THE CUCUGNANIAN PRIEST
Every year, at the feast of the presentation of Jesus, the Provencal poets publish a wonderful little book overflowing with beautiful verse and great stories. I've only just received this year's copy, and inside I found this adorable little fable which I am going to try to translate for you, albeit in a slightly abridged version…. Men of Paris, prepare yourselves for a treat. The finest flowering of Provencal flour is to be laid before you, right now….
* * * * *
Father Martin was the Cucugnan priest.
He was as wholesome as fresh bread, as good as gold, and he had a paternal love for his Cucugnanians. For him Cucugnan would have been the nearest thing to paradise on earth, if only the people had given him a little more, shall we say, business. But, sadly, his confessional remained unused except as a larder for spiders. On Easter day, the hosts remained secure in their holy ciborium. It hurt the good priest to the very centre of his soul, and every day he prayed that he would live to see his missing flock back in the fold.
Well, as you will see, the good Lord was listening.
One Sunday after the Gospels, monsieur Martin took his place in the pulpit.
* * * * *
—Bretheren, he said, believe me, or believe me not, the other night, I found myself, yes me, a miserable sinner, at the very gates of paradise.
"I knocked. St. Peter himself opened the gates!
"—Well! It's you, my dear monsieur Martin, he began, which fine wind…? And what can I do for you?
"—Dear St. Peter, keeper of the key and the great book, if I may be so bold, could you tell me how many Cucugnanians are in heaven?
"—I can refuse you nothing, monsieur Martin. Sit down, we will look it up together.
"St. Peter then took up his thick book, opened it, and put on his spec's:
"—Now then, let's see: Cucugnan, you say. Cu…Cu…Cucugnan. Here we are. Cucugnan…. My dear monsieur Martin, the page is purest white. Not a soul…. There are no more Cucugnanians than there are fish bones in a turkey.
"—What! There's no one from Cucugnan here? No one? That's impossible!
Look again, more closely….
"—Nobody, Oh, holy man. Look for yourself, if you think I am joking.
"—My, oh my! Dear, oh dear! I stamped my feet, clenched my hands and cried,—Mercy me!—Then, St Peter continued:
"—Believe me, monsieur Martin, you mustn't take on so, you could easily have a stroke. After all, it's not your fault. You see, your Cucugnanians must, without fear of contradiction, be doing their spell in purgatory.
"—Oh! for charity's sake, great St. Peter, make it so that I can at least see them to give them solace.
"—Willingly, my friend…. Here, put on these sandals, quickly, for the rest of the way is none too smooth…. That's right…. Now, keep going straight on. Can you see a turning over there, at the far end? You will find a silver door completely covered with black crosses…. On the right hand side…. When you knock, it will be opened unto you…. Bye-bye! Be good and, above all, stay cheerful."
* * * * *
"And I kept on going … and kept on going. I was dead beat, and covered in goose flesh; there was nothing to take my mind off things. A small footpath, full of brambles, and shining rubies and hissing snakes, led me to the silver door.
"I knocked twice.
"—Who is it? asked a hoarse, deathly voice.
"—The priest of Cucugnan.
"—Of…?
"—Of Cucugnan.
"—Ah!… Come in.
"I entered. A great, beautiful angel, with wings as dark as the night, a robe as radiant as the day, and a diamond key hanging at his waist, was scratching something into a great book even thicker than St.Peter's….
"—Well, what do you want; do you have a question? said the angel.
"—Dear angel of the Lord, I would like to know, I am dying to know, in fact, if you have the Cucugnanians here?
"—The?…
"—The Cucugnanians, the people from Cucugnan…. I am their prior.
"—Ah! Abbot Martin, is it?
"—At your service, monsieur angel."
* * * * *
"—Cucugnan, you say….
"The angel then opened his great book and leafed through it, licking his finger to turn the page….
"—Cucugnan, he gave a long sigh…. Monsieur Martin, we have no one here in purgatory from Cucugnan.
"—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No one from Cucugnan! Oh, Good Lord! So, where, forgive me, in heaven's name, are they, then?
"—Well! holy man, they are in paradise. Where on earth did you expect them to be?
"—But I've just come from there.
"—You've come from there!… And?
"—And! They're not there!… Oh, dear Mother of God!
"—What can I do monsieur priest? If they're neither in paradise not purgatory, there is no half way house, they are….
"—Holy Cross of Jesus, son of David! No, no, no, can it be?… Could it be that the great St. Peter himself lied to me?… I never heard the cock crow. Oh, we are lost! How can I possibly go to heaven if my flock aren't there?
"—Listen, my poor monsieur Martin, as you want to be sure about all this, no matter what, and to see for yourself what you have to do to turn things round, take that footpath, and run along it, if you know how to run…. You will come across a large gate on the left. There, it will all be made clear to you. And by God himself!
"And the angel closed the door."
* * * * *
"It was a long pathway covered in red-hot embers. I staggered as if I had been drinking; I stumbled at every single step; I was covered in sweat, a drop on every single hair of my body, and I was gasping for something to drink…. But, thanks to the sandals St. Peter lent me, I didn't burn my feet.
"After stumbling and limping along for some time, I saw a door on the left…. No, it was more a gate, an enormous, yawning gate, like a huge oven door. What a fantastic sight, my children! No one asked my name, even there at the reception area. I went through the cavernous door in batches, my brothers, just like you sinners as you go to the cabaret on Sunday night.
"I was sweating profusely, and yet frozen to the spot, I was trembling fearfully. My hair stood on end. I smelt burning, roasting flesh, something like the smell that spread around Cucugnan when Eli, the marshal, burned the hoof of an old ass while shoeing it. I couldn't breathe in that foetid, burning air; I heard a frightful clamour. There was moaning, howling, cursing.
"—You there! Are you coming in, or are you staying outside? scorned a horned devil, prodding me with his fork.
"—Me? I'm not going in. I am a friend of Almighty God.
"—So, you're a friend of God…. Eh! You damned fool! What are you doing here?…
"—I have come…. Oh! don't bother me, I can hardly stand up…. I have come … I have come from a far away … to humbly ask … if … if, by any chance, you have someone here from Cucugnan….
"—Oh! God's teeth! you're playing the idiot, you; it's as though you didn't know that the whole of Cucugnan is here. Well, ugly crow, watch and you will see how things are here with your precious Cucugnanians…."
* * * * *
"And I saw, in the middle of a terrible, flaming vortex of flame:
"The lanky Coq-Galine—you all knew him, my brothers—Coq-Galine, who was regularly drunk, and so often knocked ten bells out of his poor Clairon.
"I saw Catarinet … that little vixen … with her nose in the air … who slept alone in the barn…. You remember that, you rascals!… But let's move on, I've said too much already.
"I saw Pascal Doigt-de-Poix, who made his olive oil—with monsieur
Julien's olives!
"I saw Babet the gleaner, who, as she gleaned, grabbed handfuls from the stacks to make up her quota!
"I saw Master Grapasi, who oiled his wheelbarrow rather a lot, so as not to be heard!
"And Dauphine, who greatly overcharged for water from her wells.
"And le Tortillard, who, when he met me carrying the Good Lord, rushed away, with his biretta perched on his head and his pipe stuck in his mouth … as proud as Lucifer … as though he had come across a mangy dog.
"And Coulau with his Zette, and Jacques, and Pierre, and Toni…."
* * * * *
Much moved and ashen with fear, the congregation whimpered, while imagining their fathers, and their mothers and their grandmothers and their sisters, when hell's gates were opened….
—Your feelings don't deceive you, brothers, the good abbot continued, you sense that this can't go on. I am responsible for your souls, and I do want to save you from the abyss towards which you are rushing helter-skelter and head first.
"Tomorrow, at the latest, my task begins. And the work will not be in vain! This is how I am going to go about it. For it to come out well, everything must be done in an orderly way. We will proceed step by step, like at Jonquières when there's a dance.
"Tomorrow, Monday. I will give confession to the old men and women.
Nothing much there.
"Tuesday. The children. I'll soon have done.
"Wednesday. The young men and women. That might take a long time.
"Thursday. The men. We'd better cut that short.
"Friday. The women. I will tell them, not to build up their parts!
"Saturday. The miller. A day mightn't be enough for him.
"And, if we've finished by Sunday, we'll have done very well.
"Look, my children, when wheat is ripe, it must be harvested, when the wine is drawn, it must be drunk. We've had enough of dirty washing, what matters now is to wash it, and to wash it well.
"May you all receive God's loving grace. Amen!"
* * * * *
He was as good as his word. The washing was duly done.
From that memorable Sunday, the sweet smell of Cucugnanian virtue was heady for many kilometres around.
And the good priest, Monsieur Martin, happy and full of joy, dreamt one night that he was followed by all his flock, as he ascended in a candle-lit, resplendent procession, clouded in fragrant incense, with choir boys chanting the Te Deum. They were all following the light to the City of God.
There you are; the story of the priest of Cucugnan, as I was told by the great colloquial writer Roumanille, who had it himself from some other good fellow.