Nature Stories (9781590175682)

by Renard, Jules; Bonnard, Pierre

  He’s smiling at the moon and the moon is smiling back. Soon, he puts down his gun beside him and, drumming with his fingers and gently nodding his head as if beating time to their movements, this friendly hunter has no regrets as he sits watching the rabbits dancing their minuet.

  HUNTING FOR PICTURES

  HE JUMPS OUT OF BED early and sets off only if his mind is clear, his heart pure, and his body as light as a summer shirt. He doesn’t take any food or drink. He’ll be drinking fresh air and sniffing healthy scents. He leaves his weapons at home and will be happy just opening his eyes; they’ll be nets to capture pictures: the pictures will enjoy being captured.

  His first captive is the path, displaying its bones, its polished stones, and its ruts, its veins burst open, with two rows of hedge rich in sloes and blackberries.

  Next he takes a picture of the river; it’s white at the elbows and is sleeping where it’s being stroked by willows. It glitters when a fish turns up its belly, as if you’ve tossed a silver coin into it. As soon as it starts to drizzle, it gets gooseflesh.

  He takes pictures of swaying wheat, of appetizing alfalfa, and of meadows hemmed by streams. He snaps a picture of a lark or a goldfinch.

  Then he goes into the wood. He didn’t know that he’d been gifted with such sensitivity: he quickly absorbs all the scents; the most muffled sound won’t escape him; his veins are like the veins of a leaf.

  Soon he’s vibrating so much that he feels uneasy, he’s perceiving so many things that he’s in a ferment of fear, he must get out of the wood. In the distance, his eyes follow woodcutters walking back to the village.

  Outside the wood, he stares for a moment, until his eye is bursting, at the setting sun, which is shedding its shining clothes on the horizon and throwing its clouds into an untidy heap.

  At home, his head is full of pictures; he puts out his lamp and before going to sleep, enjoys counting them.

  They gladly come back into his memory. Each one of them reminds him of another one and new pictures come crowding in, all gleaming, to join them, like partridges which, pursued and separated all day, in the evening, no longer in danger, greet each other and sing.

  THE HEN

  THE MOMENT THE DOOR OPENS, off she hops from her perch, keeping both feet together.

  She’s quite an ordinary-looking hen, nothing to write home about. She’s never laid a single egg.

  Dazzled by the light, she takes a few faltering steps in the farmyard.

  First, she sees a pile of ashes where she’s used to tumbling around every morning.

  She dives into it, rolls about, and with a flourish of her wings, feathers all fluffed up, she gets rid of the fleas she’s picked up in the night.

  Then she goes off to have a drink in a hollow dish filled by a recent shower.

  She only drinks water.

  She takes little sips, sticking her neck out as she balances on the edge of her dish.

  Then, peering around her, she’s off to find some food. She likes insects, herbs, and scattered seeds.

  She pecks here, there, and everywhere. She’s indefatigable.

  Now and then, she takes a rest.

  Her neck sticks up under her red revolutionary bonnet, she has a lively eye, she’s pouting with conceit, listening first with one ear, then with the other.

  Reassured that all’s well, once again she goes off searching.

  She lifts her feet up stiffly, as if she’s got gout. She spreads her claws and puts them down cautiously, without making a sound.

  You’d think she was walking barefoot.

  COCKS

  I

  HE’S NEVER CROWED, HE’S NEVER spent the night in a hen-house; he’s never had a hen.

  He’s made of wood with one iron foot in the middle of his belly, and for years and years he’s been living on top of an old church that nobody would dare to build these days. It looks like a barn and the tiles running along the top are as straight as the back of a bull.

  And now building workers are moving in at one end of the church.

  The cock is watching when a sudden gust of wind makes him turn his back on them.

  Every time he swings round, there are new stones blocking his view of the horizon.

  Soon, jerking his head up, he can see, on top of a belfry, just completed, a young cock, who wasn’t there this morning. This cock is keeping his tail up and his beak is open, as if he’s crowing. With his wings on his hips, brand-new, in full sun, he’s looking glorious.

  At first the two rival cocks start competing as they swing around. But the old wooden cock quickly becomes exhausted and surrenders. He’s only got one foot and it’s on a beam which is threatening to let him down. He’s bent, he’s stiff, he nearly falls over. He’s creaking, he can’t move.

  And here come some carpenters.

  They’re knocking down this worm-eaten corner of the church; they take down the cock and parade him in the village. Anyone can touch him by making a present. Some give an egg, others five cents. Madame Loriot, the cook up at the château, gives silver.

  The carpenters buy themselves a drink or two or three, and after failing to agree who owns him, decide to burn the cock.

  They make him a nest of straw and logs, and set fire to it.

  The wooden cock is sparkling and his flames go heavenwards. He’s earned that.

  II

  Every morning, as he springs off his perch, the cock looks to see if the other one is still there—he always is.

  The cock can boast of having beaten all his earthly rivals, but this one is invincible, beyond his reach.

  The cock keeps on crowing, challenging and threatening, but the other bird responds only in his own good time and doesn’t reply immediately.

  The cock preens himself, ruffles his feathers, which are rather nice—some blue, some silvery. But the other cock is blue all over and has a golden glow.

  The cock gathers his hens and marches off at their head. Just look! They’re all his, they all love him, and they’re all afraid of him. The other bird is adored by the swallows.

  The cock is lavish with his favors. He distributes, now here, now there, his small dots and commas of love and celebrates his petty triumphs with a shrill screech. At the very same moment, the other bird gets married and his wedding bells ring out over the whole village.

  The jealous cock gets on his high horse of spurs, ready for a final conflict; his tail looks like a cloak and seems to be concealing a sword. His bloodred cockscomb is issuing a challenge to every cock in the sky. But the other bird, unafraid of stormy winds, is enjoying himself, playing with gentle breezes. He turns his back on the cock.

  The cock is exasperated for the rest of the day.

  The hens come home, one by one. The cock is left alone in the failing light, hoarse, worn out. But the other bird, still enjoying the last rays of the sun, trills in his pure voice the peaceful chime of the church’s evening bell.

  DUCKS

  I

  MOTHER DUCK LEADS THE WAY, waddling clumsily with both feet, to go and dabble in the hole she knows.

  She’s followed by the drake, his wings crossed on his back. He too is waddling, and with both feet as well.

  Neither is saying a word; you’d think they were going to a business meeting.

  The duck is the first to slip into the muddy water. On the surface, feathers, bird droppings, vine leaves, and straw are floating. She’s almost disappeared.

  She’s waiting, expectantly.

  It’s the drake’s turn. He dips his rich colors in the water. All you can see is his head and the kiss-curl of his behind. They both like it here. The water is warming them up. The hole is never empty and it’s only full when it rains.

  The drake is nibbling at the duck’s neck; his beak is flat. He grips her neck tightly. There is a short, sharp commotion, but the water is so clotted that it barely ripples. And quickly returning to its flat calm, it reflects, in black, a corner of the clear sky.

  The duck and the drak
e have stopped moving: they’re being roasted by the sun and they’re going to sleep. If you went by, you wouldn’t notice them; they give themselves away only by the odd bubble on the stagnant water.

  II

  They’re asleep, flat out, in front of the door, like the clogs of a woman calling on her neighbor who’s ill.

  TURKEYS

  I

  SHE’S STRUTTING ABOUT THE FARMYARD as if she was living under the monarchy.

  The other fowl merely go on eating all the time, anything they can find. She has regular mealtimes and, in between, her only concern is to look grand. All her feathers are starched and the ends of her wings draw lines on the ground, as if she’s tracing out the route she’s following: that’s the way she wants to go, nowhere else.

  She puffs out her throat so much that she can never see her feet.

  She’s completely self-assured, and as soon as I approach, she imagines that it is to pay homage to her.

  She’s gobbling with pride in advance.

  “Oh noble turkey!” I say to her. “If you were a goose I would write, using one of your feathers, to sing your praises. But a turkey hen is only just a sort of...silly little goose.

  I must have offended her. The blood goes to her head. Grapes of wrath are hanging from her beak. Red with anger, closing her tail fan with a snap, the old bag turns her back on me.

  II

  On my way, I went past the turkey-hen boarding school.

  Every day, in all weather, they take a walk.

  They’re not afraid of rain (nobody can lift her skirts better than a turkey hen), nor of the sun (a turkey hen never goes out without her sunshade).

  PIGEONS

  WHETHER THEY’RE MAKING A NOISE like a muffled drum on the roof;

  or coming out of the shade, tumbling and bursting into the sun and then going back into the shade;

  or their darting neck is living and dying like an opal ring;

  or they’re falling asleep in the evening in the forest, so tightly packed that the highest branch of the oak tree is threatening to break under this load of painted fruit;

  or those two over there suddenly start exchanging frantic signals and fall into convulsions;

  or one of them’s returning from exile carrying a litter, flying like the thought of a faraway friend—had I the wings of a dove...(Ah! A pledge of love!);

  but, though amusing to begin with, in the end, they’re boring.

  They just can’t keep still and they never learn anything on their travels.

  They spend their whole lives being rather silly. They persist in thinking babies are made through your beak.

  And in the long run, this hereditary obsession of theirs that they’ve got something in their throats that they can’t swallow becomes unbearable.

  THE PEACOCK

  IT MUST BE HIS WEDDING DAY.

  It should have been yesterday. He was all dressed up and ready. He was only waiting for his bride. She didn’t turn up. She won’t be long now.

  He’s gorgeous, strutting around like an Indian prince wearing the customary offerings. Love is enhancing the splendor of his feathers; his crest is quivering like the string of a lyre.

  The bride still hasn’t come.

  He goes on top of the roof and looks towards the sun.

  He launches his diabolical call: “Lea! Lea!”

  That’s what he calls his bride. He can’t see anyone coming and he hears no reply. The poultry are used to this and don’t even look up. They’re tired of admiring him. He comes down again into the farmyard; he’s so sure that he’s beautiful that he doesn’t even bear them any grudge.

  The wedding will be tomorrow.

  Not knowing how to spend the rest of the day, he makes his way towards the terrace, goes up the steps like an officiant going up the steps of a temple.

  He lifts the tail of his gown, which is weighed down by the gaze of those who’ve been unable to take their eyes off him.

  He repeats the ceremony once again.

  THE SWAN

  HE GLIDES OVER THE POOL like a white sleigh gliding from cloud to cloud. He hungers only for fleecy clouds that he can see forming, drifting, and dying in the water. He wants one of them. He takes aim with his beak and his snowy neck makes a sudden dart.

  Then he takes it out, like a woman’s arm coming out of her sleeve.

  He’s not caught anything.

  He takes a look: the clouds were scared and have vanished.

  His disappointment lasts only a second, the clouds take only a second to come back, and over there, where the ripples are dying down, another one is starting to form.

  Gently, on his light feather cushion, the swan rows himself towards it.

  He’s growing exhausted by trying to fish what is only a mirage.

  But what am I talking about!

  Each time he ducks, his beak rummages around in the nutritious mud and comes back with a worm.

  He’s beginning to look like a big fat goose.

  ONE DOG

  YOU CAN’T PUT POINTU OUT in this sort of weather; the bitter wind whistling under the door is even making him move off the doormat. He’s looking for some better place and pokes his nice little nose between our armchairs. But we’re squeezed, elbow to elbow, leaning over the fire, and I give Pointu a slap. My father pushes him away with his foot. Mother swears at him. My sister offers him an empty glass.

  Pointu sneezes and goes off to see if we’re in the kitchen.

  He then comes back and, at the risk of being throttled by our knees, forces his way through the circle, and now there he is, in a corner of the fireplace.

  After turning round several times, following his tail, he sits down by the fire tongs and doesn’t move. He looks at his masters so gently that we leave him in peace. But the fire tongs are almost red-hot and the loose ashes are burning his behind.

  He still doesn’t move.

  We make room for him to move away.

  “Off you go, stupid!”

  But he refuses to move. The teeth of stray dogs are chattering with cold but Pointu is as warm as toast, with his buttocks roasting and his coat singeing. He bares his yellow teeth, pretending to smile and trying not to howl.

  TWO DOGS

  OVER THERE, TWO DOGS WERE copulating on the other side of the canal, and Gloriette and I, sitting on our side, couldn’t avoid seeing them. It was a grotesque and painful sight. They were going on mating interminably when Coursol turned up, bringing back his sheep along the bank; on his shoulder he was carrying a thick branch of winter fuel.

  When he saw one of the dogs was his, he took him by the collar and, unhurriedly, dropped his branch on the other one.

  As the two dogs refused to part, Coursol, surrounded by his flock, had to hit harder. The dog howled but couldn’t break away. You could hear the thuds as the heavy branch hit it on the spine.

  Gloriette had gone pale. “Oh, the poor creatures!” she cried.

  “That’s how they treat animals in these parts,” I said. “I’m surprised Coursol hasn’t thrown them both into the river, that would work faster.”

  “What a brute!” said Gloriette.

  “Not at all. That’s Coursol, a very decent chap and perfectly peaceful.”

  Gloriette was trying not to cry out. I was as disgusted as she was, but I was used to it.

  “Tell him to stop!” said Gloriette.

  “He’s a long way off, he’d have a job to hear me.”

  “Then stand up and make signs to him.”

  “If he were to understand them, he’d just say, quite calmly, ‘Can anyone leave dogs in that state?’”

  White as a sheet, Gloriette was still watching, openmouthed. Coursol was still hitting the miserable beast.

  “It’s becoming unbearable. Shall I go away?” asked Gloriette, suddenly overcome by a feeling of shame. “Then you’ll be able to tell that horrible man what you think of him.”

  I was just about to reply, perhaps to say something like “He doesn’t come
under my jurisdiction, I’m not his mayor,” when, with a final blow which might have killed them, he succeeded in forcing the two dogs to break off. Having done his job, Coursol was herding his flock towards the village. The two dogs, now separated, lay for a few seconds side by side, sheepishly eyeing each other and treasuring their memories.

  DÉDÈCHE HAS DIED

  HE WAS MY DAUGHTER’S LITTLE griffon and we all loved him.

  He’d learned the art of snuggling up anywhere, even on the table, and seeming to be sleeping cozily in a nest.

  He’d discovered that we had begun to dislike being gently licked and he now only stroked our cheek delicately with his paw. All we had to do was protect our eyes.

  He’d laugh. For a long time we thought he was sneezing but it really was a laugh.

  Although he never had anything to make him very sad, he could cry, that’s to say, give a little throaty growl with a bright drop of water in the corner of his eyes.

  He sometimes got lost but found his own way home so cleverly that we liked to add a touch of admiration to our cries of joy.

  There was no doubt that he wasn’t able to speak, even though my daughter would say to him, “Oh, if only you could say something!”

  He’d look at her, quivering, as surprised as she was. He was certainly able to make signs with his tail and he’d open his mouth but not to bark. He could guess that his mistress wanted more than a bark and his heart was full of words, almost reaching his tongue and his lips. In the end, he’d have managed it, as soon as he was a bit older!

  One moonless night, out in the country, when Dédèche was looking for some friends along the road, a large, strange dog, which must have belonged to a poacher, got hold of this frail little ball of silk, shook it, held it in its teeth, flung it down, and made off.