Nature Stories (9781590175682)

by Renard, Jules; Bonnard, Pierre

  Or else, hide in some long alfalfa, but you have to go there straightaway.

  Or they can swerve—but doing that brings them closer to you.

  Or run instead of flying and they can run faster than a man—but he has a dog.

  Or call to each other when they’ve been split up, but you can hear their call and there’s no nicer sound for you than that.

  This couple of young birds has already started living together on their own. I come upon them one evening at the edge of a plowed field. They were so tightly joined, one wing on top of the other, so to speak, that the shot which killed one dislodged the other one.

  The female didn’t feel anything but the male just had time to see his bride dead and to feel himself dying beside her.

  The two of them have left, in the same place, a little love, a little blood, a few feathers.

  So, with one shot, you’ve managed a double: go and tell your family all about it.

  Those two old birds, whose brood had been destroyed last year, didn’t love each other any less than those two young ones. I used to see them together every time. They were clever at keeping out of my way, and I wasn’t particularly anxious to look out for them. I killed one of them quite by chance. And then I looked for the other one, too, out of pity.

  This one has a foot dangling down, as if I was holding it on a wire.

  That one follows the others at first and then her wings give way and she falls to the ground; unable to fly, she runs as well as she can, quite lightly, half out of the furrow, away from the dog.

  This one has got a lead pellet in its head. It leaves the others, soars up, bewildered, above the trees, higher than the weathercock, towards the sun. And the man who’s shot it follows it anxiously with his eyes, loses sight of it, until suddenly it has to surrender to the weight of lead in its head. It folds its wings and plummets to earth, beak first, like an arrow.

  This one is shot and spins round and round like a boat—and capsizes.

  You can’t tell how this one died, the wound is hidden under its feathers.

  I stuff this one quickly into my bag, as if I was afraid of being seen, of seeing myself.

  But this one I have to strangle; it’s refusing to die; it’s in my fingers, struggling to breathe; it’s opening its beak and, onto its eyes, there falls, as Homer says, the shadow of death.

  Over there, hearing my shot, the peasant raises his head and looks at me.

  He must be a judge, this laborer; he’s going to speak to me and tell me, solemnly, that I ought to be ashamed of myself.

  Not at all. Sometimes it’s a peasant who’s annoyed at not going shooting like me or else it’s a nice peasant who likes seeing me and shows me where my partridges have gone.

  It’s never an indignant nature-lover.

  I’m coming back home this morning after spending five hours walking, I’ve nothing in my game bag, I’m despondent, and my gun feels heavy. It’s hot, there’s a storm brewing. My dog is quite exhausted and shuffling along ahead, under the hedge and frequently sitting down in the shade of a tree, waiting for me.

  Then suddenly, as I’m walking across a newly planted field of alfalfa, the dog falls down or, rather, falls flat on the ground, pointing. He’s stopped short and is crouching, as still as a plant. The only movement is the hair quivering at the end of his tail. I’d swear he’s spotted some partridges nearby. They’re there, bunched together, protected against sun and wind. They can see the dog, they can see me, perhaps recognize me, and they’re terrified and won’t move.

  I’ve come out of my lethargy, I’m ready and waiting.

  My dog and I won’t be the first to make a move.

  All at once, they suddenly take off, still in a group; they make one single target, so I shoot at the lot, just one single punch. One of them has been knocked out and spins to the ground. The dog leaps on it and brings back a bleeding bundle of half a partridge. My punch has carried off the rest of it.

  Well, that’s that! We won’t be going home empty-handed. The dog’s prancing about and I’m strutting proudly along.

  Someone ought to shoot me, bang in the buttocks!

  THE WOODCOCK

  THE APRIL SUN HAD LEFT only a few glowing pink patches on the clouds, which were hanging motionless, as if they’d reached their destination.

  In the tiny clearing in which my father was waiting for the woodcock, we were being slowly clothed by night as it rose from the soil.

  Standing beside him, it was only his face that I could see at all clearly. He was taller than me and could barely see me; at our feet, the dog was invisible. The thrushes were hurrying back to the wood where the blackbird was croaking hoarsely, a sort of neighing, as if ordering all the birds to keep quiet and go to sleep.

  The woodcock would soon be leaving its lair in the dead leaves and flying off. When the weather’s fine, as it is today, it lingers briefly before heading for the plain. It’ll look around in the wood for a mate. It has a quiet call and you can tell whether it’s flying away or coming towards you. It’s flying clumsily through the big oak trees and its long beak is hanging so far down that it seems to be going for a walk with a walking stick.

  As I was listening and looking in every direction, my father suddenly fired but didn’t follow the dog as it dashed off.

  “You missed it?” I said.

  “I didn’t shoot,” he said. “My gun just went off in my hands.”

  “All by itself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Caught it on a branch perhaps?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I could hear him extracting the empty cartridge case.

  “How were you holding it?”

  Didn’t he understand?

  “I’m asking you in what direction was it pointing?”

  As he’d stopped answering, I didn’t dare to say anything more. In the end, I said, “You might have killed...the dog.”

  “Let’s get going,” said my father.

  A FAMILY OF TREES

  I’VE JUST CROSSED A SUNBURNT plain and here they are.

  They’re not growing beside the road; it’s too noisy. They’re living in uncultivated fields, by a spring, known only to the birds.

  In the distance, they look impenetrable. As I come nearer, their trunks move apart.

  They welcome me, warily. I may rest and cool down but I can sense that they’re watching me closely and cautiously.

  It’s a family, the elders in the middle, surrounded by the youngsters whose first leaves have just been born, more or less everywhere, but not one of them has opened up yet.

  These trees take a long time dying and they keep the dead ones standing until they fall down like dust.

  They gently stroke one another’s branches, to make certain they’re still there, like blind people. If the wind runs out of breath trying to uproot them, they wave their arms about. But they never quarrel. When they murmur, it’s only to show their agreement.

  I feel that they must be my real family. It won’t take long for me to forget my other one. These trees will gradually adopt me, and in order to deserve it, I’m learning the things I’ll need to know.

  I already know how to watch the passing clouds.

  I also know how to keep still.

  And I’ve almost learned how to stop talking.

  THE END OF THE SHOOTING SEASON

  IT’S A LOUSY DAY, GRAY and short, eaten away at both ends. Around noon, the dreary sun tries to break through the clouds, half opening a pale eye only to close it again, quickly. I’m walking around haphazardly. My gun has nothing to do and the dog, usually mad keen, stays with me.

  The water in the river is so transparent that it’s painful. If you were to dip your fingers in it, it would cut them like a bit of broken glass.

  Every time I take a step in the stubble, up shoots another lark, stiff with cold. They form a group, and together they all swirl around, the icy air barely stirred by their wings.

  Over there, crows congregate, uneart
hing the autumn seeds with their beaks.

  Three partridges stand in the middle of a grass meadow, so close-cropped that it no longer hides them.

  How tall and grand they look! Really grandes dames now. They’re listening uneasily. I’ve seen them, of course, but I leave them alone and go away. And no doubt somewhere a frightened hare feels reassured and ventures to stick its nose out of its lair.

  All the way along this hedge (where, here and there, a last leaf is fluttering its wings, like a bird with its foot caught), as I approach, a blackbird flies away, taking cover farther on and then comes out, just in front of the dog and, without danger, jeers at us.

  The fog’s gradually becoming thicker. I could easily imagine I was lost. In my hands, my gun is nothing but a stick that might explode. Where’s that vague sound coming from, that bleating, that sound of a bell ringing or a human voice shouting?

  I must go home. Following a track which has already disappeared, I go back into the village, whose name is known only to itself. It’s inhabited by humble peasants whom nobody ever visits, except me.

  THE NEW MOON

  THE MOON IS GROWING A new nail.

  The sun has disappeared. You turn around: the moon is there, following, without saying a word, modestly and patiently imitating the sun.

  The moon has come back on time. The man was waiting anxiously in the shadows, and his heart is so happy that he can’t remember what he was wanting to say to it.

  Large white clouds are approaching the full moon, like bears heading for honey cake.

  The dreamer is exhausted by looking at the moon, which has no hands to show the time, never, ever.

  Suddenly, you feel uneasy. It’s the moon going away and taking our secrets with it. You can still see the end of its ear on the horizon.

  THE WOOD

  COME IN, MY FRIEND.

  Here everything is cool and shade.

  A few specks of light.

  Look at that beetle on that cow pat, like a needle shining on a thick cravat.

  Shoo those midges away and enjoy, briefly, their puny orchestra.

  This little wood holds the birds prisoner in its painted bird-cage.

  Listen to that blackbird who can play on his flute better than you.

  Look at that birch in the distance. He’s just hiding behind the oaks, like a man in a light cloak anxious to get away.

  And as for you, claiming to be free and a poet, confess that if a rural policeman turns up, you’ll be the first to greet him.

  Don’t be afraid. What you can hear is a secret spring, rippling free of these lilliputian bramble branches. There’s nobody there, the little wood is yours. I’m lending it to you.

  I’m lending you all the delights it can offer.

  I’m lending you its little narrow path which you can only go along single-footed, and I’m lending you, to be your servants, its elegant trees which will pass to one another their parasol of leaves to protect you from the sun.

  But if you want to enjoy the charm of this little wood properly, go now and again to its border, push the branches apart, and look out there at the grassless meadows, that blinding road, and that pointed bell tower melting in the sun.

  Out there, everything’s burning. Quick, close up the branches.

  RAIN

  IT’S RAINING, IT’S WET EVERYWHERE, it’s the festival of the frogs. Clouds are slipping silently across the sky like smoke from a fire. Everybody who was clamoring for water will be happy now. Hay was becoming dearer than bread. The river had dwindled into a trickle, and the ground was so dry that even looking at it made you feel thirsty. Rain, rain, wet, wet, chop through the air, strike the windows with your soft pearls; and, until you begin to bore me, you can go on doing good to others. I can see over there a horse being cooled off by you. He’s stopped munching grass, he’s moving as little as possible. He’s not missing a single drop of what you’re giving him. Nearby, an ox is lowing with pleasure, so gently that each time he gets a sip.

  Not all trees drink the rain in the same way. Little trees, who haven’t learned, would like to get away from it and their leaves are shaking like trapped birds. Others roll up into a ball like a woman bunching her skirts over her head.

  And there are some who would no longer be disturbed even by hail and stand up straight on one foot, never moving.

  A carriage is driving off across the fields. From here, I’d swear there’s nobody in it.

  They say it’s going to rain for thirty days and thirty nights. I don’t believe in a new Flood. There aren’t enough evil people left on earth. Let’s part amiably.

  THE FURIOUS DOG

  TIRED BY HAVING WALKED SO FAR, the Piccolin family decides to take some refreshment at that farm. Monsieur Piccolin kicks the gate open and recoils. There’s a chained dog barking furiously; it springs towards him until its chain brings it to a halt.

  “I can see that we’ve never met before,” says Monsieur Piccolin, “and so you don’t recognize me.”

  He asks the farmer’s wife, standing in the doorway watching them and not showing the slightest interest: “Does your dog bite, good lady?”

  “He’d bite you if he could,” replied the good lady, “and when we let him out at night, I promise you it’s not a good idea to be hanging around.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Monsieur Piccolin, “but you can calm them down with a piece of Gruyère.”

  “Don’t rely on it,” replied the farmer’s wife, “if you’re worried about the calves of your legs.”

  “Well, I am worried about them,” said Monsieur Piccolin, “and meanwhile may I ask you for four mugs of milk?”

  The farmer’s wife was in no hurry to serve them but eventually did so, and as she had other things to do, didn’t concern herself about them any further.

  Holding their mugs of milk carefully and gently sipping from them, they stroll round the yard and enjoy looking at the poultry and the plowing equipment. But their enjoyment is not wholehearted: they’re uneasy and keep on casting a glance behind them at the dog, still barking.

  “Can’t you keep quiet?” Monsieur Piccolin said to him. “Haven’t you accepted us as your friends yet?”

  The black dog bares its teeth that are so white any woman would envy them, said Madame Piccolin. They’re like those of a black slave in revolt.

  “A splendid animal,” said monsieur, “and however brave one is, he’s terribly impressive.”

  He’s so impressed that they forget to visit the cowsheds and go back to look at it while finishing off their mugs of milk.

  “And by the way,” says Monsieur Piccolin, “I forgot to ask you your name.”

  No reply.

  Monsieur Piccolin runs through a list of famous dog’s names. None of them has any effect on the dog, who’s becoming more and more enraged. Monsieur Piccolin doesn’t dare go near him and strokes it by stroking his own thighs.

  “What a dreadful row you’re making, old chap! So quieten down, you’ll be strangling yourself. It’s a good thing your chain is so strong.”

  It seems so strong that they start taking liberties. Unable to get him to calm down, they start teasing him, throw sand at him, imitate his barking, or scornfully wait for him to stop.

  “Please yourself,” said Monsieur Piccolin.

  And the dog howls and his jaws are slavering, he’s flaming, he’s the devil incarnate... And he twists his chain so violently that, all of a sudden, it breaks and falls on the ground.

  He’s free!

  The Piccolins are transfixed. Madame Piccolin cries, “Oh, my God!” Her husband, who’s been laughing, remains openmouthed, as if he were still laughing. The children forget to run away. A mug slips from someone’s hand and breaks on the floor. The farmer’s wife runs up with her hands in the air, less quickly, she fears, than disaster.

  But the most stupid of them all is still the dog.

  He doesn’t make the leap everybody was expecting.

  He sniffs the chain that’s no longer holding hi
m back. And, as if he’s just been caught doing something naughty, he gives a gentle growl and sheepishly goes back into his kennel.

  AUTUMN LEAVES

  WHAT A SURPRISE! This evening there’s not enough natural light, it won’t last as long as yesterday. We’ll need a lamp.

  The first flames are blazing on the hearth. The spirit of fire revives. The melancholy hell of logs opens its door; it’s reflected on the foreheads of the old women who know it well.

  Every man ought, himself, to saw the wood which will heat him.

  There’s been a white frost; the dahlia leaves are as crumpled as after a ball. The tomatoes are bursting open and juice is oozing out of their frostbites; the haulms of the potatoes look as if they’ve been cooked; but the sorrel has been nicely ironed and is resisting, as is the delicate frizzy beard of the carrots and the long, soft ears of the beetroot.

  The wind’s dropping. It wants to change direction and is hesitating: Which way shall I go?

  Here and there, a raspberry, a gooseberry or two, and black blackberries, which the wasps, numb with cold, will let go to waste.

  On the trellis, grapes are ready to rush into their sack.

  The trees have stopped being a confused mass of green. Each one is assuming its own personal tinge and is preparing for winter in its usual way. This one is going yellow from the top, that one is dropping all its leaves at the same time.

  I often feel certain that the sun goes down over there, in the wood, in the middle of a small tribe of Red Indians who are waiting for it. They’re old, isolated, unknown. They know in which clearing the sun will stop every evening. They’ll gather round it in a circle and warm what’s left of their dying race.