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Robert Helmont: Diary of a Recluse, 1870-1871
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In: Biographies·Novels·French Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #51235.
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THE HERMITAGE, September 3_rd_.
It is six weeks yesterday since I broke my leg. It happened on the very day war was declared. While M. de Grammont was exciting so much tumult and enthusiasm in the Senate, I myself, on returning from net-fishing in the Seine, stumbled over a stake hidden in the grass at the edge of the river, and was brought home to my Hermitage in the forest of Snart in a woodcutter’s cart . . .
I went out this morning for the first time after fifty days of fever and suffering, increased by the news of the war. I had nightmares of distant battles, and the sinister despatches from Forbach and Reischhoffen remain mixed up in my mind with the pain of my wound, the heat of the plaster casing, and that restless inactivity which is the most cruel of all tortures. At last it is over! After having seen nothing for so long but the tops of the trees, and those great stretches of blue sky of which the monotony is only broken by passing wings, I felt quite happy at putting my feet to the ground and getting down my stairs with faltering steps. But how weak I was! My head swam round. From having remained so long in the same position, my leg had forgotten its proper balance and functions. It seemed no longer part of myself, as if I were no longer master of it. However, with slow steps, and the extreme nervousness which augments one’s weakness, I was able to get to the poultry-yard and push open its little latticed door, half buried in the tall grass. Even this gave me a thrill of pleasure! During my absence, my neighbour, the keeper’s wife, has taken good care of all this little family, who watch me with an astonished, bright, and familiar gaze. The rabbits come tumbling over each other to the edge of their hutches, with their ears pricked up and quivering. The hens go on with their ceaseless pecking in the grass, making sharp sounds like those of little pickaxes. The cock, more demonstrative, flaps his large wings with a resounding “cock-a-doodle-do.”
—Read that, Mr. Robert . . . said the good man.
And drawing from beneath his thick velveteen waistcoat a copy of the National, crumpled and awkwardly folded by hands little accustomed to deal with papers, he held it out to me with an air of dismay. On the first sheet, bordered in black, were the sinister words: “_The French army has capitulated_.” I could not read any farther . . .
. . . Dazed, with closed eyes, for the space of five minutes I seemed to see nothing but those few words, surrounded by flashes of light and colour, as if I had read them on a white wall in the full glare of the sun. Alas! there was therefore no hope. The last barrier had broken down. It was the invasion, the mighty one . . . The keeper thinks that in eight days the Prussians will be here.
—Ah, my dear sir, you should see the block on the roads. Between this and Paris there is a mob of cattle and vehicles. Every one is packing up and flying. Champrosay is empty; Farmer Goudeloup is the only person who will not hear of leaving. He has sent away his wife and children, loaded his two guns, and is ready.
—And you, Guillard, what do you intend doing?
—I, sir? I shall do the same as Goudeloup. Our chiefs have forgotten to leave us any orders. I shall take advantage of that to remain at my post, and watch my woods up to the last moment. When the Prussians come, we will barricade ourselves in the Hermitage; for I suppose, with your bad leg, you will not think of leaving. And then, if we are attacked—well, we will defend ourselves. You will fire through the windows; I shall guard the Pacôme Gate, and Mother Guillard will load the guns . . . Won’t you, mother? . . .
Good fellow! It warmed my heart to hear him. In spite of his sixty years, the Indian, as they call him about here, with his high stature, wide shoulders, and bright eyes full of mischief and life, is still a fine-looking soldier. I thought, as I looked at him, that with such a companion there might indeed be something to do. By lying in ambush on the outskirts of the forest he knows so thoroughly, we could demolish a few passing Prussians. But then the sensation of my weakness, of my useless condition, suddenly came back to me and overwhelmed me.
After the keeper and his wife had taken leave of me, I remained all alone, seated on my bench, buried in thought. What a state of misery is mine! To feel that craving for action and vital energy that comes on at the approach of danger, and not to be able to take ten steps in my garden. How much longer will this last? The doctor says I must expect at least two months of it. Two months! Ah! how dreadful . . . The air was getting chilly, my leg was hurting me. I went in and dined sadly. After dinner the keeper came—as he has done every evening since my accident—to smoke a pipe with me. He is more than ever determined to remain at the Hermitage. While he was telling me all his plans and schemes of defence, I heard in the distance, through the open window, the usual sounds of twilight; the wheels creaking in the ruts, the rumbling of the train, the rustling of the leaves in the thickets; and at moments another sound, as of all these blended together and increasing in volume, seemed to rise from the ground, following the course of the river and little hills on the horizon, to grow gradually louder and louder. It was like the tramp of an army on the march, hurrying on in the fading light to find their halting-place, while the first rays of moonlight fall on the barrels of the guns and the gilded spikes of the helmets . . .
Suddenly a dull report on a level with the earth made us start. Mother Guillard, who was clearing away my modest repast, felt the pile of plates she was carrying shake in her hands.
—They have blown up the bridge at Corbeil! . . . said the keeper.
The pretty country village, where I had so often breakfasted before a day’s shooting, seemed to be sixty miles farther away . . . For a moment we all three looked blankly at each other. At last old Guillard rose from his seat, took up his gun and his lantern, muttering between his teeth:
—I am going to close the Pacôme gate, he said, with an heroic gesture.
Close the Pacôme gate! It seemed easy to say; and yet I fancy the good fellow will find some difficulty in doing it. For the last century the old door of the cloister has been ajar; the forest has taken advantage of the aperture to slip through, and the indiscreet brambles have climbed in by all the cracks of its disjointed planks. If we have to undergo a siege, I do not rely much on that gate.
. . . Long had I sought a solitary corner, not too far away from Paris, and yet not much frequented by Parisians. One day, while crossing the forest of Sénart, I discovered the Hermitage, and for the last ten years I have spent all my summers there. It was a monastery of “Cordeliers,” burnt down in ‘93. The four principal walls remain standing, but mouldering and crumbling at intervals, making on the turf, heaps of red stone quickly re-clothed by a rich and luxuriant vegetation: poppies, barley, stiff-growing plants with regular and pointed leaves, are divided by the stones like inlaid metal-work. One gateway looks on the road; the other, that famous Pacôme gate, opens on to the wooded thickets and the little hidden paths, full of balsam and wild mint, where, on a misty morning, I have often fancied I saw disappear, the hood of some old monk gathering wild herbs. Here and there along the wall, low postern gates, disused for many a century, send through the darkness of the forest long rays of light, as if the cloister contained all the sunlight of the woods.
Inside is waste land, with burnt-up grass, little gardens belonging to the peasants, some orchards divided by trellis-work, and two or three houses built of that red stone that is found in the quarries of the wood.
The forester lives in one of these houses, the other is never let. Mine, a kind of irregular and curious turret, is chiefly remarkable for the Virginian creeper that completely covers it. I have cut away just enough of it to be able to open my windows. Leaving untouched the great worm-eaten beams in the kitchen and the worn step on the threshold, I contented myself with heightening a hayloft under the roof, replacing the walls by glass, and thus making a beautiful studio, where my only neighbours are the nests of the wood-pigeon and magpie swaying to and fro on the top of the trees.
When I am there, the forest surrounds me like an ocean, with the swell of the foliage, the ebb and flow of the breezes, the murmuring softness of a calm. On a summer’s afternoon, at the hour of silent and slumbering heat, a bumble-bee comes by regularly, dashes against my half-open window-pane, whose brightness attracts him, then like a rebounding ball goes off, shaking the golden dust from his big wings, and disappears amongst the honey-scented bushes of privet. This bee is my clock. When he passes by I say: “Ah, it is two o’clock.” And I am right . . .
It is, in fact, a wonderful nook for work, and where my best pictures have been painted. And how I love it, this old Hermitage! For the last ten years I have been adorning it to the best of my ability. I have brought there what I call my treasures—my books, my sketches, my etchings, and some old armour . . . And now I should have to leave all this, abandon my home, to these robbers. And what for? To go and shut myself up in Paris . . . But as I cannot walk, of what use should I be to them there? They have too many useless mouths to feed already . . .
Well, no! Decidedly the fellow is right. We must not go away from here, . . . Pro aris et focis! . . .
Not being able to defend my country, the least I can do is to defend my hearth.
This morning the keeper came into my room. He wore his full-dress uniform, as on the 15th of August: green tunic, peaked cap, cross-belt, hunting-knife, and he had an air of importance befitting the solemnity of his appearance.
—There is bad news, he said, taking up a position by the side of my bed . . . All the wood-rangers are recalled to Paris in order to be enrolled with the customs officers. We are starting almost immediately.
Honest old Guillard! He appeared somewhat agitated while talking to me, and I was myself rather disturbed by the sudden announcement of this departure. I hurriedly dressed, and we went downstairs. On the road below was the head-keeper, with about twenty foresters and keepers—the whole of the staff on duty in the forest. Then came the women, children, and pointers, and two large carts laden with furniture, rabbit-hutches, and chickens tied up by the legs. The door of the house was wide open, and Mother Guillard moved to and fro inside, seeking what she must leave or take, as the conveyances were full, and the first-comers had taken up all the available space. The perplexity of the poor housewife was a sight to see, as she ran from one piece of furniture to another, dragging a heavy cupboard to the door, then leaving it there, forgetting the most useful things, but lading herself with those of no value, except that they were souvenirs: the old clock with its glass shade, some marvellous portraits, a hunting-horn, a distaff, all of them covered with dust—that excellent dust that clings to family relics, and of which each particle speaks of youth and the happy days gone by.
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