IIITHE ENEMIES
THERE was one Saturday evening, I remember....
I can not fix the precise date, but I know it must have been a Saturday because on coming home from school I met at the door Oui-oui, shaking his head, and Zeez Million counting the amount of her interest, on her open palm.
Saturday was the day for the poor. We usually watched the procession under shelter of a closed window, for Aunt Deen, who was a stickler for class distinctions, prudently kept us shielded from their verminous contact. Zeez, or Louise, was a crazy woman to whom was regularly given every week the modest subsidy of fifty centimes, which she called her interest. Insanity did not affect her exactions: a new servant, not sufficiently instructed having insulted her by doling out two sous, had received back the inadequate money in her face. Her reason had been affected by the expectation of a large prize in the lottery. She now spoke only of millions and the name had stuck by her.
As for Yes-yes, he owed the soubriquet to his nodding head, the weight of which he could ill sustain, and which incessantly waggedup and down like those articulated animals exhibited at bazars, their motions extolled by artful merchants by way of increasing their price. My sister Mélanie and I had incurred his wrath, under memorable circumstances. Mélanie having read in the gospels that a glass of water given to the poor would be paid back a hundred fold, conceived the idea of offering one to Oui-oui. In the goodness of her heart, she was even willing to let me participate in her beneficence. I held the caraffe, ready to offer a second draught. But he considered our gift an insult. Grandfather, when he heard of our ill-starred effort, completed our discomfiture:
“Offering water to that drunkard! He would rather never wash again than touch water.”
And in our presence he tendered to Oui-oui a glass of red wine, which was swallowed at a draught, followed by a second and a third till the entire bottle was gone. If grandfather was to receive back his offering a hundred fold, his thirst would be copiously quenched in the celestial kingdom.
Whenever grandfather, going out for his daily walk, met beggars at the door, he would desire that bread and not money should be given them.
“Money is immoral,” he would insist. “Let us share our bread with these good folk.”
I could not understand how money could be immoral. And we always found at the foot of the stone columns, broken into bits, all the bread that hadbeen given, the poor having received it with contempt.
It must have been a Saturday in June. It was still broad day, though it was past seven o’clock when I came back to the house, and on the edge of the garden there was still a haycock which Tem Bossette must have mown, taking plenty of time. I just muttered, “How d’ye do, Yes-yes; how d’ye do, Zeez,” without so much as waiting for their reply; did not close the door which they had left open, and slipped into the passage that led to the kitchen, for I had lingered on the way home from school to play with some schoolmates in a narrow street that we called “behind the walls,” because it bordered a row of houses shut in like fortresses. I had no quarrel with this unsocial way of shutting every one out, though I preferred such fences or hedges as permit one to satisfy his curiosity, and do not so abruptly shut off the view; but grandfather, when he passed that way, never concealed his disgust. “The earth is for everybody, and they mew her up as if they feared she would run away!”
He spoke of it as of a living person. Except for our house I should have been quite willing to do away with all enclosures. Did not the earth belong to me?
“Behind the walls” we used to have great games of marbles in the very middle of the street, certain of not being disturbed. If a chance cart should enter the street, the driver, held up by our protests, wouldwait patiently until we had finished our game, sometimes he would even interest himself in the process; after which he would go on his way. Nobody was in a hurry in those days. At the present time that road is the Boulevard of the Constitution, and one has to look out for automobiles. I have no idea where children go to play now-a-days.
My haste was not due to fear of being scolded for being late. I was sure that no one had so much as thought of me. But merely by approaching the gate I had felt the strange uneasiness which at that time seemed to pervade the house like some formal guest whose presence makes every one feel ill at ease. Domestic tragedies make their approach felt long in advance by signs somewhat like those of a coming storm: a breathless atmosphere, intermittent showers of tears, the distant murmur of recriminations and laments. There was electricity in the air. My mother, who never failed to light her blessed candle as soon as thunder began to growl, was praying more often than ever, and I could see that she was anxious, for her pure eyes could never hide anything. Aunt Deen tore up and down stairs with feverish, almost war-like, ardour, inflamed with a rage that gave her an invincible strength, amazing The Hanged, and making those spiders that thought themselves just beyond reach suffer the ruthlessly avenging wolf’s head. She was continually uttering threats against invisible enemies. Ah! the wretches! They would soon know with whom they had to deal! “They” were certainly getting vigorous castigation in advance. Evenour father, generally so self-controlled, appeared absorbed. At table he would sometimes throw back his head as if to drive away troublesome thoughts. And more than once I had perceived him conversing in a low voice with our mother, giving her documents on blue paper to read, the words of which I did not understand. Every one was on the alert for something to happen, perhaps a bulletin of victory or of disaster, such as comes to a country where the armies are on the frontier.
Alone among these secret parleyings, these evident anxieties, grandfather maintained the most complete indifference. Evidently the approaching event was no affair of his. He played the violin, smoked his pipe, consulted his barometer, inspected the sky, predicted the weather, as if nothing could be more important, and he went regularly for his walk. Nothing was changing, nothing could change for him except the clouds across the sun. As for things of earth, they were utterly without importance.
Once father attempted to ask his opinion, or present to him the peril of a situation which I could not in the least understand. His words were supplicating, moving, pathetic, yet full of a respect which in no degree lessened their emphasis. Eying on the floor with my school book I lost nothing of the conversation, instead of studying my lesson.But I could catch only detached words which by degrees filled me with terror: “careless administration,” “responsibility,” “mortgage,” “sentence,” “total ruin,” “auction,” and at last the terrifying conclusion, like the blow of a cane on my head.
“Then we must leave the house?”
Leave the house! I can still see grandfather lifting his arm wearily, as if to drive away a fly, letting it fall again as he replied with a great gentleness which at first deceived me as to his thought:
“Oh, as far as I am concerned, it’s all one whether we live in this house or in another”; adding with his everlasting little laugh:
“Ha, ha! when one hires a house one can ask for repairs. In one’s own house one never gets any.”
At that moment father perceived me. His eyes were so dreadful that I was terrified and broke out into gooseflesh; but he simply said, without raising his voice:
“Run away, child. This is no place for you.”
I ran away, stupefied with a gentleness that was in such contrast with his face. Now I recognise it as a witness to his tremendous mastery of himself. I rushed out into the garden, carrying, like a bomb under my arm, the formidable utterance,Whether we live in this house or another. The idea had never occurred to me, could never have come to me, that we could live in another house. I felt as if I had been witnessing a sacrilege, but at the same time the sacrilege foundharbour in my brain because it had had no immediate sanction, had been accompanied by no solemnity, was like any indifferent act, like an act of no consequence at all. Was it possible that such words could have been uttered as a mere aside, negligently, even smilingly!
For the first time my notions of life were turned topsy-turvey. I confided my bewilderment to Tem Bossette, who was ruminating, leaning upon the handle of his spade. He lent me a complaisant ear, but took the opportunity to impart to me a bit of his personal history:
“I had a son in the hospital. When I saw that he was going to die, I rolled him up in a quilt and went away with my bundle. He died at home.”
I could not grasp the immediate applicability of his story, which he had told proudly, as if recalling an act of heroism. He shortly condescended to explain:
“It’s your lawsuit that is worrying them.”
Our lawsuit? We had a lawsuit? I had no idea what it was, and though I felt shame for my ignorance I asked the vinedresser:
“What is a lawsuit?”
He scratched his nose, no doubt in search of a definition.
“It’s something about justice. One loses, one wins, just as it happens. But when one loses it’s a great bother. On account of the sheriffs, who walk into your house as into a mill.”
The sheriffs were to walk into our house as into a mill! In an instant I pictured them under the guise of gigantic insects, enormous mole crickets swarming into the garden through the breach made by the chestnut tree, advancing in serried ranks to invest the house. I was particularly afraid of mole-crickets, which have a long clammy body and two antennae on the head, and enjoy a detestable reputation in agricultural circles: all sorts of misdeeds are attributed to them—they ravage whole garden beds. I had actually seen some crawling through the breach, and in the face of their invasion not all the arms manufactured by Tem Bossette sufficed to reassure me. I had turned tail, so to speak, upon my riding pole.
“It’s all Monsieur’s fault,” concluded the labourer, upon whose heart the affair hung heavy. “But what will you have? He doesn’t care for anything, and when one doesn’t care for anything nothing goes right. It’s lucky there’s Master Michael.”
Then, on one side there were the mole-crickets and on the other there was my father. A fearsome battle was to take place of which the house was the stake. And during the battle grandfather, indifferent, would be looking in the air, according to his custom, to see which way the wind blew. Up to that time I had supposed that, like the sluggard kings, he had nothing to do, but behold, he could bring about catastrophes! With one word he could close chapels, belittle ancestral portraits,and above all, it was quite the same to him to live in one house as in another! Why not in aroulotte, one of those waggon houses overflowing with bronzed gipsies, such as I had seen passing the gate, to the great terror of Aunt Deen, who used to call us in hastily, and give orders to bolt all the doors and look after the vegetables and fruits.
I was going in, greatly depressed by this conversation when I ran against Aunt Deen herself, whose assistance had been invoked by The Hanged for some arduous task requiring nerve and muscle.
“The lawsuit,” I cried, by way of relieving my mind. She stopped short.
“Who has been talking to you?”
“Tem Rossette.”
“That fellow must be sent away. Beatrix and Pachoux will have to do by themselves.”
She did not count herself. She simply called Beatrix by his right name.
Did she perceive from my tone or my face the inward tragedy through which I was passing? She shook me, laughing:
“Child, when your father is here, there is never anything to be afraid of—do you hear?”
And I was at once consoled.
She was already hastening after the labourer with a ball of red string in her hand which Mariette had doubtless refused to intrust to him. As she went she tossed her head proudly, like a horse that snuffs thewind and I heard her muttering to herself.
“Well, I declare, if that isn’t the last drop!”
By what signs, that Saturday evening, did I discern that the battle had been fought, that we were only waiting to learn the result? In the kitchen there was no Mariette over the stove. She was debating, vehemently, with Philomena, the waitress, who was carrying the soup tureen all awry, at great risk of spilling its contents, and with my old friend Tem, redder even than usual, who was doing his best to reassure the household by a word of prophecy.
“No, no, things will go well. To begin with, for my part, I will not leave the garden.”
As soon as they saw me there was silence, and Mariette quickly recovered her usual coolness and began to scold me.
“You are late, Master Francis. The second bell has rung. You will be scolded.” And to Philomena:
“Why are you standing there like a stock?”
Thus were we dispersed. I was counting upon meeting Aunt Deen in the vestibule before the dining-room; she was always the last to come to table because on the way she would find thirty-six different things to be begun or finished, and dash upstairs and down an indefinite number of times. My tactics succeeded. To forestall inquiry I took the offensive:
“What about the lawsuit?”
“Hush; we are waiting to hear.”
“To hear what?”
“It is being decided to-day in the Court.”
She uttered the words “The Court” with instructive stateliness, that reminded me of the Court of the Emperor Charlemagne, in my history book. A grand personage, a king with a golden crown on his head and wearing a golden chasuble like Monsignor the bishop in the procession, was concerning himself with our matter. It was awe-inspiring but flattering.
Under Aunt Deen’s shadow I slipped into my seat, endeavouring to put on a natural air. In the spirit of good fellowship my brothers and sisters refrained from calling attention to my arrival, so that I could swallow my soup without being noticed. Usually our mother came into the dining-room before us, to serve the soup. Philomena’s loquacity had interfered with this preliminary operation and I reaped the benefit of it. In fact, my parents paid not the slightest attention to me, from which I could infer that something was going on. I hastily gulped down my food, and my plate emptied, I cast a comprehensive glance around the table.
In the seat of honour, grandfather, the reigning king, was leaning over the table in order to drop no soup upon his beard, the precaution evidently quite absorbing him. I should learn nothing from him; nor anything more from my father, who commanded the table from one ofthe corners, and whose glance made me drop my eyes, for I could see distinctly that he was aware of my fault. After having inquired of one another as to his occupations during the day, he tried to make the conversation general. But he was almost the only one who spoke. His calm, his cheerfulness, soon completely restored the confidence which two or three spoonfuls of warm soup had already begun to awaken in me. Aunt Deen, who could not remain inactive during the intervals of the service, was busying herself in advance by mixing the salad, which she considered her special function, although there had often been some talk of withdrawing it from her because of her prodigality in the matter of vinegar. She tossed the green leaves and muttered vague exorcisms against bad luck. My sister Louise was teasing the little priest, the absent-minded Stephen, whom one might serve indefinitely with the same dish. But Bernard and Mélanie, the two eldest, often turned their eyes in one direction, and mine followed them: they were looking at our mother and our mother was looking at our father, upon whom in this hour all our safety seemed to depend.
The lamp had been lighted but it was not yet dark out of doors. Only the trees seemed to draw nearer, their branches to grow thicker and to cast a deeper shadow. Through the open windows a fresh breeze came from the garden, bringing on its wings pellmell, the odour of flowers, and a cloud of night-moths, which, attracted by the light, wheeled aboutunder the lamp shade. I watched their flight, at times more deeply interested in them than in the disturbed expression of the faces around the table.
The meal was drawing to a close; the dessert was already being served. I had begun to think that nothing was going to happen. Suddenly Mariette rushed into the dining-room, a telegram in her hand. She had not waited to put it on a tray, she had not given it to the maid who served at table, but brought it in person just as she had received it from the postman. She, too, scented important news in the air, and would learn what it was without delay.
“It is for Monsieur Rambert,” she said.
She passed by grandfather’s place, and crossed the entire length of the room, as if she was but doing her duty in handing the blue paper to father, who was on the side toward the windows. Father took it from her, but handed it at once to the actual addressee.
“Do you want it?” he asked.
“Oh, no thank you,” said grandfather with his little laugh. “Open it yourself.”
Nevertheless I caught him casting a quick, alert glance upon the telegram. His little laugh at once recalled to my mind a rattle which had been taken away from me because it disturbed everybody. That little laugh was the last sound. An almost solemn silence ensued, so complete that I could hear the tearing of the envelope. How could father open it with so little impatience? I imagined myself opening it in hisplace, err—err ... it was done. All eyes converged upon the deliberate motions of his two hands—all except those of grandfather, who quite as peacefully removed the crust from a bit of cheese, and seemed to take pleasure in the trifling task. Father felt our anxiety and doubtless wished to relieve it at all hazards; instead of reading he raised his eyes to us.
“Go on eating,” he said. “It does not concern you.”
Then turning to the cook who had remained behind his chair, leaning over like an interrogation point:
“Thank you, Mariette, you may go.”
She went, vexed, knowing nothing, but sent in Philomena who learned no more than she.
Finally my father read. Deliberate as he had been in the preliminaries he was quick enough in reading. He must have taken in the whole at a glance. He was already putting the telegram in his pocket without a word, without the movement of a muscle, when he looked around the table, and under his gaze we bent our eyes upon our plates.
“Come, come, children!” he exclaimed almost gaily. “It is still light. Make haste to finish your dessert and run play in the garden.”
He spoke in his usual tone, at once cheery and commanding. It was so simple that for a moment our mother quite brightened up. I saw that as I raised my head, but it was only for a moment, like the afterglowupon the mountain tops after sunset. Then the shadow again swept over her face, and I even saw in her eyes two water drops that glistened and disappeared without falling. She had understood, and after her and by her I understood, too. The mysterious Court had decided against us. The lawsuit, the terrible lawsuit, was lost.
We were all in consternation without knowing precisely why; we had felt the wind of defeat pass over us.
Still, our father manifested no trouble, no sadness, and grandfather after his gruyère was dipping his biscuit in his wine, as he particularly liked to do because of his teeth, which were bad. He seemed to have paid no attention to the affair of the telegram. The nerve of the one amazed me as much as the aloofness of the other. By different ways they had reached the same calmness. As for Aunt Deen, she was biting viciously into a peach which was unripe and crackled.
We left the table and went into the garden into which darkness was stealthily creeping. I tried to linger behind, but was drawn along by my sister Mélanie; she divined that our parents wished to talk by themselves.
I could find no pleasure in any play, and I was soon flocking by myself, my imagination revelling over the approaching ruin. “They” were driving us from our house as the angel drove Adam and Eve out ofEden. “They” were coming into our house as into a mill. “They” were dividing our treasures among themselves as the Greeks divided the spoils of the Trojans. “They?” Who? Aunt Deen’s “they”; I knew no more than that. And in this catastrophe one remark kept coming back to me, incomprehensible, terrifying, and yet not to be put away:What’s the difference whether one lives in one house or in another?
These words of my grandfather, revolting and at the same time stupefying, almost mesmerized me by their audacity, almost made me giddy. How could one consent to abandon his house without defending it to his utmost ability? In my heart I cried to arms. By way of acting out what was going on within me, I seized one of Tem Bossette’s swords, bestrode my favourite pole, and notwithstanding the rapid approach of darkness, extinguishing the last rays of twilight, of which I was greatly in dread, I rushed at a gallop to the very top of the garden, to the chestnut grove, to the breach in the wall. The shadow of night had already entered by it, and after it all the shadows. They were creeping along, climbing the trees, swarming over the paths, filling the clumps of trees. There was a whole army of them. They were the mole-crickets, giant mole-crickets, the enemies of the house. With all my might I tried to scatter them to right and left with great sword thrusts. But I met nothing, and that was the worst of it. Then, indesperation, I took to my heels. I was conquered.
It was a comfort to hear a voice coming my way, my mother’s voice calling,
“François, François!”
That call saved my honour; my hasty return ceased to be a flight.
My bedroom, the vast proportions of which distressed me, but which happily I shared with Bernard and Stephen, was near our mother’s chamber. It was long before I could sleep. Beneath the door of communication I could perceive a streak of light. The lamp must have burned very late and I could hear the alternating sound of two carefully subdued voices,—my father’s and my mother’s voices. With all calmness the destiny of the family was being discussed close beside me.