ÉMILE SOUVESTRE (1806-1854) N 1854, the year of Émile Souvestre's death in Paris, the French timonial to the memory of the most useful writer. The principal work to win him this distinction-'Le Philosophe sous les Toits,' was not a piece of brilliant creation, not a learned treatise, but a sweet-spirited little volume of reflections upon daily life. Upon its appearance in 1851 the Academy crowned it; and in translation, 'The Attic Philosopher' has long been esteemed by English readers. The philosopher was Souvestre himself, who knew poverty and hard work all his life; and accepting both with contagious courage and cheerfulness, advised his readers to make the best of whatever came. He tested this philosophy. Born at Morlaix in Finisterre in 1806, he passed his childhood and youth there; and grew intimately familiar with Breton life and scenery. Next he studied law at Rennes, where he tried unsuccessfully to practice. He was about twenty-four when he went to Paris, hoping to make his way in literature. It has been said that in Paris every would-be author is forced to discover his own value; and after a stay there, many retire in sad self-knowledge. Souvestre was stimulated by the richer intellectual life. His individuality was too strong to be submerged. He remained a thorough Breton, distance giving him a more definite appreciation of his early home. The sudden death of his brother, a sea captain, made him the only support of his family; and he was obliged to return to Brittany, where he became clerk in a large publishing-house at Nantes. During the next uncertain years he wrote short articles for local journals. For a time he was associated with a M. Papot in the management of a school. He then became editor of a Brest newspaper. In 1835 he returned to Paris, where his Breton tales soon made him a name. During his comparatively short life of forty-eight years he wrote more than forty books, comprising plays, short stories, and historical works. Like his great compatriot, the early realist Le Sage, one of Souvestre's primary qualities was clear common-sense. Usual, universal sentiments appealed to him more than romantic eccentricities. Like another great Breton, Ernest Renan, he was deeply occupied with the question of religion. His stories, most of which reflect Breton life, are often true tales told him by the peasants; and all have the qualities of reality and religious feeling. His greatest work, 'Les Derniers Bretons,' was an exposition of Breton life, with all its traditions, sentiments, and modes of thought and action. He felt that many tales traditionary among the poor were in danger of being lost; and he hated to see them die from the people's memory. He felt too that this folk-lore was of historical value as a spontaneous revelation of a mental and moral attitude. As he points out, the Eastern fairy tale, full of gorgeous color and material delight, has little in common with the Breton tales, with their curious mingling of shrewdness and sentiment, their positive concern over and belief in the reward of virtue and retribution of sin. Both compositions reflect their authors. In his 'Le Foyer Breton,' a collection of folk-lore tales, - he preserved as far as possible the traditional form of expression. They are full of local saws and allusions; many are genuine fairy tales, in which kindly and practical fairies, by removing a series of obstacles, render young lovers happy. Others evince a true Breton delight in the weird and grotesque, and narrate the horrible fate of those who brave evil spirits in accursed spots at midnight. THE WASHERWOMEN OF NIGHT From 'Le Foyer Breton' HE Bretons are children of transgression like the rest, but they love their dead; they pity those who burn in Purgatory, and try to ransom them from the fire of probation. Every Sunday after mass, they pray for their souls on the spot where their poor bodies perished. It is especially in the black month [November] that they perform this Christian act. When the forerunner of winter comes [All-Saints' Day], every one thinks of those who have gone to the judgment of God. They have masses said at the altar of the dead, they light candles to them, they confide them to the best saints, they take the little children to their tombs; and after vespers, the rector comes out of church to bless their graves. It is also upon this night that Christ grants some solace to the dead, and permits them to revisit the homes in which they lived. There are then as many dead in the houses of the living as there are yellow leaves in the rough roads. Therefore true Christians leave the table-cloth spread and the fire lighted, that the dead may take their meals, and warm the limbs stiffened by the cold of cemeteries. But if there are true adorers of the Virgin and her Son, there are also the children of the Black Angel [the Devil], who forget those who have been nearest their hearts. Wilherm Postik was one of the latter. His father had quitted life without having received absolution; and as the proverb says, "Kadion is always the son of his father." Therefore he cared only for forbidden pleasures, danced during church-time when he could, and drank during mass with beggarly horse-jockeys. Yet God had not failed to send him warnings. In one year he had seen an ill wind strike his mother, his sisters, and his wife; but he had consoled himself for their deaths by inheriting their property. The rector vainly warned him in sermon, that he was a subject of scandal to all the parish. Far from correcting Wilherm, this public advice had only the result of making him give up church, as might easily have been foreseen; for it is not by snapping the whip one brings back a runaway horse. So he set about living more as he chose than ever,-as faithless and lawless as a fox in the brush. Now it happened in that time that the fine days came to an end, and the feast of the dead arrived. All baptized folk put on their mourning-garments, and went to church to pray for the dead; but Wilherm dressed himself in his best, and took the road to the neighboring town. All the time the others spent in relieving souls in pain, he passed there drinking brandy with the sailors, and singing verses composed by the millers [i. e., coarse songs]. He did this until nearly midnight; and did not think of returning until the others grew weary of wrong-doing. He had an iron constitution for pleasure; and he left the inn the last one, as steady and active as when he had entered. But his heart was hot with drink. He sang aloud along the road, songs which usually even the boldest would only whisper; he passed the crucifixes without lowering his voice or lifting his hat; and he struck the thickets of broom with his stick right and left, without fear of wounding the souls which fill the ways upon that day. He thus reached a crossway from which there were two paths to his village. The longer was under the protection of God, while the shorter was haunted by the dead. Many people crossing it by night had heard noises and seen things of which they did not speak, except when with others and within reach of holywater. But Wilherm feared only thirst; therefore he took the shortest path, where his clogs clattered on the pebbles. Now the night was moonless; the wind rattled down the leaves, the springs rolled sadly along the bank, the bushes shivered like a man in fear; and in the silence, Wilherm's steps sounded like those of giants: but nothing frightened him, and he kept on. As he passed the old ruined manor, he heard the weathercock, which said to him: "Do not pass, do not pass, do not pass!" He set his foot on the stones polished by the stream, and crossed. As he reached a worm-eaten oak, the wind whistling through the branches repeated: "Stay here, stay here, stay here!" But Wilherm struck the dead tree with his stick, and hurried on. At last he entered the haunted valley. Midnight sounded from three parishes. Wilherm began to whistle the tune of 'Marionnik.' But just as he was whistling the fourth verse, he heard the sound of a cart, and saw it coming towards him covered with a pall. Wilherm recognized the hearse. It was drawn by six black horses, and driven by the "Ankon" [phantom of death], who held an iron whip and repeated ceaselessly: "Turn aside, or I will overturn you." Wilherm made way for him without being disconcerted. "What are you doing here, Paleface?" he demanded boldly. "I seize and I surprise," answered the Ankon. "So you are a robber and a traitor?" went on Wilherm. "I strike without look or thought." "That is, like a fool or a brute. But why are you in such a hurry to-day?" "I am seeking Wilherm Postik," answered the phantom, passing by. The merry Wilherm burst out laughing, and went on. As he reached the little hedge of blackthorn which led to the washing-place, he saw two women in white who were hanging linen on the bushes. "Upon my life! here are some girls who are not afraid of the dew," said he. "Why are you out so late, little doves?" "We are washing, we are drying, we are sewing," answered the two women at once. "But what? » asked the young man. "The shroud of a dead man who still talks and walks." "A dead man! My faith! What is his name?" "Wilherm Postik." The fellow laughed louder than at first, and went on down the rough little path. But as he advanced, he heard more and more distinctly the blows of wooden beetles against the stones; and soon he could see the washerwomen of night pounding their grave-clothes, as they sang the sad refrain: "Unless a Christian our doom can stay, Until Judgment Day we must wash away; To the sound of the wind, in the moon's pale light, As soon as they saw the merry fellow, all cried out and ran up to him, offering him their winding-sheets and asking him to wring them out. "That's too trifling a service to be refused among friends," answered Wilherm gayly: "but one at a time, fair washerwomen; a man has only two hands for wringing as well as for embracing." Then he set down his stick, and took the end of the shroud which one of the dead women offered him; being careful to twist the same way she did, for he had learned from old people that thus only could he escape being broken to pieces. But as the shroud was thus turning, behold, the other washerwomen surrounded Wilherm; and he recognized his aunt, his wife, his mother, and his sisters. They all cried, "A thousand curses on him who lets his people burn in hell! A thousand curses!" And they shook their thin hair, lifting their white beetles; and from all the washing-places of the valley, from the moors above, from all the hedges, voices repeated, "A thousand curses! a thousand curses!" XXIII-857 |