A Norman
We had just left Rouen, and were going along the road to Jumièges at a brisk trot. The light carriage spun along between the fields, then the horse slowed down to climb the hill of Canteleu.
At that point there is one of the most magnificent views in the world. Behind us Rouen, the town of churches, of Gothic belfries, carved like ornaments of ivory; in front, Saint-Sever, the suburb of factories, which raises its thousand smoking chimneys to the great sky, opposite the thousand sacred spires of the old city.
Here is the steeple of the cathedral, the highest of the human monuments; and down there the “Fire Pump” of “La Foudre,” its rival, almost as tall, which overtops by a metre the highest pyramid of Egypt.
Before us the undulating Seine winds along, sown with islands, bordered on the right by white cliffs, crowned by a forest, and on the left by immense level fields, with another forest on their edge, far away in the distance.
From place to place, great ships were anchored along the banks of the wide river. Three enormous steamers were going out, one after another, toward Havre; and a string of boats consisting of a three master, two schooners, and a brig, were coming up to Rouen, towed by a little tug, which vomited a cloud of black smoke.
My companion, born in the country, did not see this surprising landscape from the same point of view as I. But he smiled continually; he seemed to be laughing to himself. Suddenly he exclaimed: “Ah! you are about to see something funny—the chapel of Father Matthew. That is something really good, my boy.”
I looked at him in astonishment. He continued:
“I am going to give you a flavour of Normandy that will remain in your nose. Father Matthew is the handsomest Norman in the province and his chapel is one of the wonders of the world, no more nor less. But I will give you first a few words of explanation. Father Matthew, or ‘Father Booze’ as they also call him, is an old sergeant-major, returned to his native village. He unites, in admirable proportions, the perfect humbug of the old soldier and the sly malice of the Norman. On his return to these parts, thanks to innumerable protectors and incredible trickeries, he was made the guardian of a miraculous chapel, a chapel protected by the Virgin, and frequented principally by pregnant girls. He baptized the marvelous statue there as: Notre Dame du Gros-Ventre, and he treats it with a certain mocking familiarity which does not exclude respect. He has himself composed and had printed a special prayer for his Good Virgin. This prayer is a masterpiece of unintentional irony, of Norman wit, where ridicule is mixed with fear of the saint, a superstitious fear of secret influence of some kind. He does not believe much in his patron saint; nevertheless, he believes in her a little and treats her gently as a matter of policy.
“Here is the beginning of this extraordinary prayer:
“ ‘Our good Lady, the Virgin Mary, natural Patroness of girl-mothers, in this country and in all the earth, protect your servant who has sinned in a moment of forgetfulness.’
“The supplication terminates thus:
“ ‘Especially, do not forget to speak for me to your sainted Husband, and intercede with God the Father that he may accord me a good husband like your own.’
“This prayer, forbidden by the clergy of the country, is sold by him privately, and is regarded as helpful by those who repeat it with unction. In fact, he speaks of the good Virgin as a valet might of his master, some redoubtable prince, knowing all his little intimate secrets. He knows a host of amusing stories about her which he whispers amongst friends after he has been drinking.
“But you must see for yourself.
“As the revenue furnished by the Patroness did not seem sufficient, he has added to his chief asset, the Virgin, a little trade in saints. He keeps them all, or nearly all. And, as room was lacking in the chapel, he stocked them in the woodshed, from which he gets them whenever the faithful ask for them. He has carved these wonderfully comical statuettes himself, out of wood, and painted them all green, a solid colour, one year when they painted his house. You know the saints heal maladies, but each has his specialty; and one must not run into error or confusion in these things. They are jealous one of the other, like play-actors.
“So that they may not make any mistake, the poor old women come and consult Matthew.
“ ‘For bad ears, what saint is best?’ they say.
“ ‘Well, there is Saint Osymus who is good; and there is also Saint Pamphilius, who is not bad,’ he tells them.
“That is not all. When Matthew has time on his hands, he drinks. But he drinks like an artist, one that is sure of himself, so much so that he is tipsy regularly every evening. He is tipsy, but he knows it; he knows it so well that he notes each day the exact degree of his drunkenness. It is his principal occupation. The chapel comes afterward.
“And he has invented—listen to this and prepare for a surprise—he has invented the boozometer. The instrument does not yet exist, but Matthew’s observations are as precise as those of a mathematician. You will hear him say continually:
“ ‘Since Monday, I have not gone above forty-five.’ Or, ‘I was between fifty-two and fifty-eight,’ or ‘I had sixty-six to seventy,’ or, perhaps, ‘Ah! confound it, I believed I was in the fifties, when here I find I was at seventy-five!’
“He never makes a mistake. He says that he has not yet reached the hundredth degree, but, as he admits that his observations cease to be precise after he has passed ninety, one cannot absolutely rely upon this statement.
“When Matthew recognizes that he has passed ninety, you may be sure that he is really tipsy. On these occasions, his wife, Mélie, another marvel, works herself into great anger. She waits for him at the door when he enters, and shrieks: ‘Here you are, you nasty pig, you drunken good-for-nothing.’
“Then Matthew, no longer laughing, plants himself before her, and in severe tone says: ‘Be still, Mélie, this is no time to talk. Wait till tomorrow.’
“If she continues to vociferate, he approaches her, and with trembling voice says: ‘Shut your jaw; I am in the nineties; I can no longer measure; I am going to hurt someone; take care!’
“Then Mélie beats a retreat.
“If she tries the next day to return to the subject, he laughs in her face and answers: ‘Come, come! enough of that; that is all over. So long as I have not reached the hundredth degree, there is no harm done. But if I pass that, I will allow you to correct me, I give you my word!’ ”
We had reached the summit of the hill. The road lay through the wonderful forest of Roumare. The autumn, the marvelous autumn, mixed her gold and purple with the last green leaves, still vivid, as if some drops of sunlight had rained down from the sky into the thickest of the wood.
We crossed Duclair; then, instead of continuing toward Jumièges, my friend turned to the left, and, taking a shortcut, struck into the wood. And soon, from the summit of a green hill, we discovered anew the magnificent valley of the Seine and the tortuous river itself, winding along at our feet.
Upon the right, a little building, with a slate roof and a clock-tower as high as an umbrella, leaned against a pretty house with green shutters, all clothed in honeysuckle and roses.
A loud voice cried out: “Here are some friends!” And Matthew appeared upon the threshold. He was a man of sixty, thin, wearing a pointed beard and long, white mustaches. My companion shook hands with him and introduced me. Matthew made us enter a cool, clean kitchen, which also served as a living-room.
“I, sir,” said Matthew, “have no distinguished apartment. I like better not to get too far from the eatables. The pots and pans, you see, are company.” Then, turning toward my friend, he added:
“Why have you come on Thursday? You know well that it is My Lady’s consultation day. I cannot go out this afternoon.”
Then, running to the door, he uttered a terrible call: “Mé‑li‑ee!” which must have made the sailors raise their heads in the ships going up and down the river, at the bottom of the valley.
Mélie did not answer.
Then Matthew winked maliciously: “She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was up to ninety.”
My neighbour began to laugh. “Ninety, Matthew! How was that?”
Matthew answered: “I will tell you. I found last year only twenty rasières of cider apples. There were no more, but in order to make good cider these are the best. I made a barrelful and yesterday I tapped it. As for nectar, that is nectar; you will say so, too. I had Polyte here. We took a drink and then another drink without quenching our thirst, for one could drink it till tomorrow. I drank so much, one drink after another, that I felt a coolness in my stomach. I said to Polyte: ‘If we should take a glass of brandy, now, it would heat us up.’ He consented. But brandy, that put a fire in my body, so hot that it was necessary to return to the cider. So there it was! From coolness to heat and from heat to coolness, I perceived that I was in the nineties. Polyte was far beyond a hundred.”
The door opened. Mélie appeared, and immediately, before she said “Good day” to us, exclaimed: “Pigs! You were far beyond the hundred mark, both of you!”
Matthew was angry, but answered: “Say not so, Mélie, say not so; I have never been beyond a hundred.”
They gave us an exquisite breakfast, before the door under two lime-trees, at the side of the little chapel of Notre Dame du Gros-Ventre, with the beautiful landscape before us. And Matthew related to us, with raillery mingled with credulity, some unlikely stories of miracles.
We had drunk much of the adorable cider, pungent and sweet, cool and powerful, which he preferred to all liquids, and were smoking our pipes, sitting astride our chairs, when two good women presented themselves.
They were old, dried, and bent. After bowing, they asked for Saint Blanc. Matthew winked his eye toward us, and said:
“I will go and get him for you.” And he disappeared into his woodshed.
He remained there five minutes, then returned with face filled with consternation. Raising his arms, he declared:
“I don’t know at all where he is. I cannot find him. I am sure that I had him!” Then, making a horn of his hands, he called: “Mélie!”
From the foot of the garden his wife answered: “What is it?”
“Where is Saint Blanc? I can’t find him in the shed!”
Then Mélie threw back this explanation:
“Wasn’t it him you took to stop the hole in the rabbit hutch last week?”
Matthew started. “Good God. Maybe that’s so.”
Then he said to the two women: “Follow me.”
They followed. We almost suffocated with laughter. In fact, Saint Blanc, stuck in the earth like a common stake, stained with mud and filth, was being used to make one corner of the rabbit hutch.
When they perceived him, the two good women fell on their knees, crossed themselves, and began to murmur their oremus. Matthew hurried to them. “Wait,” said he, “you are kneeling in the dirt; I will bring you some straw.”
And he went to find some straw and made them a prayer cushion. Then, seeing that his saint was muddy, and believing, without doubt, that it would be bad for the trade, he added: “I am going to clean him up a bit.”
He took a pail of water and a brush and began to wash the wooden figure vigorously. Meantime the two old women continued to pray.
When he had finished, he said: “Now it is all right.” And then he brought us back for another drink.
As he raised the glass to his lips, he stopped and said, with an air of embarrassment: “Well, indeed, when I put Saint Blanc in the rabbit hutch, I was sure he would never earn me another penny. For two years there had been no demand for him. But the saints, you see, never die.”
He drank and continued:
“Come, let us have another. Amongst friends you must never go less than fifty, and we’re only at thirty-eight.”