Essays from 'The Guardian'

N IDYLL OF

ndignified. The passions he treats of in priests are, indeed, strictly clerical, most often their ambitions-not the errant humours of the mere man in the priest, but movements of spirit properly incidental to the clerical type itself. Turning to the secular brothers and sisters of these peasant ecclesiastics, at first sight so strongly contrasted with them, M. Fabre shows a great acquaintance with the sources, the effects, of average human feeling; but still in contact-in contact, as its conscience, its better mind, its ideal-with the institutions of religion. What constitutes his distinguishing note as a writer is the recognition of the religious, the Catholic, ideal, intervening masterfully throughout the picture he presents of life, as the only mode of poetry realizable by the poor; and although, of course, it does a great deal more beside, certain

is refreshing himself, in the midst of dusty, sophisticated Paris, with memories of their old, delightful existence-vagabonde, libre, agreste, pastora

rce understanding those whose religion makes their souls tremble instead of forti

have no intention of betraying it, but only to note some o

the Cevennes presenting then a symphony in red, so to call it-as in a land of cherries and goldfinches; and he has a genial power certainly of making you r

country changed. It seemed to me entirely red. Cherries in

Every object was in its place: the table, the chairs, the plates ranged on the dresser. A fairy, i

voice from a dark corner, th

at was growing greater every mome

as they say up there-had not lost a hair: beautiful white locks fell over his shoulders-crisp, thick, outspread. I thought of those fine wigs of tow or hemp with which the distaff of [126] our Prudence was always entangled. He was close shaved, after the manner of our peasants; and the entire mask was to be seen disengaged, all its admirable lines free, commanded by a full-sized nose, below which the good, thic

cried; 'where are you?

me, with ten fingers,

offence if a poor peasa

upon his broad chest, I heard the beating of his heart. It beat under my ears with a burden like our bell at [126]

re quite ready to sit

ter fatigue, a short space of silence of a quite elevated character, almost sacred. The poor human creature has given the sweat

is a mistake to demand so much of your arms. In truth, le bon Dieu has cut you out after the pattern of your dead father. Every morning, in my prayers, I put in my complaint therea

are turned towards a particular sp

hen she married me, brought a few morsels of land in her apron. What a state they're in now!-those poor morsels of land we used to weed and rake and hoe, my boy and I! What superb crops of vetches we mowed then, for feeding, in due time, our lambs, our calves! All is gone to ruin

symphony, as we said, in cherries and goldfinches, in which the higher valleys of the Cevennes abound. In fact, the boys witness

on the thick foliage of the cherry-trees, his hands on his haunches, in an attitude of repose, easy, superb, he was like some youthful pagan god, gilded with red gold, on his way across the country-like Pan, if he chose to amuse himself by charming birds. You should have seen the enthusiastic glances with which Norine watched

s half spread, were fluttering from branch to branch. I could have fancied, amid the quivering of the great bunches of fruit, that the

, now a man of letters in Paris, writes to his

so amiteux, to use a word from up there-a charming word. And so God, Who had His designs for you, whereas I, in spite of my pious childhood, wandered

in which, in fact, a goldfinch again takes an important part

nto my apartment, he would be very welcome. I feel a strong impulse to try him with that unique patois word, which, whistled after a peculiar manner,

husband Justin is slowly dying. Towards the end of a hard life, faithful to their mounta

murmured to each other their broken consoling words, I saw them again, in thought, young, handsome, in the full flower of life, under the cherry-trees, the swarming goldfinches, of blind Barthélemy Jalaguier. Ah me! It was t

ead body of his boy, dead "the very morning on which he should have received the tonsure from

e a sign. After all said, life is heavy, sans le fillot, an

cold, breathed that one word, 'Theodore!' Marcus Aurelius used to say: 'A man should leave the world as a ripe olive falls from the tree that bore it, and with a kiss for the earth that nourished it.' Well! the peasant of Rocaillet had the beautiful, noble, simple death of the fruit of the earth, going to

ted one or more of those spacious sacristies, introduced to which for the inspection of some more than usually recherché work of art, one is presently dominated by their reverend quiet: simple people coming and going there, devout, or at least on devout business, with half-pitched voices, not without touches of kindly humour, in what seems to express like a p

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