The fear of living

On a dark morning in December a few women slipped like shadows through the snow which deadened their footsteps, to Saint-Real and Metropole Streets, which lead to the Cathedral at Chambéry. As one entered the church the half-open door showed the flickering rays of the lamp running along the dark arches. Toward this trembling lamp they hurried, in spite of the cold and the darkness, as though they had come to beg light and warmth from it. Humble housewives, shop-girls, workwomen, servants, they rose early before their work and hastened to the first Mass as though to some secret meeting-place. They came one by one, sometimes recognizing one another in the porch. Already filled with respect for the sanctity of the place, they spoke in low voices. They all joined together in a group constantly growing more and more compact in one of the side chapels, where two candles, which a choir boy was lighting, showed the place of the holy sacrifice. Walking slowly and carefully on account of the frost on the pavement, Madame Guibert allowed herself to be outdistanced by some of the more active women. Nevertheless she was one of the first to enter. She had never forgotten her old habit, always to be ahead of time. She knelt a little to the side and isolated herself in prayer. She had great need of divine help, and begged for it with her whole soul. That very day she was to know the bitterness of being alone. The moment had come for Niobe to give up her youngest child, the one whom she held in her arms and which till now the gods had spared to her. Paule and her husband would leave Chambéry at three o’clock on their journey to Tonkin to rejoin their brothers on the island of Kébao.

The marriage had been celebrated at Cognin in the first days of September. Then the young couple had gone to seek solitude among unknown faces in that other part of Savoy, whose matchless beauty is a miracle of softness, sweetness, and grace—the green plain of Chablais, fringed by the blue waters of Lake Leman and bounded by mountains with their lazy curves wooded to the summit, and further off outlined by rugged peaks which raise their barren whiteness to the blue of the sky and in the evening seem like flagstaffs that reflect on their banners the light of the setting sun. Autumn above all gives this enchanted country its fullest power to stir the emotions. With its blending, dying harmonies it tempers the excessive gaiety which summer lavishes on it; it changes the ringing laughter of water and meadow, plain, and mountain, to that smile of pleasure which knows itself short-lived and yet wishes to rejoice.

Paule and Jean witnessed this autumnal magic. They saw the trees in the woods adorn themselves with a thousand splendid fleeting tints, and the vines which slope down to the shore dress themselves in gold. Their hearts learned the better to appreciate the lesson, already familiar to them, of the insecurity of love when it makes itself its sole end, and, taking the time of a kiss for the time of day, fails to build upon the only sure foundation—a life lived in sympathetic accord and consecrated to the continuity of the race.

They came back to Le Maupas when the vines had been gathered and the meadows harvested, when the brilliance of the sun, the softness of the air, and the grace of the earth increased in proportion to the barrenness round about and strove to detach man from self-centred thoughts. Paule kept very near her mother, as if to forget the threat of the future. And the future cast its shadow upon the present hour which saw mother and daughter reunited. Madame Guibert had been obliged to tell Paule of her wish to stay in Savoy. Jean then generously offered to give up his plans. Monsieur Loigny, his nature decidedly changed, wanted to help his nephew, and at the price of numerous headaches (for he had lost the habit of office work) tried to take stock of the little fortune which he had looked after so badly between two grafts of a rose-bush. He perceived too late that the garden is a bad speculation. Jean’s character and capabilities, Paule’s energy, the financial position of both families, all made them look to the Colonies for the establishment of their new home. Furthermore Étienne multiplied his appeals to them. He told of the prosperity of his business and was already prepared to guarantee their ultimate success. He begged his sister to bring their mother with her, that in her happy old age she might receive the homage of their filial devotion. Gently but obstinately Madame Guibert had refused.

“I am too old,” she said to Jean and Paule when they insisted. “How should I, who have never gone further than from Cognin to Chambéry and from Chambéry to Cognin, bear such a long journey? I should only be in the way. You will all come home to me in your turn. You will tell me about my grandchildren whom I do not know and whom I love, as I loved my own children before they were born.”

She smiled, so that no one might think of noticing her tears. But she reflected in her heart: “I feel that God is calling me. Now, now at last, my task is finished. I am nearer the dead than the living. When I am alone I will visit my husband more often and my little Thérèse, who are waiting for me in the cemetery. The memory of Marcel, who rests in Africa, will fill my heart. I will make only one journey more, and that will be to find my own again. Those left on earth have no more need of me. From afar I shall pray for them here, and then from above. I can do no more....”

Paule set her wits to work to give her mother daily proof of her love. For so many years she had eaten the bread of sorrow with her. The young wife was inclined to blame herself for her married joy on the eve of this separation, and Madame Guibert had to encourage her to be happy.

“I know what you are thinking about,” said Jean when he saw his wife’s sadness.

“I love you,” she replied. “I love you more than anyone in the whole world, but she ...”

Jean kissed her as he went on: “I am not jealous, Paule, and I understand your trouble so well....”

He had himself arranged for Madame Guibert’s life after their departure. He had installed her for the winter, in spite of her protests, in a little home in the Rue Saint-Real at Chambéry. There she would be less alone than at Le Maupus and would be in welcome proximity to the church.

“I do not wish to be a source of expense,” murmured the poor old lady.

But Étienne in Tonkin had quite agreed with his brother-in-law. And the neighborhood of the Cathedral led to the success of their plan. As the days went on, however, Paule felt her courage weaken while that of Madame Guibert increased. The latter was quite transfigured, and on her forehead with its deep wrinkles, in her clear eyes, on her pale cheeks, the radiancy of her soul shone forth. In the evening she talked to her two children about their future and poured into their hearts her own confidence in God, that confidence which cheerfully leaves to Providence the outcome of one’s own firmness, courage, and virtue.

This teaching, illustrated by her own noble example, they never forgot. Clinging to one another like travelers threatened by a storm, all three tasted the brief happiness of being together and at length sadly reached the morning of their separation. But Jean and Paule were still sleeping when Madame Guibert drew near to God, to find the supreme strength she would presently need.

Suffering souls, who seek in prayer forgetfulness and calm, love to frequent chapels at the hour when day is dying. Under the arches, where the light falling from the windows loses itself, they have a vague consciousness of a mysterious and peaceful presence. One may guess at the state of these stricken beings from the slow murmur of their lips, still more from their weary, hopeless attitudes as they kneel on the softest spots they can find for their knees. But the poor women who go to early Mass have more need of courage than of calm. Before their labors they seek strength and patience in the presence of Him who suffered all human sorrows without a murmur. Hardened by daily work, they do not appreciate a merely comfortable religion, but throw themselves into the faith as into refreshing water, from which they emerge with new life and spirit.

The altar bell had announced the beginning of the holy sacrifice. At one end an aged priest with bent head slowly recited the prayers, to which a sleepy little clerk made the responses.

Madame Guibert had chosen a dark corner, a little to one side, and was absorbed in her meditations. Her black dress and the widow’s veil that she still wore made her hardly distinguishable from the shadows. She ran over in memory the last days of her life and without difficulty found in them reason to bless and to thank her God. Had He not granted her what she had so long prayed for, in her own misery—the happiness of her daughter? Paule, her little Paule, not only the best beloved of all her children, but the most loving, and the support of her sad old age—how often had she called down divine blessings upon her, whom the family sorrows had most intimately touched. Doubtless in bestowing them, God would tear her heart. But since this was the necessary price, how could she have the cowardice to murmur against His beneficent Will or to hate the loneliness which was coming upon her that night?

“No, no,” she said in her prayer. “I will not pity myself, as we are so often tempted to do to excuse our weakness. My God, Thou wilt aid me in my need. I will be firm to-night. They shall not see me cry. I could not go with them. Thou hast warned me of my failing strength, and my work is done. My children will carry it on better than I could. I thank Thee for having in Thy goodness allowed me to see my daughter’s happiness. I entrust her to Thy protection during this long journey with her husband who has become my son.” All shaken with emotion she added: “I entrust to Thee, my God, yet another life, dark and uncertain, that of a little babe still to come, whom my hands will never receive in this world. Grant him health, intelligence, a firm spirit, and submission to Thy holy law. Grant him a long life in order that he may be able to serve Thee better. May he be strong and brave in well-doing, may he fear neither laughter nor tears, may he love work, and may he be to his mother what she has been to me.”

Some time before the happy Paule had told her of her dearest hope, which was confirmed as time went on. Her marriage was already blest. A new source of love and devotion had welled up in her.

When Madame Guibert lifted her head which she had hidden in her hands, she noticed that the priest was leaving the altar and she reproached herself.

“I have not heard Mass.” But she immediately felt reassured, for in her prayer she had found the peace she sought.

From here, from there, from chair and bench, one by one the congregation rose and went to the door. They were going to their daily work with quiet hearts and bodies prepared. In her turn Madame Guibert left the church. Outside day was scarcely breaking over the snow on the roofs and streets—that sad winter’s day which would see her come back from the station alone.

She turned the key in the lock and on tip-toe crossed the passage full of trunks to go to the kitchen noiselessly. Old Marie was already preparing breakfast.

“Monsieur has just gone out to engage the omnibus,” she explained.

“Without any breakfast?” asked Madame Guibert, thoughtful as ever.

“He did not wish any. He just said he would not wait.”

“And Madame?”

“Madame who? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Paule! I cannot get used to calling her Madame. It’s funny, isn’t it? Mademoiselle is still asleep. There I go again, the same mistake. When one is old, one is good for nothing.”

“It can’t be helped, my poor Marie, we are both old.”

But both of them, paying little heed to what they were saying, were thinking of the parting to come. The servant, taking off her spectacles, passed her rough hand over her eyes. With her shaking fingers Madame Guibert tried to make Paule’s chocolate for the last time. She made it the way she knew her girl liked it. Then she listened at the door, knocked softly, went in, and found Paule in tears.

“Mother, mother! Tell me that I must go. I have not the strength myself to say it.”

Madame Guibert put the steaming cup on the bedside table, then she laid her wrinkled hand on her daughter’s forehead.

“Dear little one,” she said, “I wanted to wait on you myself this morning, and I ordered these rolls that you like so much.” She bent over her and in a low voice, as she kissed her, murmured: “Be brave, Paule. It is God’s wish. Your husband’s love assures me that you will be happy. And do not be alarmed about me.”

But their tears still flowed. Jean came back and saw the two women locked in each other’s arms. He thought that Paule was trying to comfort her mother.

“We will come back, Mother,” he said. “We will come back, I swear it. Next year you will have Étienne and his wife and in two years you will see us.”

But when Madame Guibert turned to him, he saw with surprise that she was not crying and that the consolations came from her, not Paule.

“In two years,” she thought, “where shall I be?” But she answered gravely: “Jean, love your wife dearly. When you are far from me, that thought will be my strength. God is so good and watches over us. We shall be more closely united than ever when we are separated. Our thoughts and our hearts will be one. Distance is nothing when one is sure of love.”

With a solemnity that came quite naturally to her and affected her voice quite unconsciously, she went on: “You must love each other. Don’t make of your love a source of weakness. Gather from it and your mutual confidence more resolution, more courage in life. Look ahead of you. When you look behind you, towards our dead and towards me, may it not be to find discouragement there, but to understand your own youth better, and all that God expects from it.”

Jean and his wife had taken her hands and were listening to her without interruption.

“Yes,” she continued, as if she were unfolding the future, “look before you, towards your work, towards the family that will come after you. Give your sons and daughters brave souls and make them look ahead in their turn, with eyes in which your past will have shaped their outlook.”

They were both weeping, while she remained peaceful and calm.

“My blessing is on you,” she concluded. “On you, my little Paule, for your loving daughterly goodness to me and your devotion to your brothers. On you, Jean, for the friendship you have shown to Marcel and for all the happiness that I see in your eyes, in spite of the tears.”

Her firmness did not break down till the moment of departure. She cheered her tearful daughter in the name of the little one whom the young wife carried under her heart. But Paule could not resign herself. She kept on kissing her, hastened to speak again, and sometimes turned towards her husband to say to him: “I love you, dear, all the same; you know that.”

Madame Guibert insisted on going to the station with them. There they found several friends, who had come to say good-bye. M. Loigny was ill and had not been able to come out on account of the cold and the damp roads, but his Fanchette brought for his niece some hothouse flowers. Some distance away Madame de Marthenay, looking quite thin in spite of her furs and very pale, was watching a favorable moment to kiss Paule. The latter noticed her and came up to her. After a second’s hesitation the two women threw themselves into each other’s arms.

“Still unhappy?” Paule asked gently, reading the sorrow in her old friend’s face.

“Still. But what of you, Paule?”

They both turned to Madame Guibert. Very quickly Madame Berlier murmured: “Do you want to do me a great kindness, Alice? Go to see Mother often, look after her a little, and write to me about her health.”

“I promise you I will,” said Alice with deep emotion as they parted. Soon after Madame Guibert was left alone with her daughter and her son-in-law. As before, her last words at the moment of separation were a prayer: “May God keep you!” But when the train had carried them out of sight she touched her forehead and felt that it was icy-cold.

“It was time, my God,” she thought. “I had no more strength left.” She was forced to sit down in the third class waiting-room. The passengers who came and went, occupied with their luggage and their tickets, did not even notice the poor old woman in mourning who sat sobbing there. She had become a humble weak creature again. But she had had the strength to hide her suffering from her children.

Alone in the railway carriage with his beloved, Jean pressed her to his breast. She had quite broken down and her head leaned against the heart which beat for her only. He said nothing to her, knowing the uselessness of words. He gently stroked her cheek and from time to time bent down to kiss the eyes whose tears he could not stop. When she raised her head a little he comforted her by saying: “We will come back, Paule.” She shook her head, doubtful of this return, or because she did not yet wish to be consoled.

“I love you, Jean,” she sighed, and began to weep afresh.

Then he spoke to her of her mother.

“Paule, she is setting us a splendid example of heroism and self-sacrifice. May we never forget it! And if later on, in many years to come, we have occasion to imitate her may her memory still be present with us. Oh, may the child who is coming to us be like her!”

Paule was listening to him more calmly, and he added: “May God protect both our child and her whom we have left behind with a broken heart!”

“Yes, I will pray,” she said. “It was God who gave my mother the resignation that she tried to implant in me.”

In her young life, she had known many hours of anguish and mourning; but she had never known a more painful one than this. She thought she tasted the bitterness of death, yet in reality her life was stirring to its inmost depths. Her love was purified, all unknown to her, in that divine flame of maternal sacrifice of which she was more and more to appreciate the value.

As the railway passed in front of the oak wood which is neighbor to Le Maupas, Jean and Paule looked at the familiar landscape through the window. The tree-branches bore snowflakes for leaves, their whiteness tinted by the setting sun. On the vine-row hung a lacework of frost.

Here it was, and here alone, that Paule had learned to know life, death, and love. She thought of the proud, passionate, young girl, whose boast was the care with which she watched over her mother.

“Kiss me,” she cried to her husband. “I have so much need of love to be able to go away from here!”

Jean took her in his arms. And the kiss they gave each other spread a sacred thrill through their veins; for to that union of their body and soul they added the filial devotion of the past and that mysterious hope for the future which made their lives so much fuller and gave an immortal meaning to their love.