A Village in Picardy

by Ruth Gaines

Of an older generation are two of the servitors of the Château, the one the feeble gardener, the other the bedridden husband of the laundress, who has not worked for many years. There is M. Tabary also, the grandfather of Germaine, who has his own peculiar sorrow in his granddaughter’s visible disgrace. A Boche baby will never outlive its stigma while the memory of the Great War remains. M. Tabary is sick and frail. It was he who, persuaded at last to come to the Dispensary, paused in going out to doff his old cap with a courtly bow and to address the doctors with a “Merci, mes demoiselles, merci; je suis content.”

It was a fortunate circumstance, however,—for I cannot think it intentional on the part of the Germans—that all of these old men, more or less in need of care, had either wives or other feminine relatives to give it to them. Not so circumstanced was M. Augustin. Smooth-shaven save for a white fringe of beard, his fresh-coloured but anxious face appeared one day at the Château. Thither he had gone to deliver a load of hay. But the particular lady who had contracted to buy it being unexpectedly absent, M. Augustin was disturbed. His language gave one an impression of vigour which was borne out by subsequent acquaintance. On the saint’s day of the village, he shared honours with young Lydie in being the life of the party, by contributing a song and a quaint peasants’ dance. He was to be met with frequently along the roads, with blue-visored cap, brown corduroys and stout cane. As his neighbours said: “M. Augustin, il voyage toujours partout.” Still, he took time to do chores, like chopping wood for Mme. Juliette, to hoe in his garden, and to keep his house. The latter was, strictly speaking, a shed. It had two windows, however, through which, in the absence of the owner, I made inventory. A broken stove was propped against a home-made chimney; a plank table stood beneath the window; a chair, and a rough chest completed the furniture. On the table, instead of a lamp, was a bottle containing a candle; beside it were a bowl and a frying pan.

Chiefly from the neighbours, I learned that M. Augustin was a widower, that he had been the village cobbler, and that he preferred to live alone. Now, we had shoe-making tools among our stores, so one day I asked him if he would not like some. “No, Mademoiselle, I thank you,” he replied. “My eyes are no longer clear; I cannot see well.” I was more successful with other suggestions, however. A little nest of dishes pleased him greatly; a new stove was installed, and a bed, and what was perhaps even more greatly appreciated, a lamp. The evidence of his appreciation took the form of whitewash on walls and ceiling; the cobwebs vanished from the windows; and a shelf appeared for the dishes behind the stove. It may be that M. Augustin will now be more content with his own fireside, and less drawn to visit the wineshops of Ham and Nesle.

I never saw M. Augustin at mass, where the village transformed itself on occasion from weekday caps and kerchiefs and sabots to its conventional and unbecoming best. Therefore I must needs infer that his face was shaven daily, and his suit always clean, for his own satisfaction. The moral stamina shown by this is noteworthy, and characteristic of the peasantry of our district. We ourselves in our living conditions found cleanliness next to godliness in this respect at least, in that it was hard to attain. But cui bono seemed never to have disturbed the habits of M. Augustin.

Another sprightly old gentleman was M. Touret. His quarters were more spacious than those of his neighbour, for he lived in a barn. Overhead, hay piled from eaves to roof-tree helped to keep out the cold, and there was one window. As he himself said when asked if he wanted anything: “What would you? I am warm; I have a chair, a stove and a bed. If the young people were here—perhaps. But we who are old, we shall not live long, we have enough.” M. Touret, however, did not live alone. The mother of his son’s wife had taken pity on him after the Germans deported his two sons and their families, and had invited him to share her barn. There were three housed there altogether, for with them lived her son. M. Touret was oftenest found on a bench between the window and the stove, poring through his spectacles over the daily paper. Mme. Clara was usually busy with some savoury cooking, and M. Albert on the occasion of my first visit held the centre of the floor with saw-horse and axe. A chair was offered at once, and we all sat down to talk. M. Touret, however, kept glancing at his paper, or regarded us over the rims of his spectacles. Presently he broke in: “As for you, I do not know what you may be, but as for me, I am a Christian.” In the midst of a conversation about fodder and furniture, the effect was arresting, until one realised from his point of view the strangeness of our position. What, he must have queried, are these young American women doing here? We were certainly different from the French ladies of family who nursed the soldiers, or took over whole communities to house and feed. French women would never have walked as we did, muddy-shoed and knapsacked, alone over the fields. They might have been more understanding, at least their ways would have been more conventional and better understood.

In fact, on another occasion M. Touret asked me why I had come to France. “Monsieur, my father was a soldier; I cannot fight, but in this war I, too, want to help.” “Your father was a soldier? Ah yes, that would be in the Civil War, in ’64—I remember it well. And what rank did he hold? Was he a general?” “But no, Monsieur; only a common soldier.” “A common soldier?” He thought a moment. “But not like ours, because in America you are not a military nation, and depend on volunteers.” My face must have expressed astonishment. “Look you, Mademoiselle; before the war it was my habit to read. I read every year as many as two hundred volumes. I had a large library in a cabinet. The Germans burned my books.” He rose, picked up something from a bench behind the stove and handed it to me. It proved to be a charred and mildewed copy of a history; the history of England in the time of Henry the Eighth. Mutilated as it was, the pages showed a beautiful clear type and exquisite engravings. It was a good example of the printing of Abbeville, famous for its engravers and binders since the days of its first printing press in 1484.

“Would you not like some books, then?” I ventured.

“What sort of books? Not magazines.” He looked contemptuously at one that I had in my hand. “Me, I like stories. See what I bought yesterday.” He brought from a chest of drawers a gaudy paper volume entitled “La Morte d’Amour.”

Knowing that our library contained no such light literature, I continued, “Would you perhaps like Dumas?”