
wife! What has happened?'

"'Nothing' he said. 'I have never ceased to love her.'

"And one confidence leading to another, I learned that a flirtation by
every rule was going on between the two. For a year they had been living
in separate apartments. At first the doors had been on the latch, but
later they had definitely been locked. One day, for no particular
reason, Philip had wondered why, and found no answer. Alice, when
questioned, had had nothing to say, but 'Not now--later,' which could
not fill the function of reasons. That another should have won the heart
which belonged to him could never have occurred to Philip. But as his
mind and senses became insistent, sentiment woke up, too. So that the
inconstant husband began a definite siege of the unfaithful wife.

"Alice appeared to be flattered by the homage, but held back by a sense
of duty toward her lover. As for Giovanni, confident in the stability of
his dominion, he was entertained by the performance in which his vanity
saw nothing but an innocent game started by Alice for the sake of
keeping him on the alert. It was Philip, and no longer Giovanni, who
filled Alice's drawing room with flowers. Giovanni amusingly called my
attention to this detail, with the fine confidence of a man sure of his
power. He was, after all, fond of Philip, and pitied him for his wasted
pains.

"I went to spend six months in Rome, and on my way back to Paris,
stopped for a week in Florence. I was convinced at once and beyond a
doubt that the legitimate betrayal had been consummated, and that the
blind lover Giovanni was being cynically duped. Alice had become her
husband's mistress. I must add, that though the factors were inverted,
the sum of happiness appeared the same. Contentment continued to reign
in Philip's household, as it had not ceased to do since his wedding day,
thanks to the three successive combinations. I even judged that this
time there was a chance of it becoming a settled condition, for Philip
no longer bored us with his pictures, being completely absorbed in the
business of making himself agreeable to his wife, for whom the pleasure
of the conjugal affair was enhanced by the delicately perverse spice of
the secret connected with Giovanni. The value of his conquest rose
appreciably in Giovanni's eyes at sight of Philip in love, and he
peacefully admired as his achievement the perfect contentment of the
household. He was even beginning to cast his eyes about him, and I was
not too greatly surprised when I saw him disposed to make love to me.
Everybody's destiny was sealed. The divorce between Giovanni and Alice
which, I suppose, already existed in fact, would soon be formally
acknowledged.

"I was in the habit of going at nightfall to sit in the Loggia dei Lanzi
to see all Florence pass on its way home, for has not the Piazza della
Signoria for centuries and centuries been the town's general meeting
ground? I have made curious observations there. After a glance at the
Perseus, I used to go and sit on the upper one of the steps that make
seats like those of an amphitheatre against the long back wall, and
there, hidden in the shadow, screened from view by the famous group of
the Rape of the Sabines, gaze about me, dream, and wait for chance to
send an inspiration or a friendly face to tear me from my thoughts.

"One evening I had lingered in my hiding place. Darkness had come.
Ammanati's Neptune and Gian Bologna's Cosimo peopled the night with
motionless ghosts. Suddenly two shapes rose under the arches, a man and
a woman with arms entwined. They glided whispering toward the Sabine
voluptuously struggling in the arms of her new master, and there, out of
sight of the rare passers, but fully in my sight, clasped each other in
a long embrace. Finally I saw their faces. They were Philip and Alice,
who, driven from home by Giovanni's presence, had come to hide in the
public square and make love.

"'Giovanni must have been surprised,' Philip was saying, 'at not
finding us in. But really, he is too indiscreet.'

"'Do you know what you ought to do?' asked Alice, after a silence, 'You
ought to advise him to take a little journey to Rome--or elsewhere.'

"'A good idea. I will do so.'

"Two weeks later Giovanni came to see me in Paris, and made amorous
proposals to me. I still have to laugh when I think of his discomfited
face at the sweeping courtesy I made him. It happened only three days
ago. What do you say to my story?"

"I should have to know the end of it."

"Nothing ever ends. Everything keeps on."

"Well, it is an exception, that is all I can say."

"I admit it. But out of what are rules made, if you please? Is it not
out of exceptions when there are enough of them? I bring my
contribution. You ought in return to tell me some fine story of absolute
monogamic fidelity."

"Such things exist."

"Assuredly. I know a case. Never were two mortals more unhappy. Their
whole life was one prolonged battle."

"From which you conclude----?"

"That we are all exceptions, my dear friend, and that we all establish
our great intangible laws only for other people, reserving the right to
take or to leave as much of them for ourselves as we choose. Good luck.
Good-bye!"



XXIV

A HUNTING ACCIDENT


I again met the charming woman to whom I owe the story of the Florentine
love affairs just related.

"What news of Don Giovanni?" I asked.

"I saw him yesterday, by chance. He confessed that he did not know the
reason of his exile. I gently insinuated that the husband might have
something to do with it. The idea made him laugh, and he answered:
'Anything is likelier than that!' which made me laugh in my turn."

"All blind, then?"

"And the result: Peace and happiness."

"And clear vision?"

"Clear vision would simply mean tragedy, because of each one regarding
his own infidelities as unimportant, only to reach the unexpected
conclusion that those of his partner are unforgivable crimes. Not
logical, but very human."

"And do you not think that conjugal fidelity is human, too?"

"Excuse me, I expressly told you that I had once seen a case of it."

"And might one hear the story of this solitary case?"

"An uneventful drama. Nothing is less romantic than virtue. You must be
aware of that."

"But does happiness lie in romance?"

"That I cannot say. Possibly, because the reality will never equal the
dream. At all events, my faithful pair were the most unhappy mortals I
have ever known."

"Do tell me about them."

"Oh, it is very simple. You know that I was brought up in England, near
the little town of Dorking. I still have friends there whom I visit
occasionally, when I want a change from Italy. Surrey is a picturesque
region, where lazy rivers wind their way to the sea between green banks,
through wide, fertile valleys at the foot of wooded hills. Everywhere
woods and streams, and ravines crested with yews and ancient oaks. Pale,
misty skies spread a mother-of-pearl canopy over the wide expanses of
thick grass. It is a fox hunting country, and I humbly confess that
there are to my mind few pleasures in life equal to the wild
intoxication of a mad, aimless gallop, in which, what with hedges and
ditches, rivers and precipices, one risks breaking one's neck a hundred
times a day. You will from current pictures of it get a fairly good idea
of the sport. It is a headlong rush to get--one does not clearly know
where. Nothing stops one, nothing furnishes a sufficient reason for
turning back. Onward, and still onward! The horses themselves are
infected with the general madness. Accidents make no difference. A
fallen horse scrambles to his feet again, an unseated rider gets back
into the saddle. Some are carried home on stretchers. At night the
fallen are counted. In three curt words their friends sympathize with
them for having to wait three weeks before going at it again.

"A few years ago, in one of these hunting tumults, I stopped to get my
breath after a long gallop on my cob. I was on a wide heath overlooking
the valley that ends at the red spires of Dorking. A silvery river,
whose name I forget, and a sprinkling of pools set patches of sky in the
vast stretch of flowering green. At the horizon a tower is seen, famous
in the district, a memorial of the whimsey of a pious personage, who had
himself buried there head downward so as to find himself standing
upright on the day of the resurrection, when, it seems, the world will
be upside down.

"I stood wondering at this ingenuous monument of human simplicity, when
I heard behind me the noise of frantic galloping. Before I could move or
cry out, a hunter and a maddened horse burst from the wood, within
gunshot, and plunged headlong down the steep bank that ended abruptly at
the gaping pit of an old quarry. What filled me with unspeakable horror
was that the rider was desperately spurring and lashing his horse, who
would have been unable anyhow to stop himself in his dizzy descent
toward death. In the twinkling of an eye the ground appeared to swallow
them both. Nothing was to be seen but heaven and earth smiling at each
other with the imperturbable smile of things that never end.

"I finally regained the use of my senses. I jumped from my saddle, and I
know not how, reached the bottom of the quarry. The horse had been
killed outright. In a red pool lay a gasping, shattered man. It was an
old friend of mine, who had been kind to me in my early days in Dorking.
I called him. He opened his eyes.

"'What!' he cried, 'it is not over?'

"I questioned him in vain.

"'It is not over! It is not over!' he repeated in vain despair, 'I shall
have to go through with it again!'

"Not knowing what to do or say, I climbed to the top of the bank and
called for help. A farmer hastened to the spot. With infinite care, the
wounded man was lifted into a cart. By some miracle he had escaped
without mortal injury. Two months later he was in full convalescence. He
suspected before long that I had witnessed his leap, and my
embarrassment when he questioned me about our encounter at the bottom of
the quarry only confirmed him in his idea. One day, he could no longer
keep from speaking.

"'You do not believe it was an accident, do you?' he said, looking me
squarely in the eyes.

"'What do you mean?' I asked, avoiding the question.

"'I mean that I must have passed close by you on my way to the quarry.'

"'Yes,' I said, with a sudden resolve to tell the truth.

"'You know my secret. I am sure, my dear child, that you will keep it.
Death would not take me. I shall go on living. But since there is now
one human being before whom I can pour out the overflow of my misery,
and since that one is yourself, for whom I have so long felt the warmest
friendship, I will tell you all.'

"'Some other day. Later on.'

"'No, let me speak. In the first place, let me reassure you, there is no
crime in my life.'

"'What an idea!'

"'No, I am merely unhappy. And my unhappiness is of a kind for which
there is no help. It seems to you that I have everything, does it not?
Wealth, a happy family life, beloved children. My wife, I am sure, seems
to you----'

"'The best in the world.'

"'Doubtless. And yet, she exactly is the cause of my wretchedness. She
loves me, and I hate her. It is horrible.'

"'Oh, come. You do not hate your wife. That is impossible.'

"'I repeat it. I hate her. I loved her when I married her. I was in love
at that time, for she was very beautiful. She has been a faithful wife,
and a good mother. What have I to complain of, except that she
mechanically has confined herself to the narrow performance of her
duties, and while doing it, has allowed us to become strangers? Is she
above or beneath me? What does it matter? We are not on the same mental
plane. I have by my side an inert, submissive creature, with an
exasperating sorrow in her eyes, for although she has never formulated
any complaint, she naturally holds me responsible for the
misunderstanding which has never been expressed in words. You look at me
as if you did not understand. You think me mad, probably. Shall I be
more explicit? Very well, I no longer love her. There you have it in a
nutshell. Gradually, habit and her flatly commonplace mind made her
indifferent to me. There is no sense in blaming her. Be the fault hers
or mine, I was estranged from her. What remedy was there for the brutal
fact? I had loved her, and I loved her no longer. We cannot love by
order of the sheriff or of the Bible. It is as if you should reproach me
with having white hair instead of blond, as I once had. What have you to
say to it?'

"'Nothing at all, my dear and unhappy friend. If you wish me to speak
frankly, the idea had occurred to me that the lack of pleasure you took
in your excellent wife might come from the possibly unconscious pleasure
you took in someone else.'

"'Your imagination anticipates the facts. As you suspect, I have not
finished my story. Since you call for an immediate confession, let me
tell you, that having been strictly brought up in the discipline of the
Church, I came to marriage with the perfect purity required by Christian
morality. Let me also tell you that, for whatever reason you
choose--ignorance of the strategy of intrigue, or timidity, or fear of
losing my self-respect--I have remained guiltless of the least departure
from the strictest marriage laws. I no longer loved my wife, but I was
her husband, her faithful husband. You will readily guess at the
wretched lapses into weakness confessed in that statement, followed by a
reaction of shame, and even of repulsion, which in spite of my best
efforts I could not disguise.

"'I thought of going on a long journey. A year or two in India might, or
so I supposed, have brought me back to the woman from whom proximity was
daily separating me more widely. But she, not understanding this, raised
the most serious of all objections: the children needed my oversight.

"'Take us with you,' she stupidly suggested.

"'The die was cast. We remained where we were: chained together, each
horribly distressing the other, and, with each spasm of pain, deepening
our own hurt and that of our companion in irons. She, unfailingly
angelic, and I, unbalanced, full of whims, and doubtless unbearable. Who
knows? If it had been possible to her nature, a clap of thunder might
have scattered the contrary electric currents between us, and have
restored peace. But no. We were enemies always on the point of
grappling, with never the relief of a word or a gesture of battle. My
nerves were on the point of giving way, when the inevitable romance came
into my life.'

"'You are still far from strong. Do not tell me any more to-day.'

"'Nay, chance has forced this confession. Let us go through with it to
the end. After this, we will never refer to it again. The romance you
have guessed at was connected with a lovable and light-hearted girl. She
was a little intoxicated with her own youth, and full of the exquisite
charm which illusion had once lent to the woman I married, and in which
she was to me so lamentably lacking now. What shall I say? I loved and
was loved. Our passion was an ideal one, very sweet, very pure, carrying
with it no remorse. Were I to tell you the story of it, it might even
seem childish to you. It contained, however, the two happiest years of
my life. Two years that passed like a flash. Two years of silent
delight, ending one day in a definite avowal. No sooner had we uttered
the words, than fear of the sin we glimpsed assailed us, and we fell
back aghast into the depths of despair. Our only kiss was the kiss of
eternal farewell.

"'I was left more broken and bleeding by the horrible fall than when you
found me on the stones of the quarry. She went away, and if I am to tell
the whole miserable truth, she has found comfort, she is married to a
boor, who, they say, makes her happy. Why should I care to appear better
than I am? I often regret the imbecile heroism prompting me, when to
save that shallow creature I made myself into the victim of an atrocious
fate. I spared her, and consequently am dying, while she, in the arms of
her hod carrier----Do not misjudge me. I have suffered. She had sworn to
love me forever. She is happy, and I--I who could have taken her and
broken her and made of the eventual harm to her an overwhelming joy,
while it lasted, have not even the right to proclaim her unworthy of my
foolish pity. I curse her, and I love her still.

"'And my wife, my blameless wife, who guessed everything, I am sure, and
forgave it, either from incapacity to resent an outrage, or from
insulting pity for me, my wife to whom I owe this double disillusion in
love, who unwittingly tortures me, and whom I equally torture, I
execrate her, I hate her with all the intensity of my misery. Had I
yielded to the moment's temptation I might have returned to her sated
with happiness, or disenchanted, or remorseful.

"'In my deepest misery I shall never forgive her the look of silent
anguish wherewith she stabs me. I shall never forgive her resignation,
the quiet submission which, together with her interest in her duties,
makes our tormented life bearable to her. She is not unaware, you may be
sure, that I have a hundred times thought of seeking oblivion in death.
She was no more taken in than you were by the accident on Dunley Hill.
She will never betray it by a word. She offers herself as a sacrifice,
and this magnanimity which fills me with despair constantly aggravates
the intolerable anguish of our daily association. I no longer love the
woman who loves me; I still love the one who loves me no longer. I have
committed no sin, I am even blameless. Will you deny that if I had given
myself cause for remorse I might also have suffered less, might have
even had chances of happiness?'"

With a far-away look in her eyes, the narrator ended her story abruptly.

"And what did you answer?" I questioned.

"I answered that pain wears itself out no less than joy, that it is our
nature to regret the things that might have been, because they are so
different from reality. I answered that patience to live is the greatest
among the virtues."



XXV

GIAMBOLO


I, too, have known the joys of travel! I, too, have left the easy slopes
of home for the steep ascents of foreign lands! Like many another
simpleton, sated with the familiar, I have enthusiastically crossed
frontiers in search of that something or other which might give me
unexpected sensations.

After being tossed and jolted and bruised in the hard sleeping cars, I
have fallen into the hands of porters, or "_traegers_" or "_facchini_,"
who bewildered me with their violent pantomime accompanied by
anti-French sounds, obliged me to follow them by going off with my wraps
and bags, and after an extortionate charge flung me on to the
sympathetically dejected cushions of the hotel omnibus, amid strange
companions. Next, a hideous rattling of iron and window glass, while a
gold-laced individual asks me simultaneously in three different
languages to account for my presence here, and say how I mean to spend
my time, telling me in the same breath the great advantage there would
be in doing something quite different from what I intend to do.
Presently the torture changes. A gigantic porter in an imperial great
coat transfers me to silent automata in black broadcloth and white tie,
who hand people and luggage from one to the next as far as the elevator.
Nothing more remains but to answer the chambermaid's investigations as
to my habits and tastes, my theory of existence, while by an error of
the hall boy my luggage is scattered in neighbouring rooms, and I am
burdened with someone else's. All is finally straightened out. Alone, at
last!

Then comes a discreet knock at my door. It is the interpreter, the
guide, the cicerone, the indispensable man, who with touching
obsequiousness places his universal knowledge at my disposal for to-day,
to-morrow, or all time. Here follows a long enumeration of what custom
imposes upon the stranger. There is no question of breaking away from
tradition. There stand the monuments, and here are the roads leading to
them. One may begin the round by one or another. My liberty is limited
to the order in which I shall see them. The rest does not concern me.
Here is such and such a picture, there stands such and such a piece of
statuary. We shall cross the street or the square where such and such an
event took place. A date, the year, and month, and day, are supposed to
stamp the facts on my memory. Why did the men of the past choose this
precise spot to make history? I have no time to inquire, for in three
turns of the wheel I am in another and still more memorable place, where
other dates and other names are dextrously driven into the quick of my
memory. Galleries follow upon galleries, trips to rivers, to mountains.
A glimpse of a cool garden tempts me. How sweet to rest there for a
while, and dream! But where is one to find the time, when interpreter
and coachman are growing impatient because there is no more than time to
go to the Carthusian monastery, and get back before nightfall?

The interminable road unfolds before me while I delve into my Baedeker
for the history of the monastery. Suddenly the coachman stops, points
with his whip at the horizon, and makes an emphatic, incomprehensible
speech. A battle was fought there in the time of the Risorgimento. His
little cousin's brother-in-law was wounded there, not mortally, though
his corporal had his leg cut off. How should one not be proud of such
memories? My guide says that his father was fond of telling that he had
seen it all from the top of a tower. He begins another version of the
story, which is interrupted by our arrival at the monastery, and taken
up again on the return journey. Next day in the train I shall have
leisure to think over all these things, if the complete confusion in my
memory leaves me capacity for anything but stupefaction.

When we try to get at the reason for these extraordinary performances,
people offer different explanations. This one will call it "taking a
holiday." The other will say that he has had an unhappy love affair and
needs distraction. For the most part, people will confess that they are
trying to forget something--their wife, their children, their business.
All seem tormented by the same desire for novelty. What they are seeking
from men and monuments and places in foreign lands is something not yet
seen, a fresh enjoyment, a virgin impression which shall draw them
outside the circle of outworn sensations. It is something to rouse a
happy wonder, and fulfil a hope of pleasure that always keeps ahead of
any pleasure experienced. Do they find it? Everyone must answer for
himself. Many probably never ask themselves the question, lest they be
obliged to confess a weary disappointment.

Before this procession of churches, statues, and pictures, where shall
we stop, what shall we try to retain? How shall we disentangle the
significance of things, the meaning and power and expressiveness of
which can only be grasped by deep study? It would be too simple, if one
need merely open one's eyes in order to understand. The work of art
speaks, but we must know its language. Not only is time wanting,
knowledge of the need of knowledge is wanting in most passers by, who
will never do anything but pass by. Their pride is satisfied when they
can say: "I have seen." That is the most definite part of their harvest
of pleasure. It is apparently a conscientious scruple that obliges them
to go out of their way to obtain it.

"I am going to Rome," said a young Englishman to Miss Harriet Martineau,
"oh, just so as to be able to say that I have been there."

"Why don't you say so without going?" was the simple reply.

It is upon Italy particularly that the crowd hurls itself. Wherever you
may go in that classic land, you will be surrounded by an ever-rising
flood of the natives of every known continent, all seeking under new
skies for self-renewal. Silent, tired, their eyes straining at invisible
things, they file past with their shawls and veils and parasols,
levelling field glasses, marking maps, asking senseless questions, and
emitting exclamations expressive of an equal admiration for everything
they see. I have always pitied these poor people, dragged from their
native land by a force which their simple minds are unable to analyze.
They will never express their disappointment, most of them will never
realize it. But I feel it for them, and I pity their wasted effort.

It was a consolation to me to find one day that there are people who
turn homeward satisfied, with the object of their desires attained, and
the happiness secured of having seen and felt what it is granted only to
a chosen few to see and feel.

I was quite alone on the platform of the bell tower of Torcello, from
which the entire Venetian lagoon is visible at a glance. Sea, air, and
sky, all luminous and transparent, melted into one another, building a
vast dome of light. In the distance, bluish spots--islands, or perhaps
clouds--what cared I for names! Do clouds have names? Boats loaded with
fruit and vegetables streaked the bright mirror of the sea, and alone
reminded one of the reality of the earth. Not a sound. The desert calm
of sky and sea imposes silence. The lagoon has no song.

I stood there, as if transfixed in the crystal of the universe, admiring
without reflection, when lo!--a group of Germans arriving, led by the
fever-shaken cicerone whose aid I had a little earlier refused. Here was
his chance for revenge. Immediately, without preamble, he gathers his
audience in a circle, and begins to "exhibit" the horizon. With
outstretched arms he throws at every point of the compass names, and
names, and then more names. From the top of the peaceful tower fly
sonorous sounds to the spots where his imperious gesture firmly fastens
them. Mountain, island, tower, village, indentations of the coast line,
everything has its turn, visible objects and objects that might be
visible. Men, women, and children, all Germany hangs upon the lips of
the voluble showman. At each name, as if at a military command, all
glances follow the pointing finger and take an anxious plunge into
space. For one must be sure to see the designated spot. Otherwise what
is the good of coming? But as soon as the eyes are settling down to
feed upon the sight just announced, a new command drags them all in
another direction. That blue line, that white gleam have a name, a
history--this is the name, and here is the history. Now let us go on to
the next thing.

These people, marvellously disciplined, listen in admiring attitudes. A
student is taking notes, so as to impart his learning when he gets home.
But the end is not yet. The cicerone, suddenly silent, one hand
shielding his eyes, appears hypnotized by something at the horizon. The
attitude, the fixed stare, particularly the silence, keep the spectators
in suspense. The man has drawn from his pocket a battered opera glass
which, possibly, in the last century, contributed to the delight of some
noble dame at the Fenice. Its lenses acquire from being dextrously
rubbed with an accurately proportioned mixture of saliva and tobacco,
and then dried with a handkerchief reminiscent of fish fried in oil, and
of polenta, the unique property of making infinitely small objects at
the horizon visible--objects smaller than any other optical instrument
could enable one to see. The man brandishes the apparatus.

"To-day Giambolo is visible," he says. "I am going to show you
Giambolo."

Everyone exclaims joyously: "What! Is it possible? He is going to show
us Giambolo!"

And the man on the bell tower of Torcello is as good as his word.
Pushing aside the German field glasses with a scornful gesture, he
thrusts his precious instrument upon the group.

"Do you see, just above the horizon line, something white that seems to
move in a burst of light? Half close your eyes, in order to see farther.
By an uncommon piece of luck Giambolo is visible to-day. You cannot help
seeing it. I can even see it with my naked eye. But of course I know
where to look for it."

The rigid German, ankylosed at his glass, suddenly straightens up.

"Yes, yes, I saw it very well. It is all white, and there is something
shining."

"That is it," answers the man of Torcello, satisfied.

Then everyone took his turn. The women all saw it at the very first
glance; they even gave detailed descriptions of it. The student alone
could not see Giambolo. He confessed it with genuine humiliation, and
was looked upon with pitying disdain by all the others.

"What is it like?" he asked of everyone. And everyone gave his own
description. There was a slight vapour at the top. A streak at the
right, said some, some said at the left; there was nothing of the kind,
according to the _pater familias_ who had had the distinction of being
the first to see Giambolo.

The unfortunate student tried again and again, and went on exclaiming
in despair: "I can see nothing! I can see nothing!"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders with a placid smile, the meaning of
which obviously was that some people had not the gift.

"But," cried the exasperated youth, "what is Giambolo, will you tell me?
Is there any such thing, really, as Giambolo?"

A unanimous cry of horror went up at this blasphemy. How could one see a
thing that did not exist? When half a dozen human beings have in good
faith seen Giambolo and are willing to swear before God that they have,
no further discussion is possible.

"Then tell me what it is, since you have seen it."

With a gesture the Italian checked all forthcoming answers.

"Giambolo is Giambolo," he pronounced, with imposing solemnity. "One
cannot, unless one is mad, argue about it. Only, it is not granted to
everyone to see it."

There was evidently on the bell tower of Torcello no one bereft of
reason, for silence followed this speech, and no one seemed inclined to
dispute a settled fact. Groaning under the weight of his shame, the
unfortunate young man who had not seen Giambolo gave the signal for
moving on, and the descent was made in the contented repose of mind that
attends the happy accomplishment of an act above the common.

On the lowest step, the good Torcellian reaped in his discreetly
outstretched cap an abundant harvest of silver coins. It is hardly
possible to be niggardly with those who have shown one Giambolo.

A few days later, on the roof of the Milan Cathedral, amid the thick
forest of statues which makes the place surprising, I saw a mustachioed
guide hurling at the marble multitude augmented by a flock of Cook's
tourists the names of the snowy summits composing the Alpine range along
the horizon. The memory of Torcello was so recent that I could not but
be struck by the identity of the scene. The same motions, same accent,
same voluble emphasis. The session was near its end. I was about to pass
on, when the man, after a moment's silent scrutiny, drew forth an opera
glass through which perhaps, in her day, Malibran was seen at the Scala;
he signified by a gesture that he had a supplementary communication to
make. All Cook's flock drew near, grave, anxious, open mouthed. Oh,
surprise! Like the man of Torcello, the Milanese had caught sight of
something not usually to be seen. With an authoritative gesture he
called upon the elements to deliver up their mystery, and extending a
finger with infallible accuracy toward a point known only to himself,
cast upon the wind a name the sonorous vibrations of which spread
through space. Was it an illusion? It seemed to me that the name was
Giambolo.

Still Giambolo! Giambolo, visible from all heights. And the same scene
was enacted as on the lagoon at Venice.

The magical glass passed from hand to hand; exclamations of joy and
surprise followed one another. Everybody wished to see and saw Giambolo.
They exchanged their impressions.

"Did you see the little puff of vapour?"

"Something white."

"Yes--blue."

"No--gray."

"That is it! You have seen it!"

And there was inexpressible delight. Only a few silent individuals
showed by their dejected attitude the humiliation they felt at not being
sure of what they had seen, or whether they had seen it. But no one took
any notice of this in the tumult of commentary.

I looked at the happy group. Laughing faces, bright eyes, all the
weariness of travel wiped out. Some of the women grew quiet, the more
consciously to taste their joy. The men, more communicative, exchanged
opinions. They had seen Giambolo, and could not get over the wonder of
it.

They had not come to Italy in vain. Which opinion was shared by the
excellent Lombardy guide, weighing in his palm the money accruing to him
from the sight of Giambolo.

A week had passed without any notable event other than meeting
everywhere those pilgrim bands who spoil all pleasure in beautiful
things by the obsession of their ready-made admirations. From the outer
rotunda of the convent in Assisi I was letting my gaze wander over the
plain of Umbria, all the world in sight being an expanse of billowing
greenness. As if through a trap door a man sprang up at my side, then
two, then ten, then what seemed a thousand, for the platform on which I
had a moment before been walking alone under the sky was turned into a
clamorous ant hill.

Voices on all sides exclaimed: "Here it is! Here is the place from which
we can see. Over there, there, the towers of Perugia. And the railway!"

"What! The railway that brought us?"

"Yes, really!"

"How strange!"

"Can you tell me, sir," said a fat man, puffing, "the name of yonder
village?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, and that other one?"

"No, sir."

There was a cry. Everyone rushed in the direction whence it came. I
feared that someone had fallen over the parapet. Not at all, it was the
call of the cicerone who had something to impart. As soon as he had
obtained silence:

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began in ringing tones, "the day is
exceptionally favourable to show you, far away, beyond Perugia,
something which few travellers have had the good fortune to see from
here."

The greasy opera glass came into sight, wrapped in a red handkerchief
together with cigarettes and divers odds and ends. The entire audience
was aquiver with suspense, keen to the point of anguish.

"You shall now see," he cried.

I fled. But I had finally begun to see the philosophy of the phenomenon.
In a word, Giambolo was a reality, since it was the thing that all these
people came in search of. What exactly was it? There was no advantage in
knowing, since, if Giambolo were within reach, all joy in it would be
lost. Giambolo stands for that which cannot be grasped. Giambolo stands
for the beyond--it is the door leading from the known to the Infinite.

We leave our country, our home and friends, all to whom we give the best
of ourselves, all for whom we spend ourselves, and we go to foreign
lands in quest of that fascinating Giambolo which we do not find at
home, where strangers sometimes come in search of it. We wear ourselves
out in the quest. When we reach home again, we claim to have seen it.
Sometimes we are not sure of having done so. A monument, a statue, a
picture is too close. We can always, taking the word of fame, make
believe to discover what we in reality do not. But if we succeed in
deceiving others, it is harder in good faith to delude ourselves.
Whereas, from a height, through the blurred glass of faith, the little
white light, beyond the edge of the visible world, by which we are
enabled sincerely to see what we do not see brings us the surest
realization of human hope.

And, kind readers, if any one of you ever has any doubts, even though
you sit in your armchair at home, follow the advice of the guide on the
Venetian lagoon: "Half close your eyes----" and you will see Giambolo.


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *


    THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
      GARDEN CITY, N. Y.


       *       *       *       *       *

_Books by the Same Author_

      THE STRONGEST
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