CHAPTER IV
FIRST LOVE
The first day she had seen him, this Yann, was the day after his
arrival, at the "/Pardon des Islandais/," which is on the eighth of
December, the fete-day of Our Lady of Bonne-Nouvelle, the patroness of
fishers--a little before the procession, with the gray streets, still
draped in white sheets, on which were strewn ivy and holly and wintry
blossoms with their leaves.
At this /Pardon/ the rejoicing was heavy and wild under the sad sky.
Joy without merriment, composed chiefly of insouciance and contempt;
of physical strength and alcohol; above which floated, less disguised
than elsewhere, the universal warning of death.
A great clamour in Paimpol; sounds of bells mingled with the chants of
the priests. Rough and monotonous songs in the taverns--old sailor
lullabies--songs of woe, arisen from the sea, drawn from the deep
night of bygone ages. Groups of sailors, arm-in-arm, zigzagging
through the streets, from their habit of rolling, and because they
were half-drunk. Groups of girls in their nun-like white caps. Old
granite houses sheltering these seething crowds; antiquated roofs
telling of their struggles, through many centuries, against the
western winds, the mist, and the rain; and relating, too, many stories
of love and adventure that had passed under their protection.
And floating over all was a deep religious sentiment, a feeling of
bygone days, with respect for ancient veneration and the symbols that
protect it, and for the white, immaculate Virgin. Side by side with
the taverns rose the church, its deep sombre portals thrown open, and
steps strewn with flowers, with its perfume of incense, its lighted
tapers, and the votive offerings of sailors hung all over the sacred
arch. And side by side also with the happy girls were the sweethearts
of dead sailors, and the widows of the shipwrecked fishers, quitting
the chapel of the dead in their long mourning shawls and their smooth
tiny /coiffes/; with eyes downward bent, noiselessly they passed
through the midst of this clamouring life, like a sombre warning. And
close to all was the everlasting sea, the huge nurse and devourer of
these vigorous generations, become fierce and agitated as if to take
part in the fete.
Gaud had but a confused impression of all these things together.
Excited and merry, yet with her heart aching, she felt a sort of
anguish seize her at the idea that this country had now become her own
again. On the market-place, where there were games and acrobats, she
walked up and down with her friends, who named and pointed out to her
from time to time the young men of Paimpol or Ploubazlanec. A group of
these "Icelanders" were standing before the singers of
"/complaintes/," (songs of woe) with their backs turned towards them.
And directly Gaud was struck with one of them, tall as a giant, with
huge shoulders almost too broad; but she had simply said, perhaps with
a touch of mockery: "There is one who is tall, to say the least!" And
the sentence implied beneath this was: "What an incumbrance he'll be
to the woman he marries, a husband of that size!"
He had turned round as if he had heard her, and had given her a quick
glance from top to toe, seeming to say: "Who is this girl who wears
the /coiffe/ of Paimpol, who is so elegant, and whom I never have seen
before?"
And he quickly bent his eyes to the ground for politeness' sake, and
had appeared to take a renewed interest in the singers, only showing
the back of his head and his black hair that fell in rather long curls
upon his neck. And although she had asked the names of several others,
she had not dared ask his. The fine profile, the grand half-savage
look, the brown, almost tawny pupils moving rapidly on the bluish opal
of the eyes; all this had impressed her and made her timid.
And it just happened to be that "Fils Gaos," of whom she had heard the
Moans speak as a great friend of Sylvestre's. On the evening of this
same /Pardon/, Sylvestre and he, walking arm-in-arm, had crossed her
father and herself, and had stopped to wish them good-day.
And young Sylvestre had become again to her as a sort of brother. As
they were cousins they had continued to /tutoyer/ (using thou for you,
a sign of familiarity) each other; true, she had at first hesitated
doing so to this great boy of seventeen, who already wore a black
beard, but as his kind, soft, childish eyes had hardly changed at all,
she recognized him soon enough to imagine that she had never lost
sight of him.
When he used to come into Paimpol, she kept him to dinner of an
evening; it was without consequence to her, and he always had a very
good appetite, being on rather short rations at home.
To speak truly, Yann had not been very polite to her at this first
meeting, which took place at the corner of a tiny gray street, strewn
with green branches. He had raised his hat to her, with a noble though
timid gesture; and after having given her an ever-rapid glance, turned
his eyes away, as if he were vexed with this meeting and in a hurry to
go. A strong western breeze that had arisen during the procession, had
scattered branches of box everywhere and loaded the sky with dark gray
draperies.
Gaud, in her dreamland of remembrances, saw all this clearly again;
the sad gloaming falling upon the remains of the /Pardon/; the sheets
strewn with white flowers floating in the wind along the walls; the
noisy groups of Icelanders, other waifs of the gales and tempests
flocking into the taverns, singing to cheer themselves under the gloom
of the coming rain; and above all, Gaud remembered the giant standing
in front of her, turning aside as if annoyed, and troubled at having
met her.
What a wonderful change had come over her since then; and what a
difference there was between that hubbub and the present tranquility!
How quiet and empty Paimpol seemed to-night in the warm long twilight
of May, which kept her still at her window alone, lulled in her love's
young dream!
