Prompted by this thought, I went earlier one day to the Via Eustachia, at an hour when I usually took a siesta on the beach, and stationed myself in a doorway near the old woman’s room. I had not long to wait. A few minutes after one o’clock Maria and her niece emerged. Each carried upon her back, an empty wicker basket, and hand in hand, with an air of purpose, they set off bristly along the shattered street. Stealthily, almost, I followed them.
Through the piles of rubble went the old woman and the child. At the outskirts of the village they took a sun-baked path which led down to the dry bed of the river. Here, as I took up a vantage point on the high bank, I saw to my surprise that other figures were working with pick and spade in the flinty channel. Maria and the girl unslung their baskets and set to work. At first, I fancied they were digging some kind of bait, then I made out that the child was filling her small basket with white sand while Maria, stooping and making her selection with great care, was gathering a load of square white stones. When the panniers were full, the two shouldered their loads and slowly ascended the steep and narrow path.
They passed close to me, yet if they were conscious of my presence, they gave no sign. When they had gone a few paces ahead I followed.
The way led to the summit of the ruined town, a plateau dominating the landscape, which, in my wanderings, I had not reached before, the one site in all the wasted terrain that had escaped destruction. There, amidst a grove of acacia trees, a larger group of the village people were at work. Quietly, talking in low tones, with a restraint which gave to their actions a strange solemnity, they were mixing mortar, carving and facing the fine white stones, forming the walls of a large new structure.
For an instant I was puzzled; then, all at once, from the shape already risen, I realised what they were building. I caught my breath sharply. These people, who had barely a roof above their heads, upon whom lay the blight of overwhelming destruction, these women, children, and old men whom I had seen merely as beaten and extinguished shadows, had chosen, as their first united act, to construct, solely by their own effort, a new and splendid church. Not a makeshift chapel, but a finer, larger place of worship than ever they had had before.
Maria and the child emptied out their loads. They stood for a moment to recover their breath, then turned to make a fresh descent. As the old woman passed me, with beads of perspiration still upon her brow, she gave me, unexpectedly, from her dark, wise eyes a quick, faint smile, a smile impenetrable in its sweetness, which held, beneath its deep serenity, a touch of friendly malice, as though to say: ‘Are we finished, then, after all?’ All her life was written in that look – the past, the present, and the future. Courage was there, and high endurance, with trust, patient and unshakable – the will to live from day to day, to accept, and above all, to hope.
Confused and humbled, I stood motionless as the old woman and the little girl passed out of sight together. And suddenly my chest heaved, a stab went through me, a stab of anguished self-compunction at my own proneness to despair. What matter the rubble and the ruins? If the very young and the very old could show such faith, there was hope for the world after all.
I stood there a long time, and as I went down at last, consoled and lifted up, the first star was rising, pale yet luminous, in the eternal sky, and in the soft mist that crept up from the waters the ravaged village disappeared. There rose instead a shining city of the spirit.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
And then I was in France. That same month of June, as I drove through the orchards of Normandy, within view of Mont-Saint-Michel, a turn of the road brought me suddenly to an old French château. The sight of this stately dwelling, set in a verdant park behind an avenue of lime trees, caused me to draw up. And as an old countryman was passing, I inquired:
‘Who lives there?’
He stopped and smiled – a spontaneous smile which lit up his weathered face, wrinkled and ruddy as a ripe cider apple.
‘Why, none other than Monsieur le Maire.’
Surprised by this answer, I exclaimed:
‘But surely … that must be the home of an important person … some nobleman …’
The old man nodded his head in amiable indulgence.
‘Oh, yes. Monsieur le Maire is certainly a marquis … He has one of the best names in France. But he is also mayor of our village. And that, monsieur … that is how we know him.’
Something in the peasant’s tone and manner – he would not be drawn further, but ambled off along the dusty lane – whetted my curiosity, gave me the feeling that I had stumbled on a story. And as I had time on my hands, instead of pushing on towards Saint-Malo as I had intended, I turned off at the adjoining village and put up at the tavern there – the Pomme d’Or. I felt a strong desire to meet Monsieur le Maire.
This, the landlord of the inn assured me, would not be difficult – the mayor was accessible to everyone – and following his voluble directions I crossed the pretty village square and entered the little red-roofed town hall. Here, in a tiny, bare whitewashed room, seated at a scrubbed deal table, under the flag of France, I found the man I sought.
He was of middle age, slight and spare, clean-shaven, with well-marked features, rather hollow cheeks, and a penetrating yet strangely tranquil gaze. He was dressed very plainly, in corduroy breeches, stout stockings and boots, and an old-fashioned Norfolk jacket with narrow lapels and a belt at the back. And he wore, round his waist, the tricolour sash that was the badge of his office. Although he held himself erect as he rose to greet me, I thought that he did not look particularly robust, and he seemed tired, as from a hard day’s work. Nevertheless, he smiled cordially and offered me his hand, declaring that he had just been marrying a young couple from an outlying farm, an exercise of his civil functions which – he added – always delighted him. When I gave him my card his eye showed a friendly interest and after some moments of animated questioning he startled me – for I had not expected such hospitality – by inviting me to dinner.
The cool of evening was falling when we left the town hall and walked down the single street. Passing a group of young men returning from the fields, some women washing clothes by the bridge, a band of children playing outside the school, one could not but remark the extraordinary blending of familiarity and respect with which these people of the village greeted my companion. There was nothing of deference in their manner, still less of servility, but rather a kind of camaraderie, a sense of affection, understanding, and good-fellowship.
Then we came to the wrought-iron gates of the château, passed into the avenue, and immediately I was struck by signs of straitened circumstances which had not been apparent to me from a distance. There were deep ruts in the driveway, weeds sprouting between the cobblestones of the courtyard, great cracks in the ornamental urns which flanked the balustrade of the terrace. When we entered the mansion itself – despite the ageless beauty of the exterior – this impression was borne out by the silence of the lofty rooms, the absence of servants, the complete negation of all that grandeur and display which might normally have been found in such a setting. At the end of the vaulted hall a small table covered with a checked cloth was set with cutlery and china, and here, after another place had been laid, an aged white-haired man, quiet and slow moving, served the dinner.
Now, indeed, the austerity of this establishment was fully confirmed by the frugality of our repast. A thin soup was set before us, followed by a dish of cooked vegetables eaten with dark bread, then came, finally, a cup of unsweetened black coffee. Despite the control which I imposed upon myself, some hint of perplexity must have been visible in my expression. For suddenly, to my embarrassment, my host broke into a low chuckle of amusement.
‘If I had known you were coming we should have tried to do better.’ Immediately he was serious again. ‘You see, sir, we are glad here even of the simplest fare. For there have been times in our little community when we did not eat at all.’
When we had finished our coffee he conducted me outside to
a seat upon the terrace, silently offering me a cigarette. Darkness had fallen and, except for the faint hooting of owls in the tall pine woods behind, the stillness was absolute. The moon was not risen, but before us, in the hollow of the valley, the lights of the hamlet made a cluster of low stars. The sight seemed to fascinate the man beside me – his gaze remained steadfastly upon it.
‘Do you believe that a place … like that village you now see … can have a soul?’ The question came unexpectedly, and before I could answer it my companion went on, ‘Perhaps that sounds absurd to you. Yet it is a belief I cling to with all my heart.’
There was a pause then, drawing deeply on his cigarette, suppressing the slight cough which seemed always to trouble him, he began to speak, in a low tone, gazing straight ahead.
He was, he told me, one of a family of three, but both his brothers had been killed in World War I. He himself had spent four years in the trenches in that conflict, had been gassed with chlorine, wounded by shrapnel in the chest. He made this admission lightly, without self-consciousness, remarking with a faint smile that it was not the Boche gas but the Caporal tobacco, which he smoked incessantly, that really had affected his lungs.
In the troubled interim of peace which followed, both his parents had died. Then came World War II. When the Germans broke through, they occupied the château, made it a general staff headquarters, and, suspecting that he was heading a resistance movement, threw him into prison. In this fashion he had spent another four years of his life.
He smiled again, in a reminiscent fashion, and lit another cigarette.
‘Some day I would like to tell you of that time in prison. The trials of an active nature with nothing to do. In desperation I bribed my gaoler with my cuff links to bring me string. And with this string I made fish nets … scores of fish nets. And while I made these nets, I thought … Ah, yes, monsieur, I thought deeply. Heaven knows I am no philosopher, yet it was the result of these reflections in my cell which changed completely my outlook upon life.’
He paused in that same gently reflective manner.
‘When we were freed by the forces of liberation, for which, believe me, sir, we owe the United States our eternal gratitude, I came back here. This place, the home of my family for centuries, was in a state of indescribable dilapidation and neglect, while I, of course, was ruined.’ His lips curved with deprecating humour. In prison I had not been clever enough to beat the depreciation of the franc by black market speculation. What inflation had begun, taxation finished off. As I surveyed the wreck of my estate I was tempted to throw up the sponge and go away to escape, anywhere, to the furthest ends of the earth. And then, through the mist of my own misfortunes, I became aware of the condition of the village – and of the people there – which was worse, far worse than mine.
‘In the severe fighting of the liberation many of the houses had been reduced to rubble. Food was scarce, inflation and black marketing were rife, currency had no value, and for many a poor peasant the slowly accumulated savings of a lifetime, hidden in a stocking in the chimney corner, had suddenly become valueless. Everything we had believed in seemed gone. People were not only without homes, bread, or money, they were without heart, without faith. Yes, they had lost their belief in God, in France, in themselves. And in this desperate plight the new enemy crept in. Yes, monsieur, here in this remote countryside, fax from the great cities, in the heart of our beautiful France, we were threatened by Communism. A mechanic at the garage, named Martin, was the leader. He had suffered severely – his business was gone, the piece of land he had bought and cultivated had become so densely overgrown by briers in the war years he had neither the means nor the will to reclaim it. In brief, he was in the mood to preach revolution, he did preach it, and soon he had a large number of the people under his influence.’
My host paused here, stared broodingly into the night, before resuming.
‘I must confess to you that my family had always kept themselves aloof from the village, had never taken but the remotest interest in it, except as a recruiting ground for their servants, gardeners, footmen. But suddenly, I, the sole survivor of my line, felt a strange responsibility. Perhaps you remember the parable of the lost talent. That, monsieur, in my moment of supreme despondency, was how I felt – that I must go out and seek, without rest, until I found it … the talent of the lost happiness and well-being of a ruined village.
‘It so happened that the office of mayor was vacant. No one wanted it. It was an anachronism, according to Martin, part of the derelict system that had deceived and exploited the people. Without ostentation I put myself forward … and was appointed. And then, instead of looking to the villagers to serve me, I began to serve them.’
Again that reflective pause, that quiet smile directed towards me.
‘I shall not bore you by detailing my indifferent efforts. There were some fields at the end of this property – these I divided up among such as were eager to till them. For others I established a fishery in the bay – my nets proved not altogether useless, you see – and arranged for a distribution of the catch in Rennes. I used every effort to provide opportunities for work. But the essential thing was to place myself at the disposal of everyone, to be always on hand, to give advice, to settle disputes, to offer all possible assistance.
‘Oh, it was not easy. Naturally the people did not trust me, suspected me of an ulterior motive, sneered at me behind my back. But gradually, almost in spite of themselves, some began to come my way. There remained, however, Martin and his following. Every time I passed the derelict garage they would shout abuse, spit on the pavement. Ah, how they hated me.’
He turned towards me quickly.
‘Make no mistake, monsieur, I did not commit the folly of hating them back. I understood how they felt, indeed I sympathised with them. They were Frenchmen, just as much as I. In those years in prison. I had realised how false were the old standards of patriotism. In the old days in the trenches we used to say that a man cannot fight on an empty stomach. How much truer to say that he will not fight for an empty stomach. He must have something – here in the country, he must have a home, a patch of land, chickens and a cow, above all, a decent, rewarding way of life, to make him a loyal and contented citizen.’
His voice suddenly grew intensely serious.
‘All over the world, monsieur, that fact is becoming more and more evident. We cannot preach democracy and at the same time tolerate conditions which deny a living wage and equal opportunity to vast sections of our population. Happy people are never Communists. Revolution springs only from discontent and misery. If through our own stupidity we drive the masses, in desperation, to that extremity, we have only ourselves to blame.’
For a long moment he was silent; then, with a return to his former tranquillity, he went on:
‘I need not tell you that we, in France, have felt the goodwill of America. One day, in the spring of 1948, there arrived in our village the first exciting evidence of le bon plan Marshall. It was a tractor, a splendid agricultural machine, complete with plough, harrow, cultivator, in short, with all equipment. I assure you, as it stood there in the square, brand new, its bright vermilion paint gleaming in the sun, it was the centre of attention. Everyone flocked to see it.
‘Well, sir, towards evening, when the crowd had gone and the commotion subsided, I saw a solitary figure viewing the machine, at first from a distance, then coming nearer, inspecting the engine, testing the controls, even caressing the heavy tyre treads with his hands. To my surprise, I saw that it was Martin. Approaching unobserved, I spoke to him.
‘“Good evening, Martin. It is a nice machine.”
‘He started in confusion, angry at being caught there, admiring this product of the hated capitalists. But honesty compelled him to be truthful. He glared at me doggedly.
‘“Yes,” he muttered, “it is a fine job. Any fool could tell you that.”
‘I gazed back at him, and as I did so a sudden idea, call it if you wish an in
spiration, came to me. You will recollect that this man was a mechanic who knew and loved machinery. Remember also his derelict farm with only a broken wooden plough to work it. Almost involuntarily, the words came from me.
‘“I am glad you approve of it, Martin. It is yours.”
‘At first he did not understand. Perhaps he imagined I had gone mad. Then he thought I was making game of him, and his face turned dusky with anger. But he knew that the machine was under my jurisdiction, and something in my look, which was serious and calm, though I assure you, sir, I was not calm inside, must have told him I was in earnest. He went deadly pale. The struggle within him was painful to observe. He tried to speak but his lips began to tremble, although he set his jaw hard, the muscles of his face were out of his control. I could see the moisture forming in his eyes. Without a word, without even a sign, I turned and waited away.’
My companion leaned forward and placed his hand upon my arm, his expression half quizzical, half grave.
‘After that, no more trouble. One act of generosity can do more to dispel malice and envy than a hundred burnings at the stake. Of course we all use the tractor in the village. But it is Martin’s. He is proud of it. With it he has not only reclaimed his farm. He had reclaimed himself.’
When he concluded there was a long silence, a silence filled with meaning, in which, through the veils of vapour that now lay upon the dew-drenched fields, the lights of the tiny hamlet seemed somehow to burn brighter. Slowly I turned and grasped his hand.
‘Yes,’ said in a low voice, ‘your village has a soul. I believe that you have saved it.’
Next morning it was early as I drove away from the Pomme d’Or. But already, though the place was only half awake, Monsieur le Maire was at his post. He waved as he threw up the window of his little bureau. And in that simple action, it was for me as though a window had been thrown open to the splendour and mystery of service and self-sacrifice. Even now I have the vision of that slight, spare figure, that humble aristocrat with his pale, hollow-cheeked face, his cough, his Caporal cigarette, his comic little sash, viewing the world with unfailing sympathy, helping his neighbours, bringing together the highest and the lowest, striving simply, earnestly, unfalteringly, to keep alight the flame of freedom in the country that he loves.