The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXVI, Issue 21, 28 May 1908, Page 3

The Storyteller

THE MOTHER

I. Walking quickly, she retraced her steps through the Champs-Elysees, quite regardless of the passers-by— a small, slender figure, scarcely distinguishable under the drooping boughs of the chestnut trees, white and glistening with frost. On one arm she carried a heavybasket of provisions ; the other hand held a bouquet of violets. - From time to time her tired eyes, the lids wrinkled with age, rested lovingly on the flowers ; at intervals she lifted themf dreamily and contentedly, to the bright blue sky above her, outlining, as it did so beautifully, the contours of the Arc de l'Etoile. And all the while upon her faded countenance, framed in bands of thin, gray hair, there hovered a sweet, soft expression, like the ghost of a happy smile. This halfsmile was very pretty, investing the old face with a charm — like a ray of sunshine, after a long^ winter, finding itself once more in the place it had erstwhile known and loved. She shivered occasionally on this cold February afternoon, under her serge gown, worn thin by long usage, and the short, scanty cape that covered her narnow shoulders. A scarf of black- lace, knotted under her chin, afforded but slight protection to her small ears, blue with cold. , Despite thepoverty of her attire,- it was evident that she was not an ordinary working-woman. By her walk and the carriage of her head one could see immediately that she was a provincial of the better class, driven to Paris through reverses of fortune or some family catastrophe ; a woman who had been" hardly used by life —moral sufferings, and constant solicitude for the morrow. > At length she reached the Arc de l'Etoile. Her feet, on which were very thin and badly worn shoes, slipped on the frosty pavement. In her effort to prevent herself from falling, she dropped her violets. 'My poor flowers ! ' she murmured — ' my poor flowers ! ' Her ,numb fingers, in their coarse, black woollen gloves, recovered the violets with difficulty, stained with the dust of the sidewalk. She uttered a little sigh, half of regret, half of satisfaction. Rude contact with the defilement of the highway had not diminished the exquisite perfume of the flowers. Once more the face resumed the gentle, placid smile. When , a little joy comes into a gloomy life, the poorest and humblest wish for flowers, the adornment of souls en fete. And now, in order to make up for lost time, she began her way in and out among the carriages, and soon found herself in a maze of streets with high gray houses on either side. Night began to fall ; a glimpse of the departing day still lingered above the mansards, but below it was growing quite dark. One by one dim points of gas, like clouded stars, began to illuminate the fog. She paused at last, out of breath from her rapid walk, before a door obstructed by the tall, athletic figure of an old concierge. The man stood out of the way to allow her to pass, saying in a jovial tone : 1 A bad night to look forward to, Madame Lestrade ! Nine degrees above zero at five o'clock in the evening. Brrr ! Will Monsieur be late to-night ? ' 'No, my good Etienne : I expect my son at seven. 1 The voice was gay, joyous, -almost young. The concierge followed her with his eyes. ' Oh, what has happened to Madame Lestrade to make her so happy this evening ? ' he said to himself as she passed up the stairs. ; Up, up, she toiled till she reached the fifth storey ; then she paused in front of a door at the " end of the passage, on which was tacked a white card bearing the name ' Raymond Lestrade, Artist.' She took a key from her pocket, put it in the lock, turned it, and went in. ' . ■ In the little dining-room a feeble coke fire faintly illumined the old-fashioned provincial furniture— the massive .oak sideboard, the inlaid secretary, the round table covered with an Indian shawl of the kind so dear to our grandmothers, thei chairs and sofas with their backs carved by some cabinet-maker of the small town where they were made. In this narrow street, removed from the eternal hubbub and confusion of greater Paris, one could- almost fancy oneself in one of those little bourgeois salons a hundred leagues, distant, whose small green-paned windows overlook some dreary square, its sole attractive feature the elms which overshadow it. "

The impression became stronger when Madame Lestrade, having removed her , bonnet and cape, lit the porcelain lamp. On the sombre walls, from tarnished frames, smiled ancient, venerable faces ; on the mantelpiece, exactly in the middle, protected by a glass globe, a large gilt clock repeated its ticktack al] day and all night, as it had done for fifty years. A large cat, comfortably rolled into a ball, was asleep on a rug of gray fur. Madame Lestrade was very fond of the old things she had brought with her from Fontaine-Vielle, the little city lost in the woods ot Limousin. Only one slight sketch of Raymond's infused a light, youthful note amid the sombre- decorations. This sketch, moreover, was of springtime, and Raymond's mother loved the spring. It Avas a scene among the meadows, when the green things are just bursting into life, before the ardent rays of the sun have yet withered the breath of the blue field-flowers to make room for their successors, the peonies and roses. The eyes of the old woman lingered on the faded photographs, framed in green silk, that stood on either side of the clock on the narrow mantel. ' Poor dears ! ' she murmured. ' Why are you not with us to-night to share in our joy ? ' A tear fell upon the thin old cheek. In days of sorrow, when one thinks of the dead, it is to say, 'How good God was, although at the time we could not see it ! He took them to Himself before this blow, which would have made them so unhappy, could come upon them.' But when the clouds have blown away, when Happiness once more knocks at the portal, it is hard to know that they are no longer here to rejoice with us ; that the dear face smiling at us from the picture has disappeared forever ; and that our poor human joys, so fleeting, are never again to be shared by those whose participation would have made them doubly dear. Five o'clock struck from the tower of a neighboring church. Madame Lestrade began to tremble. All the afternoon she had been thinking of the little feast she was preparing for her son. ' Raymond must be so happy to-night ! ' And how delightful to think of their sitting together, talking of his good fortune, and enjoying their dinner in the warm dining-room ! She came and went in the kitchen, in her blue linen apron, preparing with the most minute care the modest little dinner, entirely composed of the food her son liked best. From time to time she smiled at the huge gray cat that followed her about inquisitively, as though aware that there was something unusual going on. Once she stopped and patted him on the back, saying : 1 Yes, my old Prince, you shall have an extra good dinner also. And you will be glad, lam sure, to know that we are so happy.' Happy ! The word had a strange sound in her ears. For fifteen years she had not permitted herself to think of it. She had known nothing else during her childhood, girlhood, and the first years of her marriage. Then misfortunes came suddenly, one fast following the other. Unwise speculations had speedily dissipated her husband's fortune, as well as her own, which she had placed at his disposal that he might recoup his losses. She could never forget that September evening when, in trying to hide from her a letter he had been reading, he had fallen in a fit of apoplexy. She could see, whenever she recalled the dreadful picture, the poor limp head falling against her shoulder as she lifted him from the floor ; Raymond calling for help through the open window overlooking the street ; M. le Cure arriving in haste ; the passing of the soul, the funeral, the grief of the old mother, the numbness of her own heart, the burning pain in her eyes that could not weep. And then the feeling of loneliness, of desolation that ensued, was but another step to the Calvary which she must now climb. Another week, another coffin — the mother had followed her son. In those days she had almost forgotten Raymond, the idol and pride of his father's heart— Raymond, their only son, who had formed half her world. Suddenly she awoke to a sense of her responsibility in his regard ; it was after her first burst of tears. Looking her sorrow in the face with the faith of a true Christian, she besought the God of the widow and the fatherless to forgive her despair, saying to herself : 1 Yes, my life is ended ; but what does my sorrow matter ? I know that I shall see my beloved again. I will bury my grief in the depths of my heart and live for L my boy ; with him and for him I shall take up life W again. I shall not only be brave but cheerful.' And ' she had kept her word. After her husband's debts had been paid, there was very little left. And Raymond must finish his education. But how was it possible for him to do so ? They soon realised that it was beyond their means. 'And Raymond had no regrets. He wished to be a painter. One of his professors had offcen said to him : 'My Boy, you have a fortune at the tip of your pencil.'

Yes, Raymond would be a painter ; and ' only ' in Paris could he attain the desire of his heart. To Paris, then, they went, though all their friends opposed . the step. The boy was determined to go ; .he was eighteen, and what could the poor mother do but follow -him ? For his sake she renounced her only consolation— that " of living close to the graves- of all she had loved ; for him she bade adieu to the friends of, a lifetime ; for him- she sold the old home with its tender associations ; for him she went forth, in her early middle age, from the quiet provincial town where she had thought to spend her declining ■ years, to the great city, the very name of which terrified her timid soul. But Raymond knew nothing of all this ; he did not even suspect it. They are nearly all alike, the poor young people ! They do not mean to be egotists ; they do not know that they are, their souls are so full of dreams, their hearts so occupied with their youth, their intelligence so keen for the things that seem to them the noblest, the most beautiful — the things to be desired. They are absorbed in what belongs to their age and in one another. How can they take time to study the souls that surround them ; above all, the soul of a woman, sad, oppressed, no longer young, without great intellect or great aspirations— a soul bordered by the petty horizon of a house and family ) And yet it is among souls like these that the greatest heroism is frequently to be found- -those who suffer silently, yet go about their duties cheerfully day after day. Those ten years in Paris had been long and arduous. There was no doubt that Raymond worked hard, and at first success seemed to smile upon him. He was admitted to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts ; his masters esteemed and encouraged him. But soon disappointments began to follow each other in his path. It was the same old story : his pictures refused for the Salon one after another ; the anguish of the artist, not a confirmed egotist, who begins to doubt his own talents, to realise that he lacks the most essential requisites to the perfection of his art. Oh, that sad evening — she remembered it so well !—! — Raymond, returning from the atelier, which he shared with several others, said to his mother : ' I shall never become a great painter. My talent is quite mediocre, mother. I have style, I have taste, I have color ; but I have no originality— not a particle : the gift of expressing what is in me. It is there, but I cannot bring it out.' ' She had not believed him, she did not believe it yet. Others had ' arrived ' with far less talent than he; others, again, who had prostituted the gift with which God had endowed them — that Raymond would never do. But now it became more than ever necessary to find wherewith to live. The little capital derived from the sale of the house had about slipped through their fingers. The rent of a farm she still owned- at Threuil was entirely insufficient for their needs. Madame Lestrade would not allow her son to relinquish his art. She began to work, straining her poor eyes over fine embroidery and laces, for which she received only a trifle. But, in spite of prodigies of industry and economy, the purse was still very light. If Raymond could but have known the privations his mother had imposed on herself when he was not there ! If he could have suspected that she passed the long hours of the wintry days without fire, that he might see a cheerful blaze when he returned in the evening ! If he could have seen ~~her near the draughty window, her head bent over her work, trying to catch a little of the feeble light that struggled through the . fog and smoke ! If he could have beheld, her hastily snatching a morsel of bread and cheese, only to receive him an hour later with an excuse like this : ' Are you not a little late, my poor boy ? I was so hungry I " could not wait any longer. You know old people have fixed habits ; they cannot bear to change their hours. I have already taken my dinner. Eat your soup quickly or the cutlet will be cold.' Oh, if he could only have comprehended the priceless treasures of devotion that were, poured out upon him so prodigally every hour, he would have thrown away his palette and brushes ; he would have folded his arms around her, as he used to do in his childhood, in order to say to her, between sobs, between kisses: 1 You have worked long enough for me, mother. I will work for you henceforward. Let us go back home, where we used to be so happy, where we shall be happy once more.' But Raymond could not divine these things, and the days rolled by, filled with cares and sadness, regrets for* the past, present sacrifices, and anxieties concerning * the future. At last God had pity. It is often thus. 'Just as the cup overflows, it is taken gently from our lips ; and when we are exhausted with suffering, a ray of

light pierces and brightens the night of sorrow. Fortunately, Raymond had attracted the notice and been admitted to the friendship af Emile Lorizier, the famous young painter, who was much interested in the decorative arts, and had contributed by his original and daring talent to the creation of some of the most popular modern styles. Thanks to -the advice of Lorizier, Raymond gradually abandoned his larger ideas for a new line of work. He began to take up panels friezes, and other artistic decoration. He had found his metier, and thenceforward labored with enthusiasm and excellent results. His work had been admired at the exposition of decorative art ; he began to receive outside orders ; hope was born anew in the breast of mother and son. That morning, while they were seated at breakfast, ' Raymond had received from Lorizier a telegram which made his heart beat high. 'It is about M. Martinette, the great tapestry manufacturer, who wishes me to enter his employment as a designer,' Raymond had said. 'lam to meet him this morning at ten o'clock, at Lorizier's. Jf we can come to terms, I will, send" you word at noon.' The word had come, freighted with joy. Eight thousand francs , a year, with increase of salary annually, provided his work continued to show variety and originality of design. Ah, it must .be a dream ! It could hardly be true. And yet why not_? He had talent, he was a genius ; she had always known it. Now he could renounce the patty economies that had made life so hard, so narrow ; now he could dress well, mingle with his equals, have the amusements so natural to his age, of which hitherto he had been deprived.- Not a thought of herself— not a single thought ! She started, looking at the clock. This was no time for dreaming, for reminiscences. Raymond might be here any moment now. Later they could talk-over everything : the past, the future, the joy that lay before them, the freedom from care, the sweet content— later, as they sat together at their dainty meal, before the little round table decorated with violets. 11. Mother and son had finished their dinner. It had been a joyous meal. She had never seen him so gay, so full of life, as he related the particulars of his interview with the manufacturer. > And now, as he had fallen a little into silence, it was the mother's turn to speak. ' When I got your note to-day I felt so happy ! Eight thousand francs a year ! First, we shall change our apartments. These are too small and inconvenient. Besides, they are too far from your studio. And, now that you can travel, you can make that journey to Rome to which you have always looked forward. We must repair our house at Threuil, so that we may spend the vacation there. Omy darling boy, how happy we shall be ! ' Raymond did not- reply. His countenance, so joyful a few moments, before, had suddenly become serious. He got up from the table and went to the fire. His elbow resting on the mantelpiece, he seemed lost in contemplation of the dying coals. 1 How grave you look ! •' his mother said at length, as she paused from time to time to watch him in her work of taking away the dishes and rearranging the table. ' Come, my boy,' she continued, seating herself in her t favorite chair—' come, sit beside me, and tell me what you are thinking of.' The young man buried his face in his hands, as though to collect his thoughts. For -some time there was no sound in the room save the ticking of the clock, the purring, of the cat, and the falling of the coals on the hearth. 1 Mother,' he said at last, in a voice that trembled with emotion—' mother, I do not know how to tell you,' Madame Lestrade had taken up her knitting ; the long needles flew mechanically through her fingers. She replied, anxiously : 1 Quick, quick, Raymond^ ! What have you to tell me?' ' Mother,' he said, and the words came very slowly, 'you cannot guess,' of course, why I am so "happy to-night. Security for the future, a little money, the prospect even of being able to make life more comfortable and happy, would not make me as joyful as I am, nor flood my soul with the delightful anticipations that have filled it since morning. lam happy for other reasons. lam happy, mother, because these gratifying prospects, these new circumstances wiir permit me to real's© my dream — to marry the woman I love. 1 . " > The clickin <of the needles came to an end. Madame Lestrade becanitj pale as death, and pressed her heart silently under the little gray shawl. It seemed to her that it would burst. But her voice was quite even and controlled as she replied '

( You have never spoken of it to me, my son.' I made a vow to myself not to speak of it to SET ° n^ Un i ill tlie P r °P er time came— if it ever did come. Why should I have told you ? It would only have made you unhappy to see me unhappy— unable to remove the obstacle to ' the attainment of my . heart's clearest wish. How could I- marry -a poor girl .when I myself was so poor ? I had only to wait, patiently as 1 could. And that you did not even suspect it/ mother, is proof that I have been patient ; is' it not ? But it has been a long, long waiting.' ' This young girl ? You say she is poor. There was a time when you were wont to say- that you would marry a rich wife or not at all.' , ' That is true. In those days' I thought o^flU furthering my ambition. One may do that Jjd^^^H does not love ; but when -one does— dear itti^^^^^H one does—' J^^^^^^^H -* But - who is it, Raymond ? I ha^^^^^^^^H of ..all the girls we know at Fonta^^^^^^^^^^H Laroche perhaps, or Louise Lamberifl^^^^^^^^^^| ' Jeanne Laroche or Louise ~.^^^^^^^^^^^^^M little convent-bred things, timid mother ; I would never look for girls of Fontaine- Vielle. ■ You do —the one I have chosen— though I^^^^^^^^^^^H of her. Perhaps she may not plo^^^^^^^^^^^^l the good little girls down there. <^^^^^^^^^^H different in manner, appearance, and Lorizier's sister-in-law, Mile. Artemise n|^^^^^^^| | She is not a young girl, Raymond^^H|^^^^H ' She is twenty-seven. lam twenty-nine/^l^^^H is not like those young girls of eighteen who plaj^^l marriage as they would with a doll. She- has ready struggled with the sorrows of life. She haH .suffered. She is a woman— a true woman. Hers is a nature as noble as it.. is proud. I have said that she had no fortune. For two years she has worked incessantly, aided by the advice of her brother-in-law. Already she is becoming known as a water-colorist. She equals her masters : she will soon surpass them.' ' I would have preferred a different wife for you, my son— one less self-sustaining, more domestic. Those proud, fiery natures are not usually really affectionate." Passion is not Jove, it is not true affection. Devotion and tenderness are what a man needs- in a- wife. With great talents a woman is apt to become vain.' ' Mile. Le Clcrcq has not a bit of vanity in her soul, mother. She is too fine for that. And if you could see her caressing her little nephews, helping her sisler, with a smile for everyone, you would understand that she has what you crave for me — a most affectionate heart.' ' Is she pretty ? ' ' No, she is not what might be called really pretty. Her forehead is too high for beauty, her lips too thin,her chin too pointed. But the fine pallor of her complexion, the fire of her eyes, the 'opulence of Jier black hair, her magnificent carriage, her ease of manner, the grace of her every gesture— is that not beauty ? ' The needles again resumed their quick, monotonous march. Raymond went on : ' She is intelligent and ambitious,' he said. ' Together we will fight, we two, with all the strength of our being, to achieve fame, to acquire fortune. She is as aggressive as I am. We will join forces. When one loves the battle of life, when one is not dismayed' by it, one is bound to conquer. Oh, to have near me always that delightlul personality, that supreme charm of hers ! Fancy, I have loved her two years — two long years — two centuries ! ' 'And I,' thought the mother— but she did not speak, for her words would have ended in a sob — ' I have loved you for thirty years — even before you came into the world. Alas ! a mother's love, what is it ? Nothing. It matters naught to their sons, that devotion of theirs. Poor mothers ! ' . (To be concluded next week.).