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diff --git a/25408.txt b/25408.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..edb03a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/25408.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1563 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Child Life In Town And Country, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Child Life In Town And Country + 1909 + +Author: Anatole France + +Translator: Alfred Allinson + +Release Date: May 9, 2008 [EBook #25408] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + + + + +THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHE + +AND CHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY + +By Anatole France + +John Lane Company, MCMXIX + +Copyright 1909 + +John Lane Company + + + + + +CHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY + + + + +FANCHON + +[Illustration: 164] + + + + +I + +FANCHON went early one morning, like Little Red Riding-Hood, to see +her grandmother, who lives right at the other end of the village. But +Fanchon did not stop like little Red Riding-Hood, to gather nuts in the +wood. She went straight on her way and she did not meet the wolf. From +a long way off she saw her grandmother sitting on the stone step at her +cottage door, a smile on her toothless mouth and her arms, as dry and +knotty as an old vine-stock, open to welcome her little granddaughter. +It rejoices Fanchon's heart to spend a whole day with her grandmother; +and her grandmother, whose trials and troubles are all over and who +lives as happy as a cricket in the warm chimney-corner, is rejoiced too +to see her son's little girl, the picture of her own childhood. + +They have many things to tell each other, for one of them is coming back +from the journey of life which the other is setting out on. + +"You grow a bigger girl every day," says the old grandmother to Fanchon, +"and every day I get smaller; I scarcely need now to stoop at all to +touch your forehead. What matters my great age when I can see the roses +of my girlhood blooming again in your cheeks, my pretty Fanchon?" + +But Fanchon asked to be told again--for the hundredth time--all about +the glittering paper flowers under the glass shade, the coloured +pictures where our Generals in brilliant uniforms are overthrowing their +enemies, the gilt cups, some of which have lost their handles, while +others have kept theirs, and grandfather's gun that hangs above the +chimney-piece from the nail where he put it up himself for the last +time, thirty years ago. + +But time flies, and the hour is come to get ready the midday dinner. +Fanchon's grandmother stirs up the drowsy fire; then she breaks the eggs +on the black earthenware platter. Fanchon is deeply interested in the +bacon omelette as she watches it browning and sputtering over the fire. +There is no one in the world like her grandmother for making omelettes +and telling pretty stories. Fanchon sits on the settle, her chin on +a level with the table, to eat the steaming omelette and drink the +sparkling cider. But her grandmother eats her dinner, from force of +habit, standing at the fireside. She holds her knife in her right hand, +and in the other a crust of bread with her toothsome morsel on it. When +both have done eating: + +"Grandmother," says Fanchon, "tell me the 'Blue Bird.'" + +And her grandmother tells Fanchon how, by the spite of a bad fairy, a +beautiful Prince was changed into a sky-blue bird, and of the grief the +Princess felt when she heard of the transformation and saw her love fly +all bleeding to the window of the Tower where she was shut up. + +Fanchon thinks and thinks. + +"Grandmother," she says at last, "is it a great while ago the Blue Bird +flew to the Tower where the Princess was shut up?" + +Her grandmother tells her it was many a long day since, in the times +when the animals used to talk. + +"You were young then?" asks Fanchon. + +"I was not yet born," the old woman tells her. + +And Fanchon says: + +"So, grandmother, there were things in the world even before you were +born?" + +And when their talk is done, her grandmother gives Fanchon an apple with +a hunch of bread and bids her: + +"Run away, little one; go and play and eat your apple in the garden." + +And Fanchon goes into the garden, where there are trees and grass and +flowers and birds. + + + + +II + +[Illustration: 168] + +HER grandmother's garden was full of grass and flowers and trees, and +Fanchon thought it was the prettiest garden in all the world. By this +time she had pulled out her pocket-knife to cut her bread with, as they +do in the village. First she munched her apple, then she began upon her +bread. Presently a little bird came fluttering past her. Then a second +came, and a third. Soon ten, twenty, thirty were crowding round Fanchon. +There were grey birds, and red, there were yellow birds, and green, and +blue. And all were pretty and they all sang. At first Fanchon could not +think what they wanted. But she soon saw they were asking for bread and +that they were little beggars. Yes, they were beggars, but they were +singers as well. Fanchon was too kind-hearted to refuse bread to any one +who paid for it with songs. + +She was a little country girl, and she did not know that once long ago, +in a country where white cliffs of marble are washed by the blue sea, +a blind old man earned his daily bread by singing the shepherds' songs +which the learned still admire to-day. But her heart laughed to hear the +little birds, and she tossed them crumbs that never reached the ground, +for the birds always caught them in the air. + +Fanchon saw that the birds were not all the same in character. Some +would stand in a ring round her feet waiting for the crumbs to fall +into their beaks. These were philosophers. Others again she could see +circling nimbly on the wing all about her. She even noticed one little +thief that darted in and pecked shamelessly at her own slice. + +She broke the bread and threw crumbs to them all; but all could not get +some to eat. Fanchon found that the boldest and cleverest left nothing +for the others. + +"That is not fair," she told them; "each of you ought to take his proper +turn." + +But they never heeded; nobody ever does, when you talk of fairness and +justice. She tried every way to favour the weak and hearten the timid; +but she could make nothing of it, and do what she would, she fed the big +fat birds at the expense of the thin ones. This made her sorry; she was +such a simple child she did not know it is the way of the world. + +Crumb by crumb, the bread all went down the little singers' throats. And +Fanchon went back very happy to her grandmother's house. + + + + +III + +[Illustration: 171] + +WHEN night fell, her grandmother took the basket in which Fanchon had +brought her a cake, filled it with apples and grapes, hung it on the +child's arm, and said: "Now, Fanchon, go straight back home, without +stopping to play with the village ragamuffins. Be a good girl always. +Goodbye." + +Then she kissed her. But Fanchon stood thinking at the door. + +"Grandmother?" she said. "What is it, little Fanchon?" "I should like to +know," said Fanchon, "if there are any beautiful Princes among the birds +that ate up my bread." + +"Now that there are no more fairies," her grandmother told her, "the +birds are all birds and nothing else." + +"Good-bye, grandmother." + +"Good-bye, Fanchon." + +And Fanchon set off across the meadows for her home, the chimneys +of which she could see smoking a long way off against the red sky of +sunset. + +On the road she met Antoine, the gardener's little boy. He asked her: + +"Will you come and play with me, Fanchon?" + +But she answered: + +"I won't stop to play with you, because my grandmother told me not to. +But I will give you an apple, because I love you very much." + +Antoine took the apple and kissed the little girl. + +They loved each other fondly. + +He called her his little wife, and she called him her little husband. + +As she went on her way, stepping soberly along like a staid, grown-up +person, she heard behind her a merry twittering of birds, and turning +round to look, she saw they were the same little pensioners she had fed +when they were hungry. They came flying after her. + +"Good night, little friends," she called to them, "good night! It's +bedtime now, so good night!" + +And the winged songsters answered her with little cries that mean "God +keep you!" in bird language. + +So Fanchon came back to her mother's to the sound of sweet music in the +air. + + + + +IV + +[Illustration: 174] + +FANCHON lay down in the dark in her little bed, which a carpenter in +the village had made long ago of walnut-wood and carved a light railing +alongside. The good old man had been resting years and years now under +the shadow of the church, in a grass-grown bed; for Fanchon's cot had +been her grandfather's when he was a little lad, and he had slept where +she sleeps now. A curtain of pink-sprigged cotton protects her slumbers; +she sleeps, and in her dreams she sees the Blue Bird flying to his +sweetheart's Castle. She thinks he is as beautiful as a star, but she +never expects him to come and light on her shoulder. She knows _she_ +is not a Princess, and no Prince changed into a blue bird will come to +visit her. She tells herself that all birds are not Princes; that the +birds of her village are villagers, and that there might be one perhaps +found amongst them, a little country lad changed into a sparrow by a +bad fairy and wearing in his heart under his brown feathers the love of +little Fanchon. Yes, if _he_ came and she knew him, she would give him +not bread crumbs only, but cake and kisses. She would so like to see +him, and lo! she sees him; he comes and perches on her shoulder. He is +a jack-sparrow, only a common sparrow. He has nothing rich or rare about +him, but he looks alert and lively. To tell the truth, he is a little +torn and tattered; he lacks a feather in his tail; he has lost it in +battle--unless it was through some bad fairy of the village. Fanchon has +her suspicions he is a naughty bird. But she is a girl, and she does not +mind her jack-sparrow being a trifle headstrong, if only he has a kind +heart. She pets him and calls him pretty names. Suddenly he begins to +grow bigger; his body gets longer; his wings turn into two arms; he is +a boy, and Fanchon knows who he is--Antoine, the gardener's little lad, +who asks her: + +"Shall we go and play together, shall we, Fanchon?" + +She claps her hands for joy, and away she goes.... But suddenly she +wakes and rubs her eyes. Her sparrow is gone, and so is Antoine! She is +all alone in her little room. The dawn, peeping in between the flowered +curtains, throws a white, innocent light over her cot. She can hear +the birds singing in the garden. She jumps out of bed in her little +nightgown and opens the window; she looks out into the garden, which +is gay with flowers--roses, geraniums, and convolvulus--and spies her +little pensioners, her little musicians, of yesterday. There they all +sit in a row on the garden-fence, singing her a morning hymn to pay her +for their crumbs of bread. + + + + +THE FANCY-DRESS BALL + +[Illustration: 177] + +HERE we have little boys who are conquering heroes and little girls who +are heroines. Here we have shepherdesses in hoops and wreaths of roses +and shepherds in satin coats, who carry crooks tied with knots of +riband. Oh! what white, pretty sheep they must be these shepherds tend! +Here are Alexander the Great and Zaire, and Pyrrhus and Merope, Mahomet, +Harlequin, Pierrot, Scapin, Blaise and Babette. They have come from all +parts, from Greece and Rome and the lands of Faery, to dance together. +What a fine thing a fancy ball is, and how delicious to be a great +King for an hour or a famous Princess! There is nothing to spoil +the pleasure. No need to act up to your costume, nor even to talk in +character. + +It would be poor fun, mind you, to wear heroes' clothes if you had to +have a hero's heart as well. Heroes' hearts are torn with all sorts of +sorrows. They are most of them famous for their calamities. If they had +lived happy, we should never have heard of them. Merope had no wish to +dance. Pyrrhus was cruelly slain by Orestes just when he was going to +wed, and the innocent Zaire perished by the hand of her lover the Turk, +philosophical Turk though he was. As for Blaise and Babette, the song +says they suffer fond regrets that go on forever. + +Why speak of Pierrot and Scapin? You know as well as I do they were +scamps, and got their ears pulled more than once. No! glory costs too +dear, even Harlequin's. On the contrary, it is very agreeable to be +little boys and girls, and have the look of being great personages. +That is why there is no pleasure to compare with a fancy ball, when the +dresses are splendid enough. Only to wear them makes you feel brave. +Then think how proud and pretty all your little friends are with their +feathers and mantles; how gallant and gay and noble they look, and how +like the fine folks of olden times. + +In the gallery, where you cannot see them, the musicians, with sad, +gentle faces, are tuning up their fiddles. A stately quadrille lies open +on their stands. They are going to attack the old-fashioned piece. At +the first notes our heroes and masks will lead off the dance. + + + + +THE SCHOOL + +[Illustration: 180] + +I PROCLAIM Mademoiselle Genseigne's school the best girls' school in the +world. I declare miscreants and slanderers any who shall think or say +the contrary. Mademoiselle Genseigne's pupils are all well-behaved and +industrious, and there is no pleasanter sight to see than all their +small figures sitting so still, and all the heads in a straight row. +They look like so many little bottles into which Mademoiselle Gen-seigne +is busy pouring useful knowledge. + +Mademoiselle Genseigne sits very upright at her high desk. She has +a gentle, serious face; her neatly braided hair and her black tippet +inspire respect and sympathy. + +Mademoiselle Genseigne, who is very clever, is teaching her little +pupils cyphering. + +She says to Rose Benoit: + +"Rose Benoit, if I take four from twelve, what have I left?" + +"Four?" answers Rose Benoit. + +Mademoiselle Genseigne is not satisfied with the answer. + +"And you, Emmeline Capel, if I take four from twelve, how much have I +left?" + +"Eight," Emmeline Capel answers. + +"You hear, Rose Benoit, I have eight left," insists Mademoiselle +Genseigne. + +Rose Benoit falls into a brown study. Mademoiselle Genseigne has eight +left, she is told, but she has no notion if it is eight hats or eight +handkerchiefs, or possibly eight apples or eight feathers. The doubt has +long tormented her. She can make nothing of arithmetic. + +On the other hand, she is very wise in Scripture History. Mademoiselle +Genseigne has not another pupil who can describe the Garden of Eden or +Noah's Ark as Rose Benoit can. Rose Benoit knows every flower in the +Garden and all the animals in the Ark. She knows as many fairy tales as +Mademoiselle Genseigne herself. She knows all the fables of the Fox and +the Crow, the Donkey and the Little Dog, the Cock and the Hen, and what +they said to each other. She is not at all surprised to hear that the +animals used once to talk. The wonder would be if some one told her they +don't talk now. She is quite sure she understands what her big dog +Tom says and her little canary Chirp. She is quite right; animals have +always talked, and they talk still; but they only talk to their +friends. Rose Benoit loves them and they love her, and that is why she +understands what they say. To understand each other there is nothing +like loving one another. + +To-day Rose Benoit has said her lessons without a mistake. She has won +a good mark. Emmeline Capel has a good mark, too, for knowing her +arithmetic lesson so well. + +On coming out of school, she told her mother she had a good mark. Then +she asked her: + +"A good mark, mother, what's the use of it?" + +"A good mark is of no use," Emmeline's mother answered; "that is the +very reason why we should be proud to get one. You will find out one +day, my child, that the rewards most highly esteemed are just those that +bring honour without profit." + + + + +MARIE + +[Illustration: 184] + +LITTLE girls long to pluck flowers and stars--it is their nature to. But +stars will not be plucked, and the lesson they teach little girls +is, that in this world there are longings that are never satisfied. +Mademoiselle Marie has gone into the park, where she came upon a bed of +hydrangeas; she saw how pretty the flowers were and that made her gather +one. It was very difficult; she dragged with both hands, and very nearly +tumbled over backwards when the stalk broke. She is pleased and proud +at what she has done. But nurse has seen her. She runs up, snatches at +Mademoiselle Marie's arm, scolds her, and sets her to stand and repent, +not in the black closet, but at the foot of a great chestnut, under the +shade of a huge Japanese umbrella. + +There Mademoiselle Marie sits and thinks, in great surprise and +perplexity. Her flower in one hand and the umbrella making a bright halo +round her, she looks like a little idol from overseas. + +Nurse has told her: "Marie, you must not put that flower in your mouth. +If you do it when I tell you not, your little dog Toto will come and eat +up your ears." And with these terrible words she walks away. + +The young culprit, sitting quite still under her brilliant canopy, looks +about her and gazes at earth and sky. It is a big world she sees, big +enough and beautiful enough to amuse a little girl for some while. +But her hydrangea blossom is more interesting than all the rest put +together. She thinks to herself: "It is a flower; it must smell good?" +And she puts her nose to the pretty pink and blue ball; she sniffs, but +she cannot smell anything. She is not very good at scenting perfume; it +is only a short while since she always used to blow at a rose instead of +inhaling its odour. You must not laugh at her for that; one cannot learn +everything at once. + +Besides, if she had as keen a sense of smell as her mother, she would be +no better off in this case. A hydrangea _has_ no scent; that is why +we get tired of it, for all its loveliness. But now Mademoiselle Marie +begins to think: "Perhaps it's made of sugar, this flower." Then she +opens her mouth very wide and is just going to lift the flower to her +lips. + +But suddenly, _yap!_ goes her little dog. It is Toto, who comes bounding +over a geranium bed and comes to a stand right in front of Mademoiselle +Marie, with his ears cocked straight up, and stares hard at her out of +his sharp little round eyes. + + + + +THE PANDEAN PIPES + +[Illustration: 182] + +THREE children of the same village, Pierre, Jacques, and Jean, stand +staring, side by side in a row, where they look for all the world like +a mouth-organ or Pandean Pipes, only with three pipes instead of seven. +Pierre, to the left, is a tall lad; Jean, to the right, is a short +child; Jacques, who is betwixt the two, may call himself tall _or_ +short, according as he looks at his left-hand or his right-hand +neighbour. It is a situation I would beg you to ponder, for it is +your own, and mine, and everybody else's. Each one of us is just like +Jacques, and deems himself great or small according as his neighbours' +inches are many or few. + +That is the reason why it is true to say that Jacques is neither tall +nor short, and why it is also true to say he is tall _and_ he is short. +He is what God chooses him to be. For us, he is the middle reed of our +living Pandean Pipes. + +But what is he doing, and what are his two comrades doing? They are +staring, staring hard, all three. What at? At something that has +disappeared in the distance, something that has vanished out of +sight; yet they can see it still, and their eyes are dazzled with its +splendours. It makes little Jean clean forget his eel-skin whiplash and +the peg-top he has always been so fond of keeping for ever spinning with +it in the dusty roads. Pierre and Jacques stand stolidly, their hands +behind their backs. + +What is the wonderful sight that has bewildered all three? A pedlar's +cart, a handcart; they had seen it stop in the village street. + +Then the pedlar drew back his oil-cloth covering, and all, men, women, +and children, feasted their eyes on knives, scissors, popguns, jumping +Jacks, wooden soldiers and lead soldiers, bottles of scent, cakes of +soap, coloured pictures, and a thousand other splendid objects. The +servant-wenches from the farm and the mill turned pale with longing; +Pierre and Jacques flushed red with delight. Little Jean put out his +tongue at it all. Everything the barrow held seemed to them rich and +rare. But what they coveted most of all were those mysterious articles +whose meaning and use they could make nothing of. For instance, there +were polished globes like mirrors that reflected their feces with the +features ludicrously distorted. There were Epinal wares with figures in +impossibly vivid colours; there were little cases and boxes with nobody +knows what inside. + +The women made purchases of muslins and laces by the yard, and the +pedlar rolled the black oil-cloth cover back again over the treasures +of his barrow. Then, pulling at the collar, he hauled off his load after +him along the highroad. And now barrow and barrow-man have disappeared +below the horizon. + + + + +ROGER'S STUD + +[Illustration: 190] + +IT is a great anxiety keeping a stud. The horse is a delicate animal and +needs a lot of looking after. Just ask Roger if it does n't! + +He is busy now grooming his noble chestnut, which would be the pearl of +wooden horses, the flower of the Black Forest stud-farms, if only he had +not lost half his tail in battle. Roger would so like to know whether +wooden horses' tails grow again. + +After rubbing them down in fancy, Roger gives his horses an imaginary +feed of oats. That is the proper way to feed these elfin creatures of +wood on whose backs little boys gallop through the land of dreams. + +Now Roger is off for his ride, mounted on his mettled charger. The poor +beast has no ears left and his mane is all notched like an old broken +comb; but Roger loves him. Why it would be hard to say! This bay was +the gift of a poor man; and the presents of the poor are somehow sweeter +perhaps than any others. + +Roger is off. He has ridden far. The flowers of the carpet are the +blossoms of the tropical forest. Good luck to you, little Roger! May +your hobby-horse carry you happily through the world! May you never have +a more dangerous mount! Small and great, we all ride ours! Which of us +has not his hobby? + +Men's hobbies gallop like mad things along the roads of life; one is +chasing glory, another pleasure; many leap over precipices and break +their rider's neck. I wish you luck, little Roger, and I hope, when +you are a man, you will bestride two hobbies that will always carry you +along the right road; one is spirited, the other gentle-tempered; they +are both noble steeds; one is called Courage and the other Kindness. + + + + +COURAGE + +[Illustration: 192] + +LOUISON and Frederic are off to school along the village street. The +sun shines gaily and the two children are singing. They sing like the +nightingale, because their hearts are light like his. They sing an old +song their grandmothers sang when they were little girls, a song their +children's children will sing one day; for songs are tender flowers that +never die, they fly from lip to lip down the ages. The lips fade and +fall silent one after the other, but the song lives on for ever. There +are songs come down to us from the days when the men were shepherds +and all the women shepherdesses. That is the reason why they speak of +nothing but sheep and wolves. + +Louison and Frederic sing; their mouths are as round as a flower and the +song rises shrill and thin and clear in the morning air. + +But listen! suddenly the notes stick in Frederic's throat. + +What unseen power is it has strangled the music on the boy's lips? It is +fear. Every day, as sure as fate, he comes upon the butcher's dog at the +end of the village street, and every day his heart seems to stop and his +legs begin to shake at the sight. Yet the butcher's dog does not fly at +him, or even threaten to. He sits peaceably at his master's shop-door. +But he is black, and he has a staring bloodshot eye and shows a row of +sharp white teeth. He looks frightful. And then he squats there in the +middle of bits of meat and offal and all sorts of horrors--which makes +him more terrifying still. Of course it is n't his fault, but he is +the presiding genius. Yes, a savage brute, the butcher's dog! So, the +instant Frederic catches sight of the beast before the shop, he picks up +a big stone, as he sees grown-up men do to keep off bad-tempered curs, +and he slinks past close, close under the opposite wall. + +That is how he behaved this time; and Louison laughed at him. + +She did not make any of those daredevil speeches one generally caps with +others more reckless still. No, she never said a word; she never stopped +singing. But she altered her voice and began singing on such a mocking +note that Frederic reddened to his very ears. Then his little head began +to buzz with many thoughts. He learned that we must dread shame even +more than danger. And he was afraid of being afraid. + +So, when school was over and he saw the butcher's dog, he marched +undauntedly past the astonished animal. + +History adds that he kept a corner of his eye on Louison to see if +she was looking. It is a true saying that, if there were no dames nor +damsels in the world, men would be less courageous. + + + + +CATHERINE'S "AT HOME" + +[Illustration: 195] + +IT is five o'clock. Mademoiselle Catherine is "at home" to her dolls. +It is her "day." The dolls do not talk; the little Genie that gave them +their smile did not vouchsafe the gift of speech. He refused it for the +general good; if dolls could talk, we should hear nobody but them. Still +there is no lack of conversation. Mademoiselle Catherine talks for her +guests as well as for herself; she asks questions and gives the answers. + +"How do you do?--Very well, thank you. I broke my arm yesterday +morning going to buy cakes. But it's quite well now.--Ah! so much the +better.--And how is your little girl?--She has the whooping-cough.--Ah! +what a pity! Does she cough much?--Oh! no, it 's a whooping-cough where +there's no cough. You know I had two more children last week.--Really? +that makes four doesn't it?--Four or five, I've forgotten which. When +you have so many, you get confused.--What a pretty frock you +have.--Oh! I 've got far prettier ones still at home.--Do you go to +the theatre?--Yes, every evening. I was at the Opera yesterday; but +Polichinelle wasn't playing, because the wolf had eaten him.--I go to +dances every day, my dear.--It is so amusing.--Yes, I wear a blue gown +and dance with the young men, Generals, Princes, Confectioners, all the +most distinguished people.--You look as pretty as an angel to-day, my +dear.--Oh! it's the spring.--Yes, but what a pity it's snowing.--_I_ +love the snow, because it's white.--Oh! there's black snow, you +know.--Yes, but that's the bad snow." There's fine conversation for you; +Mademoiselle Catherine's tongue goes nineteen to the dozen. Still I have +one fault to find with her; she talks all the time to the same visitor, +who is pretty and wears a fine frock. + +There she is wrong. A good hostess is equally gracious to all her +guests. She treats them all with affability, and if she shows any +particular preference, it is to the more retiring and the less +prosperous. We should flatter the unhappy; it is the only flattery +allowable. But Catherine has discovered this for herself. She has +guessed the secret of true politeness: a kind heart is everything. She +pours out tea for the company, and forgets nobody. On the contrary, she +presses the dolls that are poor and unhappy and shy to help themselves +to invisible cakes and sandwiches made of dominoes. + +Some day Catherine will hold a salon where the old French courtesy will +live again. + + + + +LITTLE SEA-DOGS + +[Illustration: 198] + +THEY are sailor boys, regular little sea-dogs. Look at them; they have +their caps pulled down over their ears so that the gale blowing in from +the sea and bringing the spindrift with it may not deafen them with its +dreadful howling. They wear heavy woollen clothes to keep out the cold +and wet. Their patched pea-jacket and breeches have been their elders' +before them. Most of their garments have been contrived out of old +things of their father's. Their soul is likewise of the same stuff as +their father's; it is simple, brave, and long-suffering. At birth they +inherited a single-hearted, noble temper. Who and what gave it them? +After God and their parents, the Sea. The Sea teaches sailors courage by +teaching them to face danger. It is a rough but kindly instructor. + +That is why our little sailor-boys, though their hearts are childlike +still, have the spirit of gallant veterans. Elbows on the parapet of the +sea-wall, they gaze out into the offing. It is more than the blue line +marking the faint division between sea and sky that they see. Their eyes +care little for the soft, changing colours of the ocean or the vast, +contorted masses of the clouds. What they see, as they look seawards, +is something more moving than the hue of the waves or the shape of the +clouds; it is a suggestion of human love. They are spying for the boats +that sailed away for the fishing; presently they will loom again on the +horizon, laden with shrimp to the gunwales, and bringing home uncles +and big brothers and fathers. The little fleet will soon appear yonder +betwixt the ocean and God's sky with its white or brown sails. To-day +the sky is unclouded, the sea calm; the flood tide floats the fishers +gently to the shore. But the Ocean is a capricious old fellow, who takes +all shapes and sings in many voices. To-day he laughs; to-morrow he will +be growling in the night under his beard of foam. He shipwrecks the most +handy boats, though they have been blessed by the Priest to the chanting +of the _Te Deum_; he drowns the most skilful master mariners, and it is +all his fault you see in the village, before the cottage doors where +the nets hang to dry beside the fish-creels, so many women wearing black +widow's weeds. + + + + +GETTING WELL + +[Illustration: 201] + +GERMAINE is ill. Nobody knows how it began. The arm which sows fever is +invisible like the dustman's hand, the old fellow who comes every night +and makes the little ones so sleepy. But Germaine was not ill very +long and she was not very bad, and now she is getting well again. This +getting well is even pleasanter than being quite well, which comes next. +In the same way hoping and wishing are better, very often, than anything +we wish for or hope for. Germaine lies in bed in her pretty, bright +room, and her dreams are as bright-coloured as her room. + +She looks, a little languidly still, at her doll, which sleeps beside +her own bed. There are sympathies that go deep between little girls and +their dolls. Germaine's doll fell ill at the same time as her little +mamma, and now she is getting well with her. She will take her first +carriage outing sitting by Germaine's side. + +She has seen the doctor too. Alfred came to feel the doll's pulse. He is +Doctor "As-bad-as-can-be." He talks of nothing but cutting off arms and +legs. But Germaine asked him so earnestly that he agreed to cure her +dolly without slashing it to pieces. But he prescribed the nastiest +medicines. + +Illness has one advantage at any rate; it makes us know our friends. +Germaine is sure now she can count on Alfred's goodness; she is certain +Lucie is the best of sisters. All the nine days her illness lasted, +Lucie came to learn her lessons and do her sewing in the sick room. She +insists on bringing the little patient her herb-tea herself. And it is +not a bitter potion, such as Alfred ordered; no, it is balmy with the +scent of wild flowers. + +When she smells its perfume, Germaine's thoughts fly to the flowery +mountain paths, the haunt of children and bees, where she played so +often last year. Alfred too remembers the beautiful ways, and the woods, +and the springs, and the mules that climbed up and up on the brink of +precipices with a sound of tinkling bells. + + + + +ACROSS THE MEADOWS + +[Illustration: 204] + +AFTER breakfast Catherine! started off to the meadows with her little +brother Jean. When they set out, the day seemed as young and fresh as +they were. The sky was not altogether blue; it was grey rather, but of a +tenderer grey than any blue. Catherine's eyes are just the same grey, as +if made out of a bit of morning sky. + +Catherine and Jean wander all by themselves through the fields. +Their mother is a farmer's wife and is at work at home. They have no +nurse-maid to take them, and they don't need one. They know their way, +and all the woods and fields and hills. Catherine can tell the time by +looking at the sun, and she has guessed all sorts of pretty secrets of +Nature that town-bred children have no suspicion of. Little Jean himself +understands a great many things about the woods, the pools, and the +mountains, for his little soul is a country soul. + +Catherine and Jean go roaming through the flowery meadows. As they go, +Catherine gathers a nosegay. She picks blue centauries, scarlet poppies, +cuckoo-flowers, and buttercups, which she also knows as _little chicks_. +She picks those pretty purple blossoms that grow in hedgerows and are +called Venus' looking-glasses. She picks the dark ears of the milkwort, +and crane's-bill and lily of the valley, whose tiny white bells shed +a delicious perfume at the least puff of wind. Catherine loves flowers +because they are beautiful; and she loves them too because they make +such pretty ornaments. She is very simply dressed, and her pretty hair +is hid under a brown linen cap. She wears a cotton check pinafore over +her plain frock, and goes in wooden shoes. She has never seen rich +dresses except on the Virgin Mary and the St. Catherine in the parish +church. But there are some things little girls know directly they are +born. Catherine knows that flowers are becoming to wear, and that pretty +ladies who pin nosegays in their bosoms look lovelier than ever. So she +has a notion she must be very fine indeed now, carrying a nosegay +bigger than her own head. Her thoughts are as bright and fragrant as her +flowers. They are thoughts that cannot be put into words; there are no +words pretty enough. It wants song tunes for that, the liveliest and +softest airs, the sweetest songs. So Catherine sings, as she gathers her +nosegay: "Away to the woods alone" and "My heart is for him, my heart is +for him." + +Little Jean is of another temper. He follows another line of ideas. He +is a broth of a boy, he is; Jean is not breeched yet, but his spirit is +beyond his years and there's no more rollicking blade than he. While +he grips his sister's pinafore with one hand, for fear of tumbling, +he shakes his whip in the other like a sturdy lad. His father's head +stableman can hardly crack his any better when he meets his sweetheart, +bringing home the horses from watering at the river. Little Jean is +lulled by no soft reveries. He never heeds the field flowers. The +games he dreams of are stiff jobs of work. His thoughts dwell on wagons +stogged in the mire and big carthorses hauling at the collar at his +voice and under his lash. + +Catherine and Jean have climbed above the meadows, up the hill, to a +high ground from which you can make out all the chimneys of the village +dotted among the trees and in the far distance the steeples of six +parishes. Then you see what a big place the world is. Then Catherine can +better understand the stories she has been taught,--the dove from the +Ark, the Israelites in the Promised Land, and Jesus going from city to +city. + +"Let's sit down there," she says. + +Down she sits, and, opening her hands, she sheds her flowery harvest +all over her. She is all fragrant with blossoms, and in a moment the +butterflies come fluttering round her. She picks and chooses and matches +her flowers; she weaves them into garlands and wreaths, and hangs +flower-bells in her ears; she is decked out now like the rustic image of +a Holy Virgin the shepherds venerate. Her little brother Jean, who has +been busy all this while driving a team of imaginary horses, sees her +in all this bravery. Instantly he is filled with admiration. A religious +awe penetrates all his childish soul. He stops, and the whip falls from +his fingers. He feels that she is beautiful and all smothered in lovely +flowers. He tries in vain to say all this in his soft, indistinct +speech. But she has guessed. Little Catherine is his big sister, and a +big sister is a little mother; she foresees, she guesses; she has the +sacred instinct. + +"Yes, darling," cries Catherine, "I am going to make you a beautiful +wreath, and you will look like a little king." + +And so she twines together the white flowers, the yellow flowers, and +the red flowers, into a chaplet. She puts it on little Jean's head, and +he flushes with pride and pleasure. She kisses her little brother, lifts +him in her arms and plants him, all garlanded with blossoms, on a big +stone. Then she looks at him admiringly, because he is beautiful and +_she_ has made him so. + +And standing there on his rustic pedestal, little Jean knows he is +beautiful, and the thought fills him with a deep respect for himself. He +feels he is something holy. Very upright and still, with round eyes and +tight-drawn lips, arms by his side with the palms open and the fingers +parted like the spokes of a wheel, he tastes a pious joy to be an +idol--he is sure he is an idol now. The sky is overhead, the woods +and fields lie at his feet. He is the hub of the universe. He alone is +great, he alone is beautiful. + +But suddenly Catherine breaks into a laugh. She shouts: + +"Oh! how funny you look, little Jean! how funny you do look!" + +She runs up and throws her arms round him, she kisses him and shakes +him; the heavy wreath of flowers slips down over his nose. And she +laughs again: + +"Oh! how funny he looks! how very funny!" + +But it is no laughing matter for little Jean. He is sad and sorry, +wondering why it is all over and he has left off being beautiful. It +hurts to come down to earth again! + +Now the wreath is unwound and tossed on the grass, and little Jean is +like anybody else once more. Yes, he has left off being beautiful. But +he is still a sturdy young scamp. He soon has his whip in hand again and +now he is hauling his team of six, the six big carthorses of his dreams, +out of that rut. Catherine is still playing with her flowers. But some +of them are dying. Others are closing in sleep. For the flowers go to +sleep like the animals, and look! the campanulas, plucked a few hours +ago, are shutting their purple bells and sinking asleep in the little +hands that have parted them from life. + +A light breeze blows by, and Catherine shivers. It is night coming. + +"I am hungry," says little Jean. + +But Catherine has not a bit of bread to give her little brother. She +says: + +"Little brother, let 's go back to the house." + +And they both think of the cabbage soup steaming in the pot that hangs +from the hook right under the great chimney. Catherine gathers her +flowers in her arm and taking her little brother by the hand, she leads +him homewards. + +The sun sank slowly down to the ruddy West. The swallows swooped past +the two children, almost touching them with their wings, that hardly +seemed to move. It was getting dark. Catherine and Jean pressed closer +together. + +Catherine dropped her flowers one after the other by the way. They could +hear, in the wide silence, the untiring chirp-chirp of the crickets. +They were afraid, both of them, and they were sad; the melancholy of +nightfall had entered into their little hearts. All round them was +familiar ground, but the things they knew the best looked strange and +uncanny. The earth seemed suddenly to have grown too big and too old for +them. They were tired, and they began to think they would never reach +the house, where mother was making the soup for all the family. Jean's +whip hung limp and still, and Catherine let the last of her flowers +slip from her tired fingers. She was dragging Jean along by the arm, and +neither said a word. + +At last they saw a long way off the roof of their house and smoke rising +in the darkening sky. Then they stopped running, and clapping their +hands together, shouted for joy. Catherine kissed her little brother; +then they set off running again as fast as ever their weary legs would +carry them. When they reached the village, there were women coming back +from the fields who gave them good evening. They breathed again. Their +mother was on the door-step, in a white cap, soup-ladle in hand. + +"Come along, little ones, come along!" she called to them. And they +threw themselves into her arms. When she reached the parlour where the +cabbage soup was smoking on the table, Catherine shivered again. She +had seen night come down over the earth. Jean, seated on the settle, his +chin on a level with the table, was already eating his soup. + + + + +THE MARCH PAST + +[Illustration: 213] + +RENE, Bernard, Roger, Jacques, and Etienne feel sure there is nothing +finer in the world than to be a soldier. Francine agrees with them +and she would love to be a boy to join the army. They think so because +soldiers wear fine uniforms, epaulettes and gold lace, and glittering +swords. There is yet another reason for putting the soldier in the front +rank of citizens--because he gives his life for his Country. There is no +true greatness in this world but that of sacrifice, and to offer one's +life is the greatest of all sacrifices, because it includes all others. +That is why the hearts of the crowd beat high when a regiment goes by. + +Rene is the General. He wears a cocked hat and rides a war-horse. The +hat is made of paper and the horse is a chair. His army consists of a +drummer and four men--of whom one is a girl! "Shoulder arms! Forward, +march!" and the march past begins. Francine and Roger look quite +imposing under arms. True, Jacques does not hold his gun very valiantly. +He is a melancholy lad. But we must not blame him for that; dreamers +can be just as brave as those who never dream at all. His little +brother Etienne, the tiniest mite in the regiment, looks pensive. He is +ambitious; he would like to be a general officer right away, and that +makes him sad. + +"Forward! forward!" Rene shouts the order. "We are to fall on the +Chinese, who are in the dining-room." The Chinese are chairs. When you +play at fighting, chairs make first-rate Chinese. They fall--and what +better can the Chinese do? When all the chairs are feet in air, Rene +announces: "Soldiers, now we have beaten the Chinese, we will have our +rations." The idea is well received on all hands. Yes, soldiers +must eat. This time the Commissariat has furnished the best of +victuals--buns, maids of honour, coffee cakes and chocolate cakes, +red-currant syrup. The army falls to with a will. Only Etienne will eat +nothing. He frowns and looks enviously at the sword and cocked hat which +the General has left on a chair. He creeps up, snatches them, and slips +into the next room. There he stands alone before the glass; he puts on +the cocked hat and waves the sword; he is a general, a general +without an army, a general all to himself. He tastes the pleasures of +ambition--pleasures full of vague forecastings and long, long hopes. + + + + +DEAD LEAVES + +[Illustration: 216] + +AUTUMN is here. The wind blowing through the woods whirls about the dead +leaves. The chestnuts are stripped bare already and lift their black +skeleton arms in the air. And now the beeches and hornbeams are shedding +_their_ leaves. The birches and aspens are turned to trees of gold, and +only the great oak keeps his coronal of green. + +The morning is fresh; a keen wind is chasing the clouds across a grey +sky and reddening the youngsters' fingers. Pierre, Babet, and Jeannot +are off to collect the dead leaves, the leaves that once, when they were +still alive, were full of dew and songs of birds, and which now strew +the ground in thousands and thousands with their little shrivelled +corpses. They are dead, but they smell good. They will make a fine +litter for Riquette, the goat, and Roussette, the cow. Pierre has taken +his big basket; he is quite a little man. Babet has her sack; she is +quite a little woman. Jeannot comes last trundling the wheelbarrow. + +Down the hill they go at a run. At the edge of the wood they find the +other village children, who are come too to lay in a store of dead +leaves for the winter. It is not play, this; it is work. + +But never think the children are sad, because they are at work. Work is +serious, yes; it is not sad. Very often the little ones mimic it in fun, +and children's games, most times, are copies of their elders' workaday +doings. + +Now they are hard at it. The boys do their part in silence. They are +peasant lads, and will soon be men, and peasants do not talk much. But +it is different with the little peasant girls; _their_ tongues go at a +fine pace, as they fill the baskets and bags. + +But now the sun is climbing higher and warming the country pleasantly. +From the cottage roofs rise light puffs of smoke. The children know what +that means. The smoke tells them the pease-soup is cooking in the pot. +One more armful of dead leaves, and the little workers will take the +road home. It is a stiff climb. Bending under sacks or toiling behind +barrows, they soon get hot, and the sweat comes out in beads. Pierre, +Babet and Jeannot stop to take breath. + +But the thought of the pease-soup keeps up their courage. Puffing and +blowing, they reach home at last. Their mother is waiting for them on +the door-step and calls out: "Come along, children, the soup is ready." + +Our little friends find this capital. There's no soup so good as what +you have worked for. + + + + +SUZANNE + +[Illustration: 219] + +THE Louvre, as you know, is a museum where beautiful things and ancient +things are kept safe--and this is wisely done, for old age and beauty +are both alike venerable. Among the most touching of the antiquities +treasured in the Louvre Museum is a fragment of marble, worn and cracked +in many places, but on which can still be clearly made out two maidens +holding each a flower in her hand. Both are beautiful figures; they were +young when Greece was young. They say it was the age of perfect beauty. +The sculptor who has left us their image represents them in profile, +offering each other one of those lotus flowers that were deemed sacred. +In the blue cups of their blossoms the world quaffed oblivion of the +ills of life. Our men of learning have given much thought to these two +maidens. They have turned over many books to find out about them, big +books, bound some in parchment, others in vellum, and many in pig-skin; +but they have never fathomed the reason why the two beautiful maidens +hold up a flower in their hands. + +What they could not discover after so much labour and thought, so +many arduous days and sleepless nights, Mademoiselle Suzanne knew in a +moment. + +Her papa had taken her to the Louvre, where he had business. +Mademoiselle Suzanne looked wonderingly at the antiques, and seeing gods +with missing arms and legs and heads, she said to herself: "Ah! yes, +these are the grown-up gentlemen's dolls; I see now gentlemen break +their dollies the same as little girls do." But when she came to the two +maidens who, each of them, hold a flower, she threw them a kiss, because +they looked so charming. Then her father asked her: "Why do they give +each other a flower?" And Suzanne answered at once: "To wish each other +a happy birthday." Then, after thinking a moment, she added: + +"They have the same birthday; they are both alike and they are offering +each other the same flower. Girl friends should always have the same +birthday." + +Now Suzanne is far away from the Louvre and the old Greek marbles; she +is in the kingdom of the birds and the flowers. She is spending the +bright spring days in the meadows under shelter of the woods. She plays +in the grass, and that is the sweetest sort of play. She remembers +to-day is her little friend Jacqueline's birthday; and so she is going +to pick flowers which she will give Jacqueline, and kiss her. + + + + +FISHING + +[Illustration: 222] + +JEAN set out betimes in the morning with his sister Jeanne, a +fishing-pole over his shoulder and a basket on his arm. It is holiday +time and the school is shut; that is why Jean goes off every day with +his sister Jeanne, a rod over his shoulder and a basket on his arm, +along the river bank. Jean is a Tourainer, and Jeanne a lass of +Touraine. The river is Tourainer too. It runs crystal-clear between +silvery sallows under a moist, mild sky. Morning and evening white mists +trail over the grass of the water-meadows.' But Jean and Jeanne love the +river neither for the greenery of its banks nor its clear waters that +mirror the heavens. They love it for the fish in it. They stop presently +at the most likely place, and Jeanne sits down under a pollard +willow. Laying down his baskets, Jean unwinds his tackle. This is very +primitive--a switch, with a piece of thread and a bent pin at the end +of it. Jean supplied the rod, Jeanne gave the line and the hook; so the +tackle is the common property of brother and sister. Both want it all +to themselves, and this simple contrivance, only meant to do mischief to +the fishes, becomes the cause of domestic broils and a rain of blows by +the peaceful riverside. Brother and sister fight for the free use of +the rod and line. Jean's arm is black and blue with pinches and Jeanne's +cheek scarlet from her brother's slaps. At last, when they were tired of +pinching and hitting, Jean and Jeanne consented to share amicably what +neither could appropriate by force. They agreed that the rod should pass +alternately from the brother's hands to the sister's after each fish +they caught. + +Jean begins. But there's no knowing when he will end. He does not break +the treaty openly, but he shirks its consequences by a mean trick. +Rather than have to hand over the tackle to his sister, he refuses to +catch the fish that come, when they nibble the bait and set his float +bobbing. + +Jean is artful; Jeanne is patient. She has been waiting six hours. But +at last she seems tired of doing nothing. She yawns, stretches, lies +down in the shade of the willow, and shuts her eyes. Jean spies her out +of one corner of his, and he thinks she is asleep. The float dives. +He whips out the line, at the end of which gleams a flash of silver. A +gudgeon has taken the pin. + +"Ah! it's my turn now," cries a voice behind him. + +And Jeanne snatches the rod. + + + + +THE PENALTIES OF GREATNESS + +[Illustration: 225] + +IT was to go and see their friend Jean that Roger, Marcel, Bernard, +Jacques, and Etienne set out along the broad highroad that winds like a +handsome yellow riband through the fields and meadows. Now they are off. +They start all abreast; it is the best way. Only there is one defect in +the arrangement this time; Etienne is too little to keep up. + +He tries hard and puts his best foot foremost. His short legs stretch +their widest. He swings his arms into the bargain. But he is too little; +he cannot go as fast as his companions. He falls behind because he is +too small; it is no use. + +The big boys, who are older, should surely wait for him, you say, and +suit their pace to his. So they should, but they don't. Forward! cry the +strong ones of this world, and they leave the weaklings in the lurch. +But hear the end of the story. All of a sudden our four tall, strong, +sturdy friends see something jumping on the ground. It jumps because +it is a frog, and it wants to reach the meadow along the roadside. The +meadow is froggy's home, and he loves it; he has his residence there +beside a brook. He jumps, and jumps. + +He is a green frog, and he looks like a leaf that is alive. Now the lads +are in the meadow; very soon they feel their feet sinking in the soft +ground where the rank grass grows. A few steps more, and they are up to +their knees in mud. The grass hid a swamp underneath. + +They just manage to struggle out. Shoes, socks, calves are all as black +as ink. The fairy of the green field has put gaiters of mire on the four +bad boys. + +Etienne comes up panting for breath. He hardly knows, when he sees them +in this pickle, if he should be glad or sorry. His simple little heart +is filled with a sense of the catastrophes that befall the great and +strong. As for the four muddy urchins, they turn back piteously the way +they came, for how can they, I should like to know, how can they go and +see their friend Jean with their shoes and stockings in this state? When +they get home again, their mothers will know how naughty they have been +by the evidence of their legs, while little Etienne's innocence will be +legible on his sturdy little stumps. + + + + +A CHILD'S DINNER PARTY + +[Illustration: 228] + +WHAT fun it is playing at dinner parties! You can have a very plain +dinner or a very elaborate one, just as you like. You can manage it with +nothing at all. Only you have to pretend a great deal then. + +Therese and her little sister Pauline have asked Pierre and Marthe to +a dinner in the country. Proper invitations have been issued, and they +have been talking about it for days. Mamma has given her two little +girls good advice--and good things to eat, too. There will be nougat +and sweet cakes, and a chocolate cream. The table will be laid in the +arbour. + +"If only it will be fine!" cries Therese, who is nine now. At her age +one knows the fondest hopes are often disappointed in this world and you +cannot always do what you propose. But little Pauline has none of these +worries. She cannot think it will be wet. It will be fine, because she +wants it to. + +And lo! the great day has broken clear and sunny. Not a cloud in the +sky. The two guests have come. How fortunate! For this was another +subject of anxiety for Therese. Marthe had caught a cold, and perhaps +she would not be better in time. As for little Pierre, everybody knows +he always misses the train. You cannot blame him for it. It is +his misfortune, not his fault. His mother is unpunctual by nature. +Everywhere and always little Pierre arrives after everybody else; he has +never in his life seen the beginning of anything. This has given him a +dull, resigned look. + +The dinner is served; ladies and gentlemen, take your places! Therese +presides. She is thoughtful and serious; the housewifely instinct is +awaking in her bosom. Pierre carves valiantly. Nose in the dish and +elbows above his head, he struggles to divide the leg of a chicken. Why, +his feet even take their part in the tremendous effort. Mademoiselle +Marthe eats elegantly, without any ado or any noise, just like a +grown-up lady. Pauline is not so particular; she eats how she can and as +much as she can. + +Therese, now serving her guests, now one of them herself, is content; +and contentment is better than joy. The little dog Gyp has come to eat +up the scraps, and Therese thinks, as she watches him crunching the +bones, that dogs know nothing of all the dainty ways that make grown-up +dinners, and children's too, so refined and delightful. + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Child Life In Town And Country, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY *** + +***** This file should be named 25408.txt or 25408.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/4/0/25408/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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