“And the house,” he concluded, “don’t you see the house?”
I looked for it without interest, realising that I had lost the habit of looking in that direction. It was, however, easy enough to discover, on the edge of the town, standing alone, and at its back the lovely rural domain by which it joined the country.
Like the spirals of a soaring bird, father’s words had covered the entire country, and now, drawing in its circles, had suddenly dropped down upon our roof. He went on to describe the house in detail, as one describes the features of a countenance.
It had not all been built at one time. At first there was only the ground floor.
“You have seen the date on the tablet in the kitchen chimney—1610.”
“Or 1670,” I thought to myself, almost repeating, like grandfather, whose reflection recurred to my mind: “It’s a matter of no importance.” But I dared not risk this comment openly.
A century later our ancestors, having improved their fortunes, had added a story and built the tower. Limited in one direction by the town, the property had been extended toward the plain, then covered by woods. Trees had been cut down to make room for the garden, for fields and meadows. It had been a constant and oft repeated struggle against difficulties, against mischance and against other foes. Did father, then, believe in Aunt Deen’s they? I had almost smiled, but he did not give me time. Each generation had brought its effort to the common task, and one or another—that of the garde-français, that of the grenadier,—its contribution of honour; the chain had not been broken.
I felt a strong desire to object—“How about grandfather?” What would he have said to that?
He answered without my question, with no bitterness in his voice, when he went on. Sometimes the chain had been stretched almost to the breaking point, and the house had seen bad days. He pictured it ploughing the waves like a strong ship that has an unerring pilot at the helm. His voice, which in the old days had so joyfully related the exploits of heroes, seemed now to rise, with growing exaltation, into a sort of hymn to the house. It was the poem of the land, the race, the family, it was the history of our realm, our dynasty.
Through the years that have fled since then, the memory of that day, far from weakening, has grown more full of meaning to my eyes. My father had measured the length of the road which I had followed in separating myself from him, and was endeavouring to recall me, to overtake me, to attach me to himself again. Before resorting to authority he was trying to kindle my imagination, awaken my heart, free them from chimeras and set before them an object capable of moving them. Only, hemmed in on all sides as he was by the pressure of daily duty, he had felt the need of haste, he had only this one day, a part of which was already gone, only a few fleeting hours in which to effect my transformation. He was hoping to regain his lost son by a single effort, counting upon his incomparable art of winning men, of subduing them to himself.