The Moribund
The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the grass,which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by recentrains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and theapple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit inthe dark green grass.Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing and at times lookingtoward the house and lowing. The fowls made a colored patch on the dung-heap before the stable, scratching, moving about and cackling, while tworoosters crowed continually, digging worms for their hens, whom they werecalling with a loud clucking.The wooden gate opened and a man entered. He might have been forty yearsold, but he looked at least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly,impeded by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw. His long armshung down on both sides of his body. When he got near the farm a yellowcur, tied at the foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel whichserved as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail and then to bark forjoy. The man cried:"Down, Finot!"The dog was quiet.A peasant woman came out of the house. Her large, flat, bony body wasoutlined under a long woollen jacket drawn in at the waist. A grayskirt, too short, fell to the middle of her legs, which were encased inblue stockings. She, too, wore wooden shoes, filled with straw. Thewhite cap, turned yellow, covered a few hairs which were plastered to thescalp, and her brown, thin, ugly, toothless face had that wild, animalexpression which is often to be found on the faces of the peasants.The man asked:"How is he gettin' along?"The woman answered:"The priest said it's the end--that he will never live through thenight."Both of them went into the house.After passing through the kitchen, they entered a low, dark room, barelylighted by one window, in front of which a piece of calico was hanging.The big beams, turned brown with age and smoke, crossed the room from oneside to the other, supporting the thin floor of the garret, where an armyof rats ran about day and night.The moist, lumpy earthen floor looked greasy, and, at the back of theroom, the bed made an indistinct white spot. A harsh, regular noise, adifficult, hoarse, wheezing breathing, like the gurgling of water from abroken pump, came from the darkened couch where an old man, the father ofthe peasant woman, was dying.The man and the woman approached the dying man and looked at him withcalm, resigned eyes.The son-in-law said:"I guess it's all up with him this time; he will not last the night."The woman answered:"He's been gurglin' like that ever since midday." They were silent. Thefather's eyes were closed, his face was the color of the earth and so drythat it looked like wood. Through his open mouth came his harsh,rattling breath, and the gray linen sheet rose and fell with eachrespiration.The son-in-law, after a long silence, said:"There's nothing more to do; I can't help him. It's a nuisance, just thesame, because the weather is good and we've got a lot of work to do."His wife seemed annoyed at this idea. She reflected a few moments andthen said:He won't be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all daytomorrow."The peasant thought the matter over and answered:"Yes, but to-morrow I'll have to invite the people to the funeral. Thatmeans five or six hours to go round to Tourville and Manetot, and to seeeverybody."The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared:"It isn't three o'clock yet. You could begin this evening and go allround the country to Tourville. You can just as well say that he's dead,seem' as he's as good as that now."The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of theidea. At last he declared:"Well, I'll go!"He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation:"As you haven't got anythin' to do you might shake down some apples tobake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral, forone must have something to cheer them. You can light the fire with thewood that's under the shed. It's dry."He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, tookout a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gatheredthe crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so asnot to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out alittle salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on hisbread and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barkingagain, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared inthe direction of Tourville.As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered themeal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a longtime, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it.Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed on thecorner of the table.Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the treewith a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruitwith care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.A voice called from the road:"Hey, Madame Chicot!"She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his wayto fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feethanging over the side. She turned round and answered:"What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?""And how is the father?"She cried:"He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, becausethere's lots of work to be done."The neighbor answered:"So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself."To his kind remarks she answered:""Thanks; the same to you."And she continued picking apples.When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door sheheard his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time togo over to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up thefruit, one by one, in a thin layer of paste, then she lined them up onthe edge of the table. When she had made forty-eight dumplings, arrangedin dozens, one in front of the other, she began to think of preparingsupper, and she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes, for shejudged it useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the next dayin which to finish the preparations.Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had crossed thethreshold he asked:"Is it over?"She answered:"Not yet; he's still gurglin'."They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same condition.His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was neitherquicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a little,according as the air entered or left his chest.His son-in-law looked at him and then said:"He'll pass away without our noticin' it, just like a candle."They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word.When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread andbutter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to thedying man.The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front ofher father's face. If he had not been breathing, one would certainlyhave thought him dead.The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of theroom. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, andsoon two unequal snores, one deep and the other shriller, accompanied theuninterrupted rattle of the dying man.The rats ran about in the garret.The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law wasstill alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man."Say, Phemie, he don't want to quit. What would you do?"He knew that she gave good advice.She answered:"You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayorwon't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for MaitreRenard's father, who died just during the planting season."He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields.His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.At noon the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's workcame by groups to look at him. Each one had his say. Then they leftagain for the fields.At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing.At last his son-in-law was frightened."What would you do now, Phemie?"She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. Hepromised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for thefollowing day. They also went to the health officer, who likewisepromised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the deathcertificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease.They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, theirsonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man.When they awoke, he was not yet dead.Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watchinghim with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, todeceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him forthe time which he was making them lose.The son-in-law asked:"What am I goin' to do?"She did not know. She answered:"It certainly is annoying!"The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to waitand explain the case to them.Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black,their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill atease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, incouples, talking business.Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, andsuddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the firstgroup. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offeredchairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove thateverybody would have done as they did, talking continually and givingnobody a chance to answer.They were going from one person to another:"I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last thislong!"The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had missedan expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some remainingseated. others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot heldthem back:"You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as wellmake use of 'em."The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little bylittle; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrivedlater. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings seemed tocheer everyone up.The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossedthemselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. Themen, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window,which had been opened.Madame Chicot explained her distress:"That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't hesound like a pump that has gone dry?"When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of therefreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold,the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen goldendumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attractedthe eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that therewould not be enough. But four remained over.Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:"Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so muchwhen he was alive."A big, jovial peasant declared:"He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn."This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.It was their turn now to eat dumplings.Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellarcontinually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick succession.The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning toshout as they do at feasts.Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, heldthere by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared atthe window and cried in a shrill voice:"He's dead! he's dead!"Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see.He was indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at eachother, looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating thedumplings. Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment.The Chicots were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.They kept repeating:"I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, itwould have saved us all this trouble."Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all,and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had thechance to see him and of getting something to eat.And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, herface distorted with grief:"We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have madeup his mind last night?"The husband, more resigned, answered:"Well, we'll not have to do this every day."
The Moribund was featured as
TheShort Story of the Day on
Fri, Feb 22, 2013
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