But now we were engulfed in this happy throng, so that we hand-led our horses – perching the singing children on their backs. And so at last in triumph we came to the main portal of the chateau where their parents waited anxiously, peering out into the forest from time to time, watching for their return.
The familiar smiling faces were all there – old Jan, clad in his sheepskin jacket, the firelight behind him in the great hall turning his silver hair into a halo. A little behind stood his quiet and sturdy wife Elizo. Marius was their son and the apple of their eye – a man of forty with broad shoulders and sweeping black moustaches. A younger man, Esprit, came out to help us unpack our luggage. Then all the girls streamed out to embrace us, the children and the grandchildren with names like Magali, Janetoun, Mireille, Nanoun. Here after the ceremonial embrace we were offered the traditional posset of red wine with its mulled spices, the old warmer-up for winter travellers. In the ensuing babble, with all of them trying to talk at once, we hardly noticed the absence of Piers. But he was far from absent, for when at last we reached the great hall with its blazing logs we saw him standing looking down from the first landing, smiling in shadow and delightedly watching. Then he came skipping down the broad staircase with its carved balustrade, but a trifle shyly, as if to control his ardour, his affection. When all the greetings were given and all the questions answered we were free, just the three of us, to mount the staircase arm in arm and take the long white corridors which led to his room which lay beyond a small gallery of pictures, for the most part ancestors, smoked black by time and the wood fires. At the end of the gallery, in a somewhat disconcerting fashion stood an easel on which was propped a large cork archery target, plumped full of arrows with different-coloured feathers. Piers spent a good deal of time practising here with the great yew bow he had bought in London. The whipple of the flying arrows sounded throughout the house when he did so. His private rooms, so full of books and masks and foils and shot-guns, had old-fashioned vaulted ceilings. The petroleum lamps and the tall silver candlesticks threw warm shadows everywhere. In the tall fireplace bristled furze, olive and holm-oak which smelt divine. Everything had been timed exactly for the Christmas feast and Piers was beside himself with joy because there were no unexpected hitches or delays. Moreover in two days’ time Toby and Rob (the Gog and Magog of our company) were due to arrive and bring with them the light-hearted laughter and inconsequence which made them such excellent company.
We sat now, the three of us cross-legged on the floor before the fire, eating chestnuts and drinking whisky and talking about nothing and everything. Never had old Verfeuille seemed so warmly welcoming. If we had an inner pang as we remembered Piers’ decisions for the future we did not mention them to each other. It would not have been fair to the time and the place to intrude our premonitions and doubts upon it. But underneath the excitement we were worried, we had a sense of impending departure, of looming critical change in our affairs – in this newly found passion as well. As if sensing this a little Piers said, during a silence “Cheer up, children. Yesterday we went out and selected the Yule Log – a real beauty this year.” He described to me the little ceremony in which the oldest and the youngest member of the whole household go out hand in hand to choose the tree which will be felled for Christmas, and then return triumphantly to the house bearing it with, of course, the assistance of everyone. It was paraded thrice around the long supper table and then laid down before the great hearth, while old Jan undertook to preside over the ceremony of the libation which he did with great polish, filling first of all a tall jar of vin cuit. Describing it Piers acted him to the life, in half-humorous satire – his smiling dignity and serenity as he bowed his head over the wine to utter a prayer while everyone was deeply hushed around him, standing with heads bowed. Then he poured three little libations on the log, to Father, Son and Holy Ghost, before crying out with all the vigour he could muster in his crackly old voice:
Cacho-fio!
Bouto-fio!
Alègre! Alègre!
Dieu nous alègre!
Yule Log Burn
Joy Joy
God give us Joy.
And as he reached the last words of the incantation which were “Christmas has arrived” a huge bundle of vine-trimmings was set alight under the ceremonial log and the whole fireplace flamed up, irradiating the merry faces of the company, as if they too had caught fire from sympathy with the words; and now everyone embraced anew and clapped hands, while the old man once more filled the ceremonial bowl with wine, but this time passed it about as a loving-cup, beginning with little Tounin the youngest child: and so on in order of seniority until at last it came back to his hand. Then he threw back his head and drained it to the dregs, the firelight flashing on his brown throat. Suddenly Piers, despite himself, was seized with a pang of sadness and tears came into his eyes: “How the devil am I going to leave them, do you think? And what is going to happen to us, to It?” It was not the time for such questions and I told him so. I finished my drink and consulted my watch. In a little while it would be in order to tackle the second half of the ceremony which consisted in decking out the crèche with the candles and figurines. I was glad of the diversion, for this little aside of his had wakened all kinds of doubts in me – about the future which awaited us, the separations … Sylvie appeared with her arms full of things, dressed now in the full peasant dress of Avignon and looking ravishing. Everyone clapped her. “Hurry and dress”, she told us, “before we do the Holy Family.”
It did not take long. My own rooms were on the eastern side of the house. Thoughtful hands had placed a copper warming pan full of coals in my bed, while a small fire, carefully shielded by a guard, crackled in the narrow hearth. I lit my candles and quickly put on the traditional black velvet coat which Piers had given me, with its scarlet silk lining; also the narrow stove-pipe pantaloons, dark sash and pointed black shoes – tenue de rigueur for Christmas dinner in Verfeuille. Piers himself would wear the narrow bootlace tie and the ribbon of the fèlibre, the Provençal poet. I hastened, and when I got downstairs Sylvie was already there trying to bring some order into the candle-lighting ceremony which was almost swamped by the antics of high-spirited children flitting about like mice. She managed to control the threatened riot and before long they were all admiring the colour and form of the little figurines as they were unwrapped one by one. Soon a constellation of small flames covered the brown hillsides of Bethlehem and brought up into high prominence the Holy Family in the manger, attended by the utterly improbable kings, gipsies, queens, cowboys, soldiers, poachers and postmen – not to mention sheep, ducks, quail, cattle and brilliant birds. Then came the turn of Piers, who exercised a bit more authority, to unwrap and distribute the wrapped presents, all duly labelled, so that nobody should feel himself forgotten on this memorable eve. Great rejoicing as the paper was ripped and torn away; and so gradually the company drifted slowly away to dinner. This had been laid in the great central hall – the long table ran down the centre with more than enough room for the gathering of that year. We three were seated at a cross-table which formed the cruciform head with Jan and his wife on our right and left respectively. Candles blazed everywhere and the Yule Log by this time had begun to thresh out bouquets of bright sparks into the chimney.
It was not a place or time easy to forget, and I had returned to it so often in my thoughts that it was no surprise to relive all this in my dreams. I must have unconsciously memorised it in great detail without being fully aware of the fact at the time. I know of no other place on earth that I can call up so clearly and accurately by simply closing my eyes: to this very day. Its floor was laid with large grey stone slabs which were strewn with bouquets of rosemary and thyme: these helped to gather up the dust when one was sweeping, as well as things like the bones which were often thrown to the hunting dogs. The high ceiling was supported by thick smoke-blackened beams from which hung down strings of sausages, chaplets of garlic, and numberless bladders filled with lard. Mo
re than a third of the rear wall was taken up by the grand central fireplace which measured some ten feet across and at least seven from the jutting mantelpiece to the floor. In its very centre, with room each side in chimney-corners and angles stood old wicker chairs with high backs, and wooden lockers for flour and salt. The mound of ash from the fires was heaped back against the back of the fireplace which itself was crossed by a pair of high andirons which flared out at the top, like flowers, into little iron baskets, so often used as plate-warmers when filled with live coals. They were furnished with hooks at different levels destined for the heavy roasting spits. From the mantelshelf hung a short red curtain designed to hold the smoke in check when the fire became too exuberant, as it did with certain woods, notably olive. Along the wide shelf above the fire were rows of objects at once utilitarian and intriguing because beautiful, like rows of covered jars in pure old faience, ranging in capacity from a gill to three pints, and each lettered with the name of its contents – saffron, pepper, cummin, tea, salt, flour, cloves. Tall bottles of luminous olive oil sparked with herbs and spices had their place here. Also a number of burnished copper vessels and a giant coffee-pot. And further along half a dozen tall brass or pewter lamps with wicks that burned olive oil – as in the time of the Greeks and Romans – but rapidly being superseded by the more modern paraffin-burning ones.
To the right of the fireplace was the wide stone sink with rows of shelves above to take a brilliant army of copper pots and pans – a real batterie de cuisine. To the left a covered bread-trough above which hung the large salt and flour boxes of immediate use together with the bread-holder – a sort of cage or cradle in dark wood, ornamented with locks and hinges of polished iron.
On the opposite side of the room was the tall curiously carved Provençal buffet, solid and capacious, and shining under its glossy varnish, the colour of salad oil. Then, to the left of it, the grandfather clock – a clock which was so much of a martinet that it assertively struck the hours in duplicate. Some old rush-bottomed chairs stood about awkwardly – for there was no real thought about luxury or even comfort here. The order of things was ancestral, traditional; history was the present, and one did not conceive of altering things, but simply asserting their traditional place in life, and in nature. As well try to alter the course of the planets. Beyond the bread-trough hung a long-shanked steel balance with a brass dish suspended by delicate brass chains, all brilliant with scouring by soap, flour and sand. Then among a straggle of farm implements standing against one wall was an ancient fowling piece resting in wooden crutches driven between two broken flags. The walls were heavily decorated with sentimental lithographs and oleographs, depicting scenes from the local folklore of the region; and, inevitably, with numberless old family pictures, now all faded away into a sepia anonymity – faces of unforgotten people and events, harvests, picnics and bullfights, tree-plantings, bull-brandings, weddings and first communions. A whole life of austere toil and harmless joy of which this room had been the centre, the pivot.
But the wine was going about now and the most important supper of the whole year was in full sail. By old tradition it has always been a “lean” supper, so that in comparison with other feast days it might have seemed a trifle frugal. Nevertheless the huge dish of raïto exhaled a wonderful fragrance: this was a ragout of mixed fish presented in a sauce flavoured with wine and capers. Chicken flamed in Cognac. The long brown loaves cracked and crackled under the fingers of the feasters like the olive branches in the fireplace. The first dish emptied at record speed, and its place was taken by a greater bowl of Rhône pan-fish, and yet another of white cod. These in turn led slowly to the dishes of snails, the whitish large veined ones that feed on the vine-leaves. They had been tucked back into their shells and were extracted with the aid of strong curved thorns, three or four inches long, broken from the wild acacia. As the wine was replenished after the first round, toasts began to fly around.
Then followed the choice supporting dishes like white cardes or cardon, the delicious stem of a giant thistle which resembles nothing so much as an overgrown branch of celery. These stems are blanched and then cooked in white sauce – I have never tasted them anywhere else. The flavour is one of the most exquisite one can encounter in the southern regions of France; yet it is only a common field-vegetable. So it went on, our last dinner, to terminate at last with a whole anthology of sweetmeats and nuts and winter melons. The fire was restoked and the army of wine-bottles gave place to a smaller phalanx of brandies, Armagnacs and Marcs, to offset the large bowls of coffee from which rose plumes of fragrance.
Now old Jan’s wife placed before the three lovers a deep silver sugar bowl full of white sugar. It lay there before them in the plenitude of its sweetness like a silver paunch. The three spoons she had placed in it stood upright, waiting for them to help themselves before the rest of the company. The toasts and the jests now began to subside, sinking towards the ground like expiring fireworks, and the time for more serious business was approaching. By tradition every year Piers made a speech which gave an account of the year’s work, bestowing praise or censure as he thought fit. But this time his news was momentous and would affect the fate of everyone in the room. I could see that the idea worried him as much as it did his sister, who glanced at him from time to time with affectionate commiseration. After many hesitations – for he changed places more than once to have a private word with this person and that – he rose and tapped for silence, to be greeted with loud applause and raised glasses by the very people whom his speech would sadden.
He stood, resigned and a little pale, while he allowed it to subside, before beginning with the Christmas wishes. He then went on by saying that he had been a trifle sad and preoccupied that evening because of the news he had to give them. Not that it was downright tragic, far from that; but all change made one sorry and sad. “But before I speak of the journey I must make let me speak of the new arrangements which will come into force when I leave. First, I raise my glass to old Jan, closer to me than my father. He will become the régisseur of Verfeuille while I am absent en mission.” The whole speech was most skilfully executed, and touched everywhere with feeling and thoughtfulness. He reassigned the role of each of the servants, stressing the increase in their responsibilities and according each one a small rise in pay. This caused great joy and satisfaction and much kissing and congratulation followed each announcement. It was a good augury for his diplomatic role to follow – for by the time he came to the sad part of his speech his audience was cheerful, fortified by all this Christmas bounty. This enabled him to come firmly and honestly to the root of the matter and explain without equivocation that the choice before him was to find a financial way of keeping on the property or else to sit and watch it slowly swallowed up by debts. He had decided to seek a post in a profession which he knew, but, he added, there was one promise to be made. We three would always come back to Verfeuille in the summer, to spend whatever holidays we got there. Everyone cheered and approved these robust sentiments, but for my part I foresaw that we might be forced to separate, for my medical finals were coming up that autumn, and I did not know what the future might hold in store. It would not have been possible to foresee the extraordinary fluke that landed me in the Foreign Service post within three months of passing them. At that moment I was possessed by a deep, numbing nostalgia for the land where I had spent the happiest hours of my life – in Aramon, say, among the cherry trees, on green grass, with summer round the corner; or Fons or Collias, or a dozen other spots where we had camped. A sombre sadness possessed me as I watched the preoccupied face of Sylvie.
A short and thoughtful silence fell upon the banqueters as they took in the full import of the words; as if in their minds they were trying out the absence of Piers, to see how it would feel without him. At that moment there came a light but peremptory knocking on the door of the room which made us all look at each other and wonder who could knock at this time and on this evening. The rapid knock was repeated af
ter a pause and old Jan rose and clicked across the flags to throw open the door into the hall.
Outside it was shadowy, but framed in the winking firelight was someone whom I took to be a gipsy for she wore the motley patchwork of one, with a brilliant headscarf and cheap but very heavy ear-rings; nor was the supposition so farfetched for Avignon had a large gipsy colony encamped about its walls, Salon was not far away, and today would be a suitable day to beg for alms … But the apparition moved a step forward into the light and said huskily: “Piers, I heard you were back.” The deep voice and the cultivated accent at once belied the trappings, and excited one’s curiosity. Her feet were bare and dirty, and one ankle had a grubby bandage on it. Hers was a massive head with small black eyes and a long nose – at first blush one would say an ugly face. But the mobility of expression which changed continuously and the thrilling deepness of the voice were magnetic, startling. There was something authoritative and superb about the woman. Piers embraced her warmly.
This was my first glimpse of Sabine about whom I then knew little enough; indeed I only knew her name when Piers used it and Sylvie repeated it as a greeting. Later I learned to know her and to admire her – but never as much as Piers who had a regular passion for the girl. She was the daughter of Lord Banquo, the Jewish banker of international repute, and their chateau was at Meurre, a dozen kilometres away. After brilliant studies the girl had abandoned the university, and had all but taken to the roads with the gipsies on whom she professed to be basing an ethnographic work. She disappeared for long periods only to reappear at the chateau without any warning, and resume her old civilised life of a well-groomed and well-spoken only daughter. Her mother was long dead and her father lived from one mistress to the next, for the most part minor actresses. He tired of them rapidly, and replaced them frequently. He was always delighted to have his daughter back, largely for selfish reasons, for she was an excellent hostess and he entertained a great deal. From time to time, when she was in trouble, she turned up at Verfeuille and asked Piers’ help and counsel. They had met out riding.
The Avignon Quintet Page 6