I HARDLY slept that night, and in my half slumber I confused the holy war for independence with my loss of Nazzarena. My love was a part of that liberty which grandfather vaunted, and for which he had carried a gun. When morning came it found me firmly resolved not to go to school, but to take my last chance of being present when the circus troop departed. The farewell of the evening before had been disappointing. Not being prepared, I had found nothing to say. Surely, things couldn’t end that way.
I complained of a headache, and found ready credence. I understood that I was supposed to be upset by the scene in the Café of the Navigators. Aunt Deen even brought me secretly a frothing and tasty mulled egg, good for headaches, and so delicious that I enjoyed it in spite of my grief—at which I was inwardly humiliated.
“You’ll stay in bed till noon,” she said, as she carried away the cup, adding—she, too!—
“Poor child!”
At which my gratitude to her immediately vanished, for I had no ideaof being considered a child any longer, since I was in love.
As soon as she was gone I dressed hastily, but not without a certain care, and ran up to the tower chamber, where grandfather received me with surprise, and some signs of pleasure.
“They let you come up?” he asked.
Why should he ask? I had asked permission of no one. He merely shrugged his shoulders and became the philosopher once more—“Oh, it’s all the same to me.”
The four windows of the tower commanded all the roads. It was my plan to watch from this lookout for the train of waggons. They were loaded, they would advance slowly. I calculated that I should have time to overtake them. Which way would they go? I had no notion. I imagined that they would take the road for Italy, and I watched that one especially.
I had stationed myself before one of the windows, half hidden by a piece of furniture, when there came a knock at the door and father entered. I thought he had come for me, and I at once knew that in spite of my resolutions I should not resist. He had the same calm and irresistible air of authority that he had had the evening before; but, absorbed in his purpose, he did not so much as see me, and as he walked directly to grandfather he even turned his back to me. Unless I intervened he would not know I was there. After a brief but courteous salutation he showed the newspaper he had in his hand—a local journal.
“This paper announces that you are presenting yourself for election at the head of the list of the Left. Is that so, father?”
I could divine under the interrogative form of the simple phrase that he was inwardly boiling with restrained anger.
At the gate of the town there was a blank wall overlooking the lake, which was always swept by waves on windy or stormy days. My school fellows and I used sometimes to amuse ourselves by running across between two waves, at the risk of being wet by spray or even drenched by some larger wave. On certain days when the storm, was severe, such bravado was impossible. We used to say then that the tempest-tossed lake was smoking. I had the sensation now that my way would be barred in the same manner.
How can I have forgotten one traitor word of the conversation that followed? Grandfather, according to his habit, merely replied—at once gently and bravely (he detested scenes and usually avoided them, but Martinod’s cowardice was not his style):
“I am free, I suppose.”
“No one is free,” replied my father, with a determined evenness of voice which chilled me to the marrow. “All of us depend upon one another. And you are aware that you are presenting yourself against me.”
This time grandfather’s retort was more sharp. He would not give way, he would defend himself. At last!
“I am presenting myself against no one,” he replied. “I simply present myself—that is all. And I hinder no one from presenting himself. I say again, Michel, every one is free to act according to his good pleasure.”
With an eloquence which gradually grew warm, and which he then interrupted, as if determined not to depart from the most respectful form of speech, constantly struggling to control himself against the vehemence of his own words, father sought to convince him by a line of argument which even at this distance I believe I can recall. Why this candidacy at the last moment when grandfather had never dreamed of taking any part in politics, and when he knew that his son was the head of the conservative party? How was it that he did not see that this was a manœuvre of Martinod, who was only too happy to take revenge for the blow he had received, and to effect the disintegration of the Rambert family? Surely no one would allow himself to be taken in Martinod’s coarse trap!
“And besides,” he concluded, “we can not be candidates against one another.”
Grandfather’s little laugh accompanied his answer: “Oho! Why not? It will be something new, and for my part I see no harm in it.”
“Because a family can not be divided.”
“A family! A family! You always have that word in your mouth. Individuals are of some account, too, I suppose. And besides, why aren’t your convictions the same as mine, since you are my son?”
“You forget that my convictions are the same as those of all our family down to your father.”
“Yes, the nurseryman. You forget the soldier of the Emperor ...”
“He served France. France comes first. I do not include those who emigrated.”
“And your great uncle Philippe Rambert, thesans-culotte?”
“Don’t let us speak of him; he is our shame. Every family has its tradition. Ours, until you, was simple and fine. ‘God and the King.’”
“Well, liberty is enough for me. Once for all, I leave you your way; let me have mine.”
“But I repeat to you that the solidarity of our name and our race lays an obligation upon you. Besides, your liberty is a mere chimera. We are all in a state of dependence. Will you force me to remind you that I have accepted this dependence with all its cost? The very house which shelters us, and which I have saved, is a witness to the permanence and unity of the family under one roof.”
By degrees the conversation became a battle. Father seemed to me so big and powerful that he could have crushed grandfather with a snap of the finger, and yet grandfather held out against him, with his sharp little voice, and with a vigour such as I hardly recognised in him.To see them thus drawn up against each other frightened me and gave me horrible torment. In my new-born rebellion against authority my heart was with grandfather. I pictured to myself, under Nazzarena’s features, that liberty of which they were speaking in attack and defence. It seemed to me that I should be committing a cowardly act like that of Martinod in the Café des Navigateurs when he took off his hat in obedience to orders, showing his white, terrified face, if I did not intervene in behalf of my companion, my comrade in walks, who had transmitted to me as a brilliant inheritance—the only one he had to give—his love of simple nature, of the wandering life, of that independence which proudly refuses to submit to rule, and perhaps also that love of love which by itself alone includes all these. I did not conceal from myself the risk I was running. I foresaw the punishment which would follow, and yet I came forward like a little martyr asking for death.
“Grandfather is free!” I cried at the top of my voice.
I had thought to utter a tremendous shout, but I could hardly hear my own voice, and was astonished and vexed that I had not made more noise. Nevertheless, I perceived the immediate effect, which though quite enough to satisfy me, was far from reassuring. My father had turned suddenly, amazed at my presence and audacity. This time the road was closed, like that of the lakeside on stormy days. He gazed at us bothby turns as if to discover some complicity, some understanding between us. Face to face with him we were really just nothing at all. He was strong enough to crush us both. His eyes flashed fire; his voice would roll over us like thunder; the storm that was about to overwhelm us would be terrible.
Why did he keep silent? What was he waiting for? Still he said nothing, and the silence became more distressing, more tragic. I could hear my own terror like the tick tock of a clock.
Having taken time to regain his self-control, by what must have been a superhuman effort, he turned from me that gaze that so terrified me, and spoke to grandfather:
“Very well,” he said, so calmly and gently that it disconcerted me; “I am no longer a candidate. We will not amuse the city with the sight of our divisions. But I will permit myself to give you one bit of advice. By my retirement Martinod will have secured what he wants; that was all he was after; now do not permit yourself to be any longer the tool of the man who has slandered me; do you on your side give up this candidacy, which is not at all in your line.”
If grandfather was surprised by this change of tactics, he did not show it in the least.
“Oh, it would be a great mistake for you to retire. You would perhaps have been elected, and as for me, it’s all one. My principal object is to disavow your political opinions. The family can’t command ourideas.”
Father seemed to hesitate a moment as to resuming the subject before deciding to let it go. He let it go because there was another matter even nearer to his heart.
“Let us say no more about it,” he said. “Something of far greater importance has been going on in my house, something that I can not tolerate. You have robbed me of this child whom I entrusted to you.”
The conflict was suddenly taking another form, and I had become its object. In a flash arose before me the scene when I was setting out for my first walk after my convalescence. We were all three upon the doorstep. Father was putting my hand into grandfather’s with the bewildering words,Here is my son—it is the future of the house. And grandfather answered with his little laugh,Don’t worry, Michel, no one will rob you of him. What did they mean? How could any one rob him of me?
“How absurd!” grandfather was saying. “I never robbed any one of anything. So I am accused of stealing children, am I? Why not of eating them?”
Mockery and irony were, however, too weak a weapon not to be broken in the attack that followed. Not one detail of that scene has faded from my memory. I can see them both, one strong and high-coloured, inthe fulness of strength and vigour, and yet uttering such a groan as trees give forth under the woodman’s axe, the other so old, fragile and shrivelled, and yet all insolence, holding up his head and jeering, and I between the two like the stake in a game they were playing.
“Yes,” father replied; “I gave you my son to make him well, not to lead him astray. You yourself promised to do nothing which might one day put him in opposition to our household and religious traditions. Have you kept your promise? I have for some time been doubtful as to what was going on in this little head. I spoke to Valentine about it, and learned that she too was fearful of this misfortune, though in her respect for you she dreaded to make the mistake of attributing an unfortunate influence to you. I do not know how you have managed to take possession of the child’s mind. But I can not but know that you have been taking Francis to the very place where our opponents are in the habit of meeting, and where they take advantage of your weakness and your generosity.”
“I can’t permit you—” grandfather tried to interrupt.
“Of your generosity,” the voice went on more firmly, “or of mine. This morning I received a bill from that place. It is a large one. Martinod no doubt thinks it a joke to treat his heelers at my expense.”
“Who sent you the bill?”
“The proprietor of the café. To whom should he send it? He brought it himself, and by way of argument he simply said, ‘The boy had some of it.’ My son was a partaker as well as my father; I am responsible, since, for my part, I believe in the solidarity of the family. I paid for Casenave, whose body bears already the promise of a drunkard’s death; for Gallus and Merinos, poor wretches, incapable of the slightest work; for that idle Galurin and that scoundrel Martinod. Paying is of no consequence—I have been through worse than that, as you know. But what errors have you taught this child? I must know all, now, that I may uproot them from his heart like weeds from the garden. Where is he going? What will he make of his life with that utopia of liberty to which every hour of real life gives the lie—without the stern discipline of home, without our faith? Don’t you know that what maintains our race, every race, is the spirit of the family? Has not life taught you that?”
I was moved by the tone in which he spoke. Always sensitive to the melody of words, I caught them as they were uttered, and by them I can now easily rise to the ideas which they expressed but which then passed over my head.
“Have you finished?” asked grandfather, with an impertinence that moved me to admiration.
“Yes, I have finished. I beg pardon for having raised my voice in thepresence of this child. He should at least know—you can bear witness to that—that I have always been a respectful son.”
“Oh, you have paid my debts. And you are still paying them.”
“Is that all? And have you not at all times had the support of my filial affection?”
“Of your protection.”
“My protection is extended only to shield you from those who desire your ruin. And can’t you understand that in withdrawing this child from my authority, disarming him for future conflicts, you are preparing the way for the ruin of us all?”
Grandfather exclaimed, “Oh! oh!”—and went on in his turn:
“I should like to know what you are blaming me for. I took the boy to walk when he needed it, and instilled into him the love of nature.”
“And not the love of his home.”
“Is it my fault that he prefers my society? I never try to teach, for my part—I don’t go about preaching at all times and seasons subordination, tradition, the principles of religion. I simply have respect for life, for liberty if you prefer the word.”
“But liberty is not life. It destroys everything that should be preserved.”
“Oh, don’t let us go over that discussion. What has happened to your son happened to mine.”
“To me?”
“Yes, to you. When you were little another influence was substitutedfor mine. The magistrate, the nurseryman, the lover of roses—”
“Your father.”
“Yes; he gave you a taste for trimmed trees, raked alleys, for laws, human and divine, and what more!”
“Why do you lay it up against me that I am like all our race?”
“I saw you changing under my very eyes. Do you know whether I too did not suffer to see it?”
“Oh, you were always so detached from me, and from—”
My father did not finish his sentence, and I shall not finish it now, though I am only too fearful of having discovered its meaning. The respect which he then maintained lays its command upon me, even at this distance. They had both laid bare a hidden wound, which had never quite ceased to bleed. They stood there face to face with that memory between them, terrified perhaps with what they were discovering in the past, not wishing to go farther before me, when an unexpected relief arrived.
Mother came in. She had probably heard their voices from her room and had hastened, all a-tremble, to prevent the conflict going farther. With her came the household peace.
“What is the matter?” she asked gently.
Her mere presence had parted them, and it was impressed upon me that the conversation would have no further interest for any one.
“I am here to claim my son,” said father.
“Take him, take him,” said grandfather, abandoning me to my fate. But he could not refrain from adding, defiantly:
“Take him back if you can.”
“He ought not to be parted from God,” said my mother simply, remembering the time I had failed to come to Mass. Then, feeling that this was not the place for me, she pushed me toward them, as a token of reconciliation, with the words:
“Kiss them, and go down to Aunt Deen.”
I obeyed, and after being negligently or reluctantly kissed I rushed down stairs, not caring how the peace was made, thinking only of Nazzarena who was going away. A little later I heard some one in the garden calling me, but I did not answer.
I flew to the chestnut grove on the edge of the domain, and scrambled upon the wall, near the breach that one of the trees had once made merely by the push of its roots, and which had been closed by a grating. From this point I could see the road to Italy. Only one chance was left to me—would the circus troop go that way? I waited long, but not in vain.
They are coming, they are coming! First the waggons carrying the tent, the benches, and all the accessories. What wretched horses were drawing them! I looked about for Nazzarena’s black courser, but he was not to be distinguished from the rest of the sorry jades. Then came theroulottesthat the folk lived in. Smoke was rising from oneor another of the slender chimneys. They were getting dinner ready for the long journey. On one of the rear balconies an old woman was combing a little girl’s hair, the well known parroquet beside them. I was looking, with all my eyes I was looking, for the blond hair of my beloved.
Ah, I saw her at last! It was she, there, bareheaded—her clear-cut face and golden tint. She was herself driving one of the waggons. A mission of importance had been entrusted to her. She held her whip upright in the air, but she loved animals too much to strike them. She was sitting very straight, holding her head proudly—how lovely were the lines of her throat! Why had I never noticed that before? I had never really seen her, so to speak—I must see her, I must see her!
When she emerged from the shadow of the chestnuts the sun made a golden nimbus through her curly hair, that seemed to blend with the light, so that one could not tell where her curls began or the light ended. Beside her on the seat sat a little boy. They were talking to one another, laughing together. I saw her white teeth, but her glance, her golden glance, would she not turn it toward me? Nazzarena, Nazzarena, don’t you feel that I am here, so close to you, perched upon the wall, this wall just above you?
She laughed, she was passing, she had passed. Now the roof of theroulottehid her. I had not called her, she had not looked atme. Was it possible that I no longer saw her face, nor her eyes, nor her golden colour? Is it possible that so tremendous a thing lasted only a tiny little minute?
My heart was bursting in my breast, and I sat there motionless. Why did I not leap from the wall to the road? Why did I not run after her? Was I nailed to my place? Now I knew that she was lost to me; now I knew that she was always lost to me. Like the shepherd leading his flock to the mountain, whose chance word taught me to know desire, so she, only by going away, taught me the pain of love-partings.
The pain of love-partings is fixed for me in that picture, a little boy astride of the wall of his ancestral home, and a little girl who in the morning light goes away along the road, goes away without turning her head....
How fast we hold to our memories! Long after, when I had become the master, the farmer came to ask permission to cut down that tree which had covered her with its shadow that last time. “Monsieur,” he urged, “the leaves are rusty, it is all rotten inside, it bears no more fruit, it is losing value every day, and before long it won’t bring anything.” I resisted his entreaties, alleging vague reasons. How make an honest farmer understand that one would preserve a dead chestnut tree merely because a little gipsy passed under it, so many years ago that onedares not count them? If there are inexplicable things, this surely is one.
My man wouldn’t give up. “Monsieur, Monsieur, one of these fine days it will fall and break down the wall.” I opine that a wall may be replaced. “Monsieur, Monsieur, one of these fine days it will crush some one passing by.” Come, that’s more serious. A passer-by can’t be made over again. Oh, well, let’s be reasonable. If it falls, it will crush nothing but my heart.
I gave the order to cut down the witness of my first love sorrow. I leaned over the hole which its torn-up roots left in the earth, and was not surprised that it occupied so much room. Now the newly-built wall has closed up the breach, and I feel myself more than ever shut up within my property. As one advances in life, it seems that the surrounding walls draw in.
Nature changes before we do. Nature dies before we do. Little by little we lose all that gave the past its character. Nothing is left to bear witness to the truth of our memories. Little by little other shadows than those of trees descend upon us. And it is hard to believe that one has been—as perhaps every one was once—a boy astride of a wall, not knowing whether he will jump over, to the free life, to the young girl who is laughing, to love, or whether he will go back, like a good boy, to The House....