Works of Honore De Balzac, page 1198
“Have you had a good catch to-day, my man?” I said to the fisherman.
“Yes, monsieur,” he replied, stopping and turning toward us the swarthy face of those who spend whole days exposed to the reflection of the sun upon the water.
That face was an emblem of long resignation, of the patience of a fisherman and his quiet ways. The man had a voice without harshness, kind lips, evidently no ambition, and something frail and puny about him. Any other sort of countenance would, at that moment, have jarred upon us.
“Where shall you sell your fish?”
“In the town.”
“How much will they pay you for that lobster?”
“Fifteen sous.”
“And the crab?”
“Twenty sous.”
“Why so much difference between a lobster and a crab?”
“Monsieur, the crab is much more delicate eating. Besides, it’s as malicious as a monkey, and it seldom lets you catch it.”
“Will you let us buy the two for a hundred sous?” asked Pauline.
The man seemed petrified.
“You shall not have it!” I said to her, laughing. “I’ll pay ten francs; we should count the emotions in.”
“Very well,” she said, “then I’ll pay ten francs, two sous.”
“Ten francs, ten sous.”
“Twelve francs.”
“Fifteen francs.”
“Fifteen francs, fifty centimes,” she said.
“One hundred francs.”
“One hundred and fifty francs.”
I yielded. We were not rich enough at that moment to bid higher. Our poor fisherman did not know whether to be angry at a hoax, or to go mad with joy; we drew him from his quandary by giving him the name of our landlady and telling him to take the lobster and the crab to her house.
“Do you earn enough to live on?” I asked the man, in order to discover the cause of his evident penury.
“With great hardships, and always poorly,” he replied. “Fishing on the coast, when one hasn’t a boat or deep-sea nets, nothing but pole and line, is a very uncertain business. You see we have to wait for the fish, or the shell-fish; whereas a real fisherman puts out to sea for them. It is so hard to earn a living this way that I’m the only man in these parts who fishes along-shore. I spend whole days without getting anything. To catch a crab, it must go to sleep, as this one did, and a lobster must be silly enough to stay among the rocks. Sometimes after a high tide the mussels come in and I grab them.”
“Well, taking one day with another, how much do you earn?”
“Oh, eleven or twelve sous. I could do with that if I were alone; but I have got my old father to keep, and he can’t do anything, the good man, because he’s blind.”
At these words, said simply, Pauline and I looked at each other without a word; then I asked, —
“Haven’t you a wife, or some good friend?”
He cast upon us one of the most lamentable glances that I ever saw as he answered, —
“If I had a wife I must abandon my father; I could not feed him and a wife and children too.”
“Well, my poor lad, why don’t you try to earn more at the salt marshes, or by carrying the salt to the harbor?”
“Ah, monsieur, I couldn’t do that work three months. I am not strong enough, and if I died my father would have to beg. I am forced to take a business which only needs a little knack and a great deal of patience.”
“But how can two persons live on twelve sous a day?”
“Oh, monsieur, we eat cakes made of buckwheat, and barnacles which I get off the rocks.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Did you ever leave Croisic?”
“I went once to Guerande to draw for the conscription; and I went to Savenay to the messieurs who measure for the army. If I had been half an inch taller they’d have made me a soldier. I should have died of my first march, and my poor father would to-day be begging his bread.”
I had thought out many dramas; Pauline was accustomed to great emotions beside a man so suffering as myself; well, never had either of us listened to words so moving as these. We walked on in silence, measuring, each of us, the silent depths of that obscure life, admiring the nobility of a devotion which was ignorant of itself. The strength of that feebleness amazed us; the man’s unconscious generosity belittled us. I saw that poor being of instinct chained to that rock like a galley-slave to his ball; watching through twenty years for shell-fish to earn a living, and sustained in his patience by a single sentiment. How many hours wasted on a lonely shore! How many hopes defeated by a change of weather! He was hanging there to a granite rock, his arm extended like that of an Indian fakir, while his father, sitting in their hovel, awaited, in silence and darkness, a meal of the coarsest bread and shell-fish, if the sea permitted.
“Do you ever drink wine?” I asked.
“Three or four times a year,” he replied.
“Well, you shall drink it to-day, — you and your father; and we will send you some white bread.”
“You are very kind, monsieur.”
“We will give you your dinner if you will show us the way along the shore to Batz, where we wish to see the tower which overlooks the bay between Batz and Croisic.”
“With pleasure,” he said. “Go straight before you, along the path you are now on, and I will follow you when I have put away my tackle.”
We nodded consent, and he ran off joyfully toward the town. This meeting maintained us in our previous mental condition; but it lessened our gay lightheartedness.
“Poor man!” said Pauline, with that accent which removes from the compassion of a woman all that is mortifying in human pity, “ought we not to feel ashamed of our happiness in presence of such misery?”
“Nothing is so cruelly painful as to have powerless desires,” I answered. “Those two poor creatures, the father and son, will never know how keen our sympathy for them is, any more than the world will know how beautiful are their lives; they are laying up their treasures in heaven.”
“Oh, how poor this country is!” she said, pointing to a field enclosed by a dry stone wall, which was covered with droppings of cow’s dung applied symmetrically. “I asked a peasant-woman who was busy sticking them on, why it was done; she answered that she was making fuel. Could you have imagined that when those patches of dung have dried, human beings would collect them, store them, and use them for fuel? During the winter, they are even sold as peat is sold. And what do you suppose the best dressmaker in the place can earn? — five sous a day!” adding, after a pause, “and her food.”
“But see,” I said, “how the winds from the sea bend or destroy everything. There are no trees. Fragments of wreckage or old vessels that are broken up are sold to those who can afford to buy; for costs of transportation are too heavy to allow them to use the firewood with which Brittany abounds. This region is fine for none but noble souls; persons without sentiments could never live here; poets and barnacles alone should inhabit it. All that ever brought a population to this rock were the salt-marshes and the factory which prepares the salt. On one side the sea; on the other, sand; above, illimitable space.”
We had now passed the town, and had reached the species of desert which separates Croisic from the village of Batz. Imagine, my dear uncle, a barren track of miles covered with the glittering sand of the seashore. Here and there a few rocks lifted their heads; you might have thought them gigantic animals couchant on the dunes. Along the coast were reefs, around which the water foamed and sparkled, giving them the appearance of great white roses, floating on the liquid surface or resting on the shore. Seeing this barren tract with the ocean on one side, and on the other the arm of the sea which runs up between Croisic and the rocky shore of Guerande, at the base of which lay the salt marshes, denuded of vegetation, I looked at Pauline and asked her if she felt the courage to face the burning sun and the strength to walk through sand.
“I have boots,” she said. “Let us go,” and she pointed to the tower of Batz, which arrested the eye by its immense pile placed there like a pyramid; but a slender, delicately outlined pyramid, a pyramid so poetically ornate that the imagination figured in it the earliest ruin of a great Asiatic city.
We advanced a few steps and sat down upon the portion of a large rock which was still in the shade. But it was now eleven o’clock, and the shadow, which ceased at our feet, was disappearing rapidly.
“How beautiful this silence!” she said to me; “and how the depth of it is deepened by the rhythmic quiver of the wave upon the shore.”
“If you will give your understanding to the three immensities which surround us, the water, the air, and the sands, and listen exclusively to the repeating sounds of flux and reflux,” I answered her, “you will not be able to endure their speech; you will think it is uttering a thought which will annihilate you. Last evening, at sunset, I had that sensation; and it exhausted me.”
“Oh! let us talk, let us talk,” she said, after a long pause. “I understand it. No orator was ever more terrible. I think,” she continued, presently, “that I perceive the causes of the harmonies which surround us. This landscape, which has but three marked colors, — the brilliant yellow of the sands, the blue of the sky, the even green of the sea, — is grand without being savage; it is immense, yet not a desert; it is monotonous, but it does not weary; it has only three elements, and yet it is varied.”
“Women alone know how to render such impressions,” I said. “You would be the despair of a poet, dear soul that I divine so well!”
“The extreme heat of mid-day casts into those three expressions of the infinite an all-powerful color,” said Pauline, smiling. “I can here conceive the poesy and the passion of the East.”
“And I can perceive its despair.”
“Yes,” she said, “this dune is a cloister, — a sublime cloister.”
We now heard the hurried steps of our guide; he had put on his Sunday clothes. We addressed a few ordinary words to him; he seemed to think that our mood had changed, and with that reserve that comes of misery, he kept silence. Though from time to time we pressed each other’s hands that we might feel the mutual flow of our ideas and impressions, we walked along for half an hour in silence, either because we were oppressed by the heat which rose in waves from the burning sands, or because the difficulty of walking absorbed our attention. Like children, we held each other’s hands; in fact, we could hardly have made a dozen steps had we walked arm in arm. The path which led to Batz was not so much as traced. A gust of wind was enough to efface all tracks left by the hoofs of horses or the wheels of carts; but the practised eye of our guide could recognize by scraps of mud or the dung of cattle the road that crossed that desert, now descending towards the sea, then rising landward according to either the fall of the ground or the necessity of rounding some breastwork of rock. By mid-day, we were only half way.
“We will stop to rest over there,” I said, pointing to a promontory of rocks sufficiently high to make it probable we should find a grotto.
The fisherman, who heard me and saw the direction in which I pointed, shook his head, and said, —
“Some one is there. All those who come from the village of Batz to Croisic, or from Croisic to Batz, go round that place; they never pass it.”
These words were said in a low voice, and seemed to indicate a mystery.
“Who is he, — a robber, a murderer?”
Our guide answered only by drawing a deep breath, which redoubled our curiosity.
“But if we pass that way, would any harm happen to us?”
“Oh, no!”
“Will you go with us?”
“No, monsieur.”
“We will go, if you assure us there is no danger.”
“I do not say so,” replied the fisherman, hastily. “I only say that he who is there will say nothing to you, and do you no harm. He never so much as moves from his place.”
“Who is it?”
“A man.”
Never were two syllables pronounced in so tragic a manner. At this moment we were about fifty feet from the rocky eminence, which extended a long reef into the sea. Our guide took a path which led him round the base of the rock. We ourselves continued our way over it; but Pauline took my arm. Our guide hastened his steps in order to meet us on the other side, where the two paths came together again.
This circumstance excited our curiosity, which soon became so keen that our hearts were beating as if with a sense of fear. In spite of the heat of the day, and the fatigue caused by toiling through the sand, our souls were still surrendered to the softness unspeakable of our exquisite ecstasy. They were filled with that pure pleasure which cannot be described unless we liken it to the joy of listening to enchanting music, Mozart’s “Audiamo mio ben,” for instance. When two pure sentiments blend together, what is that but two sweet voices singing? To be able to appreciate properly the emotion that held us, it would be necessary to share the state of half sensuous delight into which the events of the morning had plunged us. Admire for a long time some pretty dove with iridescent colors, perched on a swaying branch above a spring, and you will give a cry of pain when you see a hawk swooping down upon her, driving its steel claws into her breast, and bearing her away with murderous rapidity. When we had advanced a step or two into an open space which lay before what seemed to be a grotto, a sort of esplanade placed a hundred feet above the ocean, and protected from its fury by buttresses of rock, we suddenly experienced an electrical shudder, something resembling the shock of a sudden noise awaking us in the dead of night.
We saw, sitting on a vast granite boulder, a man who looked at us. His glance, like that of the flash of a cannon, came from two bloodshot eyes, and his stoical immobility could be compared only to the immutable granite masses that surrounded him. His eyes moved slowly, his body remaining rigid as though he were petrified. Then, having cast upon us that look which struck us like a blow, he turned his eyes once more to the limitless ocean, and gazed upon it, in spite of its dazzling light, as eagles gaze at the sun, without lowering his eyelids. Try to remember, dear uncle, one of those old oaks, whose knotty trunks, from which the branches have been lopped, rise with weird power in some lonely place, and you will have an image of this man. Here was a ruined Herculean frame, the face of an Olympian Jove, destroyed by age, by hard sea toil, by grief, by common food, and blackened as it were by lightning. Looking at his hard and hairy hands, I saw that the sinews stood out like cords of iron. Everything about him denoted strength of constitution. I noticed in a corner of the grotto a quantity of moss, and on a sort of ledge carved by nature on the granite, a loaf of bread, which covered the mouth of an earthenware jug. Never had my imagination, when it carried me to the deserts where early Christian anchorites spent their lives, depicted to my mind a form more grandly religious nor more horribly repentant than that of this man. You, who have a life-long experience of the confessional, dear uncle, you may never, perhaps, have seen so awful a remorse, — remorse sunk in the waves of prayer, the ceaseless supplication of a mute despair. This fisherman, this mariner, this hard, coarse Breton, was sublime through some hidden emotion. Had those eyes wept? That hand, moulded for an unwrought statue, had it struck? That ragged brow, where savage honor was imprinted, and on which strength had left vestiges of the gentleness which is an attribute of all true strength, that forehead furrowed with wrinkles, was it in harmony with the heart within? Why was this man in the granite? Why was the granite in the man? Which was the man, which was the granite? A world of fancies came into our minds. As our guide had prophesied, we passed in silence, rapidly; when he met us he saw our emotion of mingled terror and astonishment, but he made no boast of the truth of his prediction; he merely said, —
“You have seen him.”
“Who is that man?”
“They call him the Man of the Vow.”
You can imagine the movement with which our two heads turned at once to our guide. He was a simple-hearted fellow; he understood at once our mute inquiry, and here follows what he told us; I shall try to give it as best I can in his own language, retaining his popular parlance.
“Madame, folks from Croisic and those from Batz think this man is guilty of something, and is doing a penance ordered by a famous rector to whom he confessed his sin somewhere beyond Nantes. Others think that Cambremer, that’s his name, casts an evil fate on those who come within his air, and so they always look which way the wind is before they pass this rock. If it’s nor’-westerly they wouldn’t go by, no, not if their errand was to get a bit of the true cross; they’d go back, frightened. Others — they are the rich folks of Croisic — they say that Cambremer has made a vow, and that’s why people call him the Man of the Vow. He is there night and day, he never leaves the place. All these sayings have some truth in them. See there,” he continued, turning round to show us a thing we had not remarked, “look at that wooden cross he has set up there, to the left, to show that he has put himself under the protection of God and the holy Virgin and the saints. But the fear that people have of him keeps him as safe as if he were guarded by a troop of soldiers. He has never said one word since he locked himself up in the open air in this way; he lives on bread and water, which is brought to him every morning by his brother’s daughter, a little lass about twelve years old to whom he has left his property, a pretty creature, gentle as a lamb, a nice little girl, so pleasant. She has such blue eyes, long as that,” he added, marking a line on his thumb, “and hair like the cherubim. When you ask her: ‘Tell me, Perotte’ (That’s how we say Pierette in these parts,” he remarked, interrupting himself; “she is vowed to Saint Pierre; Cambremer is named Pierre, and he was her godfather) — ’Tell me, Perotte, what does your uncle say to you?’ — ’He says nothing to me, nothing.’ — ’Well, then, what does he do to you?’ ‘He kisses me on the forehead, Sundays.’ — ’Are you afraid of him?’ — ’Ah, no, no; isn’t he my godfather? he wouldn’t have anybody but me bring him his food.’ Perotte declares that he smiles when she comes; but you might as well say the sun shines in a fog; he’s as gloomy as a cloudy day.”
