THE CLOCHEMERLE FÊTE takes place each year on saint roch’s Day, the patron saint of the countryside. As this falls on 16th August, the day after the Feast of the Assumption, during the time when there is nothing to do but quietly await the ripening of the grapes, it is usually an occasion for several days of feasting and merriment. The inhabitants of Clochemerle are tough people where eating and drinking are concerned, and if the weather is suitable the fête lasts for the whole of that week.
It may be wondered why Saint Roch is the patron saint of Clochemerle, in preference to so great a number of other saints, all of whom are people of merit, and of widely differing characteristics. One thing is certain, that there does not appear to have been any obvious reason why Saint Roch in particular should have been chosen for canonization as a patron saint of vinegrowers. But, as there must have been some motive for this choice, it has been necessary to trace the matter back to its origin. The result of our researches enables us to give an authentic account of the circumstances which brought about this choice.
Before the sixteenth century, the region in which Clochemerle is situated was not a vinegrowing district, but was devoted to agriculture and cattle breeding, and was surrounded by thickly wooded country. On the grazing land cattle were reared, especially goats. There were also large numbers of pigs. Bacon and cheese were the chief products of the district. The majority of the workers on the land were villeins, serfs, and small farmers, working on behalf of the monastery, which housed about three hundred monks of the Order of St. Benedict. The Prior was under the jurisdiction of the Archbishop of Lyons. The standard of morality was that of the period, neither better nor worse.
Then came the famous plague of 1431, the devastating progress of which struck terror into the hearts of dwellers in town and country alike. From all the surrounding districts hapless people came hurrying to seek refuge in the town of Clochemerle, which at that time numbered thirteen hundred inhabitants. They were given shelter. But the whole population was terrified in case one of these refugees should carry with him the germs of the frightful malady. It was then that the Prior summoned an assembly of all the inhabitants of the town, who thereupon made a vow to devote themselves henceforth to Saint Roch, if Clochemerle should be spared. This solemn undertaking was drawn up with great precision, in ecclesiastical Latin, and recorded in writing on the same day on a great roll of parchment with seals duly affixed. This document subsequently came into the possession of the Courtebiche family, which had long held a position of great influence in the district.
On the following day, which was made an occasion for a solemn procession, the plague made its appearance at Clochemerle. Within the space of a few months, there were nine hundred and eighty-six victims (more than a thousand, according to certain chroniclers), one of whom was the Prior himself; and the population was thereby reduced to six hundred, including the refugees. Then the scourge disappeared. The new Prior assembled the six hundred survivors for the purpose of a debate on the question whether a miracle had actually been performed by Saint Roch. The newly appointed Prior favored the hypothesis of a miracle, wherein he was supported by several monks who, consequent on deaths in the ranks of their brethren, had acquired some importance in their community. After a short debate, the whole body of survivors were unanimously of opinion that a miracle had indeed taken place, and a great miracle too, seeing that there were six hundred of them still left to decide the matter, and six hundred only for the sharing of land which had before supported more than thirteen hundred souls. No difficulty was found in recognizing that the dead had perished in expiation of their sins, of which Heaven alone, in its enlightened clemency, could be the sole judge. These views were adopted with enthusiasm by all the survivors. With one exception.
This was a poor fool devoid of the faculty of reason, by name Renaud la Fourche, one of those inopportune creatures who invariably place obstacles in the way of communities endeavoring to take the right path. Thus it was that Renaud la Fourche arose in the midst of the assembly, caring nought if he should perplex the minds of the people of Clochemerle and destroy the unanimity of their convictions. Heedless of the Prior’s pious adjurations, he spoke words such as these, childish in their folly: “We cannot tell whether there has been a miracle until the thousand dead, whose possessions we are sharing, rise again and give us their opinion.” The remark of an arrant knave. But this Renaud displayed all the glibness of speech of a lazy serf, only too ready to neglect his work in the fields and spend his time in tendentious discussions in the recesses of a gloomy cottage, in the company of a few worthless idlers like himself He expanded the theme of his protest with much vigor, in a medley of speech which was a mixture of low Latin, Romany, and Celtic dialects. The inhabitants of Clochemerle at that period were simple folk, completely illiterate. They made great efforts to understand what Renaud and the Prior were saying. As it was summertime, they sweated prodigiously, and the veins in their foreheads swelled.
There came a moment when Renaud la Fourche, overexcited by his own impious dialectic, began shouting so loudly as to drown the voice of the Prior. As they listened to this vociferous and peremptory harangue, the inhabitants of Clochemerle began saying to themselves that Renaud was right and that it was quite possible that Saint Roch had done nothing at all. The Prior sensed this sudden change of feeling. Happily, he was a man with presence of mind, a learned man, with a fair share of ecclesiastical subtlety. He demanded an adjournment of the assembly, on the pretext of wishing to consult sacred manuscripts which contained all the best recipes for administration. When the debate was resumed, he declared that the sacred texts laid down that, in such cases of dispute, all dues payable to the monasteries by the farmers should be doubled. All the inhabitants of Clochemerle understood from this that Renaud la Fourche was mistaken and that Saint Roch had indeed performed a miracle. The impostor was straightway denounced as a heretic. There and then a move was made to set up a fine stake in the main square of Clochemerle, at which Renaud was duly burned at nightfall; and this, at a time noted for its total lack of amusements, made a universally pleasing end to a day which had been devoted to the greater glory of Saint Roch. Ever since that time, the people of Clochemerle have shown him unwavering fidelity.
The month of August 1923, at Clochemerle, was an extraordinary one. It was as though a corner of Heaven had been brought down to earth as an experiment. Favorable air currents, with their course confined to the hollows of the valleys, gave Clochemerle a cloudless sky for a period of fifty-two days (beginning on July 26th), with happy interruptions in the shape of nocturnal rains which, as they propitiously refrained from falling until after midnight, inconvenienced nobody. It was indeed a masterpiece of town planning in the department of water supply, and enabled early risers in Clochemerle to enjoy roads as neat and clean as garden paths and a countryside as fragrant as a flower bed. No words could do justice to the deep splendor of the blue canopy outspread over the green magnificence of the vine-covered hills. Dawn, caught by the full light of day, gathered her tresses of white mist around her and hastened to take flight, leaving on the horizon a rose-pink flush as signal of her offended modesty. So fresh and clear was the daylight which followed in her train that it seemed as though the world were only just beginning. In the coolness of the morning, the birds almost sang themselves hoarse with arpeggios brilliant enough to make all violinists despair. The flowers, throwing discretion to the winds in their unbridled outpouring of perfume, unfolded all their charms, like a princess unclasping her mantle with careless indifference. Redolent with sweet odors, Nature was as a young girl at her lover’s first kiss. Already up, Beausoleil, the rural constable, was unbounded in his admiration of everything:
“Heavens alive!” he said to himself aloud, “who can have done all this, I should like to know! He was no fool, whoever he was, that’s a certainty! No flies on him!”
The inhabitants of Clochemerle were positively drunk with so many smiles, caresses, thrills, harmonies, chords—drunk with this incomprehensible overwhelming beauty, drunk with well-being and the wealth of sweetness in the world. The evenings drooped in the wide heavens with languishing sighs, which charmed and softened even the most unresponsive. The heat at midday was like a blow with a cudgel on the nape of the neck. They had to stretch themselves out behind closed shutters, in the cool air of rooms smelling of fruit and goat’s-milk cheese, and take a nap after the midday meal, having first fetched themselves a drink of water for their awakening, a pailful, drawn from the well for the purpose.
In short, it was weather which rendered inconceivable such things as illness, bad harvests, earthquakes, the end of the world, or any other catastrophe; weather to make you sleep soundly, recover your taste for your wife, stop boxing the children’s ears, forget to count your money, and merely watch the happy flow of events in a world where optimism knows no bounds.
It was this which to some extent was Clochemerle’s undoing. While Nature was doing all the work, swelling the grapes with alcohol, the people, with but little to occupy them, fell into a debauchery of speech, poking their noses into other people’s business, interfering with each other’s love affairs. At the same time they drank rather more than they should On account of that confounded heat which drew all the moisture out of your body and brought you constant trickles of perspiration. Each of these was dried by a little breeze, which came in puffs and crept into armpits, shoulder blades, hollows between breasts, and curves of buttocks, and beneath skirts of loose pattern, cut wide to give ease and freedom to all they concealed—which itself was ready enough for frolic. In short, it was absolutely and entirely the most amazingly fine splendid weather that you could possibly imagine!
Alas, we mortals here below are strangely made, fashioned all awry, it may well be said; wretched addlepated creatures who might as well go hang ourselves. When we have all we want to make us happy—sunshine, good wine, fine women, a surfeit of them, and long days for the enjoyment of all this—we must needs go and spoil everything by acts of human folly. It seems we can’t help it! This is exactly how those idiots at Clochemerle behaved, instead of sitting quietly in the shade and finishing off their casks and making them ready for the excellent wine which was busy ripening. A real miracle of Cana was being performed for their benefit, without their having to stir a little finger, a miracle which would fill their pockets to overflowing!
Beneath this cloudless sky peace reigned supreme, universal peace, peace in torrid heat, lulling, intoxicating peace; peace with foretastes of prosperity, joys as yet unrevealed, visions of a happiness that overwhelmed. They had but to live and breathe in this unmerited peace, this catastrophic peace.
For mere men, it seems, this was too simple a matter; they must needs be itching to devise some act of blazing folly. In the very midst of all this peace, the urinal plashed and rippled; and it was this which, with malice in their hearts, they were about to make the motive for civil war. The two factions were at daggers drawn, and the gentle Ponosse, dragged at last into the conflict, had promised to take action and deliver an address from the pulpit on Saint Roch’s Day, which would include an indictment of all those who were in favor of the urinal.
But of this later. We must take each event in the order in which it occurred.
The reader will not forget that we are in the heart of Beaujolais, a district abounding in good wine which slips easily down the throat, but is a veritable trap for the head; which lets loose a sudden torrent of violent speech; which is a signal for interjections, interruptions, and defiance. Moreover, Beaujolais is situated in the neighborhood of Bresse, Burgundy, Charollais, Lyonnais, all of which are rich, fertile, joyous regions, the natural abundance of which is reflected in their speech. The qualities of speech spring from the soil, from which everything is ultimately derived. The vocabulary of Clochemerle, forcible and vivid, has a racy flavor all its own.
What the Clochemerle fête was like, with such summer weather as this, may readily be imagined. Beginning on the morning of August 15th, there were feasting and carousal, with vast quantities of chickens which had been trussed the day before, rabbits kept in pickle for forty-eight hours, hares which had been poached in snares, tarts kneaded at home and baked in the oven at the baker’s, crayfish, snails, hot sausages—indeed, so many good things that the women in the houses took turns at the kitchen range. The sole topic of conversation between neighbors was food.
On the evening of the 15th, stomachs were already distended, having had more than their customary fill. The best dishes had nevertheless been reserved for the following day, for the inhabitants of Clochemerle are not people to boggle at the idea of two consecutive days of feasting. As soon as night fell, there were illuminations and a torchlight tattoo. Then a dance was set in train in the main square, where a platform for the musicians and the “wine fountain” had been made ready.
This wine fountain is a Clochemerle custom. Under the direction of the town council, casks are set up and tapped, and everyone is free to drink to his heart’s content as long as the fête lasts. Volunteers are found for the purpose of replenishing the casks—which are encased in straw to keep the wine fresh—at frequent intervals. At the side of the fountain large slates are placed, on which are inscribed by a special jury the names of men who wish to compete for the title of “Champion Drinker,” which is conferred every year on the individual who has imbibed the most. This jury exercises the utmost care in marking up the points, for the title is one which is keenly sought after. The most famous Champion Drinker that Clochemerle has ever known was a man called Pistachet, who once drank in four days three hundred an4 twenty glasses of wine. This exploit goes back to the year 1887, and expert opinion holds that this record will stand for all time. Moreover, at the time he made it, Pistachet was at the zenith of his powers (he was thirty), and though he retained his title for another ten years, from that time onwards his capacity was steadily on the wane. He died at the age of forty-four from cirrhosis of the liver, which had reached such a point that that organ had degenerated into a mere abscess and burst in his body. But his name will live forever.
In 1923 the title of Champion Drinker had been held for three years by the postman Blazot. He was in excellent training, and as the time for keeping up his reputation approached, he was regularly drinking his sixty glasses a day. But he himself was well on the road to cirrhosis and was showing signs of weakness. To wrest the title from him was François Toumignon’s secret ambition.
Part of the night was taken up with drinking and dancing. They drank in the manner of Clochemerle, that is to say, a great deal. They danced as dancing is enjoyed throughout the countryside in France, that is to say, with hearty freedom, caring little about keeping time and recking naught of superfluous airs and graces, while they held their partners in dose embrace, good stout women or buxom young girls, with bodices that were far from being the empty treasuries you find in the towns, who had none of that odd unnatural leanness which must be so sore a trial at night for town dwellers whose wives are women of fashion.
But the most exciting pleasures during this night of dancing were enjoyed outside the luminous zone of the Chinese lanterns. Shadowy forms were to be seen in large numbers, gliding away in pairs far beyond the limits of the town and stealing into the vineyards. The dark recesses of the hedgerows were also peopled with dim figures half descried. None could have told whether these phantasmal couples, who behaved with such exemplary discretion, were in every case husband and wife. But everyone was kind enough to think so, though there was one thing which made this doubtful. Among all these phantom forms not a shadow of a dispute could be overheard, not any of that acrimonious repartee in which two people who have lived together for a long period are accustomed to indulge. It may well be supposed that this exceptional reserve on their part was due to the pleasant warmth of the night air and the good wine they had drunk. For it would be nothing short of immoral to infer that these harmonious relations were the outcome of any serious offenses against the canons of good behavior. The worst that could happen would be that some mistakes and confusion might arise, seeing that certain of the men, showing marked attention to their neighbors’ wives, might forget their own, who could not be allowed to hang about the midst of the fête with nothing to do, as though they were women not worth the trouble. Happily, however, the men of Clochemerle, separated from their wives, busied themselves with their neighbors’; and in this way everything proceeded in twos, in a somewhat whimsical manner perhaps, but one which, so far as symmetry was concerned, left nothing to be desired. For Clochemerle people, those things were mere trifles. And the general health of the town was excellent—except for Girodot’s relapses. But the notary did not mingle with the crowd, and abstained, on this occasion, from his “secret charities.”
Whatever may be said, these little irregularities had motives which sufficiently excused them. Through living in such close proximity, married people get to know each other too well, and the better they know each other the less there remains to discover, the less does their need of an ideal find satisfaction. Such need has to find another outlet. The men try to find it in their neighbors’ wives, where they discover something lacking in their own. Their imagination gets to work, their minds are full of the other man’s wife, and this puts them into a hopeless sort of condition. They become quite ill, sometimes half-demented. But of course, if their neighbor’s wife were handed over to them in place of their own, it would not be long before exactly the same thing happened, and their eyes would begin roving around all over again. In the same way, the women work themselves up over their neighbor’s husband because he looks at them, from envy or curiosity or both, more than their own who no longer gives them a glance—of course he doesn’t. They will never understand that while their man has stopped looking at them because he knows them all over, every inch, the other fellow, who is now unsettling them with his little attentions, has only got to poke his nose in pretty thoroughly to cease taking further interest in them. Unfortunately this sort of thoughtless indifference is part of human nature, it makes complications, and people are never satisfied.
So it was that the fête each year provided an opportunity for the realization of dreams in which the people had been indulging for months in advance. Having left their homes behind them and mingled unreservedly with each other, they took full advantage of the occasion, knowing that all this freedom and lack of restraint would last but a short time. These little debauches, moreover, were not without their uses; for there can be no doubt that they acted as a safety valve for an excess of rancor by which certain minds would otherwise have become permanently embittered. In any case it should be emphatically stated that the malcontents were not in a majority. At Clochemerle, the greater number of the men put up with their wives, and the great majority of the women with their husbands. If this hardly amounted to adoration, in the majority of homes at any rate the men and the women found each other very nearly endurable. And that is saying a lot.
So, as in previous years, the night of August 15th was spent in merrymaking until about three o’clock in the morning, at which hour the people began one after the other to go home. In the main square there remained only the irreclaimables, all of them valorous “Drinkers,” who had already indulged in excessive libations, which gave their sudden shouts and cries a strange resonance in the dawn. This cacophony was so offensive that the birds in their indignation removed themselves and their graceful music to the neighboring villages, leaving Clochemerle to its sounds of drunken revelry.
On August 16th, at ten o’clock, the bells were rung for High Mass. All the women of Clochemerle made their way to the church in festive attire, as much from pious habit as to make a display of particularly becoming frocks. Details had been secretly thought out with a view to a striking impression when the new creations should appear in public on these ladies’ attractive persons. There were quantities of pink dresses, pale blue dresses, lemon-colored and light green dresses, all of them with short skirts and closely fitting at the back, as they were worn at that time, which gave one a sight of these valiant housewives’ sturdy legs. If one of them should bend down, with her hinder parts raised, in order to tie her bootlaces or button her little boy’s breeches, one had a sudden glimpse of a beautiful white ample thigh; and such spectacles as these were a great attraction for the men of Clochemerle, who had assembled in large numbers in the main street, where they took in every detail of this procession. This enabled them to make exact comparisons of the conjugal pleasures allotted to each one of them respectively.
At the Torbayon Inn, which was a capital place for a view, there was a great crush of men in a somewhat excited state as the sequel to a variety of drinks, making a frightful noise, with much boasting and jokes of appalling breadth. Among them François Toumignon was especially conspicuous. Having drunk forty-three glasses of wine since the preceding day, he was still seven drinks behind Blazot, who had swallowed not less than fifty. He was telling everyone that he was certain of carrying off the title of Champion Drinker. This certainty was doubtless the result of intoxication.
At about half-past ten the conversation turned to the subject of the urinal, and this was the signal for an outburst of heated feelings.
“I’m told that Ponosse is going to preach against it in his sermon,” Torbayon put in.
“He won’t say anything at all, don’t you worry!” declared Benoît Ploquin, a man who was always inclined to be skeptical.
“He said he was going to, and that’s been repeated. That’s all I can say,” Torbayon insisted. “With old Putet pulling the strings, I shouldn’t be in the least surprised. . . .”
“And what about Courtebiche—she’s probably somewhere around too!”
“And Girodot, he’s never far behind when there’s any sneaking to be done!”
“That means he may preach about it after all.”
“Yes, I think he may!”
“It’s been simmering in their minds for a long time!”
“The end of it’ll be they’ll have the damned urinal taken away altogether, if the whole lot of ’em are against it. You mark my words.”
After this last remark, thoughts of desperation and violence took possession of the fuddled brain of François Toumignon. Ever since his set-to with Justine Putet, everything that had to do with the urinal touched him on the raw. He rose from his seat, and, in the presence of this judicious assembly of men of Clochemerle, he uttered these solemn words, which committed him deeply:
“Putet, Courtebiche, Girodot, Ponosse—they can all go to the devil! It’s against my own wall, the urinal is! I won’t have it taken away. I forbid it to be taken away. Yes, I forbid it!”
Words full of exaggeration, and taken as such by the men whose minds were still clear and unfuddled. The more prudent among them grinned, and said:
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to stop it, my poor François!”
“You say I shan’t, Arthur? And what do you know about it? Well, I shall stop them!”
“You’re not in your right mind, François, when you talk like that. Stop and think a moment. If the Curé Ponosse gets up and says things in the pulpit, at a High Mass too, and on a day like today, that’ll get the women and you’ll be helpless.”
These words, spoken calmly, put the finishing touch to Toumignon’s irritation. He cried out:
“I’ll be helpless, will I? Don’t you be too sure. . . . Well, I’m not a coward like some people, damned if I am! I can deal with old Ponosse, any time I like.”
The more serious-minded men shrugged their shoulders in a momentary feeling of compassion. A voice was heard, giving him advice:
“You’d better go and sleep it off, François! You’re blind to the world!”
“Who dares to say I’m tight? He’s lying low, is he? And he’s wise, too! I’ll shut his mouth for him too, same as Ponosse’s!”
“You’re telling us you’re going to shut Ponosse’s mouth, are you? And where’ll you do it?”
“Slap in the middle of the church I’ll do it, by God I will!”
At this point the husband of Judith was accorded a few moments of real attention. There was a dead silence. It was pretty desperate, what Toumignon was saying! Nevertheless it raised a hope as foolish as it was irresistible. Suppose something terrific were just about to happen? Why not? . . . just for once. . . . Assuredly none of those men believed all this boasting; still it awoke that desire which is always lying dormant in men’s hearts, that they may be witnesses of some scandalous upheaval, provided that they themselves are not the sufferers. This may be taken as the situation at that moment—a state of uncertainty, its sequel dependent on such words as might follow. Toumignon was standing upright, swelling with pride at the effect he had produced, this dumbfounded silence which was his own achievement; intoxicated by the feeling that he gripped his whole audience; prepared to go to any extremity if so he might retain this momentary prestige; but very ready also to sit down and say no more, to content himself with this easy triumph if it should be granted to him. There followed one of those rare and delicious moments of indecision when fate hangs in the balance.
The fond hope cherished by the assembled company was on the point of vanishing into thin air. By ill chance their number included a treacherous fellow, Jules Laroudelle, one of those individuals with a greenish complexion, a countenance seared with dents and hollows, and a crooked crafty smile, one of those people who excel in driving a man to extremities by committing outrages on his vanity, and this with an air of sweet reasonableness and of seeming restraint. His thin unpleasant voice fell suddenly like salt upon the open wound of Toumignon’s pride and self-esteem:
“There you go, there you go, François, like a bull in a china shop! You talk and talk, but you won’t do anything. If you’re shutting any mouths, you’d better start with your own!”
“You think I’ll do nothing?”
“You’re just a fool! You can blather away with the best of ’em, provided it’s at a distance. But when it comes to talking straight to a man, face to face with him, you’re no better than anyone else! Ponosse’ll say anything he darned well chooses in his own church without being afraid that you’ll interfere with him!”
“D’you think I’m afraid of Ponosse?”
“You’d eat out of his hand, my good friend! When the time comes for you to get into your coffin, you’ll send for Ponosse all right, prayers and all. You’d better go home to bed, talking nonsense like that. And if Judith catches you going out of here in that sort of state, you’re in for a bad time, my boy!”
Laroudelle had shown great cunning. Such pacifying words could only have the worst possible effect on a conceited man. François Toumignon seized a bottle by the neck and brought it down on the table with such force as to make the glasses dance.
“Damn it all!” he cried, “what d’you bet I don’t go straight off to the church?”
“I’m ashamed of you, François!” his instigator replied, with a hypocritical pretense of disappointment. “Go home to bed, I tell you!”
This was a fresh challenge to the touchy self-esteem of a drunken man. Toumignon banged down his bottle for the second time. He was raging.
“What d’you bet I don’t go and speak straight out to Ponosse?”
“What’ll you say to him?”
“Tell him to go to hell!”
A contemptuous silence was Jules Laroudelle’s only answer. It was accompanied, however, by a sad smile and a wink—designedly made obvious—by means of which this dangerous schemer invited all honest men to take note of the raving excesses of a madman. The insulting nature of these wordless signs drove François Toumignon into a towering rage:
“Good God!” he shouted, “what d’you take me for—a lousy coward? He dares to tell me I won’t go, the little stinker! You’ll see whether I’ll go or not! You’ll see whether I’m afraid of speaking to Ponosse! You pudding-faces! You tell me I shan’t go? Well, I’m going now, this instant, off to the church! This instant, I say, I’m going off to tell the old devil-dodger what I think! Are you coming with me, you people?”
Every man of them went. Arthur Torbayon, Jules Laroudelle, Benoît Ploquin, Philibert Daubard, Delphin Lagache, Honoré Brodequin, Tonin Machavoine, Reboulade, Poipanel, and others—a round twenty of them.