Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  It was just because it was a particular little one that we wanted to go. Anyone could go to the large Pardons—the small, special, almost private ones were difficult to hear of and more difficult to attend.

  ‘I don’t care for your going to these peasants. I’m not at all sure that I like Marie and Yves.’

  ‘Thalia and I do! We like them immensely. And Marie has been with the owner of this villa for years.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I don’t like. The way she’s wormed her way into this house again and is gradually getting it back to how she likes it.’

  ‘She didn’t worm herself in. You sent Rachel to fetch her after Madeleine left,’ said Thalia indignantly.

  ‘She’s very clever. She works her way like a mole—underground.’

  I could not see that this was fair. It was natural that Marie should love the house where she had worked for so long. Thalia and I loved her. We would often coax her up to the little room, push her into the old basket chair and implore her to tell us some of the very old legends of the district. Sometimes she would, but not always. Sometimes she was dour and silent and wouldn’t talk to us at all.

  ‘If you both go on Sunday I’ll have to take Claude to church with me and have him all the afternoon,’ was Cynthia’s next objection.

  ‘Let Elise take him on the beach or the Promenade.’

  ‘I don’t know if she’s trustworthy.’

  Claude was a handful now that he had the football. He was for ever kicking it along the Promenade, which in the afternoons boasted quite a number of nurses and governesses with small children. The ball frequently hit some small child or Claude would send it flying through the railings on to the beach far below and then scream with fear lest the sea got it. I was quite accustomed to chasing after both the ball and him. Cynthia wouldn’t dream of running; it would be bad for both her heart and complexion. If Claude went out with his mother the football stayed at home and he sulked. He loved the thing so passionately that he never went to bed without it. Cynthia objected to its presence in the bed for hygienic reasons, but often when I went in to wake him and attend to his needs at ten o’clock at night he was asleep with the football clutched in his arms.

  Finally the problem of Claude’s Sunday afternoon was solved by Judy inviting both Cynthia and him out to St. Lunaire.

  ‘I’d adore to come to the Pardon with you,’ said Judy, ‘but your old Marie would never agree.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She disapproves of all Americans. I wanted her to work for me—she’s a wonderful cook—but when she found out that I have silk sheets on my bed she wouldn’t hear of coming.’

  Judy went into fits of laughter at the recollection. ‘She was scandalized. Said no respectable woman would sleep in silk. That God meant good women to sleep in linen or cotton. But I think it was really the fact that they were of coloured silk that shocked her most. No, I’ve lost me a good cook by my sybaritism.’

  ‘What colour are they?’ I was thrilled about the silk sheets. I had never seen any but linen or cotton.

  ‘Pink—peach really—and a lovely soft blue.’

  ‘And are they really made of silk?’

  ‘Crêpe de Chine.’

  ‘How heavenly.’

  You silly child! I’ll give you a pair for Christmas. I always have silk ones. They are much warmer than cotton and linen.’

  This story explained the extraordinary stiffness with which Marie always greeted Judy when she came to the house to see us.

  ‘Tell me all about the Pardon, won’t you? And I hope Napoleon gets you there. It’ll take hours!’

  ‘That’s the attraction for Thalia. It isn’t the Pardon, but the horse. Yves has promised she can drive him part of the way.’

  When Sunday came, although it was one of those wet, dreary days such as only Brittany can offer, we went with Yves and Marie to the Pardon. And there, near the tiny village, in the dripping rain, I saw, to my astonishment, Armand.

  He had written me that he would not be back in his home until Sunday and that he would telephone me that evening, but suddenly I saw his face amongst the crowd of rapt peasants gathered round the Calvaire. Was it him? Or was it someone like him? No. There could be no other like him. He stood between two men in dark, sombre Sunday clothes. All the men were bare-headed, their wide-brimmed black hats in their hands. Armand’s hair caught the light, he was as fair as was Claude. I could see only his profile against the dark ones of the men beside him—but the absorbed devotion in it caught at my heart. Between those rugged old faces on either side of him the young lines of his nose and throat were doubly noticeable.

  Thalia stood beside me, between Marie and old Yves. It had rained all night and the ground in the little wood was sodden, and drips fell like great tears on to the Christ of the Calvaire around which we were gathered. We were on the outer edge of the crowd, it was almost noon, and the High Mass was being celebrated. Many of the pilgrims had been here all night and around us were their conveyances—buses, cars, lorries, bicycles and motor cycles, horses and traps.

  Marie did not know the exact reason for the Pardon. It was just a special one, she said, almost a private one without any tourists and vulgar sightseers. She stood with me, her face withdrawn, enraptured. Yves was weeping as were many of the pilgrims. The great Pardon at Mont St. Michel had failed to move me—but this one did. Devoid of any commercialism its simplicity was lovely.

  We had missed the Procession because Yves hadn’t started early enough and the drive had been a wet and slow one. Enveloped in mackintoshes, Thalia and I had sat in the back of the cart, in spite of Marie’s shocked protests that my place at least, was in the front with Yves. As it was, it had taken all her urging and chivvying to get her brother and Napoleon here in time for the Mass. Thalia and I had clung together as the cart swayed and rocked over the bumpy roads, giggling at Marie’s loud abuse of her brother’s driving.

  I wondered now what Thalia was thinking of the scene as we stood there in the rain. Her face was expressionless. Neither of us had actually discussed religion beyond accepting the Amarna tenet. Cynthia insisted that we accompany her to church just as my aunt had insisted that I help her decorate the church and altar each week. But did they really believe in it?

  I had a shock when I saw Armand there. I was struck by the almost fanatical devotion in his face, and with another shock I realized that he was absolutely one of these people gathered here—he belonged here.

  I had seen him as the runner in brief trunks, I had seen him in expensive lounge suits, in sports clothes, and in immaculate evening ones, but here, as I saw him now, was the real Armand —as if he were naked. I could not doubt this as he turned his face towards the Calvaire. He had a dedicated look—one I didn’t know at all.

  And then, instead of thinking of the solemn spectacle around me, I began thinking of how little any of us knows of the others. Perhaps that was why portraits fascinated me so much. Sometimes the painter sees more—sometimes less than the ordinary observer. Cynthia? What was the thing which was tearing at her? So that she could not sleep or eat? Thalia? Why did she hate her mother now when once she had adored her? And my aunt? Was she as devoted to her religion as were all these simple souls here? She went to church every Sunday and all the best flowers in the garden were saved for the altar. But if I spoke of God—and I often did—she looked faintly embarrassed and ashamed. To her He certainly was not an everyday name such as He was to these Bretons.

  Cynthia had been so contemptuous of the Pardons. ‘They’re no better than heathen worshipping idols,’ she had said. ‘Carrying round their preposterous saints and treating them as if they are real.’

  But what if they were right? These people were good. Really good—it was stamped indelibly on their faces and in their eyes. Their simplicity demanded that their saints were there in concrete form. An absent or symbolic Christ or saint was too difficult for their imagination. The rain trickling down my neck and making Thalia’s hair into wet snake
s was uppermost in my mind, but on the weather-beaten faces around us the drops simply fell off, leaving no impression but an even cleaner, more shining transparency. Immersed in their devotion, rapt, entranced, they stood apart from everything but their God.

  And Armand was one of them. He was a Catholic. And I an agnostic, a worshipper of the sun. What if I were wrong? As I looked up at the Calvaire an emotion I had never experienced swept me, and tears suddenly poured down my face, mingling with the rain. I did not look at Thalia when she squeezed my arm in concern. When it was over and I raised my head again, Armand was looking at me. Above that sea of bent heads he had recognized and smiled at me; and although the rain was now deluging down it seemed that the sun was out and a rainbow stretched from him to me.

  After the Mass he fought his way through the crowd to us and asked us where we were going to eat. He seemed as astonished at seeing us here as I was at seeing him.

  ‘With Marie’s relatives,’ I said. ‘Here in the village.’

  ‘You’ve no idea how honoured you are,’ he said, surprised. ‘They don’t care for strangers here. It’s not like Dinard.’

  ‘We’ve brought a contribution to the feast,’ I said.

  ‘I hope it’s in liquid form,’ he said laughing. ‘You’ll be very popular guests if it is.’

  Marie had advised Calvados and Armagnac as our gift to her relatives who were to be our hosts. I hoped that Yves or Marie would invite Armand to join us, but they did not. They seemed relieved when he said good-bye, watching us climb up in the old cart with a rueful smile.

  ‘I can drive you—it’s far too wet that way. Let me take you in the car.’

  But Thalia adored the cart, she said it reminded her a little of the bullock carts in India, and she was determined to drive Napoleon. I think Armand thought we were mad—but it did not worry us. We were Yves’ and Marie’s guests, and as such were accepted here. The villagers, as Armand said, did not much care for strangers at their special Pardons.

  I watched Armand drive off alone in his white car. It looked out of place and almost vulgar amongst the humble vehicles around it. I wondered why he had come? I asked Marie. He had spent part of his childhood near here, she said indifferently.

  We were very wet when we reached the small farm belonging to Marie’s cousins and climbed down stiffly. Grand’mère and the very old women of the family had waited at home with the meal for us, and they welcomed us in with a simple courtesy which was lovely.

  The kitchen was dark, with very small windows, and seemed crowded with people and massive furniture. Marie, who took us outside, had warned us of the primitive sanitary arrangements, but even so we were not prepared for the great pit with the two handles to which one had to cling. We laughed so much that she came banging on the door of the privy reminding us that others were waiting.

  ‘Imagine Mother here,’ shrieked Thalia. ‘The tent at Dinan Market was nothing compared to this.’ And we laughed helplessly at Cynthia’s horror of the French lack of modesty.

  The men were drying their boots round the kitchen stove, which had a long chimney, and they all hung their dripping coats over the pipe and their wet boots steamed and smelled. Everyone was cheerful and merry and we were both handed a glass of a strong spirit which caught at one’s throat.

  ‘Drink it, Mademoiselle,’ urged Yves. ‘It’ll save you getting colds!’

  It was Calvados, which I had not yet tasted. We were taken upstairs to wash in a dark, terrifying room. There was an enormous feather bed in it with a magnificent carved head-piece and massive great cupboards. We washed from a china basin and dried our hands on a towel of very fine embroidered linen.

  ‘You know what?’ said Thalia. ‘That sampler ought to be in here.’

  I looked round the austere, forbidding room. Extraordinary to think that many young brides had been brought home to it. Marie had told us so. Yes. Thalia was right. The sampler belonged to just such a room. The tiny windows shut out the trees and the sky. Here a child might have sat and embroidered such words as those while its eyes sought longingly for the sun.

  We ate at a rough, thick oak table, polished with use and age. The hen was cooked in a kind of thick soup with garlic and vegetables in it. We all dipped hunks of bread in it and put our mouths down to the plates when they all but overflowed. The men smacked their lips noisily and Yves teased Marie constantly, saying that her cousin’s cooking was better than hers. Our plates were of a thick, brown earthenware and our spoons and knives of pewter.

  Thalia and I found the food wonderfully good for we were very hungry after our early start. We drank cider, and a rather weak beer made locally, and ate quantities of a soft cheese which they made at the farm, with hard, sweet, small pears.

  Yves took us round the place with his cousin and we petted the animals—miserable as they were, the dogs tied to short chains in the yard and the cows and horses, thin and dejected. The place smelt of manure and wet—a steamy earthy mustiness, but it was all neat enough and much of the dreariness and dirtiness was due to the weather. There was a small terrier of a kind I had noticed in these parts with a most appealing face. Thalia couldn’t tear herself away from him. She was indignant at the short chain to which he was fastened and at which he had strained so much that his neck was sore and all the hair had rubbed off.

  ‘He’s a misery—a nuisance,’ said Yves’ cousin. ‘He’s not worth looking at, Mademoiselle. A miserable dog—always howling.’

  Thalia asked his name. ‘Name? He has no name. He’s just a dog. We never bothered to name him.’

  When she had gone with Yves to harness Napoleon I asked our host if I could buy the dog. He was astounded. ‘Buy him? Why, Mademoiselle, he’s not worth buying! We shall drown him one of these days if he doesn’t stop howling.’

  I persisted and finally he agreed to accept two hundred francs for the animal.

  We took him on a piece of rope, much to Marie’s horror.

  ‘Madame won’t like that creature,’ she grumbled.

  I knew Madame wouldn’t, but I didn’t care. For Thalia’s face when I handed her the dog, saying that I had bought him for her, was compensation enough for Cynthia’s displeasure.

  Thalia drove Napoleon home. She had harnessed him herself, Yves told me proudly, just as she had taken him from the shafts on our arrival and fed and watered him. I asked her how she knew how to do all this. ‘The Regiment had three tongas at Dehra Dun,’ she explained. ‘They’re little two-wheeled carriages, and the syces or grooms let me harness the ponies and groom them.’

  Old Yves was greatly impressed with the deftness of her handling of Napoleon. ‘The horse is no fool—he realizes that you know your job,’ he told her. ‘You should marry a farmer, Mademoiselle—you’d be worth your weight in gold to him.’

  Did you understand?’ I shouted to her as we bowled along the bumpy roads.

  ‘Not all,’ she yelled back above the howls of the dog tied in the back with Marie and me. She flushed with pride and pleasure when I told her what Yves had said.

  It took a long time to get home. Yves had drunk a lot of our Armagnac and Calvados and we had to stop frequently for him to disappear into the bushes. ‘It’s only out of courtesy to you that he bothers to disappear—usually he doesn’t trouble,’ grumbled Marie. The rain had stopped and the air was soft and the smells from the countryside redolent and fresh. Marie complained at the hardness of the cart and at the dog’s plaintive howls. I pulled the dirty creature on to my lap in spite of her protests that I wasn’t to touch him until he’d had a bath in disinfectant. He curled gratefully into the warmth of my lap and I didn’t listen to her warnings about fleas, mud, and above all, Madame’s not being pleased at such an addition to the household. I was seeing again that crowd of rapt, devoted faces round the Calvaire. I wanted to paint a composition of the scene and of all those faces, that of Armand as I had seen it then was the most vivid and disturbing.

  My aunt had reached Egypt now and postcards and snapshots had begun
arriving from her. I couldn’t look at them without thinking of the terrible fuss which was responsible for my having come to Brittany. Two months ago I had resented it—but now I almost loved the Reverend Cookson-Cander—but for him I might never have met Armand.

  ‘I will send you all the reproductions for which you asked me,’ wrote my aunt on a postcard of the Pyramids, ‘and all that I can obtain of your beloved Akhenaten and Nefertiti.’ She was, I knew, rather annoyed at the way in which I had taken to heart Akhenaten’s ‘Living in Truth’ theory. Like my father, she reminded me that there were certain standards of convention in courtesy which sometimes necessitated what I unhesitatingly called lies.

  ‘Mr. Cookson-Cander,’ she had written on a snapshot, ‘has been bitten by a camel. . . .’

  Thalia and I examined with growing merriment the extraordinary pictures of the party on camels—with veils tied on their hats to shield them from the sand, Mr. Cookson-Cander, proud and erect, leading them on a most contemptuous-looking beast. Thalia adored this snapshot and we decided that the contemptuous mount was undoubtedly the one which had bitten the Reverend. ‘Perhaps it thought he was an egg!’ she giggled. She knew the story of the egg-like portrait.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Rachel. He is like an egg!’

  ‘A camel bite can be very nasty,’ remarked Cynthia seriously when I showed her the snapshot. ‘There were camels in the bazaar in Lahore. They came in with the merchants from the desert—some of them were quite vicious.’

  ‘I like them. Especially this contemptuous one carrying the Cookand!’ giggled Thalia unabashed. This was a nickname she had contrived for the double-barrelled name. From my descriptions of him she could and did give excruciatingly funny imitations of his pompous dissertations.

  ‘How silly you two girls are!’ said Cynthia disgustedly. We were sitting in her room the evening of the Pardon. There had been trouble because we had arrived home so late and she had been apprehensive, thinking that perhaps Yves had been drinking and there had been an accident. When we began telling her about the Pardon she cut us short. ‘I don’t want to hear anything about it. I saw quite enough of those religious outbursts with idols and hysteria in India—they make me tired. And so do these people here all going to Mass and coming home with a yard of bread under their arms.’