ftoydi
 
 MY VILLAGE
 
 MY Vll } HP 
 
 [II YlLUu, 
 
 1HARLE5 SCI{!BNERS SONS, 
 
 NLW YORK 1895
 
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 BY CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS. 
 
 JHntoersitg Press: 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 ": I! Pll 
 
 - rtir-r-* "S-1<Sr;l 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VALOMBRE 
 
 MY NEIGHBORS 
 
 FIRE AT SEROY 
 
 " PEAUX DE LAPINS!" 
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OK JULY 
 
 DESIRE 
 
 FIRST COMMUNION 
 
 PACE 
 
 3 
 7 
 
 18 
 24 
 26 
 36 
 55
 
 v j CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HARVEST, 1893 57 
 
 KAISER S ILIAD 68 
 
 " LA CHASSE " 
 
 CELESTINE 7 
 
 THE CURE 
 
 80 
 
 JEAN PAUL 86 
 
 THE QUARRY .... 93 
 
 LOCAL POLITICS 9 8 
 
 " FETE DE VALOMBRE " I0 
 
 ALBERT S ACCIDENT .130 
 
 THE POSTMAN J 33 
 
 THE PRESTIDIGITATEUR J 4 
 
 TRAGEDY l ^ 
 
 CELESTINE AND CARVOL 1 S 
 
 THE PEASANT X 5 6 
 
 THE " CANTONNIER " *7 
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRE i? 8 
 
 THE FIRE BRIGADE 188 
 
 ROSALIE S DECLINE 195 
 
 CONSTANCE . T 99 
 
 BOHEMIANS 2 8 
 
 MARIE S WEDDING .... ... 219 
 
 ACH1LLE AND CELESTINE 225 
 
 LOST IN THE QUARRY 23 : 
 
 THONSINE 2 33 
 
 HARVEST, 1894 2 4 X 
 
 MERE POSTOL 2 49
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 vn 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THF: INVASION 252 
 
 CARVOL AND THE FTE 260 
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP 266 
 
 BY THE RIVER 269 
 
 PALMYRE 276 
 
 MY STREET : EVENING 286 
 
 " LE SOURD " 288 
 
 FIRE AT REMY 297 
 
 PERE GAUDRIER 301 
 
 IN THE FIELDS 307 
 
 THE FISHERMAN 314 
 
 THE CHAIR "RESEATER" 319 
 
 WINTER 320
 
 MY VILLAGE
 
 My Village 
 
 VALOMBRE 
 
 VALOMRRE is a picturesque little village of 
 about fifteen hundred souls, situated some 
 thirty miles to the north of Paris. Though 
 very old (in existence in A. D. 885, when 
 the Norsemen came down the Oise to attack 
 Paris), its history is very vague. 
 
 Every war directed against the capital 
 brought desolation and destruction to the 
 villagers. Legend claims that Joan of Arc 
 passed through on her way to Orleans. 
 Here Henry IV., while busily carrying on his 
 fighting, managed to find time to make love 
 to the chatelaine of L Isle Adam. 
 
 But to-day, the traces of the last war nearly 
 forgotten, life is more prosaic, and doubtless
 
 4 MY VILLAGE 
 
 happier. Yet the life of the village, though 
 small and unimportant, still comprises in its 
 own way all the complications of life in 
 general. 
 
 Here the petty ambitions and their work 
 ings are simply feebler specimens of those 
 which move mighty Paris and the great 
 world. The troubles and misfortunes of 
 general life are nearly all more or less repre 
 sented. The pain and joy, success and fail 
 ure, though ever so humble, are still as 
 important here as are greater ones in greater 
 places. Valombre is an epitome of the 
 world and its life. And here humanity can 
 be studied, and conclusions reached which 
 can be applied to any other village or city. 
 Its characteristics, though its own, are still 
 based on the common big lines of average 
 life, men and women at bottom being much 
 the same the world over, once one gets to 
 know them well. Outer appearances are 
 different ; but the base rarely changes. Given 
 the same conditions and circumstances, 
 knowing a few, one can count with reason 
 able accuracy on how the others will act.
 
 VALOMBRE 5 
 
 Here artists struggle with all their might 
 for fame ; while others, more practical, are 
 aiming after wealth. The disinterested and 
 the mercenary battle on together. The 
 peasant, terribly matter-of-fact, labors from 
 sunrise to sunset, working the earth he loves 
 for the money it brings him, ever saving and 
 economizing. As he gains, he hoards his 
 wealth to buy more earth and (a universal 
 ambition) to pose before his neighbors, 
 much as do the business men in great cities. 
 
 Sickness, trouble, and death strike here as 
 elsewhere. Nature cries out in pain, as in 
 more highly civilized centres. Honesty and 
 dishonesty elbow each other daily. Crafti 
 ness outdoes itself in its overreaching. Vice 
 even raises its head. Crime, though feebly 
 represented, has still its place. Faith and 
 scepticism agree to disagree. Love and jeal 
 ousy are not forgotten. Idleness and thrift 
 dwell in the same house : and so on, in 
 definitely, the old, old story of life with all 
 its good and bad, its lights and shadows. 
 
 Yes, the world is all alike ; by my village 
 I know the rest. Be it greater or smaller, it
 
 6 MY VILLAGE 
 
 is ever the same, only a question of scale ; 
 here big, there small. The peasant, here 
 laboriously striving, year in and year out, 
 each day painfully resembling the last, ac 
 quires a philosophy whose lines are strikingly 
 like that obtained by a great thinker and 
 observer of life. He u takes things as they 
 come." Changing the world is a great 
 task ; and each gives it up, and " drifts " 
 intelligently.
 
 MY NEIGHBORS 
 
 CARVOL 
 
 CAR VOL, my neighbor, a heavily built and 
 clumsy peasant become mason, is addicted to 
 strong drink, and at regular intervals shows 
 up in a painfully inebriated condition, to the 
 intense disgust of his wife, who mercilessly 
 belabors him with a venomed tongue. After 
 each drunk he is sick, and has to leave his
 
 8 MY VILLAGE 
 
 work for a day, while she makes it interest 
 ing for him. 
 
 Though the frequency of his celebrations 
 merits the penalty it receives, since he often 
 recklessly swallows, literally, half his month s 
 pay, on which his wife has been counting, she, 
 like most people of her class, uses so little 
 judgment in administering the doses that he is 
 driven to desperation. Formerly he would fly 
 from the wrath to come , but now he fights 
 back, sullenly and with accumulating vicious- 
 ness ; and I hear them at it at all hours. 
 
 I can sympathize with neither, as, though 
 he is fast becoming a besotted brute, she is 
 also degenerating into a termagant. Sooner 
 or later, I fear that their quarrels will end in 
 something serious ; in desperation, crazed by 
 drink and her tongue, he may strike too 
 hard. 
 
 ROSALIE 
 
 Madame Carvol, or Rosalie, as she 
 is better known, is a strong, well-pre 
 served woman of forty-five, or thereabouts, 
 generally very pleasant, affable, and obliging, 
 but a terrible bavarde (gossip), capable of
 
 MY NEIGHBORS 9 
 
 leaving the most important work to talk 
 scandal and trouble with any one who will 
 listen, man, woman, or child. At all times 
 I hear her at it ; the tireless tongue hard at 
 work. Yet, in spite of this weakness, she is 
 still a good, kind soul ; and did I not, against 
 my desires, hear her share of the daily and 
 nightly quarrels with her husband, I should 
 call her a thoroughly good-natured creature. 
 
 For the past five years she has been the 
 telegraph-boy, so to speak, delivering the des 
 patches. A wire from the post-office, also 
 telegraph-headquarters, to her house rings her 
 up when needed. For her services she re 
 ceives twenty-five cents a day, throughout the 
 year. The village has furnished her with a tri 
 cycle, as her district covers some eight miles. 
 
 During the summer, when the bourgeois 
 are here, she is kept fairly busy ; but the 
 winter leaves her quite free. On the de 
 livery of each despatch she usually receives 
 a " tip " of a few cents, one of the customs 
 of this much " tipped " country ; so that, all 
 in all, her appointment is considered a fairly 
 good one. But she cannot or will not see it
 
 10 MY VILLAGE 
 
 in this light, and continually complains of the 
 work she has to do; insisting that those who 
 receive the despatches live in ease, while 
 she has all the running, a complaint so 
 common that, whether there is any justice 
 in it or not, one becomes heartily tired of 
 hearing it from one end of the world to the 
 other. 
 
 FIFIE 
 
 Her daughter Fifie is a big coarse girl of 
 nineteen, a magnificent worker, with, as the 
 peasants say, not a lazy bone in her body, 
 good-natured and happy as the day is long, 
 the life of the quarter. The pleasure of liv 
 ing is a real thing with Fifie, Just at present 
 she is madly in love, and getting her money s 
 worth out of the sensation, 
 
 Strange to sav, and much to mv amuse- 
 
 O . 
 
 ment, to my surprise she chose me as her 
 confidant, before her mother knew of the 
 existence of the lover, and at everv favor 
 able opportunity gave me glowing accounts 
 of his charms, ability, etc. But, at last, 
 seeing that I enjoyed her enthusiasm too 
 heartilv, she lost faith in me, and, in des-
 
 MY NEIGHBORS II 
 
 peration, finally induced the young man to 
 present himself at her house. 
 
 KAISER 
 
 Fifie s brother, just exempted from mili 
 tary service on account of a crippled thumb, 
 disabled in a poaching expedition, is gener 
 ally known as Kaiser. Being born while the 
 Prussians were garrisoned in the village dur 
 ing the war of 187071, a local wag sug 
 gested in jest the idea of giving him this 
 name ; and, though the unfortunate boy was 
 christened Eugene, Kaiser sticks to him and 
 probably will through life. No doubt he 
 resents it as a patriot, but his resentment 
 avails him little. 
 
 Kaiser, recently developing an inclination 
 to follow in his father s footsteps, and 
 inadvertently appearing at the house in an 
 elevated condition, his mother, in a rage, 
 ordered him out and away. So for the mo 
 ment he is flying free. But I have no doubt 
 he will before long put in an appearance 
 after the style of the prodigal son, and with 
 probablv as easy results, Rosalie being, I
 
 12 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 think, too good-hearted to long bear resent 
 ment against her son. 
 
 This sketch sums up the present standing 
 of the Carvol family, though perhaps I should 
 have included the dog, Misery, who walks 
 on his hind legs ; and the cat, who gives her 
 lovers rendezvous in my yard at unearthly 
 hours, disturbing the peace of my slumbers 
 with painful frequency, though in the day 
 time " meowing " at me in a most innocent 
 manner, as though nothing had happened. 
 
 CELESTINE AND DESIRE 
 
 Below me, just across the street, Celestine 
 and Desir6 have lived for the last fifty years,
 
 MY NEIGHBORS 13 
 
 a sturdy pair of old-time peasants, still vigor 
 ous, though gnarled and knotted, and as 
 brown as the earth they till. Every day sees 
 them both at work in the fields, though now 
 each can count seventy-odd years of life, and 
 nearly as many of work. 
 
 A great grief came to them some twenty 
 years ago ; their daughter, just married, sud 
 denly took sick and died, and that day 
 remains to Celestine as but yesterday. For 
 now, in alluding to anything or any time, she 
 invariably connects it in some way with her 
 daughter. When speaking of the Exposition 
 of 1878, she adds, " T was just two years 
 after my poor Julie was married ; " again,
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 referring to some person, " She and my Julie 
 were of the same age," etc. The event and 
 date are indelibly engraved in the old 
 woman s memory. 
 
 Celestine is garrulous, and, like Rosalie, 
 loves a gossip ; when they meet hours fly by 
 like minutes. 
 
 As I passed to-night I heard the old woman 
 busily talking to the butcher s boy ; poor old 
 soul, she must talk to some one, though only
 
 MY NEIGHBORS 15 
 
 a boy. She was sermoning this particular 
 lad regarding the folly of idleness and the 
 advantages of work, he stolidly listening, 
 occasionally responding with " For sure, for 
 sure," the extent of his powers of eloquence, 
 now quite crushed by her voluble onslaught. 
 
 After the boy had left, I still heard her, 
 this time calling after her cat, " Come in, it s 
 time to go to bed ; " but the cat sat quietly 
 in the road, perfectly indifferent, declining to 
 " come," and apparently considering, like 
 servant-girls, this as his night out. 
 
 ACHILLE 
 
 Celestine s son, the blacksmith of Blville, 
 a neighboring village, occasionally comes 
 over to see the old folks. Achille is a char 
 acter, a village wiseacre. The old mother is 
 very proud of him and his " science," as she 
 calls it, meaning his general knowledge. He 
 is filled to the eyes with theories and schemes, 
 new ideas of progress, ideas which he pon 
 derously and verbosely lays down to the over 
 powered old woman. " Ah, yes," she says, 
 " my Achille has a great head."
 
 i6 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Achille poses as a sceptic, making fun of 
 Ce lestine s old-fashioned notions. She oc 
 casionally retorts, and quite often gets the 
 better of" him by her 
 hard " horse sense," 
 tritely disabling his 
 flowery endeavors of 
 oratory and argument. 
 True, he never sees 
 this, and so feels none 
 the worse. 
 
 He had served in the 
 war during the siege of" 
 Paris, and tells wonder 
 ful stories of" that tragic 
 epoch ; but so prone is 
 he to high coloring in his 
 narratives, that facts and 
 fancy become jumbled 
 together; poor plain truth 
 has a hard time of it, and 
 the listener loses faith. 
 
 Rheumatism quite often quiets him ; then 
 Ce lestine bitterly shakes her fist at Paris. 
 " Ah, that Paris, the cause of all his
 
 MY NEIGHBORS I/ 
 
 trouble ; he did not know what rheumatism 
 was till that war came," quite overlook 
 ing the fact that Achille was a young 
 man at that time, twenty-five years ago, and 
 has since had ample time to acquire rheuma 
 tism without the help of war and siege. But 
 the peasant instinctively blames all his troubles 
 on Paris, and grows bitter as that gay capital 
 seems to thrive in spite of his maledictions.
 
 FIRE AT SERGY 
 
 " TRUM-trum-trum-a-tum-tum-tum ! " the 
 drum sounding the alarm of fire, calling on 
 all to turn out and . lend a hand to suppress 
 the danger before the thatched roofs, which 
 burn like tinder, catch and spread destruction 
 through the village. 
 
 Hats are seized in haste, doors thrown 
 open ; men and women rush, startled and 
 anxious, to meet the drummer. " Where 
 is the fire ? "
 
 FIRE AT SERGY 19 
 
 " Trum -trum-trum-a-tum-tum-tum 
 ominously and slowly the sound advances, 
 spreading consternation and terror. The 
 women, pale, in groups, excitedly gesticulate 
 and wring their hands. Young girls, in their 
 excitement, weep. The sound of that ter 
 rible drum sends a shiver through all. 
 
 Now the drummer has reached the " Mai- 
 rie," the end of his beat. Another takes his 
 place and continues the alarm to Remy, the 
 neighboring village, while the church-bell 
 steadily clangs its accompanying tocsin. 
 
 It seems that the fire is at Sergy, the 
 suburb of Valombre. The old people climb 
 the hill and look away to where the smoke 
 is rising. By their knowledge of the country, 
 the result of half a century s existence in this 
 one locality, they accurately place it, even tell 
 the exact house, the grange by the walnuts 
 near the station on the old road. They know 
 it well ; old So-and-So s place. Ah yes, it 
 reminds them of the last fire, and soon their 
 wells of reminiscence are working. Each has 
 some new detail to add. Thus they calm 
 their impatience while the others are away.
 
 20 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Off on a trot the younger men start ; even 
 the women follow. No one will miss a fire. 
 And soon the usually quiet village presents a 
 long array of noisily shuffling legs and sabots. 
 
 Prosper dashes up with his team, calling 
 for volunteers. In we jump, and away. 
 The spirited stallion has also become excited, 
 and springs joyously to his work. Rein 
 him up ! another peasant is to be taken in. 
 u Keep on," he cries, and clambers in at the 
 back. Off again. " Ho, Francois, climb up," 
 slowing a little for an instant, then away 
 again at a madly increasing pace. Women 
 and children fly out of the road. Look out ! 
 " We had better be late than kill any one," 
 sagely suggests the " forest guard." Get 
 out of the road then ! Hola ! dash and 
 clatter, with the horse snorting and sweating, 
 we ride up through the growing crowd to the 
 scene of excitement. 
 
 The native farmer-firemen have already 
 mounted their primitive pump, and a stream is 
 shooting its spray among the smoking rafters. 
 
 All volunteers, those two long rows of 
 bucket-passers feeding the machine from 
 wells, or pumps, a hundred yards away.
 
 FIRE AT SERGY 21 
 
 A motley gang, here an old woman, still 
 wiry, passes the streaming canvas bucket to 
 her neighbor, a bright lass ; she in turn hands 
 it on to the stalwart tow-headed youth beside 
 her, he to the town-crier, next to the clerk, 
 then to a burly peasant, red and sweating, 
 but with his whole heart in the work, and so 
 on through fifty willing hands to the firemen, 
 who pour the libation into the maw of the 
 all-consuming though innocent-looking hand- 
 pump engine. 
 
 Six brawny, sweating, red, and enthusiastic 
 peasants, firemen peasants, and farmer peas 
 ants, it is all one, sway furiously up and 
 down, forcing the thin stream through the 
 hose, up, up, not to the clouds, only thirty 
 feet, but still quite enough for the needs of 
 the occasion. 
 
 Old-fashioned brass helmets glisten in the 
 sun, only a little brighter than those shining 
 excited faces beneath, a most novel and 
 thrillingly picturesque group of brilliant color 
 and changing light and shade. 
 
 Between the fire and water the old rafters 
 gradually become a harmless wreck, and soon
 
 22 MY VILLAGE 
 
 all danger is past. Gayety takes the place 
 of anxiety. Yet still the pump-handles bang 
 up and down, faster and faster. " Why r " 
 " Oh ! only to let off" a little steam." Every 
 one is now warmed to his work, and does n t 
 want to give it up. 
 
 Where but a few moments before was a 
 real danger, now the scene is fast developing 
 into a hilariously good time, a real picnic. 
 
 Water is shot around promiscuously, use 
 lessly now ; but they can t give it up so soon. 
 It would n t be worth so much trouble. " So 
 keep it up," until it almost becomes like a 
 children s carnival. All laugh, none criticise ; 
 a happy lot, rejuvenated for the moment. 
 
 But the end must come ; there is now no 
 longer a possible excuse for deluging the 
 country. So gradually it slows down, and 
 the pump is folded up, literally as well as 
 figuratively speaking. 
 
 Then the marcband de vln (saloon-keeper) 
 does a thriving business for a short time ; 
 as of course one must take a little glass 
 after such an excitement, and talk over the 
 thrilling or otherwise details of the affair,
 
 FIRE AT SERGY 
 
 2 3 
 
 a subject of conversation which will stand 
 them in good stead for many days to come. 
 
 And the fire of Sergy is resolved into his 
 tory, to gain, as does most history, with its 
 age : like a rolling snowball gathering new 
 material along the way, material which, 
 though possibly factitious, will not detract 
 from the charm of the story.
 
 "PEAUX DE LAPINS !" 
 
 INCESSANTLY I seem to hear the cry of 
 " Po ! Po ! Peaux de lapins ! The buyer 
 of rabbit-skins, a sturdy, red-faced, and red 
 headed lout, stalks along with his rack 
 strapped to his shoulders, with here and there 
 a few rabbit-skins dangling, stiff and ugly, 
 behind him. 
 
 Every one, more or less, raises rabbits for 
 home consumption ; he buys the skins for a 
 few sous apiece, and resells them to a manu 
 facturer of fur toys, tobacco-pouches, etc., 
 for which these skins are used as ornamenta 
 tion. A curious trade, yet it apparently 
 feeds its man, as the expression goes -, for 
 often, when bicycling, I find him playing with 
 his child by the side of the river, with every 
 sign of general contentment. 
 
 But now he has several rivals in the field. 
 I doubt there being enough rabbit-skins in
 
 PEAUX DE LAPINS!" 25 
 
 Valombre to support three men. Still they 
 stick to it. And when I don t hear one, the 
 other is sure to be at hand with his amus 
 ingly lugubrious cry of " Po ! Po ! " 
 
 I am anxious to see how the competition 
 will end ; my sympathies are with the origi 
 nal tramp, his uncouthness having quite won 
 me.
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 
 
 LAST night the fete opened with the cus 
 tomary torchlight procession. The small 
 boys were happy. Drummers and trum 
 peters struck up the march, and through the 
 village wound the picturesque procession, 
 the gamins leading, bearing Chinese lanterns
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OE JULY 2 7 
 
 attached to long poles. Behind them came 
 the musicians, playing in earnest ; then the 
 firemen, with huge, flaming torches. Men 
 and boys gradually joined the ranks, and the 
 company steadily swelled, gaining new recruits 
 at every halt for drinks. 
 
 . 
 
 The effect of the lights coming up the 
 street, out of the darkness, was very pretty 5 
 and, though I had already seen several similar 
 parades, I enjoyed its simple picturesqueness 
 as much as ever. 
 
 After winding through the main street, 
 from one end of the village to the other, 
 that everybody should have some of the 
 show, as Palmyre put it, they halted before
 
 28 MY VILLAGE 
 
 the " Mairie," and closed the performance 
 with a spirited rendering of the u Marseil 
 laise." Colignon, master of ceremonies, 
 that ubiquitous haircutter, bar-tender, shoe 
 maker, musician, and general-utility man, 
 was in his glory. Proudly he threw his shoulders 
 back and beat the measure, sympathetically 
 modifying his dignified rigidity with the touch 
 ing parts of the music. The faithful band did 
 its best, each man playing as though his life 
 depended on it, great cords standing out on 
 sturdy necks, eyes reaching out towards the 
 music sheet. To them their functions appear 
 as a serious matter, and they put their whole 
 soul into the work ; while the sympathetic 
 audience attentively drank in their strains. 
 
 Numerous rounds of drinks kept the 
 enthusiasm up to " Marseillaise " pitch, and 
 the fete was ushered in with the proper spirit. 
 
 To-day the band, in full force, assembled 
 on the village green. The mayor impres 
 sively presented the flags to the standard- 
 bearers. Then the music religiously struck 
 up the " Marseillaise," the mayor and local 
 authorities respectfully standing bareheaded.
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 29 
 
 Another patriotic air followed close on the 
 heels of the " Marseillaise," and now the 
 celebration was officially under way. 
 
 Down the street again filed the noisy, 
 enthusiastic band. Again every man played 
 
 with his whole soul ; and ofF they went to 
 give the people of Sergy their share of 
 " Marseillaise." 
 
 Meanwhile the gymnastic society, which 
 had just put in an appearance, performed in 
 the public square. The young boys, in their 
 white costumes, looked bright and smart. In 
 turn they performed on the horizontal bar and
 
 30 MY VILLAGE 
 
 parallel bars ; then went through the squad 
 drill, with some very pretty figures ; and they 
 did it with a good hearty spirit. What was 
 lacking in harmony of movement was made 
 up by individual energy, quite as one would 
 wish from a club of boys who spent their 
 time in the fields ploughing or harvesting. 
 
 After the gymnastic performances, the fire 
 men gave their little exhibition. Good, hon 
 est souls, though they work with a will, they 
 are fated always to look very funny. Their 
 sincerity and seriousness alone are ludicrous. 
 As though the safety of the village depended 
 on their drill, they do it with all their hearts, 
 obeying orders like clock-work, clock-work 
 sadly out ol order, one always a little behind 
 the other, in their enthusiasm to rush up a 
 ladder, dropping an axe, and having igno- 
 miniously to come down ao;ain for it. 
 
 Now, in the middle of their performance, 
 band music is heard coming up the street. 
 The spectators cruelly slight the show, and 
 rush ofF to see the new attraction. It is the 
 Remy fire-brigade, also playing. Their chief 
 draws them up in line, or, rather, pushes them
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 31 
 
 individually into position. The mayor of 
 Valombre reviews them, and does the honors, 
 inviting all hands to take a drink. In a 
 moment the door of the saloon is alive with 
 a stream of humanity struggling in. Every 
 body, more or less, joins the firemen in their 
 libations. 
 
 A few vigorous tunes from the band, and 
 gradually the crowd disperses. It is dinner 
 time. 
 
 Night brings every one back. A row of 
 Chinese lanterns, alternated with different 
 colored glasses, burning tallow wicks, strung 
 on a wire stretched around and through the 
 " square," light up the green. Here the ball 
 is to be held. 
 
 The crowd gathers steadily ; the girls wait 
 ing impatiently for the dancing to begin. 
 Four chairs, placed on a slightly elevated 
 platform, await the musicians, who seem 
 slow in coming. The crowd is growing 
 impatient. Ah ! at last, there they are ! 
 They wire and scrape to tune their fiddles, 
 and finally play a waltz. 
 
 Timidly the first couple steps forward ; the
 
 32 MY VILLAGE 
 
 movement is given. From every side the 
 rush fills the green. Sturdy peasants swing 
 their partners around the square. The grass 
 has been cut, but the ground is fearfully un 
 even. Hopping is the order of the day, or, 
 rather, night. 
 
 Bumping and butting each other, the noisy 
 couples labor across the green, up and down, 
 then across, and so on, until the orchestra 
 decides that this dance has had enough music, 
 and stops. 
 
 The old women are grouped about the 
 enclosure, smiling and happy. The few 
 benches are crowded ; standing room only 
 is the order of things. 
 
 Picturesque groups of spectators, old men, 
 old women, dressed up for the occasion, look 
 gleefully on. The young girls, of course, 
 are in their best ; the boys likewise. Here 
 and there a group of city people add their 
 note of color, with the bright costumes of the 
 women ; while a steady movement saunters 
 round and round. Occasionally a new 
 couple is caught by the music, and springs 
 into the arena ; away they go, up and down, 
 round and off.
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 33 
 
 A happv peasant who has drunk too much 
 starts across the ring, dancing his way, occa 
 
 
 sionally colliding with some one. Hut every 
 body is too happy to mind such a trifle ; and he 
 3
 
 34 MY VILLAGE 
 
 safely reaches the other end, only to start 
 wildly back again. 
 
 Still it is surprising how few drunken 
 people are to be seen, though thus at the end 
 of a day s fete, when more might reasonably 
 have been expected. 
 
 The musicians take but a short rest be 
 tween dances, and start the movement again, 
 steadily growing livelier and noisier. The 
 polka and quadrille are the popular dances, 
 a quadrille quite old-fashioned and decidedly 
 picturesque in its curious figures and turns. 
 Even the clumsiest peasant has his dance, 
 dragging his partner after him, if not grace 
 fully, at least with a will. 
 
 And so it goes, hour after hour, getting 
 noisier and happier. Twelve o clock has 
 struck. Still the movement is as lively as 
 ever ; enthusiasm is aroused. Valombre only 
 gets a chance once a year, so she intends 
 getting all the good out of it while it is 
 going. 
 
 Towards one o clock the dancers become 
 thinned out. And now the timid and 
 awkward, who have been waiting a quiet
 
 THE FOURTEENTH OF JULY 35 
 
 moment, try their luck. Fat women and 
 clumsy men, everybody must be able to say 
 that he has danced. 
 
 Two o clock. The roads leading in dif 
 ferent directions are spotted with tired groups, 
 working homewards by moonlight. Here and 
 there an extra-tired figure lurches up against 
 a wall, rebounding into the street, drunk, 
 hut happy and harmless. 
 
 For hours still I hear the violins squeaking 
 away. The noise from the " green " be 
 comes feebler and feebler ; gradually the 
 weary orchestra thinks that it is time to 
 stop, and the ball is ended, to be repeated 
 just one year from date.
 
 DESIRE 
 
 HALF-PAST cloven was striking by the 
 u Mairie " clock as, through the mud and dark 
 ness, I trudged back from the depot, where 
 I had seen a friend off for Paris, warily pick 
 ing my steps to avoid floundering into some 
 treacherous pool too deep for my sabots. 
 
 As I turned up my lane, a miscalculated 
 lurch sent me splashing into a good-sized 
 brook, a creation of the late storm. While 
 wading out of this as best I could, signs of 
 unusual commotion met my eyes. Through
 
 DfiSIRfi 37 
 
 Celestine s open door the light was stream 
 ing out into the rainy night. Something, I 
 felt, must be going wrong to have kept the 
 old folks up till this late hour. 
 
 Hastening forward, I was met at the thresh 
 old by the old woman, who had advanced on 
 hearing my step. Rushing out, she seized 
 me convulsively by the arm, crying : " O 
 Mon Dieu ! Monsieur I my poor man is dy 
 ing ! " On entering, I found old De sire 
 stretched on his bed gasping for breath, a 
 couple of neighbors, old women, staring 5m- 
 potently but sympathetically at the sufferer. 
 
 The old man appeared to be at the point 
 of death, an ominous rattle in his throat, his 
 arms and hands quite cold. The sight was 
 pitiful, this poor old storm-and-weather- 
 worn pair, both over seventy, thus appar 
 ently to be torn abruptly apart after half a 
 century of life together. Though I felt that 
 the end was approaching, I tried to en 
 courage the old woman by telling her that 
 there was no immediate danger; that the 
 doctor would soon be here, and all be well. 
 But, to add to the calamity, the local doctor
 
 38 MY VILLAGE 
 
 was away at " L Isle Adam," four miles up 
 the river, and we feared that the old neigh 
 bor, Auguste, sent out would miss the last 
 train and have to go on foot, necessitating a 
 longer wait. 
 
 The situation was painfully trying as, with 
 out being able to help him, we watched the 
 poor old man suffering his life away, no one 
 knowing what to do, and each anxious to do 
 something. The application of mustard 
 plasters exhausting our knowledge of emer 
 gency treatment, we could only helplessly wait 
 and watch the painfully slow-moving hand 
 of the clock, calculating the time when the 
 doctor, if found, might arrive. Every minute 
 seemed an hour ; and we grew old waiting. 
 
 Celestine sat by the bedside, silently suffer 
 ing, her shadow thrown grotesquely on the 
 wall as though to mock at her grief. The 
 pinched face of Desire , with its many 
 wrinkles, earned in the battles of life, was 
 distorted by the intense suffering which welled 
 up from his heaving chest. From time tc 
 time, in agony, he feebly threw up his hand, 
 tossing his poor old head from side to side,
 
 DfiSIRfi 
 
 39 
 
 groaning, " I m dying," or " Pray God that 
 I die ; " to which the old woman earnestly 
 responded, " No ; pray God that you live, on 
 the contrary." 
 
 And thus for three hours the agony con 
 tinued, and still no doctor. 
 
 Carvol had volunteered to go for Achille, 
 the sick man s son, who lived at Bleville, 
 also four miles away ; and, just when 
 waiting had become torture, he arrived, 
 breathless and bareheaded. Celestine threw 
 herself into his arms and wept her pent- 
 up tears. After embracing his mother,
 
 40 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Achille, a fine-strapping blacksmith of about 
 thirty-eight years of age, hung over the bed 
 to kiss his father, crying, " Papa, what s the 
 matter ? " Finding that we had been wait 
 ing for the doctor, and feeling the importance 
 of every minute, he dashed out to rouse the 
 butcher and borrow his horse, to find the 
 doctor at any cost. His anxiety and mental 
 suffering were painful as he tore up and down 
 before the butcher s door, knocking and call 
 ing, waking the echoes throughout the deat-hlv 
 quiet village. 
 
 The rain beat ruthlessly down ; the storm- 
 clouds dashed rapidly across the face of the 
 moon, adding to the sadness of the moment ; 
 but, though now drenched to the skin, he did 
 not feel the rain or wind. He could not 
 rouse an answer from within, and, too im 
 patient to wait, started at a run down the 
 street for another neighbor s, where he might 
 find a horse, leaving me to bang away at the 
 butcher s door. Fortunately, just here, the 
 long-hoped-for doctor drove up, splashing 
 through the mud. Auguste clambered out 
 of the carriage to show the way, while 
 Achille fairly dragged the doctor along.
 
 DfiSIRfi 41 
 
 Our relief was mighty. The strain of 
 thus impotently and impatiently waiting had 
 become agonizing ; and now that he who 
 could do something was here, we breathed 
 again, and hailed him as a savior. Rosalie 
 could not refrain from announcing it in her 
 way, saying, " Just the same it makes you 
 breathe freer when some one is here in whom 
 you have confidence," and her remark summed 
 up our feeling. 
 
 The doctor hastily examined the patient, 
 listening to the heart s now enfeebled sound, 
 the movement of the lungs, etc. After a few 
 brief questions, and, demanding a piece of 
 paper, he sat down and quickly wrote out a 
 prescription, announcing the trouble as a 
 congestion of the lungs, ordering immediate 
 plasters all over the patient legs, arms, 
 back, and front. 
 
 The old man, who seemed to have fallen 
 into a comatose state, aroused at once under 
 the influence of the doctor s presence, show 
 ing decided signs of life, though, when the 
 latter had left, the reaction from this excite 
 ment lett him quite prostrated.
 
 42 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Achille went off on the run with his pre 
 scription. The apothecary lived across the 
 river another two miles away. Everybody 
 and everything seemed to be at unreason 
 able distances, out of reach, this night above 
 all. 
 
 A feeling of half tranquillity now pervaded 
 the room for a moment, when, suddenly, an 
 other doctor who had been sent for first, but 
 not found, came in. On examining the sick 
 man he pronounced the same diagnosis as the 
 other, and, though now his services were not 
 needed, his medical pride at the idea of a 
 competitor having been before him was 
 aroused, and he set to work applying im 
 provised " dry cups " to the patient s breast. 
 This consisted in heating and expanding the 
 air in an ordinary glass by burning in it a 
 piece of paper ; then, hastily turning the 
 glass bottom up on the chest of the sufferer, 
 the rarefied air enclosed at once creating a 
 suction that raised a large swelling beneath 
 the glass and relieved the congested blood 
 vessels. The results of this operation were 
 quite wonderful, and, after applying a dozen
 
 DfiSIRfi 43 
 
 or more, the relief shown by the old man 
 was most decided. His extremities again 
 became warm, his eyes brightened, and his 
 
 J O 
 
 breathing became easier and more regular. 
 He himself took an active interest in the 
 proceeding, remarking, " That relieves me," 
 though at first, as a stolid peasant, he had 
 resisted, saying, u It 11 do no good." By 
 the time Achille got back, he was out of all 
 immediate danger, being even bright enough 
 to crack a joke on the sad appearance of so 
 many empty glasses. Reaching out his hand, 
 he beckoned to me. As I advanced and took 
 it, he thanked me gratefully for my efforts. 
 I tried to cheer him, speaking into his ear 
 on account of his deafness, telling him that 
 we would soon have him up ; but he seemed 
 sceptical about that, saying dolefully, " I guess 
 I m finished." 
 
 Now, as peace and happiness had again 
 come into the hearts of the assistants, seeing 
 that I could be of no further assistance, I 
 went out, bidding all good-night. Day was 
 breaking. 
 
 Later in the dav, when I looked in, he was
 
 44 MY VILLAGE 
 
 doing as well as could be expected, but 
 very impatient at being forced to lie 
 abed. Achille, tired out, was trying hard 
 to keep awake ; while Celestine, busy about 
 her work, showed the strain much less than 
 he did. 
 
 In a few days Desire was up, sitting in 
 the sun, pale and weak. In answer to my 
 queries as to the state of things, he sadly re 
 sponded, " It does n t go at all." He wanted 
 to get to work again. 
 
 Gradually he gained strength and walked, 
 or rather hobbled, around like a broken-down 
 old horse, simply waiting for death. But, 
 little by little, he grew stronger, and took ad 
 vantage of it to work in the fields. Faithful 
 old draught-horse, work had become such a 
 part of himself that he was ill from being 
 kept from it. 
 
 Some days later, when we had come to the 
 conclusion that he was well out of danger, I 
 was breathlessly informed by Rosalie, one 
 morning, that the old man had had another 
 attack during the night, and had nearly 
 passed away. I hastened at once to the
 
 DESIRfi 45 
 
 cottage to see him, and found him sadly 
 wrenched and wasted after his night s ordeal. 
 He shook hands with me, but could say 
 nothing. 
 
 Day after day, days drawn out into weeks, 
 the old man keeps up the tight with death. 
 But he must soon go. Occasionally he be 
 comes delirious, and seems to live again the 
 past, when, having been embroiled in the re 
 sistance to Napoleon the Third s coup d etat, 
 he was arrested and tried for his life. Once, 
 raising himself suddenly in bed, he pointed to 
 a corner, crying that his enemies were there, 
 coming to take him again ; then, seeing his 
 son, he shouted, " We two, Lantern, " the 
 son having acquired the nickname as a boy, 
 u we two will make a republic." 
 
 Celestine fusses about from one end of the 
 room to the other, keeping up a desultory 
 conversation, mainly with herself : u Wait, 
 old man, we re going to fix you up a soup ; " 
 " One can see by his voice that he s getting 
 better ; " "I really was afraid, mon enfant, 
 you know." 
 
 Achille comes in hungry, and sets to eat-
 
 46 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ing bread and asparagus furiously and noisily. 
 The old man, aroused by the proceeding, 
 whispers, " I 11 have a little soup too, you 
 know." " All right, then," responds Celes- 
 tine, " you re going to have it," and bustles 
 about the stove, lighting the fire with a bunch 
 of dried pea husks. It splutters a moment, 
 then goes out. " Did any one ever see such 
 a contrarying thing ? " she says ; " but one 
 can t keep the stove going all day in this hot 
 weather. Bother to bother ! wait a little." 
 Another effort, another failure. The draught 
 is poor. Finally it catches ; the soup is 
 heated ; too hot ! she passes it into a plate 
 to cool, then hands it to the sick man, with 
 many encouraging comments. He has sud 
 denly rallied, and even cheerfully cracks a 
 joke while taking his soup ; then rolls over 
 and sleeps, while Achille desperately tries to 
 keep his eyes open, but surges heavily for 
 ward on the table, and falls into a heavy, 
 feverish sleep. Celestine, alone left awake, 
 sits down and, with her chin in her hand, 
 sighs an accompaniment to the heavy breath 
 ing of her men.
 
 DfiSIRfi 47 
 
 And so the old man s sickness dragged 
 on, to-day, bright and cheerful ; to-mor 
 row, apparently at the point of death. The 
 strain of waiting, hoping, and fearing is tell 
 ing on his wife and son. Poor Achille, I 
 pity him ! He walks back and forth before 
 the door, as though to keep watch that death 
 might not enter. Unable to remain and 
 see his father s suffering, and in as great pain 
 himself, the pain of anxiety, he distractedly 
 trims the vine or clears up the garden, where 
 the weeds have taken advantage of the old 
 man s sickness. He says graphically, " This 
 waiting makes me grow old." Desire , com 
 ing out of a long swoon, missed his son and 
 asked for him. Celestine told him that he 
 had gone into the garden. On hearing this, 
 the sick man s tears came into his eyes, and 
 he turned his face to the wall. This, to 
 him, was the most trying thing to bear, to 
 know that his work was being undone by 
 the hated weeds and lack of care. His wife 
 appreciated his feelings ; but, as she said, " I 
 could not console him ; I did not know what 
 to say." Poor old woman ! Only by actions
 
 48 MY VILLAGE 
 
 could she express her feelings, unskilled in 
 the use of empty words. " Truly," she 
 added, " I could find nothing to say ; but it 
 agonized me to see him suffer so." 
 
 Suddenly, the end had come ; Achille 
 and I were called in haste to see the old 
 man die. Celestine, now completely broken 
 down, rushed weeping out at the door, 
 unable to bear the sight, and, covering 
 her head with her apron, leaned sobbing 
 against the outer wall. Achille fell over 
 the bed, embracing his dying father, weeping 
 bitterly. 
 
 Though all had looked forward to this 
 moment, it was still terrible to bear. The 
 scene was intensely pathetic. We watched 
 the old man slowly die ; watched and waited, 
 still waited, in terrible suspense, still no 
 change, until, at last, to our great surprise, 
 he came back to life, calling for his wife and 
 son. 
 
 But now this strain of seeing him go and 
 come became almost worse than having it 
 over with. And so often did it happen, that 
 a curious and, to me, amusing revulsion of
 
 DfiSIRfi 49 
 
 feeling set In among the neighbors. They 
 began to feel that the old man was taking 
 too long about it. As Rosalie almost in 
 dignantly remarked, " He ought to die or 
 live, and have done with it. One can t al 
 ways live in suspense, and a good deal of 
 time is lost." The practical peasant spirit 
 was coming to the surface. 
 
 I hus the fight dragged on. A few days 
 later, Achille dropped in on me as I sat 
 smoking, to announce the result of the doc 
 tor s last visit. All was going well. He 
 was on his way to Re my to rill another pre 
 scription. As he lingered bv the gate, I 
 asked him to sit down and smoke. Oh, no; 
 he had n t the time ; he must go right of}". But 
 still he might smoke a cigarette. The peas 
 ant is never really in a hurry. I offered him 
 a seat, but he waved it aside. He preferred 
 standing. Here he began a dramatic harangue 
 on the vicissitudes of life in general. Achille 
 is a great talker, and proud of his power. 
 He surprised me by starting in with saying 
 that, though the grief at the danger in which 
 his father was now lying aftected him greatly, 
 4
 
 50 MY VILLAGE 
 
 as it naturally should a son, he felt a greater 
 grief for the ouvrier. This being too vague 
 for me, I asked him to explain. He floridly 
 explained that, by the ouvrier, he meant that 
 to see that old man who had worked " like a 
 mercenary," with bowed back over the field 
 for sixty years, dying in need, instead of be 
 ing guaranteed a pension with which to end 
 his few remaining years, free from worry, 
 was to him more terrible than death. 
 
 Then, sitting down, and leaning his bushy, 
 enormous head forward beneath the shade of 
 the lamp, with eyes shining excitedly, he un 
 loaded to me his pet theory as to how things 
 should be arranged. The government should 
 force every employer to pay a contribution of 
 so much, if only two cents per dav, a head 
 for every workman employed, the money 
 coming indirectly from the men s wages. 
 This to be kept up for thirty years, at the 
 end of which time the workman should re 
 tire, receiving a small but sufficient pension 
 from the interest on the fund, and thus be 
 enabled to end his days without the need of 
 charitable societies.
 
 DfiSTRfi 51 
 
 He had his scheme elaborately theorized 
 and arranged, so that, according to the wages 
 received, the tax should be greater or less, 
 also allowing for the dangers and unhealthi- 
 ness of certain trades, and, accordingly, short 
 ening the number of years to work before 
 reaping the benefit. All of this, to me, 
 seemed far from the point in question, his 
 father being his own employer, and, instead 
 of dying in need, having by his own efforts 
 amassed a comfortable pittance. 
 
 But Achille s views were too broad for 
 isolated cases. He did not stop at such 
 trifles. He did not want any society, no 
 matter how honorable, to have charge of 
 the money ; for, as he tritely put it, stop 
 ping for a moment to relight his cigarette, 
 which had been allowed to go out in the 
 excitement, the men, at any time, might 
 " skip off"" with the capital, and the labor 
 of years go for naught. He wanted the 
 state to take charge of it ; for the state 
 would, of necessity, always exist, and there 
 fore be reliable. And for an hour he plied 
 his tongue and eloquence, leaving me the
 
 52 MY VILLAGE 
 
 simple expedient of listening and looking 
 interested. 
 
 Getting out of breath on the subject, 
 figuratively speaking, he switched oft" to tell 
 me how Lafayette and Washington had 
 formed the American Republic. This, 
 simply to show me the extent of his general 
 knowledge. Then, having pumped himself 
 fairly dry, he suddenly sprang up, remember 
 ing his errand, just when I, in desperation, 
 had begun to think seriously of reminding 
 him of it ; and away he went, now thoroughly 
 in a hurry, disappearing in the darkness, leav 
 ing a friendly " Au revoir ! floating in his 
 
 & J o 
 
 wake. 
 
 Meanwhile the sick man still lives on, 
 though now his courage has left him. His 
 cheerful spirit is tired out. He says he 
 wants to die ; he is tired of lying on his back 
 while the fields need him. In occasional 
 moments of revolt, he swears that he will 
 take his spade and go out where the earth 
 is calling to him. But, poor old fellow, he 
 can only do so in his mind. The worn-out 
 body will never work again.
 
 Dfismfi 53 
 
 Neighbors come in to take a last look at 
 him, sitting silently, hut sympathetically, by 
 the bed. And even the priest ventured in, 
 though he knew the ground was dangerous, 
 Desire not being a church-goer. The old 
 man would not listen, and mustered strength 
 enough to wave him away. 
 
 To-day, as I passed the house, the door 
 was closed, and I knew that all must be over. 
 At the foot of the street I met Leroux, the 
 hotel-keeper. He stopped me with the re 
 mark, " Your neighbor has passed away." 
 Alfred came to me, saying, " Your friend is 
 no more." We went into the house to 
 gether, where Celestine, busy sweeping the 
 stairs, burst into tears at sight of me, throw 
 ing herself into my arms crying;, " Mv poor 
 man is dead." And though we all re 
 gretted the old man, every one felt a great 
 relief, now that it was ended. Even Achille 
 brightened up. The long doubtful waiting 
 had at last settled itself into a definite 
 conclusion, and, though a painful one, he 
 preferred it to the slow torture of the long- 
 drawn-out sickness.
 
 54 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Two days later, what had been De sire 
 was buried from the church ; the priest, quite 
 overlooking his uncomfortable experience at 
 the sick man s bedside, forgivingly saying, 
 " Requiescat in pace."
 
 FIRST COMMUNION 
 
 " FETE " for the priest. To-day he took 
 first place and reigned triumphant. The little 
 girls, dressed in white with long gauze veils, 
 looked very pretty, as they came to take the 
 first communion. 
 
 Proud parents were arrayed in their best, 
 and looked supremely awkward. Great red 
 faces shone triumphantly above expansive 
 white shirt fronts, while huge, gnarled hands 
 hung clumsily beneath black sleeves, grasp 
 ing handfuls of air in their uneasy restlessness.
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Stout matrons, suffering within tight-laced 
 corsets, perspired freely, and grew redder, 
 redder even than their natural sun-given tint. 
 Absurd little bonnets of gay flowers, suitable 
 for girls, often decked these masses of un 
 comfortable but proud humanity. It was 
 evident that the matron s heart 
 had been taken by the pretty, 
 bright colors, and, regardless of 
 suitability, which had doubtless 
 never received a thought, she had 
 made the purchase of her taste. 
 None but strangers could appre 
 ciate the incongruity ; and she, 
 good soul, would never know that 
 anything was wrong. Verily the 
 old civilization is going ; the 
 peasant is hurrying to keep in the ranks with 
 the onward march. His efforts are grotesquely 
 comical, but then he will never know it ; and 
 when, through several generations, he does 
 learn to wear the tall hat and black coat, and 
 his wife the bonnet, his struggle will have 
 seemed light ; his ignorance preventing him 
 from discovering how absurd his evolution 
 appeared to those he attempted to imitate.
 
 
 HARVEST, 1893 
 
 THE plain above the village is alive with 
 busy harvesters. The rye has been cut, and 
 the wheat is almost levelled ; even the oats 
 are falling beneath the reaper s guillotine. 
 
 Where but a week ago the graceful 
 plateau was resplendent with yellow rye
 
 5 8 MY VILLAGE 
 
 and golden grain swaying with the breeze, 
 now it is spotted with stacked sheaves of 
 every form and size, in glorious variety. As 
 far as the eye searches to the right, to the 
 left, long undulating slopes present their 
 spaced sentry-lines of dusky golden stacks, 
 like a mighty cereal encampment. Pros- 
 
 perky and plenty reign supreme. One feels 
 better for the sight, and takes renewed faith 
 in nature. 
 
 Busy men and women, tying sheaves and 
 stacking grain, spot the brilliant landscape 
 with tireless motion. Great carts are loaded 
 and drawn away. Ricks are climbing to the 
 sky ; restless human insects clambering on 
 their sides and tops.
 
 HARVEST, 1893 
 
 59 
 
 Carefully and skilfully the sheaves are 
 piled, the grain towards the centre, ever 
 
 i/V 
 
 mounting up, up, sloping gracefully to the 
 conical crest, which is roofed in thatch, form-
 
 60 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ing a solid round house; and the rains of 
 winter may beat upon it ruthlessly as they 
 will, but all impotent to penetrate to the 
 golden food sheltered beneath. 
 
 At daybreak the harvesters begin their 
 work, and night alone can stop them ; fu 
 riously working sixteen and even eighteen 
 hours a day, mowing by the piece. The 
 
 quicker it is done, the more profit. From 
 far away Boulogne and Calais they come in 
 groups, for the season ; lodged at the farm 
 houses, sleeping upon bundles of straw to 
 spring to work before sunrise, indefatigablv 
 swinging their great broad scythes. 
 
 Happily the patent mowing-machines have 
 not yet invaded Valombre and driven off the 
 picturesque, though, sooner or later, I fear that 
 day must come. Then woe to the artists ! they 
 will have to strike farther into the country.
 
 HARVEST, 1893 
 
 6l 
 
 Here and there I see interesting reapers 
 who cut with a large straight sickle ; with the 
 other hand hooking the grain /" 
 from their , j^^M 
 
 ,^M* 
 
 path as it V f^^ /l 
 
 falls; thus ^^F 
 
 both hands, 
 
 each armed with an imple 
 ment, work together. They 
 advance along a short swath, 
 then retreat, cutting as they 
 back, at the same time rolling the cut wheat 
 beneath their feet ; each 
 advance and retreat rep 
 resenting 
 a sheaf. 
 - Though 
 
 this labor is hard, it 
 quickly accomplishes the 
 task. 
 
 The mower with his 
 N- * scythe, on the contrary, 
 
 sweeps majestically along, while his helper, 
 following closely behind, gathers the cut grain. 
 The blade is soft, and has often to be whetted.
 
 62 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Occasionally a rest is taken to unmount the 
 scythe , and on an improvised anvil carried 
 for the purpose, it is 
 pounded ; nto shape, as 
 it seems to be contin 
 ually getting bruised 
 and twisted. It is then 
 whetted to a razor 
 edge, and the work 
 goes on : while the 
 sun beats relentlessly 
 down upon the devoted heads of the laborers. 
 After the field is cut and stacked, the 
 gleaner 
 comes to 
 take her 
 turn. One 
 old woman 
 I talked 
 with has 
 been faith 
 fully gath 
 ering over 
 
 the field for several days, and at dusk I always 
 meet her struggling wearily along beneath a
 
 HARVEST, 1893 63 
 
 great sheaf of jetsam. She tells me she thus 
 gathers nearly enough to keep her through the 
 winter, either grinding it herself, or trading it to 
 the baker for bread, hard-working old soul. 
 And thus the harvest brings something to all. 
 
 Sturdy, simple types are these mowers, 
 strong, gentle-speaking, good-natured and pa 
 tient ; and tough as iron. The threshing- 
 machine, worked by horse-power, is already 
 at work, a hideous practical monstrosity 
 which has driven to the grave the clumsy but 
 picturesque flail. I notice the sexton and his 
 wife cutting the field behind the church. It
 
 64 MY VILLAGE 
 
 is amusing to see the result of professional 
 habits ; the sexton, still remaining sexton, 
 though wielding the scythe, dignified and 
 solemn, quite above a smile, a certain stiff 
 formality even characterizing his manner of 
 reaping, stiff-legged and unbending, decidedly 
 
 out of harmony with the occupation and his 
 fellow-reapers. 
 
 As he moves along the face of the field 
 with the sweep of a conqueror, his wife fol 
 lows closely, gathering up the newly-cut grain 
 in sheaves, and spreading these systemati 
 cally in rows. At regular and frequent in 
 tervals he stops to whet his blade, carrying 
 the stone in a horn pouch suspended from 
 his belt. Quite often they stop to rest,
 
 HARVEST, 1893 65 
 
 lounging in picturesque attitudes on the cut 
 rye. During these rests he repairs his 
 scythe, bruised bv occasional contact with 
 
 the ground, as in his mowing he cuts within 
 several inches of the earth. These repairs 
 add another style of picturesque note to the 
 general performance, and all about the plain 
 I hear the " clink," "clink," of busy hammers.
 
 66 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Lunches are frequent and copious during 
 harvest-time ; and I notice that the peasants 
 while being great workers are also great eaters, 
 steadily keeping the machine well coaled up. 
 
 The stacking of the cut grain is quite as 
 
 :-v: V / 
 
 
 interesting as the cutting. There are at least 
 a half-dozen different styles of piling em 
 ployed, according to idea, taste, or need. 
 The capping of the small stacks is a most 
 novel performance. After a half-dozen or 
 more sheaves have been stacked on end, 
 the whole is covered bv an inverted sheaf
 
 HARVEST, 1893 
 
 67 
 
 so cleverly thrown as to cover completely 
 the upper half of the stack, leaving this crown 
 ing sheaf bottom up, while its grain gracefully 
 blends downward over the stack, thus form 
 ing a watershed against the rain. 
 
 Every one is busy ; idleness appears to be 
 unknown at this time. The women work as 
 steadily as the men. One wonders how they 
 get time to do their housework. Undoubtedly 
 they have reduced it to a very simple system 
 during this stress. Harvest-time always gives 
 me the impression of happiness and pros 
 perity. The goddess of plenty seems to 
 have emptied her cornucopia upon the land.
 
 KAISER S ILIAD 
 
 KAISER seemed to be well launched on the 
 road to become a drunkard like his sire, when, 
 by a happy chance, a fortunate avenue of sal 
 vation presented itself. Franck, the letter- 
 carrier, resigned his position, going to St. 
 Denis ; and Kaiser was at once pushed into 
 his place, soon appearing in a brand-new 
 uniform, doing duty. And things seemed to 
 be coming out right for Rosalie. His work 
 keeping him away from promising com 
 panions, promising as bottle-emptiers, it was 
 not unreasonable to hope that at last he was 
 safely placed. But, alas ! the best-laid plans 
 of men are oft disappointed. After a month s 
 good service, he showed signs of the old 
 disease, culminating in a delirious drunk. 
 
 As I sat quietly reading after supper, I was 
 disturbed by the familiar dispute and racket 
 next door, heard, too plainly for my peace, 
 through the walls. This time it was excep-
 
 KAISER S ILIAD 69 
 
 tionally noisy. Of course I supposed it was 
 only Carvol again getting into harness for the 
 winter campaign. Sounds as of a fight came, 
 muffled by the walls, to my ears. I became 
 uneasy, having a vague feeling that I ought to 
 interfere. " Pshaw ! " at last I said to my 
 self, " it is nothing, only the old game," and 
 so read on, lighting a new pipe to calm my 
 scruples. 
 
 Bang, bang, thump, thump, shouts and 
 cries. Decidedly something is wrong this 
 time. I rose up in spite of myself, and, 
 while hesitating as to whether I should visit 
 the scene of action, my door was suddenly 
 thrown open, and Fifie, in a dilapidated, 
 dishevelled state, hysterically crying, rushed 
 in. " Oh ! come, Kaiser is killing mamma," 
 showing me her shoulder torn bare in the 
 struggle, the sleeve hanging in rags. 
 
 Here at last was my long-feared tragedy. 
 Out I rushed at once around to Rosalie s 
 door, which I found closed. I seized it, 
 violently pushing to gain an entrance. It 
 resisted as though held from within. Putting 
 my shoulder to the door, I forced my way in,
 
 70 MY VILLAGE 
 
 to be at once ordered out by Rosalie. She 
 was ashamed to have me participate in her 
 disgrace, saying she wanted no help. 
 
 As I reluctantly retreated, through the door 
 I saw Kaiser wildly jumping around, upset 
 ting tables and chairs in his drunken folly, 
 apparently suffering from the " horrors," 
 technically known as delirium tremens, though 
 to me it appeared as though part, and perhaps 
 a great part, of his folly was the regular 
 drunken man s trick of pretending to be 
 drunker than he is, partly as a pose, and 
 partly, as in this case, to arouse sympathy ; 
 and a strong desire came over me to quiet 
 him. Having been so startled and horrified 
 by Fifie s alarm, the reaction of my feelings 
 made me indignant ; I wanted to make him 
 pay for the fright he had caused me. I 
 offered Rosalie to quiet him ; but she would 
 not listen, and sent me off. 
 
 In disgust I returned to my reading. But 
 it was useless to try. The racket ever in 
 creasing next door, with Fifie steadily crying 
 and shouting for fear her mother would be 
 hurt, jarred too strongly on my nerves.
 
 KAISER S ILIAD 71 
 
 Rosalie came out in despair, throwing her 
 self down on the road, weeping bitterly, while 
 poor Fifie hung sobbing over her, nearly out 
 of her senses. I inwardly cursed the young 
 scamp, the cause of this grief, and outwardly 
 tried to console them, telling Rosalie that he 
 would soon tire himself, and then go to sleep, 
 explaining that his madness was only mo 
 mentary. But she could listen to nothing, 
 and cried to have some one go for the doctor. 
 A neighbor coming along was sent after 
 Carvol, at work on the bateau /avoir. 
 
 As Kaiser tried to come out, Rosalie 
 begged me to hold the door shut. By this 
 time the whole neighborhood was aroused. 
 Gradually, one by one, lanterns appeared in 
 the black night, lighting up curious startled 
 faces. " What s the matter ? " " What s 
 the matter ? " till at last a good-sized group 
 gathered about the door which I held, much 
 to my disgust and Rosalie s despair. I dis 
 liked my position very much ; but she would 
 not let me go in, so I had to face it. 
 
 Just here Carvol appeared on the scene, 
 furious. He grabbed the door-knob to go in,
 
 72 MY VILLAGE 
 
 but it would n t move. Kaiser had turned 
 the key, the drunkard s usual malice. Around 
 the back way Carvol got in, and at once quiet 
 was restored, fear of the father instantly curing 
 Kaiser of his desire to make a noise. " Ah ! " 
 cried indignant Carvol, " had I come five 
 minutes ago, I would have strangled you, 
 you young whelp." The public scandal is 
 the cause of his fury and Rosalie s despair. 
 Poor Fifie is only frightened. 
 
 On the following day, overcome by the 
 disgrace, Carvol gave in Kaiser s resignation 
 at the post-office. The latter has again 
 disappeared. And thus ends what we had 
 hoped was to be Kaiser s salvation. Alas !
 
 "LA CHASSE" 
 
 FALL has arrived. The shooting-season is 
 opened, and the " chasseurs " have donned 
 their costumes and guns, and, with their 
 dogs, are away to the fields. 
 
 Occasionally the report of a gun breaks 
 the stillness. Enthusiastically and faithfully
 
 74 MY VILLAGE 
 
 they march through stubble and brush until 
 thoroughly tired, returning with the air of 
 having seriously done their duty. Big boys ! 
 the pleasure of carrying a gun quite intoxi 
 cates them, and they are happy. So the 
 cbasse is really a good thing. True, they 
 rarely get any game ; but that does n t count. 
 They are hunters hunting ; that is the prin 
 cipal thing. Illusion is better than reality. 
 
 Once in a while a stray partridge meets 
 death at their excited hands ; but this does 
 not happen often enough to make the sport 
 in any way murderous. It is simply an 
 exhilarating exercise ; as a boy, I used to do 
 it with pleasure ; but the Valombre hunter 
 treats it and himself with great dignity. He 
 is the bearer of a gun, and has paid twenty- 
 eight francs tax for the right to use it. 
 Therefore 
 
 Our druggist is a great hunter, and on the 
 first day of the season is out with his gun. 
 Unfortunately, he cannot leave his shop, as 
 his services when needed are often very much 
 needed. So I see him at the corner of his 
 house, looking longingly at the meadow be-
 
 "LA CHASSE" 
 
 75 
 
 yond, yet always with one eye on his shop 
 door. He bitterly complains of his sad fate. 
 " There," he says, " I saw a sparrow light 
 over there in the field, and I can t leave the 
 shop ; it s discouraging." Thus he satisfies 
 his taste for shooting, while still not letting 
 pleasure interfere with business, practical, 
 though enthusiastic.
 
 CELESTINE 
 
 TO-NIGHT I ran my head into the trap. 1 
 saw Ce lestine sitting by her tire, and went in 
 to ask her about a harvest custom I had 
 remarked. 
 
 She gave me the information I was after; 
 but then, for a half-hour, gave me a lot more,
 
 CfiLESTINE 77 
 
 getting warmed up to the work. Her old 
 stories and naive ideas were very interesting ; 
 but I was in a hurry, and became impatient. 
 So I tried to escape, and only got away at 
 last by fairly running out at the door, saying 
 I had forgotten something pressing. She fol 
 lowed close after me, still talking as I went up 
 the road into the darkness, gradually raising 
 her voice to suit the increasing distance I 
 was desperately putting between us. 
 
 Poor old woman, she dearly loves to talk, 
 and a listener means much to her. She 
 rambled from one subject to another, jump 
 ing from to-day back into the past of sixty 
 years ago. She told me of her father, and 
 the stories he had told her about his times, 
 the Revolution, Napoleon, etc. He had 
 hoped that she would never see such things 
 as he had seen. "But," she added, " every 
 epoch has its own wars. I have seen as 
 much as he, I think, and perhaps more, 
 who knows r " . . . She had been in Paris 
 during the coup (fc tat of 51, had clambered 
 through the barricades and over the dead, where 
 every house was battered by the cannon and
 
 jS MY VILLAGE 
 
 every window smashed. . . . She had seen 
 the siege of Paris in /o 71, seen the German 
 conquerors in the home of her fathers. Her 
 husband, Desire , had been taken during the 
 troubles of 48, and tried for his life. She 
 had gone to Paris while he lay in prison, to 
 take him food and money. She had then got 
 him a lawyer, a good one, " for you know 
 one needs the best in such a case," had 
 paid him fifty francs for saving her husband. 
 " Fifty francs lost, as though I should throw 
 it into that pail of water," pointing to the 
 bucket beneath the window. 
 
 She told me of the beginning of Valombre s 
 prosperity. Fifty years back the peasants, in 
 a small way, had commenced taking beans to 
 Paris to sell, and from that start had developed 
 the present big trade, all Valombre now work 
 ing to feed the great capital, taking its gold in 
 return for vegetables. 
 
 Before that every one raised less, generally 
 just enough for home consumption. Each 
 family kept a cow, pigs, etc. ; life was more 
 simple and rural. Now cows are almost 
 unknown in Valombre, land being too valu-
 
 CfiLESTINE 79 
 
 able for vegetable-raising to be given up for 
 pasturage. Pigs also are no longer raised to 
 any extent, every one buying his meat from 
 the butcher and pork-dealer instead. 
 
 Then the peasant baked his own bread ; 
 now the baker supplies nearly the whole 
 village. Telling me about Napoleon, she 
 said that he always had lots of trouble, was 
 always at war, poor man. She seemed to 
 pitv him, saying that " All in power are 
 envied by others." " They wanted to take 
 his life." " See even the Minister [meaning 
 President Carnot], a wicked fellow killed 
 him only the other day ; and yet he was a 
 good man ; that is, I did n t know him, but 
 the papers say so."
 
 THE CURE 
 
 TO-DAY the priest, on meeting me, very 
 warmly invited me to come and see the 
 baptism of the new bateau /avoir (laundry- 
 house). Perhaps I might see something to 
 sketch, etc. 
 
 He is a frank, simple fellow, making no 
 fuss about my sketching his religious pro 
 cessions. In fact, on the contrary, he gen 
 erally asks how I made out, and shows a 
 friendly interest in the work, quite over-
 
 THE CURE 8 I 
 
 looking the fact of my being a heretic. 
 Dissenters are so few in France that party 
 spirit has not that unchristian venom which 
 pervades some countries. 
 
 On mv remarking that I had not vet seen 
 
 J O ^ 
 
 the new altar, he threw up his hands in pity : 
 " Oh ! you must see it at once ; it is a marvel 
 of beauty : pure Gothic in style," though 
 I imagine to him the word Gothic meant 
 something very vague. 
 
 He was suffering from a cold, and went 
 on to tell me that he had just come from 
 the doctor s. " And, worst of all, the doctor 
 is laid up. Yes, he got chilled yesterday 
 crossing the bridge ; he had to go to Remy, 
 to deliver a woman in childbirth, I believe," 
 and his tone seemed almost to throw a con 
 temptuous blame on this common weakness 
 of the fair sex. 
 
 " But do come and see the altar, my altar," 
 he added ; " every one says it is beautiful ! " I 
 promised ; and after a hearty hand-shake, he 
 trotted oft" vigorously up the hill. 
 
 On Sunday, remembering his invitation, I 
 went down to the new bateau [avoir, a large 
 6
 
 82 MY VILLAGE 
 
 boat-shed moored by the bank of the river, 
 where the washing tor the village is done. 
 Each washerwoman hires a position, for a 
 tew sous per hour, along the line, the boat 
 offering accommodation for about twenty or 
 thirty. Where the women wash, it is open, 
 having no bottom ; and in the running river 
 they wash and rinse, the current carrying 
 oft the soap-suds and dirt, their water thus 
 being always clean. Hot water is furnished 
 
 O 
 
 them extra, at so much a pail. Clothes are 
 soaked over night, hung in the dry-house, 
 etc., and though the charges are very small, 
 still the business of keeping a bateau /avoir 
 is apparently lucrative, as Valombre now has 
 two. 
 
 Shortly after my arrival the boat was 
 baptized with the title of T Esperance. A 
 goodly crowd of villagers had congregated by 
 the river to take part in the proceedings. 
 Down came the priest with his sexton and 
 choir boys, all in every-day dress. They 
 disappeared inside the boat for a few minutes, 
 reappearing in official costumes, the priest in 
 his surplice and skull-cap, the boys in their
 
 THE CUR6 83 
 
 red caps and gowns, and the sexton in 
 cocked hat, with his chain of service about 
 his neck. 
 
 Standing on the gang-plank, that all might 
 see and hear, the priest, after the customary 
 baptismal prayers and hymns, delivered a 
 short blessing in a clever tone well suited to 
 his audience. He said that but a few months 
 ago he had blessed the child of Gabrielle, the 
 proprietress of the boat, in his church, but 
 now she had brought him a new infant to 
 baptize, too big to come into his church, so 
 he had to bring his church to it, so to speak. 
 Then he enthusiastically blessed right and 
 left, getting warmed up to his work, blessing 
 Gabrielle, the boat, the business, and all the 
 women who came there to wash, really 
 " booming " trade by his profuse promises 
 of joy and blessing. 
 
 From the boat, he crossed the landing and 
 blessed the clothes-room and the clothes 
 which should be hung in it. 
 
 Here he again disappeared for a short time, 
 reappearing in his ordinary costume. A table 
 was spread, laden with wine and cakes, with
 
 84 MY VILLAGE 
 
 a white baptismal bouquet as a centre piece. 
 Here the priest offered a toast, and, glass in 
 hand, wished more joy and success to the 
 boat, and everybody in general. 
 
 Jolly, straightforward fellow, he suits his 
 position capitally ; to keep the people faithful 
 to the church, he thus mixes familiarly with 
 all their fetes and affairs. 
 
 While the drinking was going on, dragees 
 (candies) were offered to all the spectators. 
 A pretty young girl passed around a dainty 
 little silken bag into which each dipped his 
 hand for the sweetmeats. A young man, or 
 rather big boy, was supposed to conduct her 
 about during this distribution ; but he being 
 much the more clumsy and embarrassed of 
 the two, she literally led him around. He 
 smiled and looked kindly upon the world, and, 
 though the air was decidedly cool, carried his 
 hat in his hand to show that he knew what 
 was expected of him when conducting young 
 ladies. This boy amused me considerably ; 
 at times I would lose him for a while, though 
 the girl was always visible ; but soon again 
 see him still being dragged about. The girl
 
 THE CURfi 85 
 
 suddenly starting in an opposite direction 
 from his, as she oftered her candies, seriously 
 confused him, and his feet were continually 
 getting in his way. 
 
 Another toast ; the glasses are emptied ; 
 and the baptismal festival is over. And 
 the f Esperance is ready for business.
 
 JEAN PAUL 
 
 JEAN PAUL, Rosalie s brother, gives me 
 his ideas on war, he having served through 
 the disasters of 187071. " Ah, no," he 
 says, " it is n t fine, war ; it s sad, on the con 
 trary. No, it does n t enthuse you ; you see 
 the comrades dropping around you, and you 
 think that it will soon be your turn. It 
 wakes you up, yes, for you fight to protect 
 your own hide ; you see an enemv move and 
 you shoot at him to stop him shooting at 
 you ; that s all there is to it. Oh, no, it 
 is n t gay ; it s sad, on the contrary." 
 
 Jean Paul, now a quarryman, stoutly de 
 fends his trade, claiming that accidents never 
 happen. True a man was killed last spring ; 
 and recently Kaiser, who works with Jean 
 Paul, was laid up with a crushed finger for a 
 couple of weeks. And just now Jean Paul 
 himself is limping around with a couple of 
 canes, a damaged foot the cause. But still 
 
 * O
 
 JEAN PAUL 87 
 
 " it s a pretty good trade ; " and when we above 
 ground are suffering from the heat of summer, 
 they are comfortably cool below. And even 
 in winter they are sheltered from the wind 
 and rain, while we are exposed to the vary 
 ing changes of weather. " No, the trade s 
 better than people think. Of course it has 
 some drawbacks; but then 
 
 Jean Paul once caught a fifteen pound 
 pike in the river, and since bears a great 
 reputation, a reputation which has forced 
 him to become an ardent fisherman in his en 
 deavors to live up to his too suddenly acquired 
 renown. And now nearly every day finds 
 him with his lame foot and a couple of rods 
 sitting by the river, patiently waiting for the 
 next big fish, which never comes.
 
 FIFIE S ROMANCE 
 
 FIFIE S love-affair has become a seriously 
 complicated plot, her lover s parents having 
 refused to give their consent to a marriage. 
 Poor Fifie is broken-hearted, but swears that 
 she will not give him up ; and he as firmly 
 vows that he will have no other for a wife 
 but her. 
 
 He cannot be married without his father s 
 permission, being a minor, but is determined 
 to remain faithful against all opposition, 
 until the necessary years have passed which 
 shall free him from legal obedience. 
 
 In a year the state will take him to do his 
 service as a soldier ; and for three long years 
 Fifie must wait. Oh, the danger of those 
 long, long years ! The fear that another fairer 
 maid may steal him from her is a great night 
 mare to yearning Fifie. Something must be 
 done to hold him so that no other claim shall 
 be valid.
 
 FIFIE S ROMANCE 89 
 
 Rosalie s romantic heart is touched. Ro 
 salie is a faithful devourer of the continued 
 stories of the daily papers, stories read to her 
 by Fifie, where both sob in sympathy with 
 the trying parts, Fifie s wet voice fairly wail 
 ing through the climax, till true love conquers, 
 when both, exhausted, dry their tears and take 
 up the day s washing. 
 
 So Rosalie encourages her love-lorn daugh 
 ter to stand up for her rights, the rights of 
 love. Carvol, more practical, and not over 
 romantic, seeing no issue to the affair, pro 
 tests against his wife s course, and wants the 
 matter dropped. But his opposition is worse 
 than useless, and only makes Fifie more 
 determined and Rosalie more sympathetic ; 
 and the flame is fanned into a blaze which 
 promises to do damage ; as now Fifie says 
 that she will not be separated from her 
 Armand, and threatens to go and live with 
 him. 
 
 Phew ! this seems to me a dangerous plan, 
 and rather startling for quiet, practical, cool- 
 headed Valombre ; and I am surprised to 
 learn that Rosalie not only does not object,
 
 QO MY VILLAGE 
 
 but actually encourages Fifie, risking the 
 whole future of her daughter s life on this one 
 move. This is romance with a vengeance ! 
 
 Their hope is, that once Armand s parents 
 see how devoted the lovers are to each other, 
 their hearts will be softened, and the reluc 
 tant consent be forthcoming. 
 
 Yes, the move has been decided on. Jules 
 has come around with his cart and taken 
 Fifie s bed and furniture ; and off they have 
 started for Pontoise, where Armand is work 
 ing. Carvol has gone off mad, he washes 
 his hands of the affair ; and the die is cast. 
 Now Fortune be kind to the blind ! 
 
 His parents were sorely grieved at the 
 serious turn things had taken. His father 
 wrote him that he would come and see what 
 was to be done. 
 
 Poor Fifie is terribly worried ; the father is 
 a well-to-do peasant of Perigord, and she 
 knows that he had hoped to make a good 
 match for his only son, marrying him to some 
 girl who could bring him a good round dot 
 which should give him a start in the world ;
 
 FIFIE S ROMANCE 91 
 
 while poor Fifie has only her love and her 
 two willing hands to offer, thus upsetting all 
 his dearly cherished hopes. And the father 
 is sorely troubled. 
 
 He has come and gone ; and Fifie s hopes 
 have risen, for he was kind to her. 
 
 He has given his consent. Though dis 
 appointed by this complete upsetting of his 
 plans, the kind old man had not the heart to 
 separate them, and, after talking it over with 
 his wife, gave his permission to the marriage. 
 
 The wedding was very quiet, though 
 happy. Fifie s position was rather awkward, 
 as now she could not wear in her hair the 
 fleur (For anger, the symbol of virginity, at her 
 own wedding. This was the only shadow on 
 that happy day ; but at that price she had 
 won her husband, and could not but feel 
 satisfied. Rosalie was triumphant ; and even 
 Carvol, now that all had turned out well, 
 breathing freer, lent his share of enthusiasm 
 to the happy day.
 
 92 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Six months later. . . . As I came in to-night 
 I heard the cry of a baby. It was Fifie s, just 
 come into the world. Carvol had been shut 
 out, and sat on the doorstep full of drunken 
 enthusiasm, but though drunk still very 
 quiet, calmly accepting man s subordinate 
 position in such moments. 
 
 Armand has been called to do his military 
 service. It seems that he has but one year 
 to serve. Fifie has taken her baby and 
 gone to be near him. Now that he must 
 give his time to the state, she bravely sets to 
 work to earn a living for herself and baby, 
 until his year shall be passed and he can 
 return to his work. Humble instance of 
 quiet heroism, not uncommon among the 
 people, yet rarely known to the world. 
 
 And, still living her romance, Fifie looks 
 cheerfully towards the future.
 
 THE QUARRY 
 
 " ARK you going to work, Kaiser ? " 
 " Yes." " Well, take me along ; I want to 
 see the quarry." And oft" I went with him 
 and Jean Paul. After a long walk across 
 the Remy wood, we struck the entrance, 
 and, descending a steep plane to a depth of 
 about a hundred feet, entered the main avenue 
 of the quarry. Here the two men lighted 
 their lamps, and led me through a series of 
 well-made underground streets. It being 
 Sunday, but a few men were working.
 
 94 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 As . my eyes became accustomed to the 
 darkness, I could distinguish what they were 
 doing. Lighted only by their small miner s 
 
 lamps, just strong enough to light up the 
 spot on which they are working, they were 
 jabbing away at the great walls of their cave 
 with immense chisels suspended from a frame 
 work. Thus they cut out, on each side, the
 
 . THE QUARRY 95 
 
 great block of white building stone, perhaps 
 six feet in width and height, which they wish 
 to extract, then a big slice off its base, 
 always cutting into the solid wall. Blocks 
 are wedged to support the stone. Next they 
 
 - 
 
 cut off another slice, on top, and the block, 
 thus detached, drops of its own weight. 
 With jack-screws and rollers they dislodge 
 it from its place, to be cut and trimmed into 
 shape by another set of men. This was Jean 
 Paul s occupation, and, a block being ready, 
 he set to work. The effects of light and 
 
 O 
 
 shade were very interesting and weird ; shade
 
 9 6 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 predominating. With great difficulty I 
 managed to get a few sketches of the men 
 at work. 
 
 But what a terrible trade theirs is ! They 
 go down at six o clock in the morning, and 
 often stay there till night, scarcely ever know 
 ing what the sunlight is like. And yet Jean 
 Louis claims that it s a good trade, " cool
 
 THE QUARRY 97 
 
 in summer, and warm in winter." But to 
 me it seemed a terrible breeding-place for 
 cripples, accidents happening only too often. 
 Yet the men appear to like their work well 
 enough. They have become so accustomed 
 to it that to them it is quite as pleasant as 
 living above ground. Habit works wonders.
 
 LOCAL POLITICS 
 
 FOUR candidates put themselves up to fill 
 Duterte s place as " municipal counsellor." 
 Sunday is voting day. The first Sunday s 
 vote elected no one. Two of the champions 
 retired from the arena, leaving the baker and 
 the dry-goods man to fight it out. The fol 
 lowing Sunday brought victory to the baker, 
 229 votes to 210 for his adversary. 
 
 Now, in wrath, the defeated gentleman has 
 tendered his resignation as " chief of the fire- 
 brigade." Human, like the rest of the world, 
 thus foolishly he gives up his innocent but
 
 LOCAL POLITICS 99 
 
 picturesque pastime of drilling the valiant 
 volunteer squad of pump and hose workers, 
 to satisfy his wounded pride. No longer 
 will he wear his sword and braided cap. It 
 is a pity, for he was very amusing, marching 
 with his little band. Doubtless some other, 
 equally decorative, will fill his place. Silly, 
 silly little man ! The dignity of a rural 
 functionary seems to grow inversely to the 
 importance of his position and actual value 
 to the world. 
 
 He has come back. The sacrifice was too 
 great, and he allowed himself to be coaxed 
 into again taking up the honors he had laid 
 down. He really was not so silly, after all !
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 FOR the past week the village has been 
 getting ready for its annual fete. Great vans 
 have come rumbling into town, unloading 
 their contents on the " Place." Sheds and 
 booths are being erected. The merry-go- 
 round has been put together ; and everything 
 is active preparation. 
 
 The main road has been cleaned and 
 swept. Valombre intends to look its best
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 IOI 
 
 at the ffae, and the village already wears 
 an impatient, expectant air. To-morrow 
 the pent-up enthusiasm of a year will run 
 wild. 
 
 Sunday. . . . " Tree-dee-tra-ra-ra-dee ! " 
 The merry-go-round organ has opened the 
 fete. Its terrible racket dominates every 
 thing. In five minutes the air is charged
 
 IO2 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 with the sound. Willingly, or unwillingly, 
 every one is drawn towards it. There is no 
 resisting its magnetic charm. And from 
 every direction and every road a steady 
 stream of humanity pours into the village 
 square. 
 
 Everybody is in full dress, that is, local 
 full dress : stiff new blouses and starched 
 bonnets, among the old men and women ; 
 antiquated broadcloth suits, with coat-tails of 
 phenomenal dimensions, and even tall hats, 
 for the next generation of men ; their wives 
 in tightly-laced dresses, cracking, or threaten 
 ing to, at every seam, the gaudy bonnet crown 
 ing all, unhappy looking, but still happy, 
 notwithstanding the consciousness of their 
 Sunday clothes. The next generation, their
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 103 
 
 sons and daughters, make a desperate en 
 deavor to keep up with their Parisian neigh 
 bors in dress, affecting their costumes and 
 airs, but with most deplorably rustic results. 
 The young men are clad in tightly-fitting 
 coats which embarrass their movements, and 
 choked in stiff collars. Red faces and hands 
 shine out painfully from collars and cuffs. 
 But their owners are brave, and will die in 
 this harness rather than yield. They feel 
 that progress demands it of them. 
 
 The girls, but yesterday working in the 
 fields under the burning sun, are now arrayed 
 in gorgeous costumes, ribbons streaming in 
 profusion. They make a better attempt at 
 wearing their fine feathers than the boys, 
 notwithstanding uneasy hands which uncon 
 sciously wander restlessly behind to make 
 sure that everything is in place. 
 
 A determined attempt at dignity is made 
 at the start ; but the older folks cannot 
 long stand the strain, and invite each other 
 across the street to the saloon-keeper s. 
 A few drinks put them at their ease, and 
 inspire a confidence which allows them to
 
 104 MY VILLAGE 
 
 forget that they are dressed up. They, in 
 turn, set the others into a more natural 
 movement, and Valombre begins to enjoy 
 itself. 
 
 The children are already riding the wooden 
 horses. Soon their parents get interested, 
 and try it also. Then the crowd catches 
 fire, and all is life and joy. A steady stream 
 attacks the merry-go-round ; every horse is 
 loaded, and away they go in wild dissipation. 
 Inside the real horses, the motive power, 
 tirelessly tramp round and round, while the 
 assistant grinds away furiously on the deadly 
 organ. Its stock of three tunes are so 
 rapidly repeated that they run together in 
 one great crash of groans, squeaks, and 
 whistles, till the air is alive with the din, 
 and every head buzzing. 
 
 The young men gallantly invite the young 
 ladies. The rocking boats have a great suc 
 cess ; while the funny, stiff little horses, and 
 even the funnier lion with his tail glued 
 against his flank in graceful circles, each 
 bears its rider, a sturdy lass or lad. The 
 enthusiasm is contagious, and those unable to
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE 
 
 I0 5 
 
 find a place look impatiently on, each face 
 beaming with good- 
 natured life. 
 
 The theatre-circus 
 now commences 
 boisterously to ad 
 vertise its attrac- "\ 
 tions, and, being ^ 
 the greater novelty, \> 
 cuts terribly into S 
 the profits of the 
 merry-go-round. 
 
 Both organs start up together, that of the 
 theatre and the one 
 
 (VJll^E liluTMltf 
 
 ^ ^ " - of the merry-go- 
 round. The racket 
 is deafening. Each 
 endeavors to make 
 the most noise, as 
 noise means suc 
 cess. 
 
 The different 
 booths are invaded ; 
 toys are bought for 
 There is a goodly array of 
 
 o. 
 
 the children.
 
 106 MY VILLAGE 
 
 everything gaudy that can amuse them, 
 carts, trumpets, games for the boys, dolls and 
 trinkets for the girls. They dazzle the eye 
 by their gorgeousness, arrayed by myriads, 
 tier upon tier. The busy pedlers bustle 
 to and fro, feverishly attending to the steady 
 sales. 
 
 Valombre has unloosed its tight pocket- 
 strings, and the little ones are reaping a 
 harvest of sunshine and joy. Each parent 
 competes in generosity with his neighbor. 
 
 The wheel of fortune whirls, clicks, and 
 stops ; the winner has gained a bright plate 
 of brilliant design, bearing some cheerful 
 motto, combining utility and instruction with 
 beauty. 
 
 An interested group has surrounded the 
 billiard-table. A player endeavors to knock 
 the twelve balls out of place in three shots ; 
 if successful, a prize is his reward, a glass, 
 a plate, etc. ; here all is crockery. Still the 
 enthusiasm runs high. Every one must try 
 his luck. 
 
 Little stands are promiscuously placed 
 among the crowds, each with some game of
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 107 
 
 chance, two cents a chance to gain a pack 
 age of tobacco. Whirl the balls swing 
 round out drops a number ; the lucky 
 holder pockets his prize, and the fun runs 
 high. 
 
 Valombre seems for the moment to have 
 found the spring of eternal youth. The buzz 
 and din is overpowering and contagious ; each 
 shouts and laughs ; and the " Place " is alive 
 and teeming with animal spirits. No one can 
 remain quiet ; those who attempt it must at 
 least smile, so that all around is mirth and 
 gayety, a glorious shaking up for the quiet 
 little village. It comes only once a year, but 
 when it does come no one misses it ; and for 
 once, at least, the whole village is happy. 
 
 Such simple, naive enjoyment has a healthy 
 charm about it ; and the peasants do so 
 heartily and seriously enjoy themselves; 
 they fairly beam. True, they help their en 
 thusiasm by frequent visits across the street, 
 returning so much the livelier. 
 
 Round and round goes the glittering, tinsel- 
 covered merry-go-round with its gorgeous 
 decorations, carrying its noisy, happy freight
 
 io8 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 boisterously along to the extraordinary music 
 of its organ. The sweating assistant wipes 
 his brow, but still furiously grinds. 
 
 Snap ! snap ! the crack of the rifles in the 
 shooting-gallery, while the busy crowd rest 
 lessly moves to and fro among the booths. 
 The itinerate pedlers lustily call their wares. 
 
 The pin-wheel man 
 strides about, carry 
 ing his goods above 
 him on an immense 
 and picturesque 
 straw frame. Chil 
 dren, now joyouslv 
 intoxicated, rush 
 wildly across from 
 game to game. 
 Up and down, to and fro, the swings, well 
 loaded, sweep through the air ; gay flags 
 above seem almost noisy in their bright col 
 ors. And every form of sound and motion, 
 color and shape, hopelessly and inextricably 
 mixed, create a bedlam beyond description, 
 but a bedlam of hearty, happy enjoyment. 
 Steadily the enthusiasm and excitement
 
 FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 109 
 
 increases, culminating in the ball at night. 
 A great tent-covered shed has been erected, 
 
 a plain plank floor spread, six musicians on 
 their platform strike up, and the expectant 
 crowd surges towards the entrance. Six 
 cents is the price of admission.
 
 no 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Soon the hall is densely packed. The girls 
 are in new dresses 
 for the occasion ; 
 their healthy sun 
 burned faces and 
 \ hands make dark 
 spots against the 
 light costumes. 
 They are stiff and 
 awkward, and 
 walk uneasily in their brilliant plumage ; but 
 they are happy, supremely happy. For this 
 they have worked, 
 saved money, and 
 sewed ; and the 
 glory of the new 
 dress easily coun 
 teracts the feeling 
 of insecurity and 
 awkwardness. 
 Soon they will for 
 get that they are 
 dressed up, and give 
 
 way heartily to the enjoyment of the dance. 
 Both boys and girls take their dancing as
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" III 
 
 a serious affair, a religious rite; a smile is 
 rare. They dance as they work in the 
 fields, it is a piece of work to be done; 
 and though they evidently enjoy it, they attend 
 seriously to work. 
 
 A proud, daring couple has started the 
 waltz, and the floor, 
 in a moment, is alive 
 with heavily turning 
 humanity. Cautiously L 
 they start, with an 
 apparent feeling of f 
 consciousness and fear 
 
 of mistake, but soon 
 
 5 
 
 are lost in the general ;._^ 
 
 movement, swinging 
 
 and whirling in hearty enjoyment. 
 
 The music, with a few warning notes, 
 ceases. The active manager, drawing a 
 rope across the hall, collects from each 
 dancer the price of the dance, three cents, 
 allowing him, after payment, to pass out, 
 an amusingly practical system. 
 
 Again the orchestra attacks its work, and 
 the waltz whirls on. In turn comes the
 
 112 MY VILLAGE 
 
 polka and quadrille, the popular dances. 
 Then all are upon the floor, till crowded 
 humanity in its endeavor to turn butts against 
 and tramples on the toes of its neighbor. 
 But no matter how dense, the dance goes on ; 
 and the manager busily collects his fares, 
 and works like a beaver to do it. 
 
 Around the floor the lookers-on stand 
 thick and dense. Graduallv the general 
 enthusiasm attacks them, and here and there 
 a new couple dashes into the arena. 
 
 Panting, red-faced girls, suffering from 
 tightly-laced dresses, and hot from the dance, 
 wipe their steaming faces to spring at once 
 to their feet on the appearance of a partner 
 who gallantly requests the pleasure of a 
 dance. There is much of the family dance 
 about the ball : every one know r s every one ; 
 and their only restraint is that caused by the 
 effort of wearing new clothes. Good-natured 
 souls ! the idea that how to wear clothes is 
 a thing; of itself, not picked up suddenly for 
 the occasion, has never entered their heads 
 fortunately, for otherwise they would know 
 that others remarked their awkwardness, and 
 be unhappv in the knowledge.
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 113 
 
 Boldly and joyfully they pound the floor. 
 The noise rumbles afar over Valombre ; from 
 any distance you can hear it rising above the 
 orchestra s racket. While outside the merry- 
 go-round, with redoubled energy, tries to 
 
 compete with the ball ; and its organ, as 
 though inspired by the necessity of the oc 
 casion, shrieks above the din of the dance, 
 drowning the dancers fiddlers. Hut the 
 conflicting music is beneath the notice of the 
 happy, perspiring couples ; and they hop and 
 swing to whichever music pleases them best
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 some to the measure of the merry-go-round 
 organ, while others, by a great effort, remain 
 faithful to their own feeble musicians. 
 
 Rushing they go, galoping across the hall. 
 Here their great physical strength comes into 
 play. Sturdy lads drag their heavy partners 
 after them, bumping against each other, but 
 gaylv crushing along through and over every 
 difficulty. And on thev awav through
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 115 
 
 the morning, until, from sheer exhaustion, 
 they drop off one by one. Tired mothers 
 lead away their tired daughters. Towards 
 four o clock the fete dies out, the organ 
 grunts a last grunt, and tired but happy 
 Valombre slowly winds away to its homes. 
 
 All this noise and movement bursting so 
 suddenly upon the sleepy village quite turns 
 one s head, the contrast with the usual life 
 is so great. But, strange to say, the rare 
 moments of silence, when the organs stop for 
 breath, are even more oppressive. One s 
 ears have become keyed up to the terrible 
 din, and a stop upsets the whole mental 
 machinery. The sudden palpable silence is 
 really painful. 
 
 Monday morning the fete rested, start 
 ing up with renewed vigor in the afternoon. 
 The organ again violently set things in 
 motion, and the jolly crowd soon warmed up 
 to its work. 
 
 This afternoon was devoted to a variety of 
 games, for the young and old. The first in 
 the series was for the little girls. An egg 
 was placed upon a stone ; a girl, blindfolded,
 
 Il6 MY VILLAGE 
 
 then tried to break it with one blow of a long 
 switch. Advancing till she thought herself 
 near enough, she struck wildly, much to the 
 amusement of her comrades. Each little girl 
 in turn tried her luck, those successful of 
 course winning prizes, ribbons, handker 
 chiefs, etc. 
 
 Then another game. From a bar was 
 suspended a small stone swinging to a string. 
 Here the girls, again blindfolded, advanced, 
 scissors in hand, endeavoring to cut the 
 string. As was to be expected, most of the 
 cuts were lost in the air; increasing the good- 
 humor and mirth of the lookers-on. 
 
 Next, the boys were given a chance. For 
 them a lantern containing a lighted candle was 
 attached to a post ; they, standing about 
 fifteen feet away, were to put out the light 
 by squirting water upon it from a huge 
 syringe. Like the girls, they were blind 
 folded, first being allowed to take aim with 
 the charged syringe. A handkerchief being 
 then tied over their eyes, word was given, 
 and they let fire. This novel game was a 
 great success, as the boys, unable to keep
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 1 17 
 
 their aim and handle the syringe, squirted 
 right and left, showering the laughing 
 crowd. 
 
 The children were crazy with joy, their 
 happy shrieks of laughter ringing out after 
 each unlucky attempt. And their parents 
 enjoyed the performance almost as much as 
 they did ; they could not remain dignified, no 
 matter how hard they tried. A grin would 
 steal over their burnt, wrinkled faces, cul 
 minating in a hearty roar, much like the 
 bursting of a bomb. 
 
 The happy little winners were given their 
 prizes, and strutted proudly around displaying 
 a gaudy handkerchief or a bright new jack- 
 knife to their less fortunate companions. But 
 everything is so arranged that none shall 
 be unhappy ; each is consoled with some 
 thing, a package of candy, or a few cents. 
 
 These games over, the merry-go-round is 
 again overrun, and enthusiasm kept steadily 
 up to high-water mark. 
 
 Here the women were given their turn. 
 A plate was hung against a wall ; they, a few 
 yards distant, had two shots at it with stones.
 
 u8 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Their wild throws, though endangering the 
 audience, who scampered nimbly out of line 
 
 r$M f> v -, n ..-n tffi h - 
 
 of fire, a broad one, brought the hilarity 
 of the crowd up to a wild pitch ; and the 
 saloon-keeper next door 
 did a good business. 
 
 Meanwhile the men be 
 fore the saloons were play 
 ing matches of " e carte " 
 and " piquet." The ex 
 citement, aided by a free 
 use of wine, ran high. 
 Down the street, another 
 set of men were playing 
 an interesting game of 
 hand-ball. The prizes for 
 these games were rabbits, ducks, and legs 
 of mutton ; and as dusk settled down, the
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 successful players could be seen wandering 
 homeward, firmly holding a frightened rabbit, 
 which made des 
 perate attempts at 
 escape, or a wildly 
 quacking duck, 
 while the leg of 
 mutton, prettily 
 done up in colored 
 paper and decorated 
 with a rosette, was 
 triumphantly car 
 ried off for the 
 morrow s dinner. 
 
 During all these games, the young ladies 
 
 and little chil 
 dren were not 
 forgotten : the 
 
 ball-room was 
 \ ^\ 
 V a;iven up to 
 
 IV O 
 
 \ \( }l ^ \\ them ; and a 
 most charmingly 
 picturesque party they made. Tiny little 
 tots danced in pairs, prancing gayly around, 
 encouraged by the fond smiles of their
 
 I2O 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 \ 
 
 mothers ; looking very prettv in their bright 
 
 little costumes. It is 
 
 /- A / astonishing how many 
 
 ff V< V~ 
 
 \sr-i ,-) ^"v new and really good 
 dresses show up at the 
 fetes; every one seems 
 to rise equal to the event. 
 Even the most humble 
 gracefully dress up their 
 children, and, in a few 
 
 \ I ( J 
 
 bright hours, thoroughly 
 
 reap the reward of their economy and 
 energy. 
 
 And thus, this 
 bright afternoon, 
 everybody found his 
 game, or the means J 
 to be happy and (/ 
 heartily enjoy an / 
 out-and-out picnic. / 
 V a 1 o m b r e had { (/, 
 dropped its cares, \1 , 
 
 and so thoroughly S- 
 
 forgotten them that it seemed for the 
 time as though none had ever existed to
 
 FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 121 
 
 worry the happy, lively assembly of healthy 
 humanity. 
 
 The saloons were forced 
 to build tables, and place 
 benches outside their doors, 
 overflowing into the street, 
 doing tremendous business. 
 But though Valombre was 
 steadily acquiring a heavy 
 dose of artificial stimulant, 
 every one remained per 
 fectly good-natured: no 
 quarrels or disorders mar 
 ring the fete. 
 
 The different venders of knick-knacks ex- 
 
 change notes during the lulls of trade. The 
 lemonade-pedler complains to the heavy
 
 122 MY VILLAGE 
 
 hammer man that business is dull ; while the 
 merry-go-round keeper retains a dignified but 
 indignant silence as he scowls at the theatre. 
 At night again the ball holds forth ; and faith 
 ful dancers make the floor shake. But the 
 strain is beginning to tell by this time, and 
 tired humanity looks on more readily than it 
 did last night ; still, what is lacking in 
 numbers is made good by the enthusiasm of 
 the faithful. 
 
 Outside, the merry-go-round and swings 
 still do a good business. I notice a couple 
 of harvest hands who have won a lot of 
 crockery at the wheel of fortune, crockery 
 which has cost them dear. Their wives 
 fruitlessly endeavor to drag them away ; but 
 no, their blood is up, and as long as the 
 money lasts, they will try for more crockery. 
 And so it goes. One would think the village 
 had gone crazy in its joy, and would never 
 stop playing. 
 
 Tuesday. To-day is school " exhibition- 
 day," and the distribution of prizes takes 
 place. The ball-room has been prettily 
 decorated with flags, and arranged for the
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 123 
 
 occasion. The whole village is present. 
 Every one is dignified and expectant ; Va- 
 lombre intends to show that even if it has 
 been having a hilarious time it knows how 
 to behave itself when the occasion requires. 
 Great personages are expected ; the district 
 prefect, the sum of local 
 greatness, is to address the 
 audience. 
 
 The mayor, beaming 
 with the consciousness of 
 his importance, though / ///% 
 somewhat intimidated, 
 with a few well-meant 
 gestures, and fewer and 
 more modest remarks, 
 opens the ceremony. Then 
 the great men speak. They repeat the 
 much-used remarks usually proffered through 
 out the country world on such occasions. 
 The children recite their pieces, and look 
 very pretty. The prize-winners come for 
 ward ; the invited great man decorates their 
 brows with little tinsel wreaths, to imitate 
 the laurel, and, loaded with bright books, the
 
 124 MY VILLAGE 
 
 little ones triumphantly return to their proud 
 parents, whose eyes are dim with legitimate 
 
 jy- 
 
 As they pass out into the air, with happy 
 faces, wearing their little wreaths, their arms 
 loaded with red-and-gilt bound story-books, 
 they make a pretty picture. They strut 
 about proudly with their loads. " Oh, no ! " 
 
 they want no help, and insist on carrying 
 their books, that all may see their glory. 
 One little girl insists on riding on the merry- 
 go-round with her load of half-a-dozen large 
 and heavy books. They are awkward to 
 handle, but she holds to them. At last, 
 finding them too many to hold while riding, 
 she dismounts and balances her load on the 
 wooden horse, pretty in her innocent vanity. 
 Rosalie s little granddaughter has won a
 
 FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 125 
 
 tinv prize book; and, as I sit before my door, 
 smoking, I ask her to show it to me. Her 
 father, at Rosalie s, hard at work eating and 
 drinking, hears my request and rushes out to 
 show off his child. He makes her stand up 
 
 and recite her piece, which she does just as 
 a phonographic doll would do, while he beams 
 with pride. I enjoy his enthusiasm, and 
 heap compliments upon the child ; and he 
 steadily grows happier and happier. To-day 
 is a happy one for both parents and children. 
 In the evening the interrupted fete again
 
 126 MY VILLAGE 
 
 takes up the thread. The group about the 
 phonograph is always interesting. Every face 
 is blankly stupid as the music commences. 
 Eyes reach out to listen, ears are not enough. 
 Gradually the song has an effect on them ; 
 and sudden, jerky, noisy little laughs break 
 the stillness. I hear a boy enthusiastically 
 tell that it s " immense ; " here he hastens, 
 in a blase way, to add that he has already 
 heard it three or four times. 
 
 The fan-pedler is sociable, and, seeing 
 me smoking, asks in a friendly way for to 
 bacco to make a cigarette. I give it, but 
 tell him that I have n t any paper with me. 
 " Oh, that s all right ; the neighbor has." 
 So off he goes to the wheel-of-fortune keeper 
 to get his paper. He comes back to talk 
 about things in general, keeping an eye out 
 for business ; for when he sees a child run 
 up to me, he immediately pushes a fan or 
 whip into its hand, and I pay. He will get 
 on, I see that. 
 
 The saloon-keeper takes advantage of a 
 lull in business, and tries to get his share of 
 the fete. I see him at the theatre, very near
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 127 
 
 the door, ready in case a rush of business 
 should necessitate his leaving. To-morrow 
 night his wife will have her turn at the show. 
 The fete, after lasting a week, closed with 
 a concert for the benefit of the aesthetic sen 
 timent of Valombre. " Artists " from Paris, 
 
 as they were advertised, sang and played 
 with 2jeat success, receiving generous salvos 
 of applause. It must have pleased these 
 unrecognized geniuses to be thus appreciated 
 at last. 
 
 The fete scheme seems to me to be a capi 
 tal system. This one I have just studied
 
 128 MY VILLAGE 
 
 was admfrably conceived and carried out, in 
 a paternal sort of way. The amusements 
 and games were so arranged that no one 
 was left out. Boys and girls, young men 
 and young women, grown men and women, 
 even the old people, could take part and 
 enjoy it. The whole thing gave the village 
 a good, thorough shaking-up, a dose of moral 
 physic, loosening its purse-strings, and get 
 ting it into the habit of spending money for 
 enjoyment, and also teaching it how to enjoy 
 life in a modest, healthy way. I really be 
 lieve that every country and people would 
 be the better for such fetes. Their effect is 
 essentially civilizing. They counteract, in a 
 good healthy way, the natural tendency to 
 fall into a narrow, mercenary rut, and make 
 people s hearts bigger and happier 
 
 I can see no bad sides to the affair, and 
 many good. Here the girls and boys learn 
 to dress better, and acquire politer manners. 
 They come in contact with Parisians, and 
 absorb, though in slight doses, a little much- 
 needed polish and softening off of their hard 
 points. The genial and gentle in nature is
 
 "FETE DE VALOMBRE" 
 
 129 
 
 encouraged. The ambition of the young 
 men and girls is aroused, and, in endeavoring 
 to become more civilized, they make an 
 advance. The fete just lasts long enough to 
 do good without upsetting the solidity of the 
 peasant life. A certain amount of surplus 
 money finds its way out of " stockings " 
 into circulation. The children benefit by 
 the mild rivalry in pride of their parents ; 
 and a little more light is let into their lives, 
 consequently a little more civilization. 
 
 . 
 
 FETE
 
 ALBERT S ACCIDENT 
 
 I HAD known him well, a sturdy Hercules 
 whose vigorous strength I had so often ad 
 mired when in harvest-time he swung his 
 broad-bladed scythe in sweeping, resistless 
 strokes. He seemed to me the personifica 
 tion of health and strength, and now to see 
 him so changed quite upset me. I could not 
 believe my eyes. Pale and weak, he was sit 
 ting in a hay-cart driven by his wife, a pair 
 of crutches beside him. " Man Dieu ! Al-
 
 ALBERT S ACCIDENT 131 
 
 bert, what s the matter ? " I asked, advanc 
 ing to the cart, which now slowed up. 
 
 He told me that he was just getting back 
 from the hospital at Pontoise, where he had 
 been lying for two months with a broken 
 leg. It appeared that while watching a tree 
 being cut down, it split, and fell unexpectedly, 
 and he was unfortunate enough to be caught 
 beneath it, getting terribly crushed ; having 
 his leg broken in three places. Poor fellow ! 
 it seemed a terrible pity that he, so strong, 
 should be thus suddenly crippled. At the 
 best, he will always limp, even should he 
 regain his strength. 
 
 Slowly, through the winter, he picked up, 
 and walked about with a cane, glad to have 
 got free from his crutches. As spring came 
 on, he went out again to work in the fields. 
 A wife and four children were behind him to 
 be supported. But the joy and cheerfulness 
 seemed to have been crushed out of him in 
 that one terrible blow, and though he bravely 
 did his day s work, he had lost his spirit with 
 his strength, and had aged terribly. 
 
 When last I saw him, he was looking for-
 
 132 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ward to the harvest. Reaping was his pas 
 sion, and he yearned to swing his scythe 
 through the ripe grain again. His leg, he 
 said, was n t good for much, but he counted 
 on making the other do all the work. 
 
 " Who is dead now ? " I asked Jean Paul, 
 as I heard the church bell ringing. " It s 
 Albert," Jean Paul informed me. " What ! 
 Albert Missonier ! it is n t possible." " Oh, 
 yes, it is ! he died this morning." Poor Al 
 bert ! " Yes," Jean Paul added, u he came 
 home from harvesting, and, while standing at 
 his door talking to his wife, fell dead." Poor 
 fellow ! he had killed himself by overwork in 
 the hot sun. And now what will become of 
 his wife with her four small children ?
 
 THE POSTMAN 
 
 THK local postman has recently installed 
 himself in our court, at the foot of the street. 
 Street is rather too dignified a name for our 
 little road ; but in the country one must sus 
 tain the dignity of his quarter, so street it 
 shall be.
 
 134 MY VILLAGE 
 
 He has hired a little damp room on the 
 ground-floor where when the heavy rains fall 
 his place is inundated ; and while I write it 
 is still damp from the last flood. Here he 
 keeps bachelor s hall ; poor fellow, it is a 
 hard place for him, suffering as he does from 
 lung trouble. 
 
 In his little room, about the size of a prison- 
 cell, he has installed his bed, stove, and table. 
 When he makes a fire to cook his meals the 
 room becomes so hot that he cannot sleep at 
 night, so he tells me, and often has to leave 
 the door open, waking in the morning shiver 
 ing from the cold air. 
 
 I tried to induce him to put his bed up 
 stairs ; but he claimed that the loft was not 
 even fit to sleep in. He finally compromised 
 by getting another room in the village in 
 which to sleep, retaining this for his kitchen. 
 His place looks picturesque, but terribly bar 
 ren ; a tiny stove occupies one corner, the 
 table another, a door into the cellar and the 
 street-door the others. A few small stew- 
 pans are hung in line above the stove, a 
 couple of big pots on the floor below ; a big
 
 THE POSTMAN 135 
 
 pair of top boots for bad weather, a pair of 
 heavy brogans, and two chairs complete his 
 furnishings. 
 
 As I came in, he was sitting at his table 
 eating beneath his lamp, looking for all the 
 world like a prisoner in his cell. His work 
 is hard ; twice a day he delivers the letters 
 of Valombre, walking about thirty kilo 
 metres, nearly twenty-one miles, zigzagging 
 into houses, up lanes, waiting at gates, etc., 
 and for this he is paid but twelve dollars a 
 month. Light wages for heavy work ! True, 
 New Year s day helps him out a great deal, 
 as doubtless he gets several hundred francs in 
 tips, some forty or fifty dollars. 
 
 He tells me that there is a great difference 
 in the generosity of his different clients, as 
 he put it ; some giving him as much as a 
 louis, while others offer but a franc, and even 
 as low as half a franc, the peasants being 
 generally pretty close. " True," he adds, 
 u they don t receive many letters." 
 
 When collecting his New Year s tips, his 
 plan is to offer to each of the persons to 
 whom he carries letters a small calendar,
 
 136 MY VILLAGE 
 
 this is his present ; the recipient, of course, 
 cannot accept without giving : thus he re 
 ceives his present in return, though he 
 claims that some have given him less than 
 the calendar cost him ; fortunately such 
 cases are quite exceptional. 
 
 It is strange how many people have the 
 mania for government positions, of no matter 
 how slight importance. Here, for instance, 
 is this man, a native of the south of France, 
 bitten by this idea to the extent of giving 
 up his work as quarryman, and leaving his 
 home to come here among strangers to carry 
 letters for twelve dollars a month. After 
 twenty-five years of service, to be sure, he 
 will be retired on half-pay ; and this must 
 be the great attraction, a pension, however 
 small. 
 
 He seems a good, honest, quiet soul. I 
 tell him he should get married ; he asks me 
 how he is to do it on his salary. This rather 
 checkmates me ; though I suppose it is still 
 possible even on such an income. Long, 
 lank, awkward fellow, I fear the girls do 
 not run after him ; still every one seems to
 
 THE POSTMAN 137 
 
 find some one to like him, and doubtless he 
 will eventually find his mate. 
 
 He offers me a pipe of tobacco while 1 
 am reflecting on this subject, then frankly 
 and innocently puts me out by suddenly say 
 ing, u Now I must go off to bed before they 
 lock me out." So I bid him good-night, and 
 off he goes into the darkness, dragging his 
 tired legs awkwardly after him. 
 
 His hobby is carpentering and handling 
 tools ; this is his dissipation. He has put 
 up a well-made work-bench with vise-attach 
 ment, and in his spare moments plays with 
 wood and plane. He showed me the table 
 as a piece of his work, also a chair, straw 
 bottom and all, in fact, all his meagre fur 
 niture he has made himself. 
 
 Recently he was allowed the privilege of 
 cultivating a small side-hill of waste land. I 
 found him hard at work ; he had fenced it in 
 with bushes and was laboring to clear it of 
 weeds, dubiously questioning its success, 
 though courageously making the endeavor. 
 As his salary is too meagre to support him
 
 38 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 comfortably, he had to try and raise his own 
 vegetables. 
 
 To-night, some weeks later, seeing his 
 bent back through the bush fence, I went in 
 
 to see how he was getting along, and to my 
 surprise found his garden in quite a flourish 
 ing condition ; potatoes were well along, 
 salads, cabbage, etc., were also thriving in
 
 THE POSTMAN 139 
 
 good shape. As I came up, he was busy put 
 ting out some celery plants. 
 
 I complimented him on the results of his 
 labors, quite admiring his practical energy ; 
 for really it required a considerable amount 
 thus to "work" a garden after having 
 tramped twenty miles during the day. Well 
 done, postman ! you well represent the ster 
 ling, sturdy qualities of your race, and deserve 
 success.
 
 A SMALL green poster hanging in the hotel 
 window announced that " Conrad, the presti- 
 digitateur," would perform world-renowned 
 feats of magic. To kill a long winter even 
 ing, I stepped down to see the performance. 
 A couple of old men, with half-a-dozen boys, 
 represented the audience. The magician 
 was disconsolately walking up and down, 
 apparently discouraged by the lack of interest 
 shown by the villagers. To help matters I
 
 THE PRESTIDIGITATEUR 141 
 
 mustered up three friends, our entrance in 
 
 a bodv giving things 
 
 quite the air ot prom- L- 
 
 ise. A few old women p/,? j < v \ 
 
 on errands joined the rK~~K \I\V\ 
 
 \\ \v\ V- 
 
 party ; several girls ^,\, ;\ <\\ \\ 
 
 timidly looked in at / 
 the door ; the visitor 
 invited them to come 
 in, and, apparently ,. , 
 accepting this small 
 showing as his audience, began his perform 
 ance. 
 
 His tricks were quite 
 neatly done ; and gradu- 
 ally he won his audience. 
 - . Perfectly at home, he 
 -i; cleverly talked them into 
 
 sympathy, in a bright 
 bree/,y manner, his 
 tongue being quite as in 
 teresting as his hands. 
 
 By the familiar tricks 
 of drawing eggs, cards, 
 etc., from the ears and clothing of the town-
 
 142 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 crier and carpenter s apprentice, he put his 
 listeners into good-humor. Much bright 
 talking, with a little performing, quickly 
 passed a long evening. To my surprise, he 
 showed no signs of taking up a collection, and 
 I wondered how he intended making it pay, 
 quite sympathizing with him for his absence 
 of luck. But he had had similar experiences, 
 and was equal to the occasion. He had 
 
 started by presenting to each of his audience 
 a tiny tricolor, ostensibly made before our 
 eyes. Now, at the close of his performance, 
 he announced that he would hold a lottery, 
 offering as prizes a few pewter trinkets, 
 drinking-glass, knives and forks, watch-chain, 
 etc., of course all highly burnished to tempt 
 the eye. " Pure silver," he called them. 
 
 Each person was expected to take three 
 numbers, the price for the three being ten
 
 THE PRESTIDIGITATEUR 143 
 
 cents ; this, he explained, was the way by 
 which he expected to make it pay, or rather, 
 tor he had no hopes of making it pay, he 
 hoped at best to be able to cover his ex 
 penses ; to me his case appeared quite hope 
 less. But, by his cleverness, he not only 
 sold each one three numbers, but then skilfully 
 auctioned oft those ^,-^T 
 remaining; and they Hr.^ 
 were a legion. \ ^ 
 
 First they were 
 knocked down at 
 nine tor ten cents ; 
 then twelve for the 
 same price ; and 
 so on, down, down, till twenty went for 
 two cents. Whenever the enthusiasm of his 
 audience flagged, he aroused it again by pro 
 ducing a heap of tickets from a boy s nose, 
 much to the latter s surprise, and consequent 
 delight of the others. Thus he kept the sale 
 going, and by his untiring energy succeeded in 
 disposing of a fabulous heap ot paper possi 
 bilities, managing, considering the small 
 audience he had to deal with, really to reap
 
 144 MY VILLAGE 
 
 quite a respectable harvest of big sous. In 
 fact, it seemed as though he stopped only 
 when he thought that he had cleared every 
 pocket of every sou ; and it looked to me as 
 though this were the onlv thing which could 
 stop him, as long as there was any money 
 in the room he was sure eventually to get it. 
 
 One young lout, whom he had jocularly, 
 and with much success, alluded to as " gigot " 
 (leg of mutton), being induced to buy a 
 goodly number of tickets, and, failing to 
 draw, the performer ofFered a surprise to the 
 audience, and announced that it should go to 
 " gigot," as a consolation prize. " Gigot " was 
 quite embarrassed by this mark of sympathy, 
 so publicly expressed, and clumsily came 
 forward to receive it ; a glass of wine was 
 the reward. As they stood and drank 
 together, the contrast of the two types was 
 picturesquely striking. Beside the great over 
 grown boy, in cap and blouse, awkwardly 
 dragging his legs after him, the bright presti- 
 digitateur, in his black evening dress, care 
 fully twisted mustache, keen eye, and alert, 
 sprightly air, showed to advantage. The
 
 THE PRES TIDIGITATEUR 145 
 
 one, all wit and cleverness, earning his pre 
 carious living by his skill in play and word, 
 scarcely knowing to-day where he would 
 sleep to-morrow, and, so accustomed to this 
 state of things, scarcely caring ; the other, 
 all brute strength, his wit conspicuous by 
 its absence, heavy and clumsy, laboriously- 
 working to earn his daily bread in a slower, 
 surer way, without the slightest germ of 
 Bohemianism, even appalled by the idea of 
 any change from his regular routine of life 
 and work, sure of his home, and happy, 
 in a negative way, to know it was firmly 
 anchored in one place.
 
 TRAGEDY 
 
 " ARE you going to the interment to-mor 
 row ? " asked Fran9ois, as he came in from 
 the harvest, a sheaf of rye balanced across his 
 shoulders. " Whose interment ? " " Pere 
 Romarus s; you knew him, Constant s 
 father, Constant who lives up the valley.
 
 TRAGEDY 147 
 
 Then you have n t heard about it. Why, 
 he fell dead this morning; it happens con 
 veniently for his son, as he was to be sold 
 out for debt ; now he 11 inherit, and be able 
 to fix things. An ill wind that blows nobody 
 good." 
 
 This sudden death, while the fete was in 
 full blast, seemed painfully out of place. I 
 asked for the details. Francois could n t give 
 me many : the old man had been greatly 
 worried about his son s trouble ; he wanted to 
 come to the rescue, but his wife objected. 
 Constant had always been his favorite child, 
 a spoiled one, the neighbors said ; probably 
 the intense heat then prevailing had also been 
 a factor of some importance in his abrupt 
 collapse. My neighbors, with the native 
 peasant cautiousness, declined to commit 
 themselves by giving any opinion on the 
 subject. 
 
 The following morning I saw Rosalie 
 dressed up, on her way to the funeral. Rosalie 
 attends them all now that she has anew bonnet 
 and jacket. "So you re off to the burial," 
 I remarked. u Yes, and to-morrow we 11
 
 148 MY VILLAGE 
 
 have another," she answered. " Pere Ro- 
 marus s wife drowned herself this morn 
 ing." Here was startling news for quiet 
 Valombre, where suicide had been quite un 
 known ; to me it was incredible. 
 
 It appeared that the old woman was terribly 
 affected by her husband s sudden death, and, 
 so the now communicative natives said, in 
 addition dreaded the prospect of living with 
 her children, who never agreed. Whatever 
 may have been her reasons, about three 
 o clock that morning, after sitting up with her 
 children and near relations, " watching " the 
 dead, she got up quietly and left them. They, 
 thinking that she had gone downstairs to lie 
 down and rest, paid but little attention to her 
 departure ; but at last becoming uneasv, as 
 she did not return, they went down to see 
 how she was faring. She was not to be 
 found. After fruitless efforts, the fear over 
 came them that something had happened, 
 and, as soon as daylight allowed them to, 
 they began a search for her. Instinctively 
 they went to the river. 
 
 The broken-hearted old woman had spread
 
 TRAGEDY 149 
 
 her apron upon the bank, that they might 
 know what had happened, and had then 
 thrown herself into the stream. They found 
 her lying among the rushes just below the 
 bank ; she was scarcely submerged. It was 
 evident that she meant to die, as where she 
 had fallen the water was only deep enough 
 to drown one really determined on suicide. 
 
 Such a tragic death was terribly appalling 
 to Valombre s calm, and produced quite an 
 impression. Fortunately the noise and life 
 of the fete were strong enough to counteract 
 the chill the gloomy event cast over the 
 village. Rosalie s matter-of-fact comment on 
 the affair, to the effect that " now she s at 
 rest anyway," was the general expression of 
 the village s opinion. The peasants may think 
 a lot about such events, but as they are little 
 given to expressing their opinions on such 
 delicate subjects, though I now know them 
 so well, I shall doubtless rarely hear the 
 double tragedy mentioned. It has already 
 become a thing of the past ; the victims and 
 the event are together buried in the grave 
 that ends their story.
 
 CELESTINE AND CARVOL 
 
 C^LESTINE has been down sick with the 
 " g r PP e " The poor old woman nearly 
 " passed," to use the vernacular of the 
 village, stubbornly refusing a doctor. This 
 was prejudice and avarice. It was useless 
 to have him, she said : " It costs, and does n t 
 do any good " quite in harmony with the 
 peasants philosophy in such cases. " If one 
 gets well, that proves that he did n t need a
 
 CfiLESTINE AND CARVOL 
 
 doctor ; if he dies, it shows that death was in 
 
 him ; and everybody 
 
 knows that, once one 
 
 is to die, nothing will 
 
 avail, the signs of 
 
 the cross no more 
 
 than medicine." 
 Finally she became 
 
 able to crawl out of 
 
 doors, bitterly com 
 plaining of her luck. 
 
 She tells me that she has had two sicknesses 
 
 in her life, typhoid 
 fever and this. 
 " Ah " she adds, 
 " there are families 
 that are afflicted," 
 Achille happen 
 ing to be sick at 
 the same time, 
 then his wife in 
 her turn. 
 
 I fixed up her 
 grapevine for her, 
 
 as she could not bear to see the branches
 
 152 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 hanging. Her garden is her despair; the 
 weeds are pushing up among the vegetables. 
 She looks sadly on, but is not strong enough 
 to clear them out. This makes life hard to 
 bear. To till the earth 
 has become the one 
 great passion, and Ce - 
 lestine will die in har 
 ness. To know that 
 she is spending and not 
 earning, is a hard blow 
 for her. 
 
 A week of sunny 
 weather gave her 
 strength enough to get 
 out to work again, and 
 she busily sweeps away 
 the slight rubbish which 
 has accumulated before 
 her door, gives the vine its proper trimming, 
 and once more has things in working order. 
 To-dav she smilingly told me the signs were 
 good for a fine week. " Our ancestors," 
 she said, " claimed that once you saw the sun 
 before 1 eau benite [Sunday], a good week
 
 CfiLESTINE AND CARVOL 
 
 J 53 
 
 of sunny weather would surely follow." An 
 hour later the clouds came piling up, bringing 
 rain, and to spare. Celestine, gossiping with 
 another old woman, laughingly stops me to 
 remark that " apparently our ancestors did n t 
 know any more about the weather than 
 we do." 
 
 While still talk 
 ing, Carvol and 
 Jean Paul come up, 
 decidedly under the 
 influence of liquor. 
 They join in the 
 
 conversation. The /I 
 
 <^ 
 
 subject drifts into 
 metaphysics. Car- 
 vol laboriously expresses the idea that he be 
 lieves nothing. Ce"lestine takes him up, and 
 tritely asks him who made man. He gathers 
 himself together, and wrestles with the prob 
 lem. A fearful jumble of Adam and Eve is 
 the result. Celestine again springs to the 
 attack. " But before that, then ? " " Ah, 
 that ! " he drunkenly responds ; " a monkey 
 made man." And he chuckles at his own 
 cleverness.
 
 154 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Cdlestine is indignant, and forbids him 
 talking in that way. " I am older than you, 
 and therefore know more," she says. " Ah, 
 after all, I don t know anything about it," 
 Carvol stammers. " But who made the 
 sun r " cries Ce lestine, practical old sun-wor 
 shipper. " That is what we must worship ; 
 it makes the fields produce. Man was n t 
 smart enough to make that, so there ! " 
 
 Poor Carvol is floored. He helplessly 
 turns to me and appeals, " When you make 
 a fine picture, and it brings you success, 
 it s for your work, is n t it ? You don t 
 need to pray to the Bon Dieu, do you ? 
 Then, after all, it s your own work that 
 counts, is n t it ? " I agree with him, and he 
 feels happier. " I have drunk a drop," he 
 apologetically adds ; " but there s no harm in 
 that, is there ? " But Rosalie has suddenly 
 caught sight of him, and furiously shouts : 
 u Come here, you drunkard ; you re at it 
 again, you brute ! Carvol sullenly bows his 
 head, and staggers on to the warm reception 
 awaiting him. 
 
 As he had referred to Eve s eating the for-
 
 CELESTINE AND CARVOL 155 
 
 bidden fruit, and thus bringing trouble into the 
 world, Ce lestine sadly observes, " But the wo 
 men have paid for it since ; " adding, 
 "they have more trouble than men ; " 
 then, as an afterthought, "but they 
 are smarter also." 
 
 The butcher s pea 
 cock, perched upon 
 Celestine s chimney, 
 disturbed by the un 
 wonted discussion 
 beneath him, here 
 sets up a discordant 
 screech. " Ah, you 
 vagabond ! " cries 
 Celestine, " you 
 mock at me, do 
 you ? " and threatens 
 him with a terrible 
 death. The bird, 
 scorning her 
 futile wrath, 
 quietlv ar- 
 
 ranges himself for a comfortable nap. 
 peace again settles over our court.
 
 THE PEASANT 
 
 How differently one sees the same thing 
 at different times, according to the mood, 
 the mental vision quite governing the physical. 
 
 When in good spirits, I find the peasants 
 and their life quite ideal, healthy, vigorous, 
 and free. Even the visible labor is agreeable
 
 THE PEASANT 157 
 
 to look on. It seems not too heavy, but 
 more like some purely religious function. On 
 the other hand, when depressed and worried, 
 in every other face I see the lines of pain, 
 the scars left by the battles of" life. 
 
 How can one judge fairly of what one 
 sees ? The mind and mood are the mirror 
 that form the vision, the eyes being but a 
 lesser part of the observing machinery. 
 
 At times all seems clean and thrifty. I 
 would have nothing changed, in the best 
 of possible worlds. The peasant looks digni 
 fied and big, the equal of any. At other 
 times, as often, when returning from Paris, 
 he impresses me as terribly gross and unciv 
 ilized, a sordid beast of burden. And his 
 social, moral, and intellectual inferiority is 
 painfully evident. 
 
 I wish to be just, and give a true impres 
 sion of the life about me, but find it difficult 
 when thus I receive such different impres 
 sions. It is not easy to give a fair account of 
 anything, alas ! When critical, one easily is 
 unjust ; when wishing to be conscientious, one 
 becomes lenient, and errs on the other side.
 
 158 MY VILLAGE 
 
 The peasant is a peculiar product of cen 
 turies of servility, hardship, and perpetually 
 protracted hard labor, an agglomeration of 
 the vices and virtues of such a regimen. 
 His servility is often that of a dangerous dog 
 who is submissive before his master, while 
 his natural instincts growl. Yet, in other 
 cases, this subordination to a superior class has 
 developed into a sincere faithfulness, even if 
 resembling that of the horse. Thus, during 
 the Revolution, while many were like the 
 wildest and most bloodthirsty beasts, slaking 
 their vengeance to their heart s desire, others 
 remained faithful and sacrificing till death to 
 their old masters. 
 
 The peasant of to-day, taking him as a 
 class, combines, or is rather the medium be 
 tween, these two extremes. His servility has 
 become independence, while a greater liberty 
 has softened his brutishness. Still, occasion 
 ally, the old stock is visible, through its 
 general workings, in this generation. 
 
 Frugal and industrious he is, and evidently 
 always has been. Education and cleanliness 
 he has taken to, though he did so reluctantly
 
 THE PEASANT 
 
 59 
 
 at first. Through his dense brain the light 
 has at last penetrated, almost by force. The 
 practical advantages of a knowledge of read 
 ing, writing, and arithmetic have ultimately 
 made him tractable in this direction. But 
 
 cleanliness, for cleanliness sake, he takes to 
 less kindly. 
 
 His energy is indefatigable. No day is 
 too long for him. Both girls and boys com 
 mence work in the fields at an early age, and 
 generally end a long life performing exactly 
 the same routine, year after year, planting 
 and harvesting, till, from force of habit, their 
 backs gradually acquire a perpetual stoop. It
 
 i6o 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 is the brand of their work, distinct and apart 
 from all others. No matter how you might 
 disguise these veterans, they would be recog 
 nized at once as tillers of the soil. So long 
 and intimately are they wedded to the brown 
 earth that their skin acquires the color, baked 
 in by the sun, and their old faces and 
 
 hands are furrowed as deeply as their fields. 
 Old veterans of eighty and upwards are still 
 found in the ranks of active service. They 
 prefer to die in harness rather than to join 
 the hospital "corps." Their work has be 
 come their only pleasure. Stop them, and 
 they would pine away and die. 
 
 Though the peasant has few diversions, 
 his life seems a happy one. He is more in-
 
 THE PEASANT 161 
 
 dependent than the city laborer, and stronger 
 and healthier on account of his work and 
 regular life. He is well-to-do ; or if not, it 
 is generally his fault. He lives well, and 
 according to his tastes, very plainly though 
 it be. 
 
 Here the peasant-proprietor scheme can 
 be judged by its workings. The results of 
 the system impress one as being in everyway 
 a great success. The peasant, owning his 
 house and land, has every interest to keep 
 both in good condition. His ambition is 
 encouraged by the feeling that the making 
 of his fortune is directly in his own hands. 
 Paris has to be fed. All he can raise finds 
 a ready sale. Every improvement he adds 
 to his land adds to the amount of his pro 
 duce, consequently to his income. This cer 
 tainty of a ready market, and the knowledge 
 that the gain is his, and his alone, that he is 
 working directly for himself, are a source of 
 steady encouragement. The result is agree 
 ably apparent in a prosperous, wealthy vil 
 lage of well-kept houses, and rich, productive 
 
 farms. 
 
 ii
 
 162 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Each man, owning a farm of limited extent, 
 is freed from the care of speculation on a dan 
 gerous scale. He needs but a small number 
 of hands. In fact, most lands are worked by 
 the owner himself, with his wife and family, 
 so that the outlay is slight, and the profit 
 relatively great. By this system the peasant 
 
 steadily gains ground, little by little, but reg 
 ularly and surely, accumulating a comfortable 
 pittance. 
 
 Poverty ceases to exist, with its terrible 
 corollary of vexations, vexations which de 
 stroy good-humor, and make their victim de 
 spondent and vicious. His knowledge of 
 being able to meet his taxes, live well, com-
 
 THE PEASANT 163 
 
 fortably clothe and educate his children, de 
 velops a genial good-nature and cheerful 
 spirits, and he helps to form a class healthy 
 both in mind and in body. In this condition 
 the peasant is law-abiding and orderly. Aside 
 from the natural sentiment which a success 
 ful life generates, he is a property-owner, and 
 knows that the safety of his property de 
 pends on law and order. Thus is generally 
 developed a solid, law-abiding community, 
 wealthy, healthy, and contented. 
 
 The deliberate creation of this state of 
 society carries with it a solid sentiment of 
 balance, of equilibrium. Rash speculation 
 has no temptations for a happy people. 
 Their tastes also grow slowly, and in har 
 mony with their fortunes. They rarely 
 endeavor to make a false show by living 
 beyond their means. Progress, that terrible 
 bugbear, affects them slowly; they take it in 
 mild doses. While the city clerk or work 
 man endeavors to jump from his class to 
 that of his superiors, or to that more solidly 
 established on a financial basis, causing him 
 endless struggles and worries to make both
 
 164 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ends meet while living in this false state, 
 the peasant lags behind, and comes along 
 more slowly and solidly, feeling cautiously 
 his steps. 
 
 While the one lives a lite of false show 
 without a solid basis, uneasy, worried, un 
 happy, consequently unhealthy, gradually jug 
 
 gling with morality and honesty in his efforts 
 to keep his feet on the slippery ground he 
 has chosen, a victim to every financial crash, 
 undermining, perhaps, society both physically 
 and morally ; the other is steadily advanc 
 ing with a sure foot, holding easily every step 
 he gains. Happy and free from unnatural 
 care, his children are stronger and healthier. 
 He represents a social stratum which no mo-
 
 THE PEASANT 
 
 165 
 
 mentary business-panic can affect, a solid 
 rock of resistance against which Chance can 
 do little, capable of sustaining the solidity and 
 prosperity of his country through every trial. 
 
 Avarice is the prevailing vice among the 
 peasants. They have had such a long, hard 
 time to get money that now that they have 
 it they keep it. The thing they work so
 
 i66 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 hard to possess now seems inclined to pos 
 sess them, body and soul. But yet, after all, 
 the peasant is not the only one whose creed 
 is money. Economy becomes almost a tine 
 art in their hands. Many take advantage of 
 
 
 - 
 
 neighboring fairs to replenish their wardrobe 
 with second-hand clothing. Their love of 
 bargaining is strong ; and the Jew pedler, 
 though he does business, meets his match. 
 
 The natives of Valombre patch easily and 
 frequently. Clothes must needs be in a 
 pretty hopeless state when skilful patching
 
 THE PEASANT 167 
 
 cannot save them. The same stuff is, in 
 preference, used, though this is not absolutely 
 necessary. As a consequence, the results 
 attained are often quite wonderful. Some 
 distance off, you see a man wearing white 
 trousers. You are surprised to notice that 
 half of the left leg is black, making a 
 clearly-cut division where it joins the rest. 
 On his approach, you discover that it is 
 simply a patch of the original goods, but 
 the rest has had time to change color. 
 These patches are neat, the peasant never 
 being ragged ; but they are really extraor 
 dinary, ranging often from head to foot. 
 
 The peasant is generally very sober. The 
 drunkenness of the village is confined to a 
 few, and is represented by the tradesmen, 
 or more usually the masons or stone-cutters. 
 And I notice that the drunkards furiously 
 talk politics and schemes for social reform, 
 etc. Whether it is the politics which make 
 them drink, or the drink which makes them 
 politicians, I cannot say, but the two seem 
 invariably to go together. 
 
 Sunday is quite generally kept by the peas-
 
 I 68 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ants. Habit has firmly sanctioned its being 
 a day of rest. From the religious point of 
 view it also still holds to quite an extent, 
 notwithstanding that the general, modern 
 
 destruction of his old supersti- 
 
 L 
 tions has worked its way slowly 
 
 into the peasant s mind, causing 
 " him a sort of gleeful, crafty sat 
 isfaction at being freed from the 
 fear of the deity, to him much 
 like a mighty gendarme, to be 
 appeased by humility. He still 
 keeps up a certain relation with 
 the church on the general, cautiously sus 
 picious principle that he 11 keep on the safe 
 side until he is sure that there is no longer 
 any danger. Thus he pays a superficial re 
 spect to the feared power. The women nat 
 urally cling to the church more firmly than 
 the men, though their religion seems to be 
 a more direct fear and worship of the priest 
 than of a divinity. 
 
 Distractions are few. The life is purely 
 physical. After a long day s work, the men 
 sit outside their doors to smoke and chat,
 
 THE PEASANT 
 
 169 
 
 going to bed soon after darkness has settled 
 down. And the rising moon looks blankly 
 at silent, empty streets, except where, here or 
 there, an old woman is returning from an all- 
 day visit, or a dissipated cat is waiting for its 
 mate, to serenade the sleeping village.
 
 THE "CANTONNIER" 
 
 PIERRE, the old " cantonnier," road- 
 mender, had "passed." He had made a 
 hard fight, hanging for six weeks on the 
 verge of the grave. His son and wife derived 
 considerable satisfaction from this evidence of 
 the old man s toughness. "Isn t he solid?" 
 Louis would say, and this each day as the 
 end grew nearer, as though proud of the record 
 of such resisting powers. 
 
 The old man himself claimed that the 
 " box " was strong, alluding to his body, though
 
 THE "CANTONNIER" IJl 
 
 the machinery was a little out of order. He 
 died as much from despair at not being able 
 to get out to work, as from his pneumonia 
 and old age. 
 
 Once the peasant is on his back, his end is 
 approaching. For sixty years he will work 
 in the sun and the rain, growing as tough and 
 gnarled as his trees, and the color of the 
 earth he loves, his mistress ; but whenever 
 sickness does strike him down, his collapse is 
 complete. The poor old machine has worked 
 until all the parts, exhausted, give way at once; 
 the end of endurance has been reached. 
 
 Yet though he feels that his time is over, 
 he fights rebelliously ; he will not give up his 
 fields just as they are ready for the harvest. 
 And each day, as his son and neighbors go off 
 to their work, another nail is driven into his 
 coffin, and he hears and feels it keenly. 
 
 Left alone, for all hands are needed to get 
 in the ripe grain, he pines away like a used- 
 up animal which has lain down in the corner 
 of a field to die. The harvesters on their 
 return from work find him motionless, with 
 closed eves. " Is he dead ? " No, not yet ;
 
 I 72 MY VILLAGE 
 
 he feebly opens his tired eyes, which still hold 
 a faint, plaintive intelligence. 
 
 41 How solid he is ! " they say. " You are 
 tough, old man," some one yells into his ear. 
 He takes no interest. The next day at noon 
 they find him dead, the old woman left to 
 watch him sound asleep. 
 
 Preparations are quickly made for the 
 funeral. But the work in the fields goes on 
 just the same. " Because the old man is 
 dead, it s no reason why the grain should be 
 allowed to spoil when it is ripe." Neverthe 
 less a day is lost when he is carried to the 
 cemetery above the church. As Valombre 
 seems to be almost one big family, every one 
 being related to every one else, the relatives 
 form quite a good-sized crowd to follow the 
 coffin. After services at the church, the pro 
 cession starts off across the plain, to the 
 cemetery. The priest with his acolytes lead- 
 ino; the wav, the men follow the hearse, the 
 
 o . 
 
 women coming after. 
 
 I notice that in all these funerals the men 
 always take first place, as a body, the wo 
 men being relegated to the rear. Arrived at
 
 THE "CANTONNIER 
 
 the graveyard, the coffin is soon lowered into 
 the grave. The priest dexterously and quickly 
 
 Monsieur Jean Pierre ROMARU 
 
 [>e Ij pjiUe MiJ.ime Veuve ROMARU, sa be] 
 
 ROMARl, - peiiitenhnts. Midame Veuve HtA. bcl 
 MonMeui et .Mjdjn.e BARD. >es beau-Wre el belle-sdur. Mo 
 
 AL STEK. Meiilemoiiclln Helene. Emii.e cl am, lie BAKD. 
 
 i LECOM I E. scs pen 
 
 Priez pour Lui ! 
 
 performs his rites, and scampers off. The 
 mourners in turn file by the open grave,
 
 174 MY VILLAGE 
 
 sprinkling the coffin with holy water, then 
 winding out by the near relatives, the chief 
 mourners, members of the family, who stand 
 on either side of the gate to receive the 
 proffered condolences, which mainly consist 
 in a sympathetic shake of the hand, the 
 peasant being little given to words. 
 
 As the procession marched up over the 
 bright plain, it looked like a great black ser 
 pent, winding along the white road through 
 the stacks of yellow wheat. Black, black, 
 terribly black, every one wearing this color; 
 and the result is a most sombre mass, as seen 
 from a little distance, of something lugu 
 briously weird, irresistibly moving on towards 
 the lonely-looking graveyard perched on the 
 crest of the plain. 
 
 In the cemetery every one, on account of 
 his innumerable relations, has some dead ; 
 and the women take advantage of this favor 
 able occasion, where they can be seen, to say 
 a prayer over the graves. An ominous still 
 ness reigns; every one is anxious to appear 
 dignified, and, as a result, no one dares make 
 a remark. The effect of this reticence is
 
 THE " CANTONNIER " I "5 
 
 quite startling upon the women ; tears are 
 easily shed by those who on coming in felt 
 perfectly calm about the affair. Even the pea- 
 santwoman has nerves, a woman, after all. 
 
 And now, the funeral over, the family must 
 show its appreciation of the friends invited. 
 Wine is brought out ; a good dinner served ; 
 and the mourners, after a few fitting praises 
 of the departed, gradually come back to the 
 living, and talk crops, sales, births, marriages, 
 etc., even telling amusing stories, as the wine 
 slowly counteracts the death gloom. Really, 
 a funeral properly conducted is not so dull. 
 
 After lunch the men stroll from saloon to 
 saloon, steadily growing more boisterous ; 
 and, to judge from appearances, an hour after 
 the interment one would need to be pretty 
 sharp to distinguish between the close of a 
 funeral service and that of a wedding. The 
 women, while the men are drinking, pay 
 visits, and gossip long and furiously before 
 their respective doors, occasionally shedding 
 a contrite tear by moments, if the dead 
 happens to be a relation. It looks well and 
 shows affection.
 
 i 7 6 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Yes, the peasant has many of the affecta 
 tions of his better-educated brothers, or rather 
 sisters, the man being generally too dull to 
 affect. When he thinks he should look sym 
 pathetic, he simply savs nothing and looks 
 
 stupid. When enthusiasm overpowers him, 
 and he feels an idea germinating in his brain, 
 he says, " Norn de nom, let s drink some 
 thing ! His less intellectual friends hail 
 this suggestion as a really new and brilliant 
 idea. Should no one think of this, thev 
 might stand for hours looking up and down
 
 THE "CANTONNIER" 177 
 
 the street, exchanging an occasional remark 
 about once in ten minutes. 
 
 The wine makes them garrulous, and, like 
 other men, they boast, boast about their 
 skill in planting or arranging this or that. 
 At night, their wives, with lashing though 
 weary tongues, drag them home ; and the 
 funeral and its fete is over. Now the old 
 man has become hopelessly a thing of the 
 past. "Hie jacet " Pierre.
 
 THE HERMIT OE VALOMBRE 
 
 " WHO is that ? " I asked of Celestine, as 
 a dilapidated vagrant passed down the path 
 where I was working. 
 
 The old woman sprang to the answer at 
 once ; it was such a one as the good old 
 scandal-monger delights in. " Who is he ? 
 What is he ? Goodness : how can I tell you ! " 
 In her enthusiasm she could not get a start 
 on the subject, attacking the beginning, the 
 middle, and the end of her story all at once.
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRE 179 
 
 " He was rich, that man you see there ; look 
 at him now ! What is he ? He s a vagabond 
 who is dying of want, living like a dog in a 
 hole in the rock." 
 
 This was becoming interesting, and by a 
 credulous " Ah ! " I encouraged her to go on. 
 And so on she went, telling me a long, con 
 fused tale of his having originally been left 
 with three big houses ; a fortune of one 
 hundred thousand francs, at the death of his 
 father ; and now, to-day, he was a tramp, 
 without a sou, " an old man when he s 
 only fifty, the age of my Julie," Ce les- 
 tine s daughter who - had died thirty years 
 ago, but to whom the old woman always 
 refers as though she was of yesterday. 
 
 Well, my vagabond had commenced early 
 to dissipate, and by reckless living rapidly 
 ate up his fortune, his friends and com 
 panions helping him heartily ; and, according 
 to Celestine, he was robbed right and left ; 
 till at last, to try and save the ruins, a 
 relation had offered to rent his last house, 
 telling him that he could live on the money 
 and thus avoid running into complete ruin
 
 180 MY VILLAGE 
 
 and poverty. But no, he would n t do it, and 
 faithfully kept up his wild life, until all was 
 gone, and he found himself at last houseless 
 and without money, his youth squandered, 
 a middle-aged man without prospects. 
 
 He steadily drifted from bad to worse, 
 gradually working less and less, till now he 
 had become a vagrant, living on charity, his 
 home a cave in the rocks. 
 
 The story seemed so extraordinary for 
 Valombre, where the peasant is so cool and 
 thrifty, little given to folly or improvidence 
 of any kind, that my curiosity was aroused ; 
 and, after inquiring for and receiving direc 
 tions as to where his cave was situated, I 
 started off to see more of him. 
 
 After a short search, being clearly directed, 
 I discovered him ; and what a home he had ! 
 The Indian in the forest lives in palatial style 
 by comparison. In a narrow cut in a cleft 
 of the rocks, just long enough to allow him to 
 stretch out, he had taken up his quarters. 
 
 When, after climbing up to his cave, I 
 looked in, he lay stretched supinely on his 
 back, his feet crammed in beneath a great
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRE l8l 
 
 bowlder which overhung the floor of his 
 lodge, while, to accommodate his length, his 
 head rested against the opposite rock, his 
 neck bent in what to me appeared a most un 
 comfortable position. His bed was a litter 
 of dirty straw, over which he had spread a 
 mattress cover ; doubtless the straw origi 
 nally formed a part of the mattress, but 
 long use, frequent moving, and the dampness 
 had brought about the disintegration of the 
 parts. 
 
 A few dishes lay about, confused with a 
 heap of small potatoes and as many skins. 
 The occupant of this bohemian dwelling, 
 surprised by the sudden darkening of his 
 cave, slowly rolled over and looked at me 
 with one bright eye, the other apparently no 
 longer serving its functions, much as a 
 cow might do under similar circumstances. 
 I presented myself, hoped that I was not 
 bothering him, etc., etc. " No," he said, 1 
 did n t bother him ; doubtless nothing could 
 really bother him, his wonderful inertia being 
 proof against the annoyances which count 
 for so much with the ordinary mortal.
 
 I 82 MY VILLAGE 
 
 In response to my questions, he said that 
 his place was very comfortable, cool in 
 summer and warm in winter. He had 
 already passed a year in it ; when the north 
 wind blew he never felt it. In winter he 
 brought in his stove, and was as warm as 
 one could wish to be, etc. 
 
 I asked him if he did n t occasionally 
 suffer from ennui. " Oh, no," he had no 
 one to interfere with him ; he was master, 
 and avoided ennui by never thinking. " No, 
 I don t think about anything all day," he 
 said. He had simply fallen back to the 
 animal state by degrees, and now existed. 
 He had attained, without an effort, that 
 calm which philosophers so laboriously 
 search for. Inertia developed to a high 
 pitch had suppressed and taken the place of 
 everything else. 
 
 I asked how he came to take up this stvle 
 of life, saying that I had heard that he was 
 once rich, etc. Yes," he answered, " I had 
 a fortune, but I ate it up ; I went in for a 
 good time, had it, and the money went. Of 
 course I did n t earn the money ; it was left
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRK 183 
 
 me, and I spent it, that s all." I remarked 
 that it was too bad that he had n t kept some, 
 so that he would n t have to live in this way. 
 " No," he did n t regret it ; he had had a 
 good time and was satisfied. " But," he 
 added, " I m not always going to be this 
 way ; I spent a fortune, now I m going to 
 work to make one. I want to know how 
 it s done ; oh, I m going to work." 
 
 " What do you intend doing ? " I interposed. 
 " Oh, no matter, I 11 work." Here it was 
 evident that his scheme was very vague, and 
 doubtless was to be relegated to some distant 
 future. " I have time," he added ; " my 
 father lived to be eighty-four, so I still have 
 about forty years to live ; I 11 last as long as 
 he did." As I appeared sceptical, he added, 
 " The thing is to marry a rich woman ; that s 
 what sets a man up." The magnificence of 
 his complacent confidence was too much for 
 me, and my hearty laugh pleased him ; it was 
 apparently a commendation of his cleverness. 
 I suggested that it might be difficult for him 
 to meet a rich woman who would be willing 
 to marry him, living as he did. He did n t
 
 184 MY VILLAGE 
 
 agree with me. " The principal thing," he 
 said, " is not to miss the opportunity when it 
 comes your way ; that s the whole secret of 
 the scheme ; and I 11 look out that I don t 
 let it slip me," he added sententiously. 
 
 The idea was ludicrously incongruous with 
 his vagabond appearance and life ; but he 
 did n t see it in that light. " Hope is the 
 thing that keeps me up," he said ; u without 
 it one could n t live, and I have hope ; I m 
 young enough yet." He was fifty, already 
 gray haired and bearded. 
 
 I asked him if he was n t afraid that his 
 place would cave in some day. " Oh, no," 
 it was solid ; though, he added, the other 
 night, close beside his hole, the great bowlders 
 had crashed down, rumbling and roaring. It 
 had somewhat startled him ; but he was too 
 inert to be afraid, and lay where he was 
 through it all. But to me it looked as 
 though some morning the passers-by would 
 see a heap of crushed bowlders where was 
 now his home ; and that thus he would cease 
 to be a part of the world, dead and buried 
 at one stroke.
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRE 185 
 
 Outside his hole, there being too little 
 room within, he had set up his stove ; the 
 rain had gradually dilapidated it to a con 
 siderable extent ; but it still held together, 
 and answered his purposes. The head of a 
 bedstead, or rather a part of it, served as door 
 to the cave. Broken remains of a table and 
 chair littered the rocks behind the stove, 
 relics of better days. He had told me, with 
 an indicative twist of" the head, that he had 
 kept only these. He spoke of them as his 
 furniture ; true, I suppose they were, since 
 they answered his demands ; but the name 
 dignified the crippled litter of odds and ends. 
 
 During all the time I had talked with him 
 he remained stretched on his back, his head 
 still uncomfortably propped against the 
 bowlder which served as pillow. When 
 interested, he would roll over a little, but 
 soon drifted back to his original posture. 
 He had been thus all day, and apparently 
 could keep it up indefinitely. He was not in 
 the least misanthropic, and even claimed to 
 be quite happy and satisfied with the existing 
 state of affairs.
 
 I 86 MY VILLAGE 
 
 There was no mental friction ; the animal 
 lived calmly on, probably only moved to 
 activity by the demands of the stomach. 
 With a reasonable amount of food, and 
 should the bowlders not crush him, he may 
 very possibly hold out to a good old age. 
 
 Diogenes was ambitious and undertook 
 that difficult task of finding an honest man, 
 while this disciple suppresses all ambition 
 and even the effort of thought, and quietly 
 enjoys life in a bovine, negative way. 
 
 Six months later I again visited the her 
 mit to see whether he had succeeded in 
 pulling though the terrible winter or not. I 
 found him apparently none the worse for the 
 experience. He even claimed that he had 
 been quite comfortable, had not even had a 
 fire in his cave to warm him ; doubtless he 
 was too lazy to move his stove, and preferred 
 to take the risk of freezing. His toughness 
 astonished me, as I really had feared to find 
 him a thing of the past. 
 
 Now he had just moved from his winter 
 quarters, left his cave for a more roomy
 
 THE HERMIT OF VALOMBRE 187 
 
 dwelling, and, wishing to be cooler, sleeps 
 out of doors with only an overhanging 
 bowlder to shelter him from the rain. 
 
 I asked him if he never was sick, caught 
 cold, etc. " Oh, no," as to catching cold, he 
 u had that down fine ; " whenever his nose 
 began to run he knew that he was catching 
 cold, so immediately lay down and kept his 
 feet warm, and the trouble was soon cured. 
 
 He seemed pleased to see me, and proudly 
 showed me his garden. He raises all the 
 vegetables he needs, and wants little else, 
 lazy vagabond ! 
 
 He told me how he could tell the time of 
 dav. u You see that ledge ? " " Yes." 
 u Well," when the sun touched it, then it 
 was eleven o clock ; at another place it was 
 one, etc., etc. He had no use for a watch, 
 in fact, no use for time, days all being alike 
 to him.
 
 THE FIRE BRIGADE 
 
 OUR tire brigade is a picturesque agglom 
 eration of native, volunteer talent. It 
 presents a motley appearance of big and little, 
 fat and thin, young and old men, peasants, 
 masons, and shopkeepers. Quite often they 
 practise and drill in the Place de la Maine, 
 the public square, on a scaffolding erected for 
 this purpose. Nearly every village of any 
 size in France has one of these scaffoldings 
 for its fire drill, the system being generally 
 the same throughout the country. 
 
 The drill, with its awkward movements, 
 and the consciousness of importance shown 
 by the volunteers, is amusing to see. Everv- 
 thing is done with military precision. They 
 sweat and work conscientiously, as though 
 the salvation of the village depended on their 
 efforts, running and jumping at the command 
 of their chief. " Take positions ! " they
 
 THE FIRE BRIGADE 189 
 
 jump into line, every man at once becoming 
 an automaton ; then, spasmodicallv following 
 the brief orders : " Get out the ladder ! 
 Climb the scaffold ! Get out the hose ! " 
 now jumping and scrambling with great 
 enthusiasm " Lower a cord from above to 
 hoist the hose ! Install the pump ! " Here 
 a ludicrous confusion delays the working of 
 things. The nervous greengrocer has got 
 into a tangle. The critical chief, the local 
 drv-goods man, in his white blouse, just as 
 he left his store, impatiently explains how 
 the thing should be done, and a new start is 
 made, much to the disgust of the contrite 
 grocer. One ! Two ! Three ! " Voila ! " up 
 goes the hose the men are rigid as 
 dummies. " Ready ! " due deliberation to 
 give importance to the command. " Pump ! : 
 furiously the pump-handles are banged up 
 and down. Another signal the men on 
 the scaffold scramble down ; the ladders are 
 folded ; the pump is emptied of its imaginary 
 water ; it is put back in place ; the basket 
 covers, to protect it from dampness, put on ; 
 hose rolled up; pump lifted into its wagon;
 
 1 90 MY VILLAGE 
 
 ladders placed beside it, the men falling 
 into rigid, fixed attitudes, military, if you will, 
 after each movement, waiting the next word 
 of command. A short rest, and the per 
 formance commences again, until done to 
 the satisfaction of the now irate chief. 
 
 The pump is an old style hand-pump ; 
 water must be poured into it with buckets, 
 and is then pumped out through the hose. It 
 throws a stream perhaps thirty feet. I have 
 seen the brigade at a real fire once, once in 
 four years. Their work was both picturesque 
 and effective, and they did it with a will. 
 Absurd as they seem at practice, when at 
 work they show to advantage. 
 
 Still, it seems a mockery to see them 
 furiously practising at least once a week, 
 while a fire visits the village but once in 
 four years. They feel that there is no use 
 in being firemen, if they can t show them 
 selves, and, as disaster presents itself too 
 seldom to give them a chance, they must 
 play at fire, much like great boys, after 
 all. 
 
 At the week-dav drills each appears in his
 
 THE FIRE BRIGADE 191 
 
 working costume ; but on Sundays or fete 
 days they don their old brass helmets, re 
 minding one involuntarily of the time of 
 Henri IV., broad belts, white breeches, 
 and a short blue tunic ; and here they are 
 ready to be admired, and the village admir 
 ingly looks on. 
 
 The chief, who at ordinary drills appears 
 in his blouse, is glorious in a neat military 
 uniform, sword at his side, looking quite 
 dignified, and feeling so. The brigade has 
 its own band, which presents the same 
 picturesque appearance as the others, though, 
 to do them justice, they play really well for 
 country musicians ; they enjoy their work, 
 and the village enjoys them. 
 
 For some time the fire brigade has been 
 clamoring for a new pump, and at last they 
 have succeeded in getting it. Popular 
 subscription answered their persistent calls. 
 To-day, Sunday, to show the liberal donors 
 what their money had produced, they 
 decorated the new pump with flags and 
 streamers ; and, with drums beating, and
 
 192 MY VILLAGE 
 
 trumpets blowing in the van, they paraded 
 it proudly through every street, the band 
 working lustily to attract the subscribers to 
 their doors that they might enjoy this 
 triumphal march, the whole awkward squad 
 of the tire brigade marching gallantly behind, 
 with a proud air which seemed to say, u Now 
 let the fire come on." 
 
 The following Sunday, they paraded their 
 new pump again. Their triumph had been 
 so sweet that they wished to taste it once 
 more ; and, like so many boys with a new 
 toy, the sturdy, innocent louts, looking 
 supremely absurd, dragged their little pump 
 from one end of the village to the other, 
 occasionally resting at the different saloons 
 to acquire new energy. 
 
 And now, the brave and ever faithful 
 brigade has again taken up its work, and 
 drills resignedly before the schoolhouse, 
 waiting for the fires which, ungratefully, 
 never come to give them a chance to show 
 their skill and good will, and their new 
 pump at work. Alas ! fate seems to be
 
 THE FIRE BRIGADE 193 
 
 against them ; their courage is great to work 
 thus so patiently, with hope deferred so long. 
 Oh, for one good fire to repay them ! they 
 deserve it. 
 
 The band has been practising hard for 
 several weeks to take part in a general 
 musical competition, and last week went 
 away to the place of meeting with great 
 hopes and enthusiasm, the village accompany 
 ing them to the station, their flag proudly 
 flying, and music playing its most triumphant 
 air. 
 
 But to-day they came quietly back ; the 
 flag was furled, and the drum silent. They 
 had not even the courage to play their usual 
 march when coming home. Luck had been 
 against them ; and the poor fellows looked 
 very tired and dejected, as though coming 
 in contact with the great outer world had 
 subdued their vanity. 
 
 Now, in their turn, the firemen are 
 practising hard, also going to try their luck 
 in a competition ; and every night we have 
 them playing with their pump and scaffold. 
 And they really are very ludicrous in their 
 13
 
 194 MY VILLAGE 
 
 awkwardness, especially when climbing or 
 descending the ladders. Ladders are some 
 thing they have little experience of, their 
 lives being passed on solid ground ; as a 
 result they climb in a most clumsy, cautious 
 way, with legs spread apart like frogs. They 
 are strong and active, but their feet and 
 hands bother them for climbing ; and in 
 their enthusiasm they fall over themselves, 
 so to speak. Their absurd uniform adds 
 an additional feature of grotesqueness to 
 their appearance. Allowed to work in their 
 own natural way, they would answer well 
 enough ; but their attempts to jerk and jump 
 to methodical orders is a complete failure. 
 Their legs are too clumsy and their joints 
 too big and stiff for such mechanical drill. 
 When in uniform, they do better than when 
 in their blouses, as then their pride is aroused, 
 but they look more absurd. If conscientious 
 enthusiasm is to count for anything, they 
 surely will bring home a prize.
 
 ROSALIE S DECLINE 
 
 TRUE, Carvol gets drunk, always did and 
 doubtless always will ; but Carvol s drunk 
 was originally of a good-natured kind, 
 clumsy, stupid, and even amusing, yet al 
 ways harmless. 
 
 Rosalie herself, though claiming to be dis 
 gusted, appeared to enjoy the funny side of 
 these regular inebriations, good-naturedly 
 stowing him off to sleep in the loft. 
 
 When, how, and where the change began 
 I cannot just say ; but eventually Rosalie 
 took to blackguarding him with furious 
 tongue-lashings, whenever he came home 
 full. And he, though at first stolidly ac 
 cepting this medicine, gradually retaliated in 
 the same tone, sending back a fitting answer 
 to every charge, till, little by little, they both 
 lost their good-humor and fought steadily, 
 whether drunk or sober.
 
 196 MY VILLAGE 
 
 She at last succeeded in goading him up 
 to such a pitch that he occasionally struck 
 her ; then in her rage she would go into 
 hysterics, and matters kept going from bad 
 to worse. Now they lead a miserable life; 
 both, originally good-natured, have become 
 surly and vicious. 
 
 Who is to blame for this change r Both, 
 I think ; for though Carvol gets drunk, 
 Rosalie has always been used to it, has 
 always earned her own living, and remained 
 cheerful, even while she had two children to 
 look after. And now that she has only 
 herself to care for, Kaiser being again at 
 large, she is ever complaining, becoming quite 
 an anarchist in her ideas, repeating the tire 
 some song of the rich taking their ease, while 
 the poor cannot live. This in her case is 
 nonsense, though ever so true in a general 
 way ; as, since she has always been able to 
 live comfortably when she had more to care 
 for, there is no reason why she should not be 
 able to do it now r . And CarvoFs drunkenness, 
 with its necessary waste of money, should 
 not count any more than it originally did, as
 
 ROSALIE S DECLINE 197 
 
 he has always kept up the same pace, always 
 working, and always getting drunk. 
 
 I think that one of the great causes of her 
 troubles is one that is now quite universal, that 
 is, that she is trying to live beyond her means. 
 For now she insists on keeping hens, rabbits, 
 geese, ducks, and a pig, all of which have to 
 be fed, and she must buy their food. 
 
 Naturally she claims and tries to think 
 that she is doing it for the pecuniary profit 
 to be got from them. But the fact is that 
 she has changed the seat of her affections, and 
 now, instead of centring it in her family and 
 husband, gives it to her pig, and slaves to 
 feed him to repletion. True, she is a 
 Breton, and the instinct is therefore natural. 
 Already she has succeeded in so stuffing the 
 brute that he can no longer stand ; but the 
 process costs her a good part of what she 
 earns. Then, in addition, she has become a 
 victim of the instalment plan sales, a system 
 which has ruined or made unhappy many 
 poor people by tempting them to buy more 
 than they can afford, the prospect of easy 
 payments being such an irresistible bait.
 
 198 MY VILLAGE 
 
 She subscribes for an elaborate cooking- 
 stove ; very good, but it is beyond her means, 
 and, especially as she only cooks for two, her 
 own easily answered all demands. Again, 
 she is tempted into buying a fine " armoire," 
 etc., keeping herself always poor by the 
 steady payments. 
 
 All this makes her think furiously of the 
 money Carvol wastes on drink, and conse 
 quently she becomes bitter towards him. He 
 retaliates, and she makes her life miserable, 
 sacrificing all her gay spirits and good-humor. 
 Where it will end I cannot say, but at 
 present the outlook is bad, as but lately, in 
 one of her furious rages against him, she had 
 a serious attack of hysterics, that laid her 
 up for a week. But I fear that it has not 
 taught her a lesson, as I still hear her harp 
 ing at him daily. 
 
 For her luxuries, though more commend 
 able than his, she begrudges him his pleas 
 ures. And though he cannot be easily excused, 
 still the principle remains equally applicable 
 to both.
 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 CONSTANCE is a character, a typical rem 
 nant of the old stock, strong and tough as 
 her own prejudices and dislikes, a bright 
 old fossil, crafty enough to look out for 
 number one. To do her justice, she is very 
 plucky and hard-working, willing to earn a 
 franc when and how she can. 
 
 In the summer, with Gabriel her husband, 
 she cultivates ground enough to live upon and 
 make something out of it for the winter, even 
 raising a limited press of wine and cider.
 
 2OO 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Summer is their bright time ; but the winter 
 is hard on the old folks. On cold days, they 
 hang over a little wood fire in their wide hearth 
 till dark, then at once go to bed, to save 
 candles and fuel. Though their life, to an 
 outsider, seems a 
 dull and cheerless 
 one, they seem to get 
 as much enjoyment 
 out of it as most 
 people. He allows 
 himself the luxury 
 of a pipe, and she 
 gossips. 
 
 He tells me of his 
 palmy days, when, a 
 weaver, he had all the 
 work he wanted. He 
 had seen the trade gradually killed by machine- 
 made cloth, and had taken to gardening. 
 " Now," he said, " here I am, old and blind, 
 good for nothing." Here he tried to light 
 his pipe. " Ah ! you will have to help me. 
 I can t see where to put the match ; yet," he 
 boastfully added, " sometimes I hit it first
 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 2O I 
 
 time, while at other times I burn three or 
 four matches before I can get it started. It 
 is annoying when one does n t see clearlv." 
 
 Poor old fellow ! he amused me though I 
 pitied him. He had dropped from an inde 
 pendent weaver to now take a pride in suc 
 cessfully lighting his own pipe.
 
 202 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 The important proprietors owning wood 
 land allow the peasants one day in each 
 week, during winter, to gather the dead wood. 
 
 This is a great boon to the very poor ; and 
 every Friday, the old women turn out for 
 their rations of fuel. Constance is alwavs 
 first on the ground, and manages to gather,
 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 20 3 
 
 and carry on her back, wood enough tor the 
 ensuing week, bringing it a distance of sev 
 eral miles ; while the old man, like an Indian 
 chief, sits by the fire, too proud for this work. 
 This wood-gathering permission allows them 
 all they can gather and carry on their backs 
 
 during the day, so that, by enterprise, they 
 manage to lay in enough for the summer as 
 well. 
 
 The proprietors of the Valombre chateau 
 are, or assume to be, very devout, and by 
 promises of money and work induce those 
 natives who come under their sway to attend 
 mass. Old Constance, in conformity with 
 such a prospective remuneration, attended
 
 204 MY VILLAGE 
 
 church faithfully for six weeks. All she 
 wanted, she claims, was employment for her 
 " old man." This not forthcoming, she 
 backslid in disgust, feeling severely imposed 
 upon, and now speaks with great asperity of 
 these people. 
 
 The story she gives me of Pauline, her 
 neighbor, is interesting at least, even should 
 it prove untrue. Pauline, it seems, receives 
 a pension of six hundred francs from a de 
 parted mistress s executors, on condition that 
 she says mass, or rather, has it said, and prays 
 for the repose of the soul of the deceased. 
 Constance naturally considers this an enviable 
 situation. 
 
 She tells me of her father, a soldier of Na 
 poleon. He had been to Russia, and fought 
 at, u What s its name r That place which 
 caused them so many troubles ? " " Mos 
 cow," I suggest. That s it. He had been 
 frozen in the cold snows. " Napoleon was 
 stupid to make war in winter." He had 
 brought back a ball in his leg, etc., etc. He 
 had lived to see the Prussians enter France 
 in 1870; but it broke his heart, and he soon
 
 CONSTANCE 205 
 
 went to his grave. " He was proud, you 
 know," she added. 
 
 Then she abruptly switches off to talk of 
 her own troubles, for Constance must talk. 
 u My poor old man," she says, " had a hard 
 time of it last winter, when it was so terribly 
 cold. You remember how cold it was ? 
 Well, when I was away, tending my daugh 
 ter s baby, he stayed in the house all alone, 
 without a fire. I would have lighted one 
 for him ; but, as he can t see, I was afraid 
 he would burn himself and the house up. 
 Is n t it a misfortune to be blind ? At 
 times the rain would leak through the old 
 thatch so badly that we could catch buckets 
 full ; and, when I was away, I used to be 
 afraid the old man would be drenched and 
 frozen, or drowned," she added facetiously. 
 
 Poor Constance has recently had a great 
 grief to bear. Her grandson Fernand, a 
 young man of nineteen, suddenly contracted 
 a serious lung-trouble, which, in spite of all 
 that could be done for him, developed into 
 quick consumption, and in a few months 
 numbered him among the dead. The day
 
 206 MY VILLAGE 
 
 before his death, his mother, herself very 
 delicate, had given birth to a little girl. 
 Fearing that the news of her son s demise 
 might give her a fatal shock, they kept the 
 knowledge from her, and the following day 
 the body was removed from the house, and 
 the coffin, placed upon two chairs beneath 
 a neighboring cross, awaited the priest and 
 funeral procession. The ceremony was brief 
 and impressive, the mourners standing with 
 bared heads while the priest, in the name of 
 the Church, claimed the body. The young 
 man s comrades, with moist eyes, quite over 
 come by the calamity, followed the hearse 
 to the graveyard, bearing immense wreaths 
 of glass beads, typical of French funerals, to 
 place upon the grave. 
 
 Poor Constance was broken-hearted ; but 
 no sooner had she commenced to recover 
 from this shock, than her daughter, now of 
 course cognizant of her son s death, over 
 come by this unexpected blow, pined away 
 and died. As the old woman said, with tears 
 streaming down her wrinkled face, " It never 
 rains but it pours." Though it was feared
 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 207 
 
 that this second death would kill her, to 
 every one s surprise and relief, after she had 
 seen her daughter carried away to join her 
 son, Constance bravely rallied. The baby 
 was to be cared for. This saved her. 
 
 And now, at the age of seventy-two, she 
 has become nurse to this sucking babe. 
 
 Six months later, when last I saw her, the 
 combination was working capitally. The 
 baby was thriving, and the old woman had 
 taken a new interest in life.
 
 BOHEMIANS 
 
 BENEATH the great chestnut-trees which 
 border the main road, a family of Bohemians 
 have installed themselves. They came trun 
 dling into town towards dusk, a motley cara 
 van, the tumble-down wagon-house drawn 
 by a dubious-looking nag. Beneath it two 
 dogs fitted their pace to his ; while behind 
 came the head of the family, dragging after
 
 BOHEMIANS 209 
 
 him a smaller cart. A true democrat, on 
 the road he puts himself on a level with his 
 horse, doing the same work. 
 
 The caravan dropped anchor in the shadow 
 of the big trees. The man unharnessed him 
 self, then did the same for the horse. Here 
 the equality of their positions came to an 
 end, the horse being tied out to one of the 
 trees to pass the night. He also had become 
 a Bohemian, having long since forgotten what 
 a stable was like, as his owners had lost the 
 recollection of sleeping in a house. True, 
 the wagon might be called a house, it being 
 a big, ungainly box, rudely put together, 
 boasting three small windows, a door, and 
 the remains of an ancient coat of paint, the 
 whole securely seated upon four wheels, two 
 of which leaned, in sympathy, towards it ; 
 the others, though undecided, still made an 
 effort to stand straight. When in motion, it 
 had something of the roll of a boat in a heavy 
 sea. 
 
 Out of this queer abode scrambled a con 
 fused heap of children. When it seemed as 
 though all were on the ground, still another 
 14
 
 210 MY VILLAGE 
 
 would appear, perhaps a trifle smaller than 
 the last, though the difference in size between 
 them was relatively slight. Poor, degraded 
 little creatures, their manner of life had not 
 encouraged a very robust growth. 
 
 A fire was soon lighted, and supper cook 
 ing. Night had already settled down ; and 
 this curious group, looking hungry and 
 cold, huddled around the fire, impatiently 
 waiting the cooking of the " soup," formed a 
 weird picture, lost, as they were, in the dark 
 shadow of the trees, their faces fitfully lighted 
 by the flickering flame, which shone against 
 the inky background. 
 
 Their precarious living they made by mend 
 ing tins, kettles, etc. And early on the 
 morrow the mother started off, looking for 
 work, calling from house to house, insisting 
 with great perseverance, at each gate, that 
 there must be something with a leak which 
 needed mending, glibly running off a long list 
 of different utensils, till she succeeded in 
 worrying something, though only a candle 
 stick, out of nearly every house. 
 
 The man, meanwhile, had installed his
 
 BOHEMIANS 
 
 21 I 
 
 bellows, fire, and tools, and calmly awaited 
 her return, promptly attacking the work she 
 brought him. A patient, hard-working 
 creature, he looked as though so many 
 storms had passed over his head, not high 
 enough, however, for him to escape them, 
 that both hope and fear were crushed from 
 
 his existence, and quietly plodded on through 
 life, accepting, without a murmur, the sun or 
 the rain, the heat or the cold. 
 
 The group, as seen by daylight, was as 
 picturesque as when dimly observed at dusk. 
 At night a weird misery was suggested, 
 while the day showed it clearly in all its 
 sadness and dirt. The tumble-down shed-
 
 212 MY VILLAGE 
 
 cart looked more dilapidated and the children 
 more miserable. 
 
 Around the fire and bellows was now 
 accumulated an incongruous heap of kettles, 
 pans, pots, ladles, candlesticks, and everything 
 that could possibly be mended by solder, 
 big kettles, little kettles, copper pails, tin 
 pails, of every size and imaginable shape, 
 and in every degree of health, from the 
 slightly rheumatic down to the condemned 
 wreck. The tinker deliberately wrestled 
 with them, each in its turn. Their weak 
 ness was his strength. It is an ill wind, 
 indeed, which blows no good. 
 
 Among all this played four tiny, half-clad 
 children, three boys and a girl, thin, puny, 
 starved-looking unfortunates, shirtless and 
 hatless, revelling in unwashed dirt, poverty 
 and hardship in its most pitiful form. Still 
 they played with a fair amount of spirit, 
 accustomed to their lot, and apparently 
 happy. 
 
 They fished in the pails, and ladled and 
 scooped, taking advantage of their strange 
 toys, even triumphing over the well-fed and
 
 BOHEMIANS 213 
 
 warmly-clad little peasants who looked on 
 at this tempting array of kettles which they 
 dare not touch. 
 
 As in their play they called to each other, 
 I caught their names, and was immensely 
 surprised and amused by them. What they 
 lacked in material wealth and dignity was 
 made up in the titles they wore. The 
 mother bore the name of Victoria, as did 
 one of the little girls ; while the boys were 
 respectively, if not respectably, Antonin, 
 Augustus, and Antony. 
 
 Apparently the mother, in her rambling 
 life, had acquired, though perhaps she was 
 born with it, a fair amount of romance, not 
 withstanding the fearful realism of her exist 
 ence, and gratified her passion by bestowing 
 these dignified and ponderous titles upon her 
 puny offspring. And the poor little things 
 looked as though the weight had been too 
 great to carry, and had stunted their growth. 
 
 From the back window of the cart, filling 
 it with their tiny bodies, two little prisoners 
 looked out at me. They, alas, represented 
 the sick-ward. The boy had a sore foot,
 
 214 MY VILLAGE 
 
 and was compelled to look sadly on while 
 his brothers romped among the pots and 
 kettles. 
 
 But the poor little girl, a pretty tot, was 
 seriously disabled. While jumping from the 
 wagon, she had broken her leg, and now, con 
 fined to her wheeled prison for long weeks, 
 could only drag herself to the window to 
 look out upon the sunlight. 
 
 A sad fate ! Poor, uncared-for little crea 
 ture, doubtless improperly nursed, she may 
 never recover, and, in addition to her already 
 unpromising life, remain a cripple. My heart 
 bled for her; so much misery and misfortune 
 was very distressing. 
 
 She, fortunately, appeared to take her fate 
 more gayly than I ; joking and laughing 
 with and at her brothers ; her young animal 
 spirits seemed strong enough to rise even 
 above this. 
 
 These tinkers travel all over the North of 
 France, going as far as the sea ; then wind 
 ing back, following the same circuit, forming 
 acquaintances and customers along the way, 
 vagabonding along the highroads from
 
 BOHEMIANS 215 
 
 spring to winter, whether the winds blow 
 high or low, hot or cold. I remember 
 having seen them come and go quite often. 
 For months I would miss them ; then sud 
 denly, while passing, would hear voices be 
 neath the chestnuts, and on the morrow see 
 them installed and hard at work. 
 
 The woman possesses a good fund of 
 happy spirits and vigorous energy, offsetting 
 the man s apparent despair. But what a 
 life ! Yet they have always lived it, and 
 doubtless always will. Their children are 
 born in the wagon, brought up in the wagon, 
 will go on with their parents trade, and live 
 and die in the wagon, just as another does in 
 a fixed house. With such a training, when 
 arrived at manhood, surely no other more 
 settled life can ever tempt them or be even 
 supportable. They acquire the habit of 
 being uncomfortable, and apparently like 
 it. 
 
 For days, whenever I passed their wagon, 
 I saw the pinched face of the little girl pa 
 tiently looking out of her window. Poor 
 little prisoner ! since she could not play her-
 
 2l6 MY VILLAGE 
 
 self, she would at least watch the others. 
 Then one day I missed them ; at daybreak, 
 like the Arabs, they had folded their tents 
 and silently stolen away. 
 
 Three months later. Again they are back 
 under the trees ; the little girl runs about as 
 lively as the others, apparently none the 
 worse for her accident. 
 
 As I came along, the mother called to me 
 from her wagon, " Heh ! Monsieur Smith, 
 I have something to say to you." I had to 
 stop and wait until she deliberately got down 
 and came to me. She wanted to know what 
 I did with my old color-tubes. I told her 
 that I threw them away. " Well, give them 
 to me ; though to you they are useless, to me 
 they are useful." " All right," I responded, 
 adding that Antony had already mentioned 
 the subject to me, but that I had forgotten 
 or had not time to think of it. " Ah," she 
 retorted with a tone of reprimand, " you 
 have no memory." Her coolness quite sur 
 prised and amused me. 
 
 The following day she banged on my gate
 
 BOHEMIANS 
 
 2I 7 
 
 until I appeared, when she demanded " those 
 color-tubes." 
 
 After passing the winter in Paris, on my 
 return to Valombre I again found the band 
 
 busily stirring about among the great chest 
 nut-trunks. They hailed me familiarly, as a 
 long-absent friend. Though not flattered, I 
 was amused by the reception, and after the
 
 2l8 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 usual questions back and forth regarding the 
 health status, I asked them how they had 
 passed the hard winter. " Oh, first-rate ! 
 they had stuck it out in the wagon, and 
 u You know, with the stove we re pretty 
 warm in there." 
 
 It really is astonishing how tough they 
 are, and how they manage to keep alive and 
 in cheerful spirits. There must be some 
 thing invigorating attached to this Bohemian 
 existence with its freedom, which keeps 
 them up.
 
 MARIE S WEDDING 
 
 PRETTY little Marie, the baker s daughter, 
 has just been married, though her engage 
 ment at one time promised to drag on in 
 definitely ; a curious complication having 
 arisen, and one quite surprising for such a 
 slow, every-day village as Valombre, where 
 life seems to flow calmly and smoothly, 
 avoiding the rough jolts often met with in 
 larger centres of civilization. 
 
 It appears that young Ravin s father, a 
 cook, being continually called away from 
 home to do his work, his wife, to avoid 
 the ennui of being thus so often a quasi
 
 220 MY VILLAGE 
 
 widow, had taken a lover to help her while 
 away the spare time. Ravin pere, not appre 
 ciating this state of affairs, had unceremo 
 niously left her and gone to England to cut 
 out a new life for himself. While in that 
 land of refuge for unfortunate continentals, 
 he made love to and wooed a young Ger 
 man. The couple, with their children, 
 eventually came back to France, settling at 
 Valombre. A short time before his death 
 Ravin succeeded in obtaining a divorce from 
 his first wife. 
 
 Now, when young Ravin wished to be 
 married, marriage being purely a legal con 
 tract in France, a difficulty arose as to what 
 name he could lawfully bear, that of his 
 father not being recognized as his, he being 
 the son of a bigamist, therefore an illegitimate 
 child. His not being by birth a French sub 
 ject added another serious complication. 
 
 However, after much trouble and painful 
 waiting in doubt, the night before the wed 
 ding he was authorized to retain his father s 
 name, the divorce being recognized as having 
 legitimatized Ravin s children; and at last
 
 MARIE S WEDDING 
 
 221 
 
 he was married under the name he had always 
 borne. 
 
 The whole village had been much wrought 
 up about the affair, and turned out to show 
 
 its sympathy for the young couple. The 
 whip-sawyer deserted his picturesque plant, 
 and the mattress-cleaner her work, to wish 
 good-luck to them as they left the mayor s 
 office. 
 
 From here the wedding-party went to the 
 church, where the religious marriage was
 
 222 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 celebrated. The picturesque procession then 
 triumphantly paraded through the village, 
 
 stopping at each hotel for a dance and re 
 freshments. As they approached the " Lion 
 
 d Or," the hotel-keeper, to show the proper 
 spirit of enthusiasm, set off some fire-crackers 
 in his yard ; but being rather lacking in
 
 MARIE S WEDDING 
 
 confidence, as he lighted them he threw the 
 bunch from him and ran wildly back out or 
 harm s reach. His little dog, bearing the 
 euphonious name of Vermouth, was so 
 startled by this manoeuvre that he also 
 skipped madly away, and 
 on the explosion of the 
 crackers hid in a corner, 
 setting up a doleful howl. 
 Pernod, the other dog, in 
 side, hearing this terrible 
 racket, also took fright 
 and darted under the 
 table, from which secure 
 refuge he could not be 
 dislodged, though friends 
 endeavored to entice him 
 forth with tempting bits 
 of meat ; and for an hour his nerves were 
 quite shaken, while the unconscious and happy 
 wedding-party gayly marched down the street 
 to the livelv strains of the cobbler s violin 
 and barber s cornet (they being musicians be 
 tween times), leaving confusion in its wake. 
 
 Across the street the sick fat woman was 
 breathing her last. Curious irony ! Thus
 
 224 MY VILLAGE 
 
 nature makes preparations for replacing the 
 departing. 
 
 For three days the glad revellers exhibited 
 their joy to the village, tramping, dancing, 
 singing, and having a good time generally. 
 But the procession was steadily losing 
 strength, the old folks dropping off after the 
 first day, to be followed on the second by 
 others too footsore to stand the pace, while 
 the third day showed only a small party of the 
 very faithful, who remained true to their duty. 
 To these the calm of evening brought a much 
 needed rest; and Marie s wedding, so long de 
 ferred, at last achieved, passed into history.
 
 ACHILLE AND CELESTINE 
 
 I CAME back to Valombre, after a few 
 months absence, to find Achille, now quite a 
 broken down man, installed, with his wife 
 and child, in his mother s house. 
 
 Poor Achille ! I felt very sorry for him. 
 His father s death, three years back, quite 
 disheartened him. And no sooner had he 
 fairly recovered from this shock, than his 
 own child, a daughter of eighteen, his pride, 
 about whose acquirements at school he 
 boasted proudly, her science, as he called 
 it, always of failing health, took to her 
 bed, and, after a long, wearing, and expensive
 
 226 MY VILLAGE 
 
 sickness, faded away, blighting his dearest 
 hope. 
 
 From this he never rallied ; he lost his gay 
 spirits, even his conceit, and gradually broke 
 down. The trouble was not definite at first, 
 but slowly developed into clogged circula 
 tion, then into varied and general rheumatism, 
 with hidden complications based on despair. 
 
 He took to his bed, and painfully exhausted 
 his last savings, rising at last, an enfeebled 
 man, unable to carry on his work. Seeing 
 no issue, he sold out, and for a year managed 
 to live on by means of this money. 
 
 Six months ago, when I went to Paris, I 
 left him at this point. Now, on my return, 
 I find him my neighbor, lodged with Ctles- 
 tine. He sadly drags his weary legs across 
 the road to the garden, where for hours he 
 quietly sits, lonely and subdued, waiting for 
 the sunshine to bring him back strength. It 
 is appalling to see how rapidly his hair is 
 becoming gray ; I can see it change from 
 day to day. It is fearful thus to watch life 
 and strength fade away, and be able to do 
 nothing. When, five years ago, I first met
 
 ACHILLE AND CfiLESTINE 22J 
 
 him, he was a great, strong, active fellow, 
 full of life and confidence, with an immense 
 head of curly black hair. Now I see a 
 broken, gray-haired old man, whose clothes 
 hang loosely about him, slowly and painfully 
 dragging himself out into the sunlight. 
 
 Brave old Celestine goes off every day to 
 work till nightfall in the fields, at the age 
 of seventy-five still strong enough to try to 
 support her unfortunate son, his wife and 
 child. There is heroism in the peasant yet, 
 and this plucky old woman will die in the 
 breach rather than falter while her son needs 
 her help. 
 
 Brave old woman ! I see her also changing. 
 Her heart is heavy, making her work doubly 
 so. I am afraid that she may break down ; 
 then things will be in a terrible state. Seventy 
 years of hard peasant work, to live at last 
 perhaps just long enough to see her last 
 child carried to the grave before her. It 
 seems as though the struggle had all been 
 in vain. 
 
 In telling me her troubles, she still holds 
 Paris responsible for Achille s sickness,
 
 228 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Paris, the arch enemy. u Ah, yes," she 
 wailed, " since he served in that siege, he has 
 never been the same boy. Look you, mon 
 enfant, every one who took part in that affair 
 has suffered from its effects since. The cold 
 and exposure gave them their death. When 
 he came back, he was sick for eighteen 
 months with rheumatism, and now his 
 worries and griefs have brought it all back, 
 with worse complications. Poor boy ! he has 
 had no luck ; and he used to be so astonish 
 ingly strong." 
 
 I remarked that she seemed now the 
 strongest of the family. " Ah, yes, I m 
 solid, but I ve had my share of sickness 
 too. When my poor daughter died, I took 
 sick. I had to talk of her ; and when I 
 talked of her before meals, my appetite was 
 gone, and when I talked of her after meals, 
 it would n t digest. Often my grief was so 
 great, I would fall down in a swoon, and for 
 twenty-four hours no one knew whether I d 
 live or not. Ah, yes, I ve had my share of 
 sickness and trouble. And yet now I m 
 more solid than manv who have suffered
 
 ACHILLE AND CfiLESTINE 229 
 
 less ; and I m seventy-five this year, see 
 that." 
 
 With the summer Achille slowly, very 
 slowly, regained some of his lost strength, 
 and again took an interest in life. Though 
 not strong enough to work, his improvement 
 showed itself by the return of his critical 
 powers, and a desire to show those who could 
 work how they should do. And I see that 
 this faculty is wearing on Celestine. His 
 ways are not her ways, and I fear that she 
 now finds his eternal superiority rather trying 
 to bear. 
 
 To-night I heard him, in a ponderous 
 way, endeavoring to prove to her why reli 
 gion was nonsense. She listened patiently, 
 though incredulously. He dragged in Saint 
 Louis s crusade, making the army a big one, 
 while he was at it, two millions and a half. 
 He told how the king had died, that his army 
 was completely destroyed, and that Godfrey 
 de Bouillon brought back the survivors. 
 Achille means well, but events and char 
 acters of history become sadly jumbled up
 
 230 MY VILLAGE 
 
 in his mind. I was not cruel enough to in 
 form him that Godfrey had been lying in his 
 grave for nearly two hundred years before 
 Saint Louis s campaign. 
 
 Ce lestine seemed quite overcome by the 
 extent of her son s knowledge, and beamed 
 proudly, while his wife seriously corroborated 
 his statements, much as an eye-witness of the 
 events would do, adding occasionally that 
 she had heard of this before. Poor, patient 
 woman ! doubtless he had inflicted the story 
 upon her many a time. 
 
 Such is Achille s " science," of which his 
 mother is so proud, and which gives him an 
 authority over his neighbors. He has ac 
 quired a smattering of knowledge of the great 
 outer world, just enough to have made him 
 top-heavy. With it he would be happy were 
 his legs only strong enough to let him carry 
 it around, that he might find new audiences. 
 Alas ! it must be hard to have only two 
 women to overpower with his weight, while he 
 feels himself equal to so much greater things.
 
 LOST IN THE QUARRY 
 
 PKRE FREDERIC died yesterday, aged 
 seventy-eight. The cause of his death gave 
 rise to a series of extravagant explanations. 
 It seems, after summing up the different 
 accounts, that the old man, while delivering 
 manure at the Remy quarry, where a mush 
 room-bed was being installed, had got lost, 
 his light having accidentally gone out. He 
 had lost his bearings, and wandered about 
 hopelessly, looking for the exit. Now and 
 then hope would come back. He felt that 
 he was on the right road, and cautiously felt 
 his way along a long corridor to avoid fall 
 ing over the loose blocks of stone, only to 
 be suddenly stopped by the end wall. Pain 
 fully he worked his way back again to the 
 starting-point, and set off down another cor 
 ridor. Surely this must be the right one ; but 
 no, another wall suddenly brought him to
 
 232 MY VILLAGE 
 
 a standstill. Desperately he shouted, hoping 
 against hope ; but the only answer was the 
 echo of his own voice, reverberating through 
 the dark deserted passages. And through 
 the long night, which seemed to him an 
 age, the old man despairingly groped his way 
 through the great cold quarry, to be found 
 at daybreak, exhausted and feverish, by the 
 workmen coming in. 
 
 His terrible experience had been too much 
 for him, bringing on a severe chill, which, 
 added to chronic lung trouble, carried him 
 off after he had lain for two days unconscious 
 in his bed. Palmyre cheerfully helped at 
 the funeral, cooking soup for the invited 
 mourners. A few days later she was again 
 as busy, this time in fixing up Me lie s barn 
 
 - Melie is the widow for the coming 
 wedding-dinner, her son s. Frederic is ap 
 parently already forgotten ; at least it is 
 evident that they do not intend to allow his 
 death in any way to interfere with the mar 
 riage. He has made room for the next, and 
 the next is now the centre of interest.
 
 PHONSINE 
 
 PHONSINE and Jules, my landlord, seem to 
 lack the power of getting ahead, except in 
 increasing their family ; four small children 
 being already the result, with a fifth soon 
 coming. 
 
 Phonsine is good-natured, but shiftless. 
 To-morrow does not exist for her. True, 
 to-day is often quite as much as she can 
 attend to, with her steadily increasing brood. 
 Still she is sadly wanting in that thrift for 
 which the French peasant is justly cele 
 brated ; while her husband, though energetic, 
 seems to lack the calm matter-of-fact balance 
 of his neighbors, endeavoring to run too 
 many schemes at once, and, as a result, gener 
 ally failing in all. 
 
 She, however, comes of a working stock, 
 being born in the field as a result of her 
 mother s dislike to losing a day. But per 
 haps her unceremonious advent into the world
 
 234 MY VILLAGE 
 
 started her wrong, and since she has never 
 been able to get on the right track. 
 
 When she goes on an errand or a visit, 
 she turns the key in the door and trusts to 
 luck taking care of the children. A short 
 time back, while thus away, her eldest girl, 
 a half-witted creature, playing with a burn 
 ing brand to amuse the others, threw it be 
 hind some old umbrellas. Half an hour 
 later Pauline, the neighbor, noticed smoke 
 leaking through the broken window and 
 above and below the door. To give the 
 alarm and burst open the door was the work 
 of a moment. The bewildered children, 
 afraid for what they had done, dared not call 
 any one, and would doubtless have been 
 asphyxiated but for her opportune arrival. 
 The fire was soon put out, the damage be 
 ing relatively slight, an armoire alone being 
 destroyed. 
 
 Poor Phonsine was in despair when I 
 called, by accident, a few hours later. The 
 floor was littered with water and burnt em 
 bers. Everything and everybody was in 
 disorder ; the children crying, their mother
 
 PHONSINE 235 
 
 nervously yelling at them to stop, though 
 bitterly weeping herself. The burnt rafters 
 overhead showed that the fire with a little 
 better start would have been serious. 
 
 For a week the blackened ruins of the 
 armoire stood outside the door, awaiting the 
 examination of the insurance agent, who 
 eventually turned up, and paid the damages 
 demanded, doubtless grateful to fate that he 
 had not the whole house to pay for. 
 
 One bright morning, the following spring, 
 I met Jules moving out, his wagon loaded 
 with barrels, pieces of furniture, and a motley 
 mixture of odds and ends. Laboring under 
 great nervous excitement, he explained to 
 me that Phonsine and he could n t agree. 
 She wanted to be master, and so did he. He 
 claimed that she had told him to go, and he 
 was going. " Now she would see," etc. I 
 remonstrated with him, but he was furious 
 and would listen to nothing Shortly after, 
 Phonsine came to me to tell her story, with 
 many tears. Of course she blamed him, 
 a story of drink, etc.
 
 236 MY VILLAGE 
 
 The affair created quite a scandal, ending 
 by his coming back, ashamed of himself, after 
 an absence of about ten days. 
 
 Poor Phonsine ! Fortune has decidedly 
 turned against her. Jules has got himself 
 in trouble by blackguarding his landlord, to 
 whom he owes a year s rent, and is to be 
 sold out for debt. Phonsine is broken-hearted, 
 but the now irate landlord insists on avenging 
 his wounded dignity. 
 
 To-day, Sunday, the sale took place. The 
 meagre household goods, spread out before 
 the door for buyers, made a sad show, every 
 thing being more or less disabled. Phonsine 
 had come down from Paris, where they had 
 moved for a fresh start, to try and buy for 
 herself the few things she wished to keep. 
 She told me that, in addition to her many 
 woes, Clemence, her eldest child, was now in 
 a hospital as a result of a severe fall during 
 her absence. 
 
 The bailiff" started the sale bv offering a 
 number of dishes as a lot. These brought 
 seven cents. Other odds and ends following
 
 PHONSINE 237 
 
 were knocked down for similar small sums, 
 the buyers taking their purchases and stack 
 ing them on the lawn before the house, till 
 
 O 
 
 gradually all Phonsine s worldly goods were 
 spread about, now the property of perhaps 
 twenty different people. Even the fence was 
 sold, till not a vestige of anything which 
 had belonged to her remained, and the last 
 trace of her household existence in Valombre 
 was scattered to the winds. 
 
 It was sad to see this complete ruin of 
 what had been a relatively comfortable and 
 happy family when I came to Valombre. 
 And now she, w T ith her five children and 
 husband, empty-handed, start life afresh in 
 Paris. I don t see how they can possibly get 
 on there, but sincerely hope they may. 
 
 To-day I was informed that Clemence 
 had died in the hospital. Poor, unfortunate 
 Phonsine ! her cup is really full. 
 
 Palmyre, her sister-in-law, had been to the 
 funeral. She told me that Phonsine and Jules 
 were both terribly broken down by their loss. 
 They had become accustomed to every sort
 
 238 MY VILLAGE 
 
 of misfortune hut this, the hardest of all to 
 bear. Palmyre herself was so upset by it 
 all that she wildly hurried back to Valombre 
 as soon as the funeral was over, that she 
 might sit down and gain new courage in 
 the old, familiar surroundings. Paris, under 
 such circumstances, was too terrible a place 
 to be in. Terrible Paris ! I could feel that 
 she almost blamed it for this death. Agathe, 
 another sister-in-law, came along as we were 
 talking, looking very pale and sick. It had 
 told on her severely. I was even surprised, 
 as I had become accustomed to thinking that 
 the peasant could stand his neighbor s misfor 
 tunes with great complacence ; but this one 
 was too great, and it was evident that she 
 had really suffered. 
 
 Six months later. Now everything is go 
 ing to the dogs with the unfortunates. I 
 found Phonsine high up in a cheap apart 
 ment house, in a dirty quarter, living in two 
 small, close rooms, she who had always 
 know 7 n the open fields and pure air. TW T O 
 of the children were down with measles.
 
 PHONSINE 239 
 
 She told me a sad story of how her husband 
 drank, had given her no money for weeks. 
 She did not know what to do, and thought of 
 going back to Valombre. She regretted having 
 come to Paris, charging it with her child s 
 life. Poor Phonsine !
 
 $
 
 HARVEST, 1894 
 
 THE weather was lowering and forebod 
 ing. I felt heavy and dull, in harmony with 
 the day, as I started off to work, and instead 
 of climbing the abrupt bluff among the great 
 
 chestnut roots as usual, slowly sauntered on 
 beyond to the new road, Jean Paul s work 
 of last winter. It gave Jean Paul a winter s 
 work, but spoiled the pretty little wood 
 through which it passed. He did his work 
 well, and to-day I appreciated the easy slope. 
 16
 
 242 MY VILLAGE 
 
 How different the plain seemed from what 
 it was last year ! Then it was all yellow 
 and gold, giving the impression of teeming 
 with life and wealth ; its golden beauty a 
 literal representation of its value. But to 
 day, under the dull wet sky, treacherous 
 and dark, all was calm and gray, calm, 
 even dead, as com 
 pared with last August. 
 The stacks formed 
 dark gray-brown spots 
 heavy and dull. There 
 were no signs anywhere 
 of gayety or life. The 
 few harvesters at work 
 ^ -J seemed less important 
 
 than usual, simply a few darker spots in the 
 general dark mass ; and the impression I 
 received was that everything was fixed and 
 motionless, sad in its quietness. The contrast 
 was astonishing with last year s harvest, where 
 the sun, plaving hide-and-seek with its lights 
 and shadows among the brilliant yellow grain, 
 gave to the air a movement of intense life. 
 
 o 
 
 Everything vibrated with color ; and the peas-
 
 HARVEST, 1894 243 
 
 ants working among the stacks, their light 
 shirts and shining blades making brighter 
 spots against the bright wheat, gave an im 
 mense, never-ceasing lively movement to 
 the whole plain. Even the clouds caught 
 the spirit, and flitted gayly along above the 
 earth, with the sun s glow playing gleefully 
 among their tips, now lighting up one 
 mass into a dazzling, cottony heap of some 
 thing intangible and ever changing ; then 
 casting the shadows of one cloud across 
 another, each chasing brightly along after the 
 other, while even the blue ether beyond 
 appeared as if in motion, and seemed to come 
 and go between the lively clouds. 
 
 On the earth beneath the shadows danced 
 nimbly along before the harvesters, flitting 
 back and forth, now on the stubble-broken 
 grounds, purple and blue ; then across the 
 yellow fields before the scythe, lighter and 
 apparently almost blue in contrast with the 
 yellow glow of gold which hedged them in. 
 
 The air seemed filled with birds chirping 
 and busy ; the lark adding his clear note 
 from far up, up among the blue, where the 
 eye with difficulty followed him.
 
 244 MY VILLAGE 
 
 The wheat was ripe and dry, and great 
 wagons came empty and went away loaded 
 with their rich burden. The immense stacks 
 gradually reared themselves about the plain. 
 Busy, tiny figures capped their summits, 
 stowing away the grain for the coming 
 winter. All was life and joy. 
 
 Yes, indeed, the difference between then 
 and now is great, not alone as the difference 
 between sunshine and shadow, but almost as 
 the difference between life and death, between 
 joy and sorrow. Then the work had some 
 thing buoyant and inspiring about it ; now 
 the hard labor is apparent. 
 
 All is dull and quiet ; the clouds are mo 
 tionless ; they seem as of lead, moored for-
 
 HARVEST, 1894 245 
 
 ever by their weight, almost touching the 
 earth, as though about to crush it beneath 
 their cheerless mass. 
 
 The light tries to break through in the 
 west for a moment ; the horizon gives 
 promise of life. A pale silvery band 
 reaches out as though to crowd away the 
 dark clouds and find a footing ; but soon an 
 ominous feeling comes over the air, a chilly 
 breath as of the dead, and the bright west 
 has suddenly grown dark and inky, the silver 
 belt is hopelessly buried beneath the storm. 
 The distant hills but a moment before blue 
 are now lost in a hazy, heavy mist ; their 
 forms seem washed away, and earth and sky 
 are run together ; the clouds have at last 
 fallen, and the rain has dropped its veil upon 
 them. 
 
 I watch it coming, advancing irresistibly 
 and relentlessly ; now it has covered Pon- 
 toise ; the town is lost from the world. 
 Steadily it comes, rushing and swishing, with 
 gusts of wet wind as forerunners, bringing a 
 chill of despair and discouragement. 
 
 Now the storm has reached the village ;
 
 246 MY VILLAGE 
 
 the trees bordering the plain are soon lost in 
 the white mist. I see it coming towards me 
 with the speed of a race-horse, and must 
 stand and face it, too late for escape. And 
 now it is here ; rushing and beating, it lashes 
 the ground like a host of seething serpents, 
 pounding and splashing, dashing the light 
 earth about. Scattered straw is blown in 
 every direction, wheat-stacks are torn apart 
 and overthrown ; and the rain beats down 
 and soaks the ripened grain, bringing de 
 struction and ruin with it. Cruel, blind 
 nature, like some mighty wild beast bent on 
 tearing and destroying, merciless in its fury ! 
 
 The wind steadily rises, whipping the rain 
 across the fields. Starting with an angle of 
 forty-five degrees, it now sweeps horizontally 
 above the ground, beating into my face, 
 wetting through clothes as though cloth was 
 but tissue paper. 
 
 The plain has lost all form. It has no 
 beginning, no end. All is a dirty, gray mist, 
 hissing viciously to the right, to the left ; 
 above, and around, rain, rain, and nothing 
 but rain. Yes, its accompaniment, the wind ;
 
 HARVEST, 1894 247 
 
 they are playing furious, tragic larks to 
 gether, ruining and overthrowing many 
 months hard labor. 
 
 As the storm broke, I saw a couple of 
 reapers running for shelter. For ten minutes 
 
 or more I lost them, nothing but rain being 
 visible. A lull of a moment allowed me to 
 see them again, crouched beneath a small 
 stack, their coats thrown over their heads. 
 Again the veil dropped, and I lost them ; 
 and the rain beat down in torrents, till 
 around me incipient brooks zigzagged among 
 the stubble, gradually gaining in strength and
 
 248 MY VILLAGE 
 
 rushing off down the slope of the plain to 
 the village below. 
 
 Slowly, and after innumerable fitful at 
 tempts to keep on, the storm spent itself, 
 and through the mist the dark stacks loomed 
 up, now heavy and soaked. And the plain, 
 which before appeared but sad, now looked as 
 though death and destruction had wooed it 
 to keep it in bondage till the last day.
 
 MERE POSTOL 
 
 GOING this evening after potatoes to 
 Postol s, I knocked on the door ; no answer. 
 I went into the hall. Looking through the 
 glass of the kitchen door, I saw the old 
 woman at work, erect, by the table. I 
 knocked again ; she remained unmoved. 
 Stupid, stolid, suspicious old peasant, so 
 cautious that she would n t commit herself 
 by a word until I should have spoken, not 
 even willing to compromise by saying, 
 "Who s there?" or "Come in,"- the 
 typical, cautious, old-time peasant. 
 
 A funny-looking little old woman she was, 
 with her bird-like head, sharp nose, lip fallen 
 in where the teeth had been, chin pointed and 
 projecting, with a round, ball-like forehead 
 towering above a pair of little shiny eyes, 
 alert and shrewd, a woman of perhaps 
 eighty years of age.
 
 250 MY VILLAGE 
 
 She went down into the dark cellar, and 
 got me the potatoes. I asked her if she had 
 any milk. " Yes, plenty ; but it s five 
 sous a quart," she added hastily. " For 
 me or for everybody ? " I asked. u Oh, for 
 everybody ; five sous, or I 11 set the cow 
 calving." This startling menace amused me 
 immensely. I had never heard any of that 
 style before, though accustomed to the 
 peculiarities of peasants. 
 
 Tricky old hag ! she had no intention of 
 u setting the cow calving." With typical 
 inconsistency, she hastened to recommend 
 her milk, saying, " Ah ! it s not like that 
 you get from the milkwoman." 
 
 Later in the day I went back to her to get 
 some of this milk. I found her, with her 
 daughter, husband, and a neighbor, all sitting 
 in the barn, enjoying the heat given out by 
 three cows. Here they spend the cold 
 evenings. They had prospered, and built 
 a pretentious new house ; but the old instinct 
 remained too strong, and here they were 
 enjoying the warm, heavy air of the cattle, 
 partly from force of habit and partly from
 
 MERE POSTOL 251 
 
 the ruling principle of economy, economy 
 of fuel. 
 
 Here the neighbor, an old woman, en 
 deavoring to tell me how much Paris had 
 grown since she was young, said, " It has 
 grown three-quarters bigger ; " and, this not 
 seeming enough, added, " and the other 
 quarter." It could not have been better 
 said even in Ireland.
 
 THE INVASION 
 
 AN army corps has just passed through the 
 village, on its way to the grandes manoeu 
 vres, creating quite a stir of bustle and 
 excitement. Many of the soldiers were 
 lodged for the night with the villagers. 
 Sentinels were placed out on the plain, 
 guarding the sleeping camp playing at war. 
 
 All this sets the old people talking of the 
 last war, real war. Constance describes
 
 THE INVASION 
 
 253 
 
 the invasion to me in a rambling, disjointed 
 way, though vivid in details, stolidly, as 
 seen by a peasant ; for the question of patriot 
 ism interests him little. His ideas are limited 
 to his soil, and the profits it brings him. His 
 egotism being colossal, the rest of the world 
 
 may be going to pieces ; as long as it does not 
 personally affect him, he takes no interest 
 whatever in its fate. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I remember the Prussians. 
 A famous fear they caused us. We thought 
 we were all going to be killed ; for war, you 
 see, is a terrible thing. Men become wicked. 
 We knew that they were around Paris, but
 
 254 MY VILLAGE 
 
 none had passed our wav. Yet the war had 
 upset things. I was anxious to deliver the 
 cloth Gabriel and I had woven, and so started 
 one day, with my donkey, for Trepillon. 
 
 " As I got on the hill above Re my, I saw 
 the soldiers everywhere. There were so many 
 around Paris, the) could not take care of them 
 all ; so they sent them down on us. I was 
 afraid they would take my cloth ; so I started 
 back, for you know soldiers steal everything, 
 and they were the victors " (giving the impres 
 sion that she considered the right of the victor 
 as legitimate), " when Pang ! pang ! I 
 heard the guns going. What a noise ! They 
 were all firing at once. It was real war. 
 Thev were fighting across the river. I 
 could see the Prussians on one side ; but 
 the francs-tireurs (a company of patriotic 
 irregulars) were behind the trees on the 
 other, and shot them down as they came 
 through a field of cabbage. 
 
 " Then they blew up the bridge ; so the 
 soldiers had to go away around by Parman. 
 They were so mad that they burned the 
 whole town. All the thatch roofs were in a
 
 THE INVASION 255 
 
 blaze. All the sharpshooters they caught 
 they shot at once. 
 
 " The artillery brought up their cannon on 
 the plain behind the cemetery, and fired all 
 at once towards Nesle. Oh, what a fearful 
 noise ! Real war. The cbautnicres blazed 
 everywhere ; for, you know, the thatch burns 
 easily. The sky was all lighted up. 
 
 u The soldiers were mad because they had 
 had a good many killed ; and when they came 
 into Valombre, we were frightened. They 
 took M. Caffin, the mayor, and tied his 
 hands, and led him barefooted off to L Isle 
 Adam. They thought he was a franc- 
 tireur. But after a while they let him go, 
 
 O 
 
 when they found out that he was all right. 
 
 " At Parman they took a woman who re 
 fused to give them oats for their horses out 
 in a field, and tied her up, and covered her 
 with brush, and burnt her up. Oh, yes ; 
 you don t believe me, but it is true, it is in 
 the histories. 
 
 " At Valombre they were divided among 
 the houses. I had two at my house, whom 
 I kept for sixty days. No, they were not
 
 256 MY VILLAGE 
 
 wicked, poor devils ! The war was no fault 
 of theirs ; they had to fight. I cooked for 
 them ; and when they saw my bread, they 
 threw theirs away ; they liked mine because 
 it was whiter. I hid away everything, so 
 that they would not steal our things. They 
 amused themselves by getting my donkey 
 drunk, and thought it huge sport ; but this, 
 with his want of exercise, killed him. It 
 was a great loss for us. But I sold the body 
 to an enterprising butcher, or supply agent, 
 who managed to get it through the lines into 
 Paris, where it was resold at a good profit 
 to the starving citizens. 
 
 " The Prussians did not steal the furniture ; 
 but they took anv little thing they could lay 
 their hands on. One of them had a fine 
 Cashmere shawl he had stolen somew T here 
 near Paris ; for wherever the house was 
 deserted, they had a right to take what they 
 pleased. He intended to give it to his 
 mother. One day I threw it behind the 
 bed, as though it had fallen there ; but when 
 he came to go away, he upset the house until 
 he found it.
 
 THE INVASION 257 
 
 u They broke a good many doors, and ran 
 sacked all the empty houses ; for every one 
 who had money enough had gone away to 
 Normandy. But it did them no good, for 
 the Prussians were everywhere. So they had 
 to come back, and found their doors broken 
 and their houses gutted. 
 
 " The soldiers would play with my little 
 girl till the trumpets sounded ; then they 
 would go down to the Place to drill, 
 where they had their cannon all set up, 
 ready to kill the people if the francs-tireurs 
 should come. 
 
 " It was a hard time for us. The men 
 our men did not work. No one would 
 cultivate the land when he thought the 
 Prussians would have the benefit. All work 
 stopped, and we had to spend all our savings 
 to live with. They all went, till we had 
 nothing left. Sad times for us ! We have 
 never been able to save anything since. We 
 are too old now, you see. Ah ! one has hard 
 experiences in this life. 
 
 " And now my old man is blind. He can t 
 work ; we have to live on our children s 
 17
 
 2 5 8 
 
 bread. Ah ! if the Prussians had not come, 
 we would have our money now. 
 
 " The Prussians, when they saw my father s 
 medal, knew he was an old soldier of Napo 
 
 leon, and they did not bother him. They 
 would salute him, because he had been a 
 soldier of the great Napoleon. Napoleon 
 was a great soldier, you know, and had been
 
 THE INVASION 259 
 
 in their country more than once, I don t 
 know how many times ; but my father used 
 to tell me. But I have n t a good memory 
 for all those names and battles. 
 
 " War is a very bad thing. Lots of the 
 young people want the war to come again. 
 But they have never seen it ; they don t 
 know what it is. It is a bad thing."
 
 CARVOL AND THE FETE 
 
 ANOTHER Fourteenth of July has come, 
 and the village is celebrating. 
 
 I notice, as a side-show of the fete, that 
 the men are gradually giving themselves over 
 to the flowing bowl. Here and there I see 
 the women flitting off to their cellars in the 
 side hill to bring wine and cider. Shortly 
 after, patriotic voices and songs well out 
 through the windows of the house where the 
 wine has gone in. 
 
 As the afternoon turns into evening, the 
 drinking is hard and heavy, and weary men 
 unsteadily carry their loads from the saloons 
 across to the Place and from the Place back 
 to the saloons. 
 
 Just as I sit down to smoke after supper, 
 Carvol comes laboring up the lane. Heavily 
 he flops down by his door, relapsing into a 
 reflective state, and, notwithstanding Rosalie s
 
 CARVOL AND THE FETE 261 
 
 spirited berating, makes no remarks. At last 
 an idea comes to him ; he hunts through his 
 pockets, and finds a fifty-centimes piece (ten 
 cents). " I m going to buy some sky 
 rockets," he says, and, once having got this 
 absurd idea, nothing can change him ; so off 
 he starts, accompanied by his little dog, who 
 seems to watch over him whenever he is 
 drunk. 
 
 Later I saw him in the store making his 
 purchases, purchases which caused him a 
 lot of reflection. He had too much to choose 
 from, and with difficulty, after bothering the 
 shop-girl for a good half-hour, decided on two 
 rockets. Here I missed him ; but soon saw 
 him coming out of his house with a match 
 in hand to set off his rockets. Just here 
 Rosalie furiously rushed at him, crying, " You 
 drunkard, are you crazy ? Do you want to set 
 the thatch roof on fire ? " And in spite of 
 his strenuous protestations, she knocked him 
 over, and took away his match and rockets ; 
 at the same time giving him a terrible tongue- 
 lashing. 
 
 To my surprise, he sat leaning against the
 
 262 MY VILLAGE 
 
 wall as though dumfounded, and made no 
 protest. Thus he sat and reflected for some 
 five minutes or more ; then suddenly the in 
 justice of the case dawned upon him, and 
 he clumsily gathered himself upon his feet, 
 swearing that as he had bought those rockets 
 they should go off. Things looked bad ; but 
 fortunately the family managed to quiet him, 
 promising to set off his rockets later, and his 
 wrath passed off in sullen mumblings. 
 
 A little later in the evening Kaiser set off 
 the rockets for him ; and as he was now 
 nearly helpless, they succeeded in dumping 
 him into bed, and Carvol ceased to be a part 
 of the fete. 
 
 While this family scene was taking place, 
 a busy man had lighted, one by one, the 
 myriad of little lights which decorated the 
 Mairie and the Place. As darkness settled 
 down, the effect became very pretty indeed, 
 the big " R. F." shining out from the wall, 
 while numbers of Chinese lanterns vied with 
 the glass lights ; and the crowd commenced 
 to gather. The band and firemen, who had 
 been parading and playing all the afternoon,
 
 CARVOL AND THE FETE 263 
 
 were now hard at work eating and drinking 
 at the hotel, Valombre paying the bills. 
 This is the way in which their services were 
 paid for ; a general banquet rewarding them 
 for their hard, patriotic work. The mayor 
 ran things and kept count of expenses, care 
 ful not to go beyond the amount set apart 
 for this/?te. 
 
 At the beginning of the repast scarcely a 
 sound was heard from these fifty or sixty 
 men busily eating, each being on his good 
 behavior. But once the meal well over, the 
 hubbub was bewildering, the wine had 
 loosened their tongues, all hands talked at 
 once; some even sang; others shouted in the 
 joy of animal spirits, and all enjoyed 
 themselves. 
 
 This dinner settled, they wandered across 
 the street to the ball-ground, the grass-plot 
 before the Maine. The orchestra struck up 
 a waltz, and in a moment the Place was 
 alive with jumping humanity, and the ball 
 fairly started, and good for all night, till the 
 small hours of the morning. 
 
 Very, very picturesque and pretty was the
 
 264 xMY VILLAGE 
 
 scene. Bright, happy faces lighted by vari 
 colored lanterns were a pleasure to look on, 
 and I heartily enjoyed the sight. Every one 
 seemed to be so happv and so healthily 
 happy. Faithfully I added my mite of 
 patronage to the dance ; and Julie and I 
 labored through the dense crowd of dancers 
 and jumpers. During one collision Mede 
 Romaru hailed me, asking whether everything 
 went as I wished nowadays. I cheerfully 
 answered in the affirmative, returning the 
 question. " Ah, no ; things did n t go well 
 with him." This was all I got, though he 
 tried to tell me the story as we both whirled 
 round and round, couples flitting between us, 
 and we steadily drifting apart. The experi 
 ence was amusing, thus to listen to a serious 
 doleance while in the heart of a lively dance ; 
 but to Med it was all right. Had it been 
 physically possible, he would have given me 
 all the details. 
 
 Being but an indifferent dancer, my legs 
 found the work rather hard, the ground being 
 painfully uneven, and grass not being the 
 easiest thing in the world to glide over while
 
 CARVOL AND THE FETE 265 
 
 endeavoring to protect your partner from 
 fearful collisions. I withdrew after this 
 dance ; but my place was soon filled, as the 
 whole village was there, trying to dance. 
 
 The young and bold dance first ; while 
 the older people wait till later, when the 
 green has lost the most of its exhausted 
 dancers. I often thus notice good old people 
 faithfully waiting till midnight to get a chance 
 to dance again and bring back the souvenir 
 of youth, their opportunities and excuses for 
 dancing being very scarce. 
 
 The fete, as a whole, is lively and healthy, 
 an admirable means of letting these hard 
 working peasants enjoy themselves, if only 
 for once a year.
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP 
 
 POOR Rosalie ! Several times to-day I 
 noticed that she appeared to be in great 
 trouble, weeping freely and vigorously. 
 Ce lestine kindly endeavored to calm her, 
 though I could form no idea of the cause of 
 the trouble, supposing it to be another of the 
 many rows between Rosalie and her drunken 
 husband. I became interested in the subject 
 on seeing Celestine hunt for her key, open the 
 door, and take Rosalie inside to console her. 
 
 Later in the day I heard something about 
 Kaiser s being drunk ; but as this is a com 
 mon occurrence, I came to the conclusion 
 that he must have been getting into trouble 
 of some kind, and took advantage of meeting 
 Ce lestine to ask what was the matter. The 
 old woman assumed a most tragic expression, 
 and with tears in her voice told me impres 
 sively that Kaiser had been sent to prison ;
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP 267 
 
 meaning that he had been arrested. He, 
 with several comrades, while drunk had stolen 
 syme fish from the fisherman s boat, and as 
 a result had been taken away to-day by the 
 gendarmes. 
 
 While admitting that it was too bad for 
 Rosalie, I did not think the case very grave, 
 and so suggested. " Ah, but that is n t all," 
 said Celestine. He had already been ar 
 rested once before, and in some way or 
 another, the explanation being very vague and 
 rambling, had dodged the payment of his fine. 
 Doubtless the mayor was cognizant of this 
 part of the affair, but closed his eyes to it ; 
 the peasants holding together in astonishing 
 solidarity when it comes to avoiding the 
 law. Now it was feared that this second 
 offence, added to the first disregard of the 
 law, would go hard with him, and that his 
 chances of being sent to prison were more 
 than good. 
 
 Poor Rosalie ! how delighted she had been 
 when Kaiser was exempted from military 
 service on account of his thumb ! What a 
 fete she made of it ! She thought that she
 
 268 MY VILLAGE 
 
 had saved a son and cheated the government, 
 that great enemy. 
 
 But he, left behind in Valombre while his 
 companions went as soldiers, had wandered 
 sadly around like a bird of an odd species, 
 looking for a double. Forced to chum with 
 boys younger than himself, or men older, he 
 had drifted into the companionship of a lot of 
 vagrants of the latter age, and had easily 
 adapted himself to their habit of drink. The 
 army with its hard discipline might have 
 saved him. Now, instead of serving his 
 country in a dignified way as a soldier, he 
 will serve the state as a convict. 
 
 Rosalie threatens to take her life ; Frosine, 
 the fat, good-natured wife of the mayor, tells 
 her to do nothing foolish, and very kindly 
 consoles and encourages her ; but Rosalie s 
 heart is big with grief. 
 
 The affair has been hushed up, the fisher 
 man magnanimously refusing to appear ; 
 and, through the connivance of the mayor, 
 the prison-door has opened, and Kaiser is 
 given another chance.
 
 BY THE RIVER 
 
 DURING summer Valombre is quite a 
 resort for enthusiastic fishermen. On Sun 
 days family parties come down from Paris, 
 and, with a wonderful lot of gear, install 
 themselves along the shady banks of the Oise, 
 where, by strictly attending to business, 
 sacrificing every rational pleasure of life, 
 they may catch a few modest gudgeon. 
 
 Innumerable are the poles dangling over 
 the swift-running stream. But easily num 
 bered are the fish caught. Yet, notwith 
 standing the great disproportion between 
 outlay and returns, nothing can dampen, let
 
 270 MY VILLAGE 
 
 alone discourage, the enthusiasm of the 
 devoted fishers. Their patience is some 
 thing phenomenal, and night alone can 
 put a stop to their sport. 
 
 Through the week the villagers replace the 
 Parisians ; and a constant interest is accorded 
 to adventurous fish. At all times one finds 
 these earnest disciples of Izaak Walton 
 patiently watching their floating lines, 
 some from boats ; though most of them select 
 sheltered spots along the bank, where, half 
 dozing, half waking, they calmlv wait till 
 the taking of a misguided- fish arouses a 
 sudden enthusiasm, to drop again slowly 
 back to the original, patient calm. 
 
 As I worked to-day by the river, below 
 me on the bank sat one of these fishermen. 
 I heard him carrying on a conversation with 
 a crony who had floated down in a boat and 
 now lazily rested on his oars. 
 
 Their remarks, as I caught them in a 
 fragmentary way, amused me very much. 
 At first they talked fish, but had apparently ex 
 hausted the subject about the time I arrived. 
 A painful lull here followed, broken by the
 
 BY THE RIVER 
 
 271 
 
 fisherman s suggesting that he had been 
 shaved to-day. At first glance this remark 
 
 
 gave but slight opening for conversation ; but 
 the boatman, grasping at a straw, asked the 
 fisherman if he shaved himself. This gave 
 the latter a chance to tell how and when he
 
 2J2 MY VILLAGE 
 
 had been shaved. Sometimes he shaved him 
 self; but to-day he had Colignon do it, 
 Colignon, that local star of many talents ! 
 
 Here the boatman told about his shaving, 
 etc. ; then wandered on to tell of his grand 
 father, who had shaved himself up to the age 
 of eighty-seven. This excited the fisherman ; 
 and I heard him wildly endeavor to hold his 
 own ; though here I lost the plot, as both 
 struggled together, for the supremacy. I did 
 catch the startling remark that a barber was a 
 " sort of artist," u like a painter, you know " 
 (painters being now familiar to the natives of 
 Valombre). This comparison rather shocked 
 mv pride ; but being only a listener, I had to 
 submit in silence. 
 
 The shave subject kept conversation going 
 for about fifteen minutes ; and then, both 
 exhausted, a silence painfully oppressive fell 
 over the river, broken desperately by the 
 boatman s, " Well, I must be going ; " this 
 being his means of escape from the embarrass 
 ing position into which the exhaustion of 
 ideas had thrown him. The fisherman 
 breathed freer, as his situation was more
 
 BY THE RIVER 
 
 273 
 
 awkward, being forced to sit in place, and 
 unable gracefully to beat a retreat. 
 
 As the boatman rowed away, an old woman 
 came along, driving a cow and three sheep. 
 Having no one else to talk to, she talked to 
 
 them. I could hear her afar off, and, not 
 looking up, was surprised to see but one 
 person, when she came by me. She pounced 
 on the fisherman ; and they had quite a 
 spirited talk for a short time. But he in 
 his weakened condition was no match for 
 18
 
 274 MY VILLAGE 
 
 her, and was only saved by the cow s strolling 
 off in the field, forcing its owner to chase it. 
 The procession moved up my way. She 
 looked encouragingly at me ; but I was too 
 busy. So she tried a boy fishing a few rods 
 farther up the stream. He was unsatis 
 factory ; so again she resorted to the un 
 responsive sheep, berating them for their 
 stupidity. Life saw too dull here ; and in a 
 short time the procession turned back and 
 wound out of sight, behind the trees on a 
 bend of the river, where the women were 
 washing. 
 
 Now all was again quiet. I worked on. 
 Suddenly I heard quite a disturbance behind 
 me ; and on looking around saw the 
 triumphant bov landing a fish of about three 
 inches in length. Though beaming with 
 pride at his success, he half apologized for 
 its diminutive size, by saying, "It isn t big, 
 but it s a fish, just the same ; " showing the 
 true fisherman s spirit. 
 
 Here the sun came out, driving me awav ; 
 and I left boy and man silently fishing, or, 
 rather, watching their lines. The silence
 
 BY THE RIVER 
 
 275 
 
 only broken by the swash of the river, as a 
 tug steamed by towing a canal-boat ; or the 
 crack of the driver s whip on the tow-path 
 across the stream. A pastoral silence in a 
 pastoral setting !
 
 PALMYRE 
 
 PALMYRE went up to Paris with me on 
 the train. She was going to see Phonsine, 
 not having seen her since Clmence s death, 
 and dreading the explosion of the mother s 
 grief which awaited her. 
 
 D 
 
 The idea had taken her suddenly, " just 
 like that," she told me. In her basket she 
 carried a good fat rabbit, newly killed. On 
 arriving in Paris she intended buying a white- 
 rose bush for the little girl s grave before 
 going to the house. 
 
 Good soul ! she was also taking up a sketch 
 of the child which I had made two years 
 before. This she dreaded, she said. She 
 knew that there would be a scene, but the 
 portrait must be delivered some time ; so it 
 might as well be faced out and over with 
 now as well as later. Agathe, her sister, 
 would n t go, as she feared this climax, and
 
 PALMYRE 277 
 
 did n t feel her nerves strong enough to stand 
 it. A few days later, however, she in turn 
 sent up to Phonsine a good bag of freshly 
 gathered beans and other vegetables, as her 
 offering of good-will. 
 
 Now Palmvre seems worried ; her son is 
 to be married to a girl in Pontoise ; evidently 
 Palmyre is n t satisfied, as she shows but little 
 enthusiasm when speaking of this prospect. 
 
 On meeting me, in a burst of enthusiasm, 
 she invited me to the wedding dinner. 
 Apparently she had become reconciled to 
 the idea of the marriage. I tried to excuse 
 myself, fearing that a stranger at table might 
 interfere with the free enjoyment of the 
 others. But she would n t have no ; so, to 
 avoid wounding her, I accepted. 
 
 As she came back from the train, where 
 she had gone to receive the married couple, 
 the wedding having taken place the day 
 before at the home of the bride, she called 
 for me, and I joined the procession. The 
 godmother, a little old woman about four
 
 278 MY VILLAGE 
 
 feet and a half high, took my arm, and we 
 marched bravely along the high-road ; while 
 the villagers came to their doors to see the 
 show. 
 
 First we went to the hardware store, 
 where the goodwife, a relation to the groom, 
 opened a number of bottles of wine. 
 Palmyre had announced dinner for promptly 
 half-past six ; yet here we sat well beyond 
 the hour, no one appeal ed to bother about 
 time. Gradually the party spread itself 
 about the quarter ; each hunting for some 
 guest behind time. Seven o clock went by, 
 yet no signs of the stragglers. Palmyre 
 impatiently sent out scouts after the party. 
 These soon disappeared, and others were 
 sent after them. Half-past seven ; and still 
 each was wandering about, as though time 
 were no object. 
 
 At last, after a determined effort and good 
 luck, she got them all together, or at least 
 the bulk of the company ; and we sat down 
 to table at twenty minutes to eight. 
 
 The tables were spread in a neighboring 
 grange, Fre deric s. This scheme had been
 
 PALMYRE 279 
 
 decided on during the hot spell ; hut now 
 that the weather had suddenly freshened, the 
 idea was not as happy as it might have been. 
 Though big wagon covers were hung at 
 the open end of the shed to keep out the 
 wind, the temperature was decidedly low ; in 
 fact, here we were, the first of October, 
 virtually dining out of doors at night. 
 
 Every one made a brave show of enjoying 
 the existing condition of things, just the 
 same. But gradually, one by one, the hats 
 were hunted up and donned ; and we ate the 
 wedding dinner with covered heads. This 
 unceremonious condition gave a peculiarly 
 informal character to the proceedings. And 
 yet, in spite of our hats, though we drank 
 heartily and ate even more so, the cool air 
 kept the general spirits rather quiet, down to 
 the thermometer. 
 
 Palmyre, to remedy things as much as pos 
 sible, plied her guests with cognac, endeavor 
 ing to raise the temperature artificially. 
 
 The meal dragged on, with many a hitch and 
 shuffle. Between the courses the waits were 
 long ; the next dish being not yet quite
 
 280 MY VILLAGE 
 
 cooked, causing delay. But each vied with 
 his neighbor in keeping up a healthy 
 gayety. 
 
 It was very amusing to me to watch this 
 happy group of peasants enjoying themselves. 
 Sans gene was the order of the day. At first 
 every one tried to be more or less dignified ; 
 but, as the dinner proceeded, natural instincts 
 and spirits took the lead, and each gave 
 himself up to the impulse of the moment. 
 All sham was thrown overboard. A guest 
 taking a notion to say something to another 
 at a far end of the table, would take his 
 napkin and walk down the file, comfortably 
 carry on his conversation, then scramble 
 back into place as the next course came on. 
 At times half the party were thus standing 
 around the table ; occasionally, in their 
 hurrying back, getting seriously tangled up in 
 each other s chairs. And the noise and 
 mirth kept steadily growing. 
 
 Moru, at the head of the table, was in his 
 glory ; his reputation, as a wit, already 
 established, a reputation of long standing. 
 Whenever he opened his lips to crack a joke,
 
 PALMYRE 281 
 
 the rest beamed in anticipation, and at the 
 climax paid their tribute to genius by boister 
 ous explosions of laughter. 
 
 The butcher opposite me made a deter 
 mined endeavor to be funny ; at times, 
 success failing to come to him, he would 
 collapse, and look seriously sad ; but his 
 spirits, if not his wit, were really good, and he 
 soon recovered, to make another effort, and 
 by dint of perseverance won his audience 
 and triumphed through the rest of the 
 dinner. 
 
 During a discussion wherein one claimed 
 the other was growing fat, I heard number 
 two dispute the charge, giving as proof the 
 fact that his coat, the eternal Sunday one, 
 which he had had made twenty-five years ago, 
 still fitted him. I had always felt that the 
 wonderful coats and hats I saw at weddings, 
 funerals, etc., must have belonged to some 
 remote epoch ; and here was the verification 
 of my suspicions. 
 
 Towards eleven o clock the musical spirit 
 seized the merrymakers , and songs were 
 sung, and spoken ; for the peasant the words
 
 282 MY VILLAGE 
 
 take precedence over the music. The young 
 girls, of course, had to be coaxed. One old 
 
 o 
 
 woman, on the contrary, could not be 
 stopped ; she had a reputation as a singer to 
 keep up, and volunteered a song at every lull. 
 She started by facing the bride and groom, 
 and sang them their duties, one to the other, 
 etc. At one part, when her song said " on 
 this your wedding-day," she hastily interposed, 
 " it was yesterday, but that does n t matter 
 for the song," and went on. Palmyre fairly 
 beamed. " My sister," she shouted to me ; 
 " she can keep on this way until morning." 
 She herself, in her great enthusiasm, endeav 
 ored to sing. She did n t know any songs, 
 but simply joined the others ; in time or not, 
 it did n t matter, her happiness was great 
 enough to drown all such trifles. 
 
 Now the children, one by one, had fallen 
 asleep on the table, and were carried off to 
 bed. Midnight was approaching, and the 
 party becoming boisterous, though still suffer 
 ing from the effects of the chill air. This was 
 the time for the clumsy, coarse songs, 
 heavily spiced to suit the popular palate. The
 
 PALMYRE 283 
 
 air did n t count ; the words carried the day ; 
 and the good-natured souls roared at the 
 
 O 
 
 flagrant insinuations. 
 
 O 
 
 And vet, though the peasant is so coarse in 
 his tastes, they really behaved very well, as a 
 whole, throughout the meal ; quite agreeably 
 surprising me, as I had expected much greater 
 vulgarity. Here and there a child delighted 
 its audience by singing a song of dubious 
 quality, singing without understanding. To 
 the peasant this was the height of wit, and he 
 fairly suffered in his mirth. 
 
 Palmyre s niece, helping in serving the 
 dishes, amused me very much. She was a 
 boisterous, vigorous character, and now, in 
 her enthusiasm, would occasionally give her 
 husband a love-tap on the cheek, a tap which 
 closely resembled a blow, and seemed to 
 make his head swim. And as I looked at 
 him it seemed to me that his eyes had a wild, 
 fearful look, as though continually dreading 
 these stunning exhibitions of affection. With 
 renewed interest I watched her as she came 
 and went, and feared for the poor man as she 
 neared his place.
 
 284 MY VILLAGE 
 
 During the dinner Ale lie, old Fre deric s 
 wife, cheerfully helped preparing the dishes ; 
 Palmyre having helped her, two days before, 
 in the preparations for the old man s funeral. 
 She refrained from taking a conspicuous part 
 in the feast, out of respect for her departed ; 
 but she enjoyed her share in the kitchen 
 with the helpers, and though not of the fete 
 she was in it. 
 
 The thrift of these peasants is still astonish 
 ing to me, though now so accustomed to it. 
 Here was Palmyre, who works in the fields, 
 when she can get work, during the sum 
 mer season at forty-five sous per day ; and 
 yet she managed to offer this dinner, and a 
 really good dinner too, all meat, of course, 
 to make it a feast for the peasant, who 
 usually makes the bulk of his meal on bread 
 and vegetables, to about thirty people. It 
 must have cost her at least a hundred 
 francs. How she managed to do it, I 
 cannot understand. But she did it, and 
 heartilv ; and enjoyed the performance. 
 
 Towards daybreak the chill night air at 
 last was too much to bear ; and noisily the
 
 PALMYRE 285 
 
 party broke up, drifting away into the 
 darkness. 
 
 When, on the following day, I compli 
 mented Palmyre on the success of her dinner, 
 she answered, " But wasn t it hard luck that 
 it had to turn cold that particular night, while 
 here we Ve been roasting for six weeks ? 
 No luck ! "
 
 MY STREET: EVENING 
 
 ROSALIE, sitting on her doorstep slowly 
 shucking peas, complains of her work. Del- 
 phine, from the other end of the alley, comes 
 up, bringing her baby. " You have n t dined 
 yet ? " she asks. " No ; Jean Paul and 
 Kaiser have gone off to fish. They told me 
 not to hurry, as they d bring back a mess." 
 
 " Ah ! and my man went off with them 
 too," interposes the other. " Oh," then cries 
 Rosalie, " there s no use waiting. I m off 
 to bed. We won t see them in a hurry." 
 " But my man had n t a cent," says Del- 
 phine. " That does n t matter. Once they 
 are together, they 11 manage to get drink. 
 You needn t wait for him." 
 
 A worried look comes into the face of the 
 younger woman. She thinks of how, only 
 last night, her husband came home drunk, 
 and brought trouble and dispute into the 
 house ; and now, if he should do it again
 
 MY STREET: EVENING 287 
 
 Just at this point a white figure puts in an 
 appearance at the bottom of the street. The 
 women s voices are hushed : " Is he drunk ? " 
 Another good-for-nothing, the father of Del- 
 phine. Anxiously they wait as he comes 
 steadily up the path. As he passes, they 
 hardly say, u Bon soir," holding their breath. 
 But, happily, this time he is not drunk, and 
 the worried women draw a freer breath as 
 he sits down to play with the baby. 
 
 After a few moments he goes ofF, and 
 then another procession shows up, coming from 
 the river. It is the fishermen ; and, behold ! 
 they are not drunk, and have even brought 
 back fish, and good big ones too. Jean Paul 
 proudly throws them into Rosalie s lap with 
 an exulting " How s that ? " And joy reigns 
 in the court ; the black shadow of fear is 
 lifted. 
 
 Delphine flies ofF to cook her husband s 
 dinner, while Kaiser sets to work to scrape 
 the bright shining fish, littering the ground 
 with the silvery scales. And the evening 
 bids fair to pass quietly and happily, at least 
 for the women.
 
 "LE SOURD" 
 
 HE was so terribly deaf that for years he 
 was known only as le sourd (the deaf man). 
 His case was sad : he had outlived his time 
 and friends. Some twenty years back his 
 wife died; then his decline commenced. His 
 trade, that of weaver, had already become 
 obsolete. The old man patiently endeavored 
 to work on in the old groove ; but facts were 
 too strong and real, and his faithful loom 
 had to give up the competition with steam 
 machinery. 
 
 He now had ceased to belong to his day, 
 and found that the world needed him no 
 more. Disconsolately he tried to adapt
 
 "LE SOURD" 289 
 
 himself to the prevailing conditions, but the 
 attempt was hopelessly condemned at the 
 beginning. He was too old to learn a new 
 trade. Nothing was left him but to hold out 
 on what little he had amassed. But alone he 
 managed poorly ; and gradually the house, 
 the furniture, and himself fell into a sadly 
 dilapidated condition. They all went to 
 pieces together. In the windows, panes were 
 broken and lost, their places patched in a 
 nondescript manner. With him, panes had 
 also fallen out. His sight became dimmed ; 
 the old, battered doors hung feebly on their 
 worn-out hinges, working no easier than did 
 his rusty joints. Man and house were slowly 
 decaying together, the one being a reflection 
 of the other s state. 
 
 He lost his hearing ; and his last pleasure, 
 that right of old age, gossiping, was seriously- 
 endangered, as the difficulties of making him 
 hear were so ureat that none but the most 
 
 D 
 
 generous or most determined gossips would 
 try to talk to him. And thus, to add to his 
 other misfortunes, he found himself left more 
 and more alone. 
 
 19
 
 290 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Through all these lonely years the old 
 man remained good-natured and lively in his 
 wit, so that every one liked him. But no 
 one in the busy village had time to pay much 
 attention to him, and his loneliness must have 
 weighed heavy. Often I have seen him 
 
 wandering about as though in search of some 
 one to talk to. He would climb to the plain 
 and sit idly in the sun, watching the busy har 
 vesters. After they had left, he would still 
 linger, waiting, waiting for what he knew 
 not. And life hung heavy on his hands. 
 His wrinkled face, with its deep scars of
 
 LE SOURD" 291 
 
 the battles of life, interested me, and I asked 
 him to pose. The difficulty I underwent in 
 making clear to him this idea was tremendous. 
 Had I anticipated it, my courage would have 
 faltered before approaching him. Added to 
 the trouble of making him hear, was the even 
 greater difficulty of getting into his head what 
 I meant ; his ideas on posing being, naturally, 
 deplorably vague. I shouted into his ear - 
 the good one at the top of my lungs, till the 
 air rang with the echo. A light of intelli 
 gence suddenly beamed in his face. " You 
 want me to do some gardening for you ? " 
 I again took breath and came to the attack, 
 and at last he got it. After the first pose, 
 he took kindly to the work, and eventually 
 became a sort of nightmare to me, as I found 
 him at all hours outside my gate, lying ; n 
 wait for me. 
 
 As winter came on, the old man grew 
 sadder, and looked terribly unhappy. His 
 creaky house let in the wind too freely, and 
 he shivered, alone, from autumn to spring. 
 
 The last winter was a severe one for him. 
 His fuel gave out, though he nursed it care-
 
 292 MY VILLAGE 
 
 fully. He grew cold and colder. His 
 physical suffering became so great that his 
 moral ideas were shattered, and he thought 
 of laying sacrilegious hands on his dear loom, 
 to use as firewood. For weeks he fought 
 away the idea, as being too terrible ; but, like 
 a fearful obsession, it would come back and 
 almost overpower him. Sadly he went down 
 cellar, and looked at it ; but his heart grew 
 weak. He loved it too much. He could 
 not destroy what had been his companion, 
 his mission in life, through so many years. 
 
 He walked out of doors to fly the temp 
 tation ; but every cold night brought it back, 
 till, gradually, the poor, suffering, shivering 
 animal dominated, and cried out for preser 
 vation. Wildly he took his axe, and with 
 tears dripping and freezing on his haggard 
 cheeks consummated his crime. 
 
 As the warm flames again thawed his heart 
 back to life, remorse overpowered him ; but, 
 alas ! too late. Poor old Gus ! His grief at 
 thus severing the last tie with his own world, 
 his old life, must have been great. From this 
 time a sadness came over him, and he walked
 
 "LE SOURD" 293 
 
 about as one bearing the burden of some great 
 crime done and never to be forgotten. 
 
 Things went from bad to worse ; and, to 
 live, he must sell the old house. This, after 
 protracted procrastination, he nerved himself 
 to do, on condition that he should be allowed 
 still to finish in it his remaining days. 
 
 The new owner at once set to work re 
 pairing it. The old, leaky thatch-roof was 
 torn off, and replaced by one of brilliant red 
 tiles. While the workmen were at it, the old 
 man wandered around the house, in a hope 
 less, lost way. He no longer recognized his 
 dear old place. It was sad to see him come 
 down and silently watch the work of de 
 struction and renovation for a while ; then 
 clamber up to his room, where he could be 
 heard talking away to himself; again to come 
 down and prowl about. Steadily, though fit 
 fully, he kept this up during the whole of the 
 work. It was evident that the change was 
 a great shock to him. He lost his appetite, 
 and spent his dinner-hour in helpless fascina 
 tion before the great change taking place in 
 the home he had irrown old in.
 
 294 MY VILLAGE 
 
 From this time he lost courage, and steadily 
 failed, taking to his bed. Having missed him 
 for some time, I went over to see what had 
 become of him. Climbing the decrepit stairs, 
 I knocked on his door. Receiving no answer, 
 I pushed it open. Everything was in dis 
 order, and the air felt like that of death. 
 
 The old man lay stretched out on his 
 tumble-down bed, a couple of big sticks hold 
 ing it in place. I thought him dead, and 
 silently advanced and bent over him for 
 some sign of either life or death. For some 
 moments he remained rigidly motionless ; but 
 just as I had come to the conclusion that all 
 was over, my presence aroused him. He 
 started up wildly, crying, " Who is it ? what 
 is it ? " In his weak state he feared that I 
 was Death in person, or, perhaps, the devil, 
 as some of the old peasants have an idea that 
 the devil comes personally to claim his own. 
 When at last he recognized me, he was greatly 
 relieved. I asked him what was the matter, 
 or, rather, howled it at him ; but without 
 success. 
 
 Being anxious to know whether any one
 
 "LE SOURD" 295 
 
 was looking after him or not, I went oft" to a 
 neighbor, and howled my question to her, 
 forgetting for the moment that every one 
 was n t deaf. She told me that his sister had 
 been to see him, but had gone off", saying that 
 she was tired of nursing him, as he would 
 u neither get well nor die." 
 
 This to me seemed too terrible, that the 
 old man should thus be left to die alone. I 
 went to the mayor and asked what could be 
 done. He seemed to think that the old man 
 must die, so that it was not worth while doing 
 anything. I admitted that he would probably 
 die, but vigorously protested against his being 
 left alone to do so, claiming that it would be 
 a disgrace to the village to allow him to perish 
 in this way. This view of the case, and my 
 persistence had an effect on the mayor s in 
 difference, and he said that he would send 
 him to the hospital at Pontoise, in case the 
 doctor would give a certificate stating that the 
 old man s trouble was something beside old 
 age. The village would then pay fifty cents 
 per day for his care. This satisfied me, and, 
 seeing the doctor, I requested him to over-
 
 296 MY VILLAGE 
 
 look the old-age trouble, and make out the 
 certificate. 
 
 In due time this was done, and the old 
 man shipped off to the hospital. I felt that 
 the change would perhaps kill him, thus to 
 have to leave his old house , but it seemed the 
 only thing to be done. And, alas ! as I feared, 
 the hospital was too much for him. They 
 washed him, and put him in a clean bed. 
 The effect was death to him, for in a few 
 days he passed away. Poor old Gus ! for 
 years he had never known what a bath was. 
 His first experience killed him.
 
 FIRE AT REMY 
 
 IT seems that at last our fire-brigade has 
 had an opportunity to use its pump, the cele 
 brated u aspirante et refoulante." Justice has 
 at last been done ; their long waiting of years 
 has finally been rewarded. 
 
 A fire at Re my, across the river, was the 
 excuse. About midnight I had heard a drum 
 being brutally pounded ; shortly after a clum 
 sily blown trumpet disturbed my slumbers. 
 I cursed the latter as a nuisance, thinking that 
 some reveller returning drunk from the fete
 
 298 MY VILLAGE 
 
 of L Isle Adam, feeling the necessity of com 
 pany, was thus searching for it. I even be 
 came so indignant that I thought of getting 
 up and stopping him ; but being too drowsy 
 rolled over and endeavored to take up the 
 broken thread of my dream. 
 
 In the morning I was informed of the fire. 
 Its effects on Valombre were very amusing. 
 The men who had turned out in the night 
 were too tired to go to work to-day, and 
 patronized the saloons to talk " fire " over 
 sundry glasses. Those who had not taken 
 part in the affair so regretted it that now they 
 joined in here, thinking " better late than 
 never." And though they could not add 
 their testimony, they at least would drink and 
 show a proper sympathy ; even tell how the 
 fire should have been dealt with, etc. 
 
 Of this category were my neighbors, 
 Carvol, and Delphine s husband ; and early 
 in the day they were already up to the proper 
 pitch of enthusiasm, and in a condition which 
 would have been bettered by having the pump- 
 hose turned on them. 
 
 On arriving at my place for working this
 
 FIRE AT RfiMY 299 
 
 afternoon, just on the edge of the plain, in 
 the shade of some small poplars, I there found 
 Carvol sleeping the sleep of the very drunk, 
 his little dog Misere keeping guard over 
 him. Several hours later, as I was finishing 
 my picture, he rolled over and woke up ; but 
 it was very evident that life was a burden to 
 him, his head was too heavy. He told me of 
 the fire so graphically that I naturally thought 
 he had participated in the excitement. But 
 Rosalie informed me later, with a sincere 
 sentiment of disgust in her voice, that he had 
 lazily remained in bed, and now had got 
 drunk out of sympathy with the others. 
 
 My little model, Andrea, told me, in the 
 most matter-of-fact way, that Carvol, her 
 uncle, had got drunk " with papa and 
 grandpa ; " and the poor child was so ac 
 customed to such occurrences that she spoke 
 of it in the most innocent manner, as 
 something not at all startling, making no 
 comments. 
 
 Later, on going to the butcher s, I had to 
 wait long and impatiently while the butcher s 
 wife gave her ideas on the fire to a customer.
 
 300 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Escaping from her, as of" course I in my turn 
 had to hear the story, I stepped into the 
 green-grocer s across the street. Madame 
 Sergent was going it in full blast, both arms 
 extended, feverishly describing the immense 
 flame, the pump, " aspirante et refoulante," 
 etc. I remark that this high-sounding title 
 descriptive of the pump s qualities comes 
 faithfully into every account. Evidently the 
 natives like these two new big words, and are 
 proud of their pump which supports so heavy 
 a title. 
 
 And wherever I go the fire is the great 
 topic ; and the erstwhile quiet air of Valombre 
 is alive with tales of flame and pump, " as 
 pirante et refoulante."
 
 PERE GAUDRIER 
 
 OLD FERE GUADRIER occasionally acted 
 in the capacity of substitute whenever, for any 
 reason, the postman was unable to attend to 
 his duties ; and then the jumble was terrible, 
 especially with letters bearing foreign names 
 such as my own. He distributed them right 
 and left, but rarely in the right places. And 
 often a letter would be brought me by some 
 one living at the farther end of the village, 
 delivered there, as usual, by mistake. 
 
 Once I met the old man away up at Butry. 
 I asked him if he had n t a letter for me ; he 
 looked, to oblige me, and found one. Where 
 it might have been delivered had I not by 
 chance met him, would be hard to say. He 
 was not a bit put out, but, on the con 
 trary, seemed to feel quite proud that he had 
 recognized me, though so far from home. 
 He afterward innocently told me that some
 
 302 MY VILLAGE 
 
 people were fussy enough to complain of him 
 because he occasionally misplaced a letter. 
 I sympathized with him, and naturally ad 
 mitted the injustice of such severity ; as a 
 result, we became great friends. 
 
 Having missed him for some time, and 
 wondering how he had got through the 
 winter, I dropped in on the old man late one 
 afternoon. His wife was in the kitchen 
 when I entered ; she beamed me a welcome, 
 and, in response to my questions regarding 
 her health, told me all about her sickness. 
 
 I had already supposed her dead and buried, 
 as on my last visit the old man told me, with 
 tears running down his cheeks, that she had 
 been bedridden for some months. u It seems," 
 so he told me, "that the marrow of her back 
 bone has settled down into her legs, so that 
 she can t lift them." Poor old man ! his 
 ideas were rather vague on disease and 
 anatomy. 
 
 " Ah," she said, " one must have a solid 
 frame to resist at my age, seventy-three. 
 They told me that it was paralysis ; but I 
 said to myself, as for being paralyzed, I m
 
 PERE GAUDRIER 303 
 
 nut, for you see when one is paralyzed he- 
 does n t feel anything, it s as though one 
 were dead ; but I, on the contrary, felt all 
 my trouble. Oh, I knew well what it was 
 from the beginning; it was the marrow of my 
 backbone. I could feel it detaching itself 
 from the spine of the back, like that," mak 
 ing a graphic gesture. " At last I began to 
 find the time long. I asked how long I had 
 been here ? They told me two months. Then 
 I wanted to get up. My husband made me 
 a pair of crutches ; but I could n t budge, my 
 feet were too heavy. But one day I man 
 aged to get downstairs. They were n t long ; 
 still, I had to come down on my four paws 
 like a baby, and to go up in the same way. 
 The doctor was astounded at seeing me up. 
 Now it s going a little better. I take my 
 stick for walking, because I don t want to 
 fall, you know." Suiting the action to the 
 word, she cheerfully dragged her old bent 
 body out into the sunlight. 
 
 The old man complained of having a 
 heavy cold which had settled in his throat, 
 and gave me a detailed account of his per-
 
 304 MY VILLAGE 
 
 sonal ailments ; striking a side blow at the 
 doctor, like a true peasant, saying that he 
 did n t count for anything in his wife s re 
 covery. From this he wandered on to tell 
 me about the old clock, which, hanging at a 
 drunken angle, ticked away cheerfully though 
 feebly. " Yes," he said, " that s the only- 
 way it will go ; the railroad, you see, shakes 
 it up so. For three months I gave up trying 
 to make it go ; then, one dav, I said to myself, 
 Let s have another look at it, and I pushed it 
 around that way, perhaps it will go like that ; 
 and, voila, it started and has gone ever since. 
 But it stops if I straighten it up. Funny, 
 is n t it ? but it s like that, voila / " 
 
 He informed me that his trade was that of 
 a saddle-maker, but that he did very little 
 now, as he could n t see clearly. So he 
 mended umbrellas and odds and ends in 
 general, suggesting that if I wanted anything 
 mended he could mend it. 
 
 For a long time I saw no more of the old 
 man, and one day, to my surprise, w r as in 
 formed that the old couple had left, had
 
 PERK GAUDRIER 305 
 
 removed to Paris. I afterward discovered that 
 some charitable friends had had them com 
 fortably placed in an old people s home. It 
 was probably hard for them to end their days 
 in this way, for they had both remained quite 
 independent to the last. But unfortunately 
 they had lived too long to be able to earn 
 their living; after sixty years of work they 
 could do no more. 
 
 Last Sunday Pere Gaudrier s furniture and 
 odds and ends were sold by auction, bringing 
 about one hundred francs ; eighty of which 
 were to go to the landlord for payment of 
 back rent, the rest for the old man. It would 
 have broken his heart to see his dear old 
 relics sold for a song ; fortunately he was not 
 there. The old man, like all old people, had 
 valued his belongings, familiar to him for 
 years, at a high price, and his disillusion must 
 have been painful when he found but twenty 
 francs coming as his share. 
 
 Dosh, my model, bought his overcoat for 
 twenty-five francs (five dollars). Other things 
 sold for but two or three sous, etc. But
 
 306 MY VILLAGE 
 
 he had so much rubbish that the whole 
 mounted up to a reasonably fair sum, con 
 sidering the value of the stuff". And now 
 the last trace of" the poor old man has left 
 Valombre. 
 
 The following year I heard that he was 
 
 O 
 
 dead. He had pined away, unable to accept 
 life away from the open fields, and unhappy 
 under the restraint of the hospital discipline. 
 The old woman, at last reports, was still 
 living, though it was generally thought that 
 she would soon follow him. 
 
 Poor old people ! after fifty years of in 
 dependent housekeeping, they could not 
 adapt themselves to a new life thus at the 
 eleventh hour.
 
 wsvjJT 
 
 IN THE FIELDS 
 
 THE life of the fields is always picturesque 
 and interesting, especially during the pea and 
 bean seasons. Gay, happy crowds busily 
 gather the green pods, which in the evening 
 are shipped to Paris for the morrow s market. 
 Young and old work side by side. The crop 
 must be quickly gathered, while the market is 
 still empty. So all must lend a hand, and 
 the great plain is full of life. 
 
 They take their work cheerfully, keeping 
 up a running fire of jokes, jokes often
 
 308 MY VILLAGE 
 
 decidedly broad, yet their wit is not always 
 stupid, by any means. Though coarse and 
 boisterous, their good humor is invigorating, 
 and sustains them through the long day of 
 burning sun and bent backs. 
 
 Now and then a song is started, some old 
 romance, which their grandmothers had sung 
 
 at the same work ; one of those old trailing 
 melodies, without end, and always with a 
 chorus, in which all would join. Though 
 the voices are uncultivated and sometimes 
 false, they do not lack sweetness and 
 harmony. Brusquely succeeding an air of 
 " Old France," comes a modern sone, of
 
 IN THE FIELDS 
 
 39 
 
 decidedly Parisian flavor. Even the peasant 
 tries to keep up with the times. 
 
 Gossiping and singing, the busy hands 
 rapidly rilling their baskets, lighten their 
 Isbors. The topics of the day, the events 
 of the village, marriages, deaths, etc., are 
 
 
 discussed. Those who saw the tricks of the 
 prestidigitateur on the " Place " the night 
 before, glowingly recount the performance to 
 the less fortunate ; and conversation dwells 
 on magic : each has seen some particular 
 trick more wonderful than that known to his 
 neighbor, etc., etc.
 
 310 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 As this subject becomes exhausted, one 
 little girl varies the monotony by graphically 
 recounting the suicide of her father. He 
 had already attempted to take his life, and 
 she had watched him suspiciously on his last 
 night, as he pretended to sleep. At last, 
 
 thinking him really asleep, she had fallen into 
 a doze. Awakening suddenly with a start, 
 and missing him, dreading the worst, she 
 mounted to the attic, where, hanging to a 
 beam, swung the body of her father. Though 
 terribly frightened, she managed to give the 
 alarm ; but too late. 
 
 This story cast a sympathetic gloom over
 
 IN THE FIELDS 
 
 3 11 
 
 her audience ; then commentaries showered 
 in, thick and fast. The tragedy suggested 
 
 others, and now the morbid was the order of 
 the day. Each had some lugubrious story to 
 
 tell, one woman recounting a whole series of 
 misfortunes, all happening to her or hers.
 
 312 
 
 MY VILLAGE 
 
 .. 
 "- 1 fi 
 
 But this gloom was of short duration : the 
 sun shines too brightly ; life is strong and 
 healthy, and 
 again the jokes 
 fly free and fast. 
 A stop is taken 
 for lunch, under 
 the shade of a 
 huge cotton 
 umbrella, or be 
 neath one of the 
 great wheat- 
 ricks which 
 cover the plain. Then the work goes on 
 until dark. The shepherd driving in his
 
 IN THE FIELDS 
 
 flock is the signal for the close of the day s 
 work, when weary laborers lay down their 
 baskets and again straighten their bent 
 backs.
 
 THE FISHERMAN 
 
 I WENT down to the river to-day to see the 
 fisherman. On reaching his place I found 
 that he was away ; but while hesitating as to 
 where to go to look for him, the problem 
 solved itself by his boat s suddenly round 
 ing a bunch of willows, returning from 
 a catch. With his wife, he had been up the 
 river fishing ; but the day had proved unsatis 
 factory, the water was too cold, he told me. 
 
 The old woman was not talkative, and
 
 THE FISHERMAN 315 
 
 silently studied me, drawing within her shell 
 at sight of the stranger. 
 
 On mv asking if it was here that Kaiser 
 had stolen the fish, she at once came to life, 
 and developed a wonderful volubility. Blood 
 will tell ; she was Constance s sister, and, 
 once warmed up, there was no stopping her. 
 She soon gave me all the information I 
 desired, and more, more, quantities of it. 
 For nearly an hour she held me, and was fresh 
 and alert when I, exhausted, pleaded an 
 errand and escaped. Talking in great 
 quantities is a gift in Constance s family. 
 
 " Yes," she started, " right here, right in 
 that boat you see ; there s where those good- 
 for-nothings robbed me. They came in the 
 night, after we had gone to bed, and with 
 some sort of a pry burst the padlock. They 
 took thirty francs worth of fish, then 
 threw the lock, chain, and boxes overboard, 
 the scoundrels ! as though it was n t bad 
 enough to steal, they destroyed the property. 
 That was useless wickedness, ah, the 
 scamps ! He, over there [the proprietor of 
 the bateau /V/iw r] , heard them at it, and
 
 316 MY VILLAGE 
 
 came over to tell us. On his way he met 
 them, the three, with the basket, crossing the 
 bridge going to Remy. 
 
 " I got up at once, and waked my old man. 
 They had gone to the liquor shop at the end 
 ot the bridge, a good-for-nothing and a thief, 
 that marchand de vins ! While Firman went 
 off after the gendarmes, I prowled around and 
 listened by the window. They were talking 
 and joking about the theft inside. One said, 
 If the old man had come down, I d have 
 clubbed him quiet. Another added, I d 
 have thrown him into the river. A third 
 broke out with, But did n t that eel squirm ? 
 I tell you an eel is awkward to hold ; then, 
 That was a fine pike, etc., etc. Now," 
 added the old woman, " I said to myself, 
 My fine birds, now I ve got you. 
 
 The gendarmes suddenly startled the jolly 
 thieves by making an irruption into the room. 
 The consternation was general. Flight was 
 impossible. They were called on to own up 
 and give back the fish that were still uncooked. 
 They foolishly tried to lie, saying that there 
 was only one fish. One of the gendarmes
 
 THE FISHERMAN 317 
 
 looked at the plates littered with bones and tins 
 and jocularly cried, " Say, Firman, you re a 
 fisherman. Did you ever see a fish with one 
 head and two tails before ? " pointing to these 
 remains. This cornered them, and sheepishly 
 they were forced to admit their theft. Search 
 revealed a well-loaded basket of pike and 
 trout, which the saloon-keeper had hid out 
 of sight at the first alarm. " There were 
 two fine big pike," broke in angrily the old 
 woman. " Here is only one ; where is the 
 other ? " He had escaped, they claimed. 
 The gendarmes ended the scene bv putting 
 the thieves in handcuffs, and leading them off 
 to jail. 
 
 Firman told me that he had been robbed 
 quite frequently this season. The night of 
 the I4th of Julv, in his wrath, he took his 
 shot-gun, and patiently waited behind some 
 willows till early morning ; but no thieves 
 came. The next night, tired, he slept the 
 sleep of the just, and in the morning found 
 that his fish had again disappeared. His 
 language was fearfully decorative as he stood 
 and looked at the broken lock and boxes.
 
 31 8 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Constance tells me that once he " laid " 
 for a thief whom he had warned that he 
 would shoot if he ever caught him in the act. 
 The miscreant unfortunately put in an ap 
 pearance one night when the old man hap 
 pened to be on the watch, and, while 
 busily engaged in robbing the boat, received 
 a charge of shot in the back. Shortly after 
 he took to his bed. His wife could not un 
 derstand his strange sickness, the mass of 
 small holes in his back quite confounding 
 her. In a week s time he died. 
 
 Nothing was ever said of the affair, the 
 peasant defensively fighting shy of the law. 
 Firman felt very remorseful about the case, 
 though feeling still that he was justified in 
 doing as he had done.
 
 THE CHAIR "RESEATER" 
 
 THE rain having stopped my work, I step 
 into the cottage of the old woman " who 
 mends chair bottoms," Oh, no ! she did n t 
 mind. I could make a sketch if I wanted to. 
 She had often posed before, etc., etc. ; knew 
 all about it.
 
 320 MY VILLAGE 
 
 Yes, business was good enough. There 
 were always chairs to be mended. No ; she 
 had no rivals. Her sister used to work at 
 the same trade, but she was dead. True, 
 there was another old woman, up by the Rue 
 Remv, who used to do this work, but now 
 she had given it up, was too old. 
 
 Last year a man had started to work in 
 the " Place," the public square. He was a 
 serious rival ; " for you know he did nothing 
 but that. He did n t have a house to attend 
 to." But at last he went away ; so now the 
 field was hers. 
 
 She could make from fifty to sixty cents 
 a day, she said, and seemed quite satisfied.
 
 WINTER 
 
 WINTER exposes painfully the seamy side 
 of rural life. The thin spots and holes of 
 its garment become conspicuously apparent. 
 The picturesque, unkempt thatch now opens 
 to let in the wind and rain. And they, with 
 unerring instinct, seem to strike at once for 
 the weak spots ; and so successful are they in 
 their cruel revelry that the recollection of the 
 warm and dry is almost forgotten. And the 
 present appears all gloomy and cheerless, as 
 though no gayety and joy had ever existed. 
 
 The peasant, recently so ruddy and vigor 
 ous, a favored mortal in a favored setting, 
 now seems to have shrivelled up into a cring 
 ing, suffering beast of burden, forced to ex 
 pose himself in a seemingly hopeless, cheer 
 less struggle for mere existence. 
 
 But a month ago his lot seemed enviable, 
 healthy, strong, and free from undue care. 
 And seeing him thus, all life appeared a great
 
 322 MY VILLAGE 
 
 success. Alas, how quickly the shadows 
 follow the light ! And though ever the same 
 old story, during the bright moments the past 
 and future are quite forgotten or ignored. 
 One willingly lives in the present, and sees 
 no reason why it should not always be thus. 
 
 The contrast of the seasons is really ap 
 palling. One loses courage at the sight of 
 such a complete collapse from sun, health, 
 and joy, where all prospers, and cares are 
 relegated easily to the background, as though 
 their existence was quite unnecessary, to this 
 terribly apparent evidence of pain, worry, 
 and poverty. The struggle for life becomes 
 abominably evident. 
 
 Where but a few short weeks ago the 
 young and old went cheerfully humming to 
 their work in the fields, now, the number 
 sadly decreased, they scurry hastily along, 
 with hands in pockets, and arms hugged close 
 to their sides, in an endeavor to retain their 
 own animal heat as long as possible. 
 
 The old, who had gathered a new surcease 
 of life from the summer s sun, now slowly 
 but surely dry up and wither away. The
 
 WINTER 323 
 
 church bell tolls oftener. But a tew weeks 
 back one easily forgot its existence. Now 
 its solemn, lugubrious notes seem ever wail 
 ing in the air. The dark, simple funeral 
 procession files ottener and more steadily 
 towards the little cemetery on the hill, where 
 weary bones are laid at rest. 
 
 The sun has gone. Reckless of conse 
 quences, he brought bright days and joy, 
 drouth and sunstroke, fever and death ; then 
 sailed slowly away, leaving the earth to freeze 
 and groan. Heartless and omnipotent, giv 
 ing and taking life in the same, mighty, blind, 
 indifferent way. 
 
 The cold, penetrating wind cuts one to 
 the bone. Night and a pitiless sleet come 
 down together. The bare branches of the 
 tall trees sough sadly. The sky is cold and 
 leaden ; and as the day drops suddenly into 
 night, the thin, leafless branches disappear in 
 the general gloom. From out the dark torest 
 come shapeless, mystic forms, moving slowly 
 and painfully along, like a procession of hope 
 less but persevering forest Danaides. Now, 
 as they come nearer, they are more clearly
 
 324 MY VILLAGE 
 
 defined against the snow-covered road. Still, 
 they do not seem to be human, though each 
 incongruous shape shows a pair of moving 
 feet. Nearer and nearer they approach. 
 Yes, they are human forms. There is the 
 bright head kerchief, making a light spot 
 against an uncouth mass of something black 
 and jagged towering above it. What is this 
 mystery ? Ogres or phantoms ? Neither. 
 Only the old women coming from the wood, 
 bearing on their backs their huge, dispropor 
 tionate loads of fagots. 
 
 As they advance, the weird gives place to 
 the picturesque, and this picturesque to the 
 pathetic, as one sees these wrinkled old faces 
 and bent bodies straining under their great 
 loads. Their struggle for existence is a hard 
 one ; yet they hold to it and fight bravely, as 
 though there were something to lose. The 
 great mystery of life, unexplainable, but real : 
 those who apparently have everything to 
 gain by death hold on tenaciously to life, and 
 breathe their last breath under protest. 
 
 Ah, no ! winter is not encouraging. Suf 
 fering and misery are its companions. Its
 
 WINTER 
 
 3 2 5 
 
 traces are visible everywhere. Even the 
 landscape loses its beauty. The picturesque 
 houses now seem to be but hovels, imper 
 fectly sheltering their unfortunate tenants. 
 Oh, the horrible thing, winter, with its pains 
 and discouragement ! All life looks black and 
 hopeless, and is, for the time being; and 
 gloom settles over the land. 
 
 Then come back, summer, and bring a 
 little more joy into the hearts of the poor 
 and unfortunate !
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A. CAT. NO. 24 161 C**f
 
 A 000548217 9