Father Matthew
We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the road to Jumieges.The light carriage flew along across the level country. Presently thehorse slackened his pace to walk up the hill of Cantelen.One sees there one of the most magnificent views in the world. Behind uslay Rouen, the city of churches, with its Gothic belfries, sculpturedlike ivory trinkets; before us Saint Sever, the manufacturing suburb,whose thousands of smoking chimneys rise amid the expanse of sky,opposite the thousand sacred steeples of the old city.On the one hand the spire of the cathedral, the highest of humanmonuments, on the other the engine of the power-house, its rival, andalmost as high, and a metre higher than the tallest pyramid in Egypt.Before us wound the Seine, with its scattered islands and bordered bywhite banks, covered with a forest on the right and on the left immensemeadows, bounded by another forest yonder in the distance.Here and there large ships lay at anchor along the banks of the wideriver. Three enormous steam boats were starting out, one behind theother, for Havre, and a chain of boats, a bark, two schooners and a brig,were going upstream to Rouen, drawn by a little tug that emitted a cloudof black smoke.My companion, a native of the country, did not glance at this wonderfullandscape, but he smiled continually; he seemed to be amused at histhoughts. Suddenly he cried:"Ah, you will soon see something comical--Father Matthew's chapel. Thatis a sweet morsel, my boy."I looked at him in surprise. He continued:"I will give you a whiff of Normandy that will stay by you. FatherMatthew is the handsomest Norman in the province and his chapel is one ofthe wonders of the world, nothing more nor less. But I will first giveyou a few words of explanation."Father Matthew, who is also called Father 'La Boisson,' is an oldsergeant-major who has come back to his native land. He combines inadmirable proportions, making a perfect whole, the humbug of the oldsoldier and the sly roguery of the Norman. On his return to Normandy,thanks to influence and incredible cleverness, he was made doorkeeper ofa votive chapel, a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and frequented chieflyby young women who have gone astray . . . . He composed and hadpainted a special prayer to his 'Good Virgin.' This prayer is amasterpiece of unintentional irony, of Norman wit, in which jest isblended with fear of the saint and with the superstitious fear of thesecret influence of something. He has not much faith in his protectress,but he believes in her a little through prudence, and he is considerateof her through policy."This is how this wonderful prayer begins:"'Our good Madame Virgin Mary, natural protectress of girl mothers inthis land and all over the world, protect your servant who erred in amoment of forgetfulness . . .'"It ends thus:"'Do not forget me, especially when you are with your holy spouse, andintercede with God the Father that he may grant me a good husband, likeyour own.'"This prayer, which was suppressed by the clergy of the district, is soldby him privately, and is said to be very efficacious for those who reciteit with unction."In fact he talks of the good Virgin as the valet de chambre of aredoubted prince might talk of his master who confided in him all hislittle private secrets. He knows a number of amusing anecdotes at hisexpense which he tells confidentially among friends as they sit overtheir glasses."But you will see for yourself."As the fees coming from the Virgin did not appear sufficient to him, headded to the main figure a little business in saints. He has them all,or nearly all. There was not room enough in the chapel, so he storedthem in the wood-shed and brings them forth as soon as the faithful askfor them. He carved these little wooden statues himself--they arecomical in the extreme--and painted them all bright green one year whenthey were painting his house. You know that saints cure diseases, buteach saint has his specialty, and you must not confound them or make anyblunders. They are as jealous of each other as mountebanks."In order that they may make no mistake, the old women come and consultMatthew."'For diseases of the ear which saint is the best?'"'Why, Saint Osyme is good and Saint Pamphilius is not bad.' But that isnot all."As Matthew has some time to spare, he drinks; but he drinks like aprofessional, with conviction, so much so that he is intoxicatedregularly every evening. He is drunk, but he is aware of it. He is sowell aware of it that he notices each day his exact degree ofintoxication. That is his chief occupation; the chapel is a secondarymatter."And he has invented--listen and catch on--he has invented the'Saoulometre.'"There is no such instrument, but Matthew's observations are as preciseas those of a mathematician. You may hear him repeating incessantly:'Since Monday I have had more than forty-five,' or else 'I was betweenfifty-two and fifty-eight,' or else 'I had at least sixty-six toseventy,' or 'Hullo, cheat, I thought I was in the fifties and here Ifind I had had seventy-five!'"He never makes a mistake."He declares that he never reached his limit, but as he acknowledges thathis observations cease to be exact when he has passed ninety, one cannotdepend absolutely on the truth of that statement."When Matthew acknowledges that he has passed ninety, you may restassured that he is blind drunk."On these occasions his wife, Melie, another marvel, flies into a fury.She waits for him at the door of the house, and as he enters she roars athim:"'So there you are, slut, hog, giggling sot!'"Then Matthew, who is not laughing any longer, plants himself oppositeher and says in a severe tone:"'Be still, Melie; this is no time to talk; wait till to-morrow.'"If she keeps on shouting at him, he goes up to her and says in a shakyvoice:"'Don't bawl any more. I have had about ninety; I am not counting anymore. Look out, I am going to hit you!'"Then Melie beats a retreat."If, on the following day, she reverts to the subject, he laughs in herface and says:"'Come, come! We have said enough. It is past. As long as I have notreached my limit there is no harm done. But if I go, past that I willallow you to correct me, my word on it!'"We had reached the top of the hill. The road entered the delightfulforest of Roumare.Autumn, marvellous autumn, blended its gold and purple with the remainingtraces of verdure. We passed through Duclair. Then, instead of going onto Jumieges, my friend turned to the left and, taking a crosscut, drovein among the trees.And presently from the top of a high hill we saw again the magnificentvalley of the Seine and the winding river beneath us.At our right a very small slate-covered building, with a bell tower aslarge as a sunshade, adjoined a pretty house with green Venetian blinds,and all covered with honeysuckle and roses."Here are some friends!" cried a big voice, and Matthew appeared on thethreshold. He was a man about sixty, thin and with a goatee and long,white mustache.My friend shook him by the hand and introduced me, and Matthew took usinto a clean kitchen, which served also as a dining-room. He said:"I have no elegant apartment, monsieur. I do not like to get too faraway from the food. The saucepans, you see, keep me company." Then,turning to my friend:"Why did you come on Thursday? You know quite well that this is the dayI consult my Guardian Saint. I cannot go out this afternoon."And running to the door, he uttered a terrific roar: "Melie!" which musthave startled the sailors in the ships along the stream in the valleybelow.Melie did not reply.Then Matthew winked his eye knowingly."She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was in thenineties."My friend began to laugh. "In the nineties, Matthew! How did you manageit?""I will tell you," said Matthew. "Last year I found only twenty rasieres(an old dry measure) of apricots. There are no more, but those are theonly things to make cider of. So I made some, and yesterday I tapped thebarrel. Talk of nectar! That was nectar. You shall tell me what youthink of it. Polyte was here, and we sat down and drank a glass andanother without being satisfied (one could go on drinking it until to-morrow), and at last, with glass after glass, I felt a chill at mystomach. I said to Polyte: 'Supposing we drink a glass of cognac to warmourselves?' He agreed. But this cognac, it sets you on fire, so that wehad to go back to the cider. But by going from chills to heat and heatto chills, I saw that I was in the nineties. Polyte was not far from hislimit."The door opened and Melie appeared. At once, before bidding us good-day,she cried:"Great hog, you have both of you reached your limit!""Don't say that, Melie; don't say that," said Matthew, getting angry."I have never reached my limit."They gave us a delicious luncheon outside beneath two lime trees, besidethe little chapel and overlooking the vast landscape. And Matthew toldus, with a mixture of humor and unexpected credulity, incredible storiesof miracles.We had drunk a good deal of delicious cider, sparkling and sweet, freshand intoxicating, which he preferred to all other drinks, and weresmoking our pipes astride our chairs when two women appeared.They were old, dried up and bent. After greeting us they asked for SaintBlanc. Matthew winked at us as he replied:"I will get him for you." And he disappeared in his wood shed. Heremained there fully five minutes. Then he came back with an expressionof consternation. He raised his hands."I don't know where he is. I cannot find him. I am quite sure that Ihad him." Then making a speaking trumpet of his hands, he roared oncemore:"Meli-e-a!""What's the matter?" replied his wife from the end of the garden."Where's Saint Blanc? I cannot find him in the wood shed."Then Melie explained it this way:"Was not that the one you took last week to stop up a hole in the rabbithutch?"Matthew gave a start."By thunder, that may be!" Then turning to the women, he said:"Follow me."They followed him. We did the same, almost choking with suppressedlaughter.Saint Blanc was indeed stuck into the earth like an ordinary stake,covered with mud and dirt, and forming a corner for the rabbit hutch.As soon as they perceived him, the two women fell on their knees, crossedthemselves and began to murmur an "Oremus." But Matthew darted towardthem."Wait," he said, "you are in the mud; I will get you a bundle of straw."He went to fetch the straw and made them a priedieu. Then, looking athis muddy saint and doubtless afraid of bringing discredit on hisbusiness, he added:"I will clean him off a little for you."He took a pail of water and a brush and began to scrub the wooden imagevigorously, while the two old women kept on praying.When he had finished he said:"Now he is all right." And he took us back to the house to drink anotherglass.As he was carrying the glass to his lips he stopped and said in a ratherconfused manner:"All the same, when I put Saint Blanc out with the rabbits I thought hewould not make any more money. For two years no one had asked for him.But the saints, you see, they are never out of date."
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