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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/23219-0.txt b/23219-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..626a25a --- /dev/null +++ b/23219-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,911 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Putois + 1907 + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 27, 2007 [EBook #23219] +Last Updated: October 5, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +PUTOIS + +By Anatole France + +Translated by William Patten. + +Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son. + +Dedicated to Georges Brandes + + + + +I + +This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that +one could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of +smiles and surprises. + +“Lucien, do you recall Putois?” asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips +pressed, bending over her work. + +“Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois +remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and +his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium...” + +“A low forehead,” added Mademoiselle Zoe. + +And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, +with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description: + +“A low forehead.” + +“Squinting eyes.” + +“A shifty glance.” + +“Crow’s-feet at the temples.” + +“The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining.” + +“His ears had no rims to them.” + +“The features were devoid of all expression.” + +“His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning.” + +“Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance...” + +“In reality he was unusually strong.” + +“He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the +thumb...” + +“Which was enormous.” + +“His voice was drawling...” + +“And his speech mild.” + +Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: “Zoe! we have forgotten ‘Yellow +hair and sparse beard.’ Let us begin all over again.” + +Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital, +asked her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this +bit of prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany. + +Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered: + +“Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used by +the Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it may +not perish with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter, your +grandfather, Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles, thought +highly of this bit, principally because of its origin. He called it ‘The +Anatomy of Putois.’ And he used to say that he preferred, in certain +respects, the anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. ‘If +the description by Xenomanes,’ he said, ‘is more learned and richer +in unusual and choice expressions, the description of Putois greatly +surpasses it in clarity and simplicity of style.’ He held this opinion +because Doctor Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet explained chapters +thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two of the fourth book of Rabelais.” + +“I do not understand at all,” said Pauline. + +“That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must +understand that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and +in that of your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we +constantly spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him.” + +Pauline asked: + +“Who was this Putois?” + +Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and +Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together. +Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her +aunt should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh +with and in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the +brother and sister were quite different in character. + +“Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me.” + +“Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest +market-gardeners, he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But +he did not satisfy his customers and got in a bad way. Having given +up business, he went out by the day. Those who employed him could not +always congratulate themselves.” + +At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined; + +“Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his +pens, his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: ‘I suspect Putois has been +here’?” + +“Ah!” said Monsieur Bergeret, “Putois had not a good reputation.” + +“Is that all?” asked Pauline. + +“No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that +while we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless--” + +“--He did not exist,” said Zoe. + +Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach. + +“What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say +it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, +that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions +of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it +is true that his was a peculiar existence.” + +“I understand less and less,” said Pauline, discouraged. + +“The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that +Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a +little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our +parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by +an old lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of +Montplaisir, twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of +my mother’s. By right of relationship she insisted that our father +and mother come to dine every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were +excessively bored. She said that it was the proper thing to have a +family dinner on Sunday and that only people of common origin failed to +observe this ancient custom. My father was bored to the point of tears +at Montplaisir. His desperation was painful to contemplate. But Madame +Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw nothing, My mother was braver. +She suffered as much as my father, and perhaps more, but she smiled.” + +“Women are made to suffer,” said Zoe. + +“Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents +refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take +them each Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was +an obligation from which there was absolutely no escape. It was an +established order that only a revolt could break. My father finally +revolted and swore not to accept another invitation from Madame +Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother to find decent pretexts and varied +reasons for these refusals, for which she was the least capable. Our +mother did not know how to pretend.” + +“Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as +any one.” + +“It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than +invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at +table: ‘Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go +to Montplaisir for some time’?” + +“That was true!” said Zoe. + +“You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother: +Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at +Montplaisir.’ Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame +Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this extremity, a +reason that was not the truth. ‘I am extremely sorry, dear Madame, but +that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the gardener.’ + +“On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of +the salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies +looked as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely +never to know it. ‘You expect the gardener! What for?’ + +“‘To work in the garden.’ + +“And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little +square of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, +recognized with dismay the improbability of her excuse. + +“‘This man,’ said Madame Cornouiller, ‘could just as well work in your +garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.’ One +should not work on Sunday.’ + +“‘He works all the week.’ + +“I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are +the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller +insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to +give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: + +“‘What do you call your gardener, dearest?’ + +“‘Putois,’ answered my mother without hesitation. + +“Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took +herself off, murmuring: ‘Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. +Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does +he live?’ + +“‘He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one +or that one.’ + +“‘Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond--a good-for-nothing. Don’t +trust him, dearest.’ + +“From that time Putois had a character.’” + + + + +II + +Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put +them in touch with the conversation. + +“We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at +Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on.” + +“Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?” said Monsieur Goubin, wiping +the glass of his monocle. + +“Willingly,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “There was no gardener. The +gardener did not exist. My mother said: ‘I am waiting for the gardener.’ +At once the gardener was. He lived.” + +“Dear master,” said Monsieur Goubin, “how could he live since he did not +exist?” + +“He had a sort of existence,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. + +“You mean an imaginary existence,” Monsieur Goubin replied, +disdainfully. + +“Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?” exclaimed the master. +“And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider +mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real +beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting +influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more +reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror +and hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and +customs. Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a +mythical personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest +order. The coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our +peasants in the North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture +by Jordaens and a fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax +appeared in the noble world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, +will be always neglected by artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the +unusual style and character. He was conceived by minds too reasonable, +among people who knew how to read and write, and who had not that +delightful imagination in which fables take root. I think, Messieurs, +that I have said enough to show you the real nature of Putois.” + +“I understand it,” said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued +his discourse. + +“Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you +will admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and +means only the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a +relation.” + +“Undoubtedly,” said Jean Marteau; “but a being without attributes is a +being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, ‘I am +that I am.’ Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. +But the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting +it be understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of +attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist +and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of +him since.”--“You have lost,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. + +“He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by +employing quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, +most often without judgment.”--“I do not understand,” said Monsieur +Goubin.--“It is not necessary to understand,” replied Jean Marteau. And +he begged Monsieur Bergeret to speak of Putois.--“It is very kind of you +to ask me,” said the master.--“Putois was born in the second half of the +nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he +had been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the +forest of Brocéliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil +spirit.”--“A cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin,” said Pauline.--“Was Putois, +then, an evil spirit?” said Jean Marteau.--“He was evil,” replied +Monsieur Bergeret; “he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true +of him as with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one +discovers good qualities when one associates with them. And I +am disposed to think that injustice has been done Putois. Madame +Cornouiller, who, warned against him, had at once suspected him of being +a loafer, a drunkard, and a robber, reflected that since my mother, who +was not rich, employed him, it was because he was satisfied with little, +and asked herself if she would not do well to have him work instead of +her gardener, who had a better reputation, but expected more. The +time had come for trimming the yews. She thought that if Madame Eloi +Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois much, she herself, who was +rich, would give him still less, for it is customary for the rich to +pay less than the poor. And she already saw her yews trimmed in straight +hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her having to pay much. ‘I +will keep an eye open,’ she said, ‘to see that Putois does not loaf +or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. These vagabonds +sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She resolved to make a +trial, and said to my mother: ‘Dearest, send me Putois. I will set him +to work at Mont-plaisir.’ My mother would have done so willingly. +But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for Putois at +Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and did not +abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of not +having any news of Putois. ‘Dearest, didn’t you tell him that I was +expecting him?’--‘Yes! but he is strange, odd.’--‘Oh, I know that kind. +I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy as to +refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. +Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient +to tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.’ My mother +answered that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his +house, that he was without hearth or home. ‘I have not seen him again, +Madame. I believe he is hiding.’ What better could she say?” + +Madame Cornouiller heard her distrustfully; she suspected her of +misleading, of removing Putois from inquiry, for fear of losing him or +making him ask more. And she thought her too selfish. “Many judgments +accepted by the world that history has sanctioned are as well founded as +that.”--“That is true,” said Pauline.--“What is true?” asked Zoe, half +asleep.--“That the judgments of history are often false. I remember, +papa, that you said one day: ‘Madame Roland was very ingenuous to +appeal to the impartiality of posterity, and not perceive that, if her +contemporaries were ill-natured monkeys, their posterity would be also +composed of ill-natured monkeys.’”--“Pauline,” said Mademoiselle Zoe +severely, “what connection is there between the story of Putois and this +that you are telling us?”--“A very great one, my aunt.”--“I do not grasp +it.”--Monsieur Bergeret, who was not opposed to digressions, answered +his daughter: “If all injustices were finally redressed in the world, +one would never have imagined another for these adjustments. How do you +expect posterity to pass righteous judgment on the dead? How question +them in the shades to which they have taken flight? As soon as we are +able to be just to them we forget them. But can one ever be just? And +what is justice? Madame Cornouiller, at least, was finally obliged to +recognize that my mother had not deceived her and that Putois was not to +be found. However, she did not give up trying to find him. She asked all +her relatives, friends, neighbors, servants, and tradesmen if they knew +Putois, Only two or three answered that they had never heard of him. For +the most part they believed they had seen him. ‘I have heard that name,’ +said the cook, ‘but I cannot recall his face.’--‘Putois! I must know +him,’ said the street-sweeper, scratching his ear. ‘But I cannot tell +you who it is.’ The most precise description came from Monsieur Blaise, +receiver of taxes, who said that he had employed Putois to cut wood in +his yard, from the 19th to the 28d of October, the year of the comet. +One morning, Madame Cornouiller, out of breath, dropped into my father’s +office. ‘I have seen Putois. Ah! I have seen him.’--‘You believe +it?’--‘I am sure. He was passing close by Monsieur Tenchant’s wall. Then +he turned into the Rue des Abbesses, walking quickly. I lost him.’--‘Was +it really he?’--‘Without a doubt. A man of fifty, thin, bent, the air of +a vagabond, a dirty blouse.’--‘It is true,’” said my father, “‘that this +description could apply to Putois.’--‘You see! Besides, I called him. I +cried: “Putois!” and he turned around.’--‘That is the method,’ said +my father, ‘that they employ to assure themselves of the identity of +evil-doers that they are hunting for.’--‘I told you that it was he! I +know how to find him, your Putois. Very well! He has a bad face. You +had been very careless, you and your wife, to employ him. I understand +physiognomy, and though I only saw his back, I could swear that he is a +robber, and perhaps an assassin. The rims of his ears are flat, and that +is a sign that never fails.’--‘Ah! you noticed that the rims of his ears +were flat?’--‘Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur Bergeret, if you do +not wish to be assassinated with your wife and your children, do not let +Putois come into your house again. Take my advice: have all your +locks changed.’--Well, a few days afterward, it happened that Madame +Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her vegetable garden. The +robber not having been found, she suspected Putois. The gendarmes were +called to Montplaisir, and their report confirmed the suspicions of +Madame Cornouiller. Bands of marauders were ravaging the gardens of the +countryside. But this time the robbery seemed to have been committed by +one man, and with singular dexterity. No trace of anything broken, no +footprints in the damp earth. The robber could be no one but Putois. +That was the opinion of the corporal, who knew all about Putois, and +had tried hard to put his hand on that bird. The ‘Journal of Saint-Omer’ +devoted an article to the three melons of Madame Cornouiller, and +published a portrait of Putois from descriptions furnished by the town. +‘He has,’ said the paper, ‘a low forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty +glance, crow’s-feet, sharp cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to +the ears. Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance, in reality he is +unusually strong. He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first +finger and the thumb.’ There were good reasons for attributing to him a +long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole +town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been +arrested and locked up in prison. But it was soon recognized that the +man that had been taken for him was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As +no charge could be brought against him, he was discharged after fourteen +months of detention on suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. +Madame Cornouiller was the victim of another robbery, more audacious +than the first. Three small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. +She recognized in this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door +of her bedroom, and was unable to sleep.... + +About ten o’clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room, +Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: “Do not forget to relate how +Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller’s cook.”--“I was thinking of it, my +sister,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. “To omit it would be to lose the +best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was +carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it +was known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty to +find him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many shrewd ones +at Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen simultaneously in the +streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another trait was thus added +to his character. He was accorded the gift of ubiquity, the attribute +of many popular heroes. A being capable of leaping long distances in +a moment, and suddenly showing himself at the place where he was least +expected, was honestly frightening. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. +Madame Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had stolen from her three +melons and three little spoons, lived in a state of fear, barricaded at +Montplaisir. Bolts, bars, and locks did not reassure her. Putois was +for her a frightfully subtle being who could pass through doors. Trouble +with her servants redoubled her fear. Her cook having been betrayed, +the time came when she could no longer hide her misfortune. But she +obstinately refused to name her betrayer.”--“Her name was Gudule,” said +Mademoiselle Zoe.--“Her name was Gudule, and she believed that she was +protected from danger by a long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. +The sudden appearance of a beard protected the innocence of that holy +daughter of the king that Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, +did not suffice to protect the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller +urged Gudule to tell her the man. Gudule burst into tears, but kept +silent. Prayers and menaces had no effect. Madame Cornouiller made a +long and circumstantial inquiry. She adroitly questioned her neighbors +and tradespeople, the gardener, the street-sweeper, the gendarmes; +nothing put her on the track of the culprit. She tried again to obtain +from Gudule a complete confession. ‘In your own interest, Gudule, tell +me who it is.’ Gudule remained mute. All at once a ray of light flashed +through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: ‘It is Putois!’ The cook cried, +but did not answer. ‘It is Putois! Why did I not guess it sooner? It +is Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!’ and Madame Cornouiller +remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at Saint-Omer, from the +judge to the lamplighter’s dog, knew Gudule and her basket At the news +that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled with surprise, +wonder, and merriment.... + +With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached +to our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and +it was believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He was +never seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his shadow, +his voice, his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw his back in +the twilight, at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he gradually +changed in character. He remained mischievous and malevolent, but he +became childlike and very ingenuous. He became less real and, I +dare say, more poetical. He entered in the artless Cycle of childish +traditions. He became more like Croquemitaine,* like Père Fouettard, or +the sand man who closes the children’s eyes when evening comes. + + *The national “bugaboo” or “bogy man.” + +It was not that imp that tangled the colts’ tails at night in the +stable. Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, +he made ink mustaches on my sister’s dolls. In our bed, before going to +sleep, we listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with +the dogs, he filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs +of belated drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and +familiar to us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of +him was associated with all the objects about us. Zoe’s dolls, my school +books, in which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the +garden wall, over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow; +the blue porcelain jar that he cracked one winter’s night, unless it +was the frost; the trees, the streets, the benches--everything recalled +Putois, the children’s Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not +equal in grace and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of +Sicily or Thessaly. But he was still a demigod. He had quite a different +character for our father; he was symbolical and philosophical. Our +father had great compassion for men. He did not think them altogether +rational; their mistakes, when they were not cruel, amused him and +made him smile. The belief in Putois interested him as an epitome and a +summary of all human beliefs. As he was ironical and a joker, he spoke +of Putois as if he were a real being. He spoke with so much insistence +sometimes, and detailed the circumstances with such exactness, that my +mother was quite surprised and said to him in her open-hearted way: +‘One would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: you know well, +however...’ He replied gravely: ‘All Saint-Omer believes in the +existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One should +look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.’ Only +a perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a +Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public +sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois, +but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the +melons and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the +existence of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in +his explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so +in this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible +man. + + * A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus. + +“As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of +Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child +of our mother’s invention, as Caliban was the poet’s invention. Without +doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than +Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her little +falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve such a +prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over town +and threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned pale, +believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That day, +a servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to her +that a man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. ‘What man +is it?’--‘A man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.’--‘Did he give his +name?’--‘Yes, Madame.’--‘Well! what is his name?’--‘Putois.’--‘He told +you that was his name?’--‘Putois, yes, Madame.’--‘He is here?’--‘Yes, +Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.’--‘You saw him?’--‘Yes, +Madame.’--‘What does he want?’--‘He did not say. He will only tell +Madame.’--‘Go ask him.’ + +“When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This meeting +of the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from that day +I think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might well exist and +that she had not told a falsehood after all.” + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + +***** This file should be named 23219-0.txt or 23219-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/1/23219/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Putois + 1907 + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 27, 2007 [EBook #23219] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +PUTOIS + +By Anatole France + +Translated by William Patten. + +Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son. + +Dedicated to Georges Brandes + + + + +I + +This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that +one could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of +smiles and surprises. + +"Lucien, do you recall Putois?" asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips +pressed, bending over her work. + +"Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois +remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and +his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium..." + +"A low forehead," added Mademoiselle Zoe. + +And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, +with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description: + +"A low forehead." + +"Squinting eyes." + +"A shifty glance." + +"Crow's-feet at the temples." + +"The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining." + +"His ears had no rims to them." + +"The features were devoid of all expression." + +"His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning." + +"Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance..." + +"In reality he was unusually strong." + +"He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the +thumb..." + +"Which was enormous." + +"His voice was drawling..." + +"And his speech mild." + +Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: "Zoe! we have forgotten 'Yellow +hair and sparse beard.' Let us begin all over again." + +Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital, +asked her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this +bit of prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany. + +Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered: + +"Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used by +the Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it may +not perish with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter, your +grandfather, Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles, thought +highly of this bit, principally because of its origin. He called it 'The +Anatomy of Putois.' And he used to say that he preferred, in certain +respects, the anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. 'If +the description by Xenomanes,' he said, 'is more learned and richer +in unusual and choice expressions, the description of Putois greatly +surpasses it in clarity and simplicity of style.' He held this opinion +because Doctor Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet explained chapters +thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two of the fourth book of Rabelais." + +"I do not understand at all," said Pauline. + +"That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must +understand that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and +in that of your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we +constantly spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him." + +Pauline asked: + +"Who was this Putois?" + +Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and +Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together. +Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her +aunt should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh +with and in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the +brother and sister were quite different in character. + +"Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me." + +"Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest +market-gardeners, he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But +he did not satisfy his customers and got in a bad way. Having given +up business, he went out by the day. Those who employed him could not +always congratulate themselves." + +At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined; + +"Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his +pens, his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: 'I suspect Putois has been +here'?" + +"Ah!" said Monsieur Bergeret, "Putois had not a good reputation." + +"Is that all?" asked Pauline. + +"No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that +while we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless--" + +"--He did not exist," said Zoe. + +Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach. + +"What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say +it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, +that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions +of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it +is true that his was a peculiar existence." + +"I understand less and less," said Pauline, discouraged. + +"The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that +Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a +little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our +parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by +an old lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of +Montplaisir, twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of +my mother's. By right of relationship she insisted that our father +and mother come to dine every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were +excessively bored. She said that it was the proper thing to have a +family dinner on Sunday and that only people of common origin failed to +observe this ancient custom. My father was bored to the point of tears +at Montplaisir. His desperation was painful to contemplate. But Madame +Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw nothing, My mother was braver. +She suffered as much as my father, and perhaps more, but she smiled." + +"Women are made to suffer," said Zoe. + +"Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents +refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take +them each Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was +an obligation from which there was absolutely no escape. It was an +established order that only a revolt could break. My father finally +revolted and swore not to accept another invitation from Madame +Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother to find decent pretexts and varied +reasons for these refusals, for which she was the least capable. Our +mother did not know how to pretend." + +"Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as +any one." + +"It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than +invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at +table: 'Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go +to Montplaisir for some time'?" + +"That was true!" said Zoe. + +"You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother: +Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at +Montplaisir.' Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame +Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this extremity, a +reason that was not the truth. 'I am extremely sorry, dear Madame, but +that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the gardener.' + +"On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of +the salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies +looked as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely +never to know it. 'You expect the gardener! What for?' + +"'To work in the garden.' + +"And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little +square of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, +recognized with dismay the improbability of her excuse. + +"'This man,' said Madame Cornouiller, 'could just as well work in your +garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.' One +should not work on Sunday.' + +"'He works all the week.' + +"I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are +the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller +insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to +give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: + +"'What do you call your gardener, dearest?' + +"'Putois,' answered my mother without hesitation. + +"Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took +herself off, murmuring: 'Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. +Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does +he live?' + +"'He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one +or that one.' + +"'Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond--a good-for-nothing. Don't +trust him, dearest.' + +"From that time Putois had a character.'" + + + + +II + +Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put +them in touch with the conversation. + +"We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at +Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on." + +"Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?" said Monsieur Goubin, wiping +the glass of his monocle. + +"Willingly," replied Monsieur Bergeret. "There was no gardener. The +gardener did not exist. My mother said: 'I am waiting for the gardener.' +At once the gardener was. He lived." + +"Dear master," said Monsieur Goubin, "how could he live since he did not +exist?" + +"He had a sort of existence," replied Monsieur Bergeret. + +"You mean an imaginary existence," Monsieur Goubin replied, +disdainfully. + +"Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?" exclaimed the master. +"And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider +mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real +beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting +influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more +reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror +and hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and +customs. Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a +mythical personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest +order. The coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our +peasants in the North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture +by Jordaens and a fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax +appeared in the noble world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, +will be always neglected by artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the +unusual style and character. He was conceived by minds too reasonable, +among people who knew how to read and write, and who had not that +delightful imagination in which fables take root. I think, Messieurs, +that I have said enough to show you the real nature of Putois." + +"I understand it," said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued +his discourse. + +"Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you +will admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and +means only the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a +relation." + +"Undoubtedly," said Jean Marteau; "but a being without attributes is a +being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, 'I am +that I am.' Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. +But the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting +it be understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of +attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist +and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of +him since."--"You have lost," answered Monsieur Bergeret. + +"He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by +employing quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, +most often without judgment."--"I do not understand," said Monsieur +Goubin.--"It is not necessary to understand," replied Jean Marteau. And +he begged Monsieur Bergeret to speak of Putois.--"It is very kind of you +to ask me," said the master.--"Putois was born in the second half of the +nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he +had been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the +forest of Brocliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil +spirit."--"A cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin," said Pauline.--"Was Putois, +then, an evil spirit?" said Jean Marteau.--"He was evil," replied +Monsieur Bergeret; "he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true +of him as with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one +discovers good qualities when one associates with them. And I +am disposed to think that injustice has been done Putois. Madame +Cornouiller, who, warned against him, had at once suspected him of being +a loafer, a drunkard, and a robber, reflected that since my mother, who +was not rich, employed him, it was because he was satisfied with little, +and asked herself if she would not do well to have him work instead of +her gardener, who had a better reputation, but expected more. The +time had come for trimming the yews. She thought that if Madame Eloi +Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois much, she herself, who was +rich, would give him still less, for it is customary for the rich to +pay less than the poor. And she already saw her yews trimmed in straight +hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her having to pay much. 'I +will keep an eye open,' she said, 'to see that Putois does not loaf +or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. These vagabonds +sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She resolved to make a +trial, and said to my mother: 'Dearest, send me Putois. I will set him +to work at Mont-plaisir.' My mother would have done so willingly. +But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for Putois at +Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and did not +abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of not +having any news of Putois. 'Dearest, didn't you tell him that I was +expecting him?'--'Yes! but he is strange, odd.'--'Oh, I know that kind. +I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy as to +refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. +Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient +to tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.' My mother +answered that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his +house, that he was without hearth or home. 'I have not seen him again, +Madame. I believe he is hiding.' What better could she say?" + +Madame Cornouiller heard her distrustfully; she suspected her of +misleading, of removing Putois from inquiry, for fear of losing him or +making him ask more. And she thought her too selfish. "Many judgments +accepted by the world that history has sanctioned are as well founded as +that."--"That is true," said Pauline.--"What is true?" asked Zoe, half +asleep.--"That the judgments of history are often false. I remember, +papa, that you said one day: 'Madame Roland was very ingenuous to +appeal to the impartiality of posterity, and not perceive that, if her +contemporaries were ill-natured monkeys, their posterity would be also +composed of ill-natured monkeys.'"--"Pauline," said Mademoiselle Zoe +severely, "what connection is there between the story of Putois and this +that you are telling us?"--"A very great one, my aunt."--"I do not grasp +it."--Monsieur Bergeret, who was not opposed to digressions, answered +his daughter: "If all injustices were finally redressed in the world, +one would never have imagined another for these adjustments. How do you +expect posterity to pass righteous judgment on the dead? How question +them in the shades to which they have taken flight? As soon as we are +able to be just to them we forget them. But can one ever be just? And +what is justice? Madame Cornouiller, at least, was finally obliged to +recognize that my mother had not deceived her and that Putois was not to +be found. However, she did not give up trying to find him. She asked all +her relatives, friends, neighbors, servants, and tradesmen if they knew +Putois, Only two or three answered that they had never heard of him. For +the most part they believed they had seen him. 'I have heard that name,' +said the cook, 'but I cannot recall his face.'--'Putois! I must know +him,' said the street-sweeper, scratching his ear. 'But I cannot tell +you who it is.' The most precise description came from Monsieur Blaise, +receiver of taxes, who said that he had employed Putois to cut wood in +his yard, from the 19th to the 28d of October, the year of the comet. +One morning, Madame Cornouiller, out of breath, dropped into my father's +office. 'I have seen Putois. Ah! I have seen him.'--'You believe +it?'--'I am sure. He was passing close by Monsieur Tenchant's wall. Then +he turned into the Rue des Abbesses, walking quickly. I lost him.'--'Was +it really he?'--'Without a doubt. A man of fifty, thin, bent, the air of +a vagabond, a dirty blouse.'--'It is true,'" said my father, "'that this +description could apply to Putois.'--'You see! Besides, I called him. I +cried: "Putois!" and he turned around.'--'That is the method,' said +my father, 'that they employ to assure themselves of the identity of +evil-doers that they are hunting for.'--'I told you that it was he! I +know how to find him, your Putois. Very well! He has a bad face. You +had been very careless, you and your wife, to employ him. I understand +physiognomy, and though I only saw his back, I could swear that he is a +robber, and perhaps an assassin. The rims of his ears are flat, and that +is a sign that never fails.'--'Ah! you noticed that the rims of his ears +were flat?'--'Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur Bergeret, if you do +not wish to be assassinated with your wife and your children, do not let +Putois come into your house again. Take my advice: have all your +locks changed.'--Well, a few days afterward, it happened that Madame +Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her vegetable garden. The +robber not having been found, she suspected Putois. The gendarmes were +called to Montplaisir, and their report confirmed the suspicions of +Madame Cornouiller. Bands of marauders were ravaging the gardens of the +countryside. But this time the robbery seemed to have been committed by +one man, and with singular dexterity. No trace of anything broken, no +footprints in the damp earth. The robber could be no one but Putois. +That was the opinion of the corporal, who knew all about Putois, and +had tried hard to put his hand on that bird. The 'Journal of Saint-Omer' +devoted an article to the three melons of Madame Cornouiller, and +published a portrait of Putois from descriptions furnished by the town. +'He has,' said the paper, 'a low forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty +glance, crow's-feet, sharp cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to +the ears. Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance, in reality he is +unusually strong. He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first +finger and the thumb.' There were good reasons for attributing to him a +long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole +town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been +arrested and locked up in prison. But it was soon recognized that the +man that had been taken for him was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As +no charge could be brought against him, he was discharged after fourteen +months of detention on suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. +Madame Cornouiller was the victim of another robbery, more audacious +than the first. Three small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. +She recognized in this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door +of her bedroom, and was unable to sleep.... + +About ten o'clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room, +Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: "Do not forget to relate how +Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller's cook."--"I was thinking of it, my +sister," answered Monsieur Bergeret. "To omit it would be to lose the +best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was +carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it +was known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty to +find him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many shrewd ones +at Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen simultaneously in the +streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another trait was thus added +to his character. He was accorded the gift of ubiquity, the attribute +of many popular heroes. A being capable of leaping long distances in +a moment, and suddenly showing himself at the place where he was least +expected, was honestly frightening. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. +Madame Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had stolen from her three +melons and three little spoons, lived in a state of fear, barricaded at +Montplaisir. Bolts, bars, and locks did not reassure her. Putois was +for her a frightfully subtle being who could pass through doors. Trouble +with her servants redoubled her fear. Her cook having been betrayed, +the time came when she could no longer hide her misfortune. But she +obstinately refused to name her betrayer."--"Her name was Gudule," said +Mademoiselle Zoe.--"Her name was Gudule, and she believed that she was +protected from danger by a long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. +The sudden appearance of a beard protected the innocence of that holy +daughter of the king that Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, +did not suffice to protect the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller +urged Gudule to tell her the man. Gudule burst into tears, but kept +silent. Prayers and menaces had no effect. Madame Cornouiller made a +long and circumstantial inquiry. She adroitly questioned her neighbors +and tradespeople, the gardener, the street-sweeper, the gendarmes; +nothing put her on the track of the culprit. She tried again to obtain +from Gudule a complete confession. 'In your own interest, Gudule, tell +me who it is.' Gudule remained mute. All at once a ray of light flashed +through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: 'It is Putois!' The cook cried, +but did not answer. 'It is Putois! Why did I not guess it sooner? It +is Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!' and Madame Cornouiller +remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at Saint-Omer, from the +judge to the lamplighter's dog, knew Gudule and her basket At the news +that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled with surprise, +wonder, and merriment.... + +With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached +to our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and +it was believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He was +never seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his shadow, +his voice, his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw his back in +the twilight, at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he gradually +changed in character. He remained mischievous and malevolent, but he +became childlike and very ingenuous. He became less real and, I +dare say, more poetical. He entered in the artless Cycle of childish +traditions. He became more like Croquemitaine,* like Pre Fouettard, or +the sand man who closes the children's eyes when evening comes. + + *The national "bugaboo" or "bogy man." + +It was not that imp that tangled the colts' tails at night in the +stable. Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, +he made ink mustaches on my sister's dolls. In our bed, before going to +sleep, we listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with +the dogs, he filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs +of belated drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and +familiar to us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of +him was associated with all the objects about us. Zoe's dolls, my school +books, in which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the +garden wall, over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow; +the blue porcelain jar that he cracked one winter's night, unless it +was the frost; the trees, the streets, the benches--everything recalled +Putois, the children's Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not +equal in grace and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of +Sicily or Thessaly. But he was still a demigod. He had quite a different +character for our father; he was symbolical and philosophical. Our +father had great compassion for men. He did not think them altogether +rational; their mistakes, when they were not cruel, amused him and +made him smile. The belief in Putois interested him as an epitome and a +summary of all human beliefs. As he was ironical and a joker, he spoke +of Putois as if he were a real being. He spoke with so much insistence +sometimes, and detailed the circumstances with such exactness, that my +mother was quite surprised and said to him in her open-hearted way: +'One would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: you know well, +however...' He replied gravely: 'All Saint-Omer believes in the +existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One should +look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.' Only +a perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a +Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public +sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois, +but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the +melons and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the +existence of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in +his explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so +in this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible +man. + + * A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus. + +"As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of +Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child +of our mother's invention, as Caliban was the poet's invention. Without +doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than +Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her little +falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve such a +prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over town +and threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned pale, +believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That day, +a servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to her +that a man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. 'What man +is it?'--'A man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.'--'Did he give his +name?'--'Yes, Madame.'--'Well! what is his name?'--'Putois.'--'He told +you that was his name?'--'Putois, yes, Madame.'--'He is here?'--'Yes, +Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.'--'You saw him?'--'Yes, +Madame.'--'What does he want?'--'He did not say. He will only tell +Madame.'--'Go ask him.' + +"When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This meeting +of the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from that day +I think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might well exist and +that she had not told a falsehood after all." + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + +***** This file should be named 23219-8.txt or 23219-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/1/23219/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/23219-8.zip b/23219-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..abaf4b0 --- /dev/null +++ b/23219-8.zip diff --git a/23219-h.zip b/23219-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7060d83 --- /dev/null +++ b/23219-h.zip diff --git a/23219-h/23219-h.htm b/23219-h/23219-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..062c924 --- /dev/null +++ b/23219-h/23219-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1069 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Putois, by Anatole France + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Putois + 1907 + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 27, 2007 [EBook #23219] +Last Updated: October 5, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PUTOIS + </h1> + <h2> + By Anatole France + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated by William Patten. <br /> Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier + & Son. <br /> <b>Dedicated to Georges Brandes</b> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that one + could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of smiles + and surprises. + </p> + <p> + “Lucien, do you recall Putois?” asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips + pressed, bending over her work. + </p> + <p> + “Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois + remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and + his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium...” + </p> + <p> + “A low forehead,” added Mademoiselle Zoe. + </p> + <p> + And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, + with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description: + </p> + <p> + “A low forehead.” + </p> + <p> + “Squinting eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “A shifty glance.” + </p> + <p> + “Crow’s-feet at the temples.” + </p> + <p> + “The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining.” + </p> + <p> + “His ears had no rims to them.” + </p> + <p> + “The features were devoid of all expression.” + </p> + <p> + “His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning.” + </p> + <p> + “Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance...” + </p> + <p> + “In reality he was unusually strong.” + </p> + <p> + “He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the + thumb...” + </p> + <p> + “Which was enormous.” + </p> + <p> + “His voice was drawling...” + </p> + <p> + “And his speech mild.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: “Zoe! we have forgotten ‘Yellow hair + and sparse beard.’ Let us begin all over again.” + </p> + <p> + Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital, asked + her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this bit of + prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered: + </p> + <p> + “Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used by the + Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it may not perish + with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter, your grandfather, + Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles, thought highly of this + bit, principally because of its origin. He called it ‘The Anatomy of + Putois.’ And he used to say that he preferred, in certain respects, the + anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. ‘If the description + by Xenomanes,’ he said, ‘is more learned and richer in unusual and choice + expressions, the description of Putois greatly surpasses it in clarity and + simplicity of style.’ He held this opinion because Doctor Ledouble, of + Tours, had not yet explained chapters thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two + of the fourth book of Rabelais.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand at all,” said Pauline. + </p> + <p> + “That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must understand + that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and in that of + your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we constantly + spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him.” + </p> + <p> + Pauline asked: + </p> + <p> + “Who was this Putois?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and + Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together. + Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her aunt + should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh with and + in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the brother and + sister were quite different in character. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest market-gardeners, + he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But he did not satisfy + his customers and got in a bad way. Having given up business, he went out + by the day. Those who employed him could not always congratulate + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined; + </p> + <p> + “Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his pens, + his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: ‘I suspect Putois has been here’?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Monsieur Bergeret, “Putois had not a good reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” asked Pauline. + </p> + <p> + “No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that while + we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless—” + </p> + <p> + “—He did not exist,” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach. + </p> + <p> + “What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say + it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, + that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions of + existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it is + true that his was a peculiar existence.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand less and less,” said Pauline, discouraged. + </p> + <p> + “The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that + Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a + little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our + parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by an old + lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of Montplaisir, + twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of my mother’s. By + right of relationship she insisted that our father and mother come to dine + every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were excessively bored. She said + that it was the proper thing to have a family dinner on Sunday and that + only people of common origin failed to observe this ancient custom. My + father was bored to the point of tears at Montplaisir. His desperation was + painful to contemplate. But Madame Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw + nothing, My mother was braver. She suffered as much as my father, and + perhaps more, but she smiled.” + </p> + <p> + “Women are made to suffer,” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + “Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents + refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take them each + Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was an obligation from + which there was absolutely no escape. It was an established order that + only a revolt could break. My father finally revolted and swore not to + accept another invitation from Madame Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother + to find decent pretexts and varied reasons for these refusals, for which + she was the least capable. Our mother did not know how to pretend.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as + any one.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than + invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at + table: ‘Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go + to Montplaisir for some time’?” + </p> + <p> + “That was true!” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + “You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother: + Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at + Montplaisir.’ Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame + Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this extremity, a + reason that was not the truth. ‘I am extremely sorry, dear Madame, but + that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the gardener.’ + </p> + <p> + “On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of the + salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies looked + as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely never to + know it. ‘You expect the gardener! What for?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘To work in the garden.’ + </p> + <p> + “And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little square + of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, recognized + with dismay the improbability of her excuse. + </p> + <p> + “‘This man,’ said Madame Cornouiller, ‘could just as well work in your + garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.’ One should + not work on Sunday.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He works all the week.’ + </p> + <p> + “I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are the + least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller + insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to + give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: + </p> + <p> + “‘What do you call your gardener, dearest?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Putois,’ answered my mother without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took + herself off, murmuring: ‘Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. + Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does he + live?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one or + that one.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond—a good-for-nothing. + Don’t trust him, dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + “From that time Putois had a character.’” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put + them in touch with the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at + Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?” said Monsieur Goubin, wiping + the glass of his monocle. + </p> + <p> + “Willingly,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “There was no gardener. The + gardener did not exist. My mother said: ‘I am waiting for the gardener.’ + At once the gardener was. He lived.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear master,” said Monsieur Goubin, “how could he live since he did not + exist?” + </p> + <p> + “He had a sort of existence,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. + </p> + <p> + “You mean an imaginary existence,” Monsieur Goubin replied, disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?” exclaimed the master. + “And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider + mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real + beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting + influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more + reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror and + hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and customs. + Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a mythical + personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest order. The + coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our peasants in the + North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture by Jordaens and a + fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax appeared in the noble world + of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, will be always neglected by + artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the unusual style and character. + He was conceived by minds too reasonable, among people who knew how to + read and write, and who had not that delightful imagination in which + fables take root. I think, Messieurs, that I have said enough to show you + the real nature of Putois.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand it,” said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued + his discourse. + </p> + <p> + “Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you will + admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and means only + the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a relation.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Jean Marteau; “but a being without attributes is a + being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, ‘I am + that I am.’ Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. But + the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting it be + understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of + attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist + and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of him + since.”—“You have lost,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. + </p> + <p> + “He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by employing + quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, most often without + judgment.”—“I do not understand,” said Monsieur Goubin.—“It is + not necessary to understand,” replied Jean Marteau. And he begged Monsieur + Bergeret to speak of Putois.—“It is very kind of you to ask me,” + said the master.—“Putois was born in the second half of the + nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he had + been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the forest of + Brocéliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil spirit.”—“A + cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin,” said Pauline.—“Was Putois, then, an + evil spirit?” said Jean Marteau.—“He was evil,” replied Monsieur + Bergeret; “he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true of him as + with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one discovers good + qualities when one associates with them. And I am disposed to think that + injustice has been done Putois. Madame Cornouiller, who, warned against + him, had at once suspected him of being a loafer, a drunkard, and a + robber, reflected that since my mother, who was not rich, employed him, it + was because he was satisfied with little, and asked herself if she would + not do well to have him work instead of her gardener, who had a better + reputation, but expected more. The time had come for trimming the yews. + She thought that if Madame Eloi Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois + much, she herself, who was rich, would give him still less, for it is + customary for the rich to pay less than the poor. And she already saw her + yews trimmed in straight hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her + having to pay much. ‘I will keep an eye open,’ she said, ‘to see that + Putois does not loaf or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. + These vagabonds sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She + resolved to make a trial, and said to my mother: ‘Dearest, send me Putois. + I will set him to work at Mont-plaisir.’ My mother would have done so + willingly. But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for + Putois at Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and + did not abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of + not having any news of Putois. ‘Dearest, didn’t you tell him that I was + expecting him?’—‘Yes! but he is strange, odd.’—‘Oh, I know + that kind. I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy + as to refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. + Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient to + tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.’ My mother answered + that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his house, that + he was without hearth or home. ‘I have not seen him again, Madame. I + believe he is hiding.’ What better could she say?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Cornouiller heard her distrustfully; she suspected her of + misleading, of removing Putois from inquiry, for fear of losing him or + making him ask more. And she thought her too selfish. “Many judgments + accepted by the world that history has sanctioned are as well founded as + that.”—“That is true,” said Pauline.—“What is true?” asked + Zoe, half asleep.—“That the judgments of history are often false. I + remember, papa, that you said one day: ‘Madame Roland was very ingenuous + to appeal to the impartiality of posterity, and not perceive that, if her + contemporaries were ill-natured monkeys, their posterity would be also + composed of ill-natured monkeys.’”—“Pauline,” said Mademoiselle Zoe + severely, “what connection is there between the story of Putois and this + that you are telling us?”—“A very great one, my aunt.”—“I do + not grasp it.”—Monsieur Bergeret, who was not opposed to + digressions, answered his daughter: “If all injustices were finally + redressed in the world, one would never have imagined another for these + adjustments. How do you expect posterity to pass righteous judgment on the + dead? How question them in the shades to which they have taken flight? As + soon as we are able to be just to them we forget them. But can one ever be + just? And what is justice? Madame Cornouiller, at least, was finally + obliged to recognize that my mother had not deceived her and that Putois + was not to be found. However, she did not give up trying to find him. She + asked all her relatives, friends, neighbors, servants, and tradesmen if + they knew Putois, Only two or three answered that they had never heard of + him. For the most part they believed they had seen him. ‘I have heard that + name,’ said the cook, ‘but I cannot recall his face.’—‘Putois! I + must know him,’ said the street-sweeper, scratching his ear. ‘But I cannot + tell you who it is.’ The most precise description came from Monsieur + Blaise, receiver of taxes, who said that he had employed Putois to cut + wood in his yard, from the 19th to the 28d of October, the year of the + comet. One morning, Madame Cornouiller, out of breath, dropped into my + father’s office. ‘I have seen Putois. Ah! I have seen him.’—‘You + believe it?’—‘I am sure. He was passing close by Monsieur Tenchant’s + wall. Then he turned into the Rue des Abbesses, walking quickly. I lost + him.’—‘Was it really he?’—‘Without a doubt. A man of fifty, + thin, bent, the air of a vagabond, a dirty blouse.’—‘It is true,’” + said my father, “‘that this description could apply to Putois.’—‘You + see! Besides, I called him. I cried: “Putois!” and he turned around.’—‘That + is the method,’ said my father, ‘that they employ to assure themselves of + the identity of evil-doers that they are hunting for.’—‘I told you + that it was he! I know how to find him, your Putois. Very well! He has a + bad face. You had been very careless, you and your wife, to employ him. I + understand physiognomy, and though I only saw his back, I could swear that + he is a robber, and perhaps an assassin. The rims of his ears are flat, + and that is a sign that never fails.’—‘Ah! you noticed that the rims + of his ears were flat?’—‘Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur + Bergeret, if you do not wish to be assassinated with your wife and your + children, do not let Putois come into your house again. Take my advice: + have all your locks changed.’—Well, a few days afterward, it + happened that Madame Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her + vegetable garden. The robber not having been found, she suspected Putois. + The gendarmes were called to Montplaisir, and their report confirmed the + suspicions of Madame Cornouiller. Bands of marauders were ravaging the + gardens of the countryside. But this time the robbery seemed to have been + committed by one man, and with singular dexterity. No trace of anything + broken, no footprints in the damp earth. The robber could be no one but + Putois. That was the opinion of the corporal, who knew all about Putois, + and had tried hard to put his hand on that bird. The ‘Journal of + Saint-Omer’ devoted an article to the three melons of Madame Cornouiller, + and published a portrait of Putois from descriptions furnished by the + town. ‘He has,’ said the paper, ‘a low forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty + glance, crow’s-feet, sharp cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to the + ears. Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance, in reality he is + unusually strong. He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first + finger and the thumb.’ There were good reasons for attributing to him a + long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole + town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been + arrested and locked up in prison. But it was soon recognized that the man + that had been taken for him was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As no + charge could be brought against him, he was discharged after fourteen + months of detention on suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. + Madame Cornouiller was the victim of another robbery, more audacious than + the first. Three small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. She + recognized in this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door of her + bedroom, and was unable to sleep.... + </p> + <p> + About ten o’clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room, + Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: “Do not forget to relate how + Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller’s cook.”—“I was thinking of it, + my sister,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. “To omit it would be to lose the + best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was + carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it was + known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty to find + him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many shrewd ones at + Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen simultaneously in the + streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another trait was thus added to + his character. He was accorded the gift of ubiquity, the attribute of many + popular heroes. A being capable of leaping long distances in a moment, and + suddenly showing himself at the place where he was least expected, was + honestly frightening. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. Madame + Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had stolen from her three melons and + three little spoons, lived in a state of fear, barricaded at Montplaisir. + Bolts, bars, and locks did not reassure her. Putois was for her a + frightfully subtle being who could pass through doors. Trouble with her + servants redoubled her fear. Her cook having been betrayed, the time came + when she could no longer hide her misfortune. But she obstinately refused + to name her betrayer.”—“Her name was Gudule,” said Mademoiselle Zoe.—“Her + name was Gudule, and she believed that she was protected from danger by a + long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. The sudden appearance of a + beard protected the innocence of that holy daughter of the king that + Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, did not suffice to protect + the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller urged Gudule to tell her the man. + Gudule burst into tears, but kept silent. Prayers and menaces had no + effect. Madame Cornouiller made a long and circumstantial inquiry. She + adroitly questioned her neighbors and tradespeople, the gardener, the + street-sweeper, the gendarmes; nothing put her on the track of the + culprit. She tried again to obtain from Gudule a complete confession. ‘In + your own interest, Gudule, tell me who it is.’ Gudule remained mute. All + at once a ray of light flashed through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: ‘It + is Putois!’ The cook cried, but did not answer. ‘It is Putois! Why did I + not guess it sooner? It is Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!’ and + Madame Cornouiller remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at + Saint-Omer, from the judge to the lamplighter’s dog, knew Gudule and her + basket At the news that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled + with surprise, wonder, and merriment.... + </p> + <p> + With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached to + our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and it was + believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He was never + seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his shadow, his voice, + his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw his back in the twilight, + at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he gradually changed in + character. He remained mischievous and malevolent, but he became childlike + and very ingenuous. He became less real and, I dare say, more poetical. He + entered in the artless Cycle of childish traditions. He became more like + Croquemitaine,* like Père Fouettard, or the sand man who closes the + children’s eyes when evening comes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *The national “bugaboo” or “bogy man.” + </pre> + <p> + It was not that imp that tangled the colts’ tails at night in the stable. + Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, he made + ink mustaches on my sister’s dolls. In our bed, before going to sleep, we + listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with the dogs, he + filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs of belated + drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and familiar to + us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of him was + associated with all the objects about us. Zoe’s dolls, my school books, in + which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the garden wall, + over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow; the blue + porcelain jar that he cracked one winter’s night, unless it was the frost; + the trees, the streets, the benches—everything recalled Putois, the + children’s Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not equal in grace + and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of Sicily or Thessaly. But + he was still a demigod. He had quite a different character for our father; + he was symbolical and philosophical. Our father had great compassion for + men. He did not think them altogether rational; their mistakes, when they + were not cruel, amused him and made him smile. The belief in Putois + interested him as an epitome and a summary of all human beliefs. As he was + ironical and a joker, he spoke of Putois as if he were a real being. He + spoke with so much insistence sometimes, and detailed the circumstances + with such exactness, that my mother was quite surprised and said to him in + her open-hearted way: ‘One would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: + you know well, however...’ He replied gravely: ‘All Saint-Omer believes in + the existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One + should look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.’ Only a + perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a + Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public + sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois, + but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the melons + and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the existence + of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in his + explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so in + this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible man. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus. +</pre> + <p> + “As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of + Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child + of our mother’s invention, as Caliban was the poet’s invention. Without + doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than + Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her little + falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve such a + prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over town and + threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned pale, + believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That day, a + servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to her that a + man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. ‘What man is it?’—‘A + man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.’—‘Did he give his name?’—‘Yes, + Madame.’—‘Well! what is his name?’—‘Putois.’—‘He told + you that was his name?’—‘Putois, yes, Madame.’—‘He is here?’—‘Yes, + Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.’—‘You saw him?’—‘Yes, + Madame.’—‘What does he want?’—‘He did not say. He will only + tell Madame.’—‘Go ask him.’ + </p> + <p> + “When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This meeting of + the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from that day I + think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might well exist and that + she had not told a falsehood after all.” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + +***** This file should be named 23219-h.htm or 23219-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/1/23219/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Putois + 1907 + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 27, 2007 [EBook #23219] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +PUTOIS + +By Anatole France + +Translated by William Patten. + +Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son. + +Dedicated to Georges Brandes + + + + +I + +This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that +one could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of +smiles and surprises. + +"Lucien, do you recall Putois?" asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips +pressed, bending over her work. + +"Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois +remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and +his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium..." + +"A low forehead," added Mademoiselle Zoe. + +And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, +with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description: + +"A low forehead." + +"Squinting eyes." + +"A shifty glance." + +"Crow's-feet at the temples." + +"The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining." + +"His ears had no rims to them." + +"The features were devoid of all expression." + +"His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning." + +"Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance..." + +"In reality he was unusually strong." + +"He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the +thumb..." + +"Which was enormous." + +"His voice was drawling..." + +"And his speech mild." + +Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: "Zoe! we have forgotten 'Yellow +hair and sparse beard.' Let us begin all over again." + +Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital, +asked her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this +bit of prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany. + +Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered: + +"Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used by +the Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it may +not perish with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter, your +grandfather, Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles, thought +highly of this bit, principally because of its origin. He called it 'The +Anatomy of Putois.' And he used to say that he preferred, in certain +respects, the anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. 'If +the description by Xenomanes,' he said, 'is more learned and richer +in unusual and choice expressions, the description of Putois greatly +surpasses it in clarity and simplicity of style.' He held this opinion +because Doctor Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet explained chapters +thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two of the fourth book of Rabelais." + +"I do not understand at all," said Pauline. + +"That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must +understand that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and +in that of your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we +constantly spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him." + +Pauline asked: + +"Who was this Putois?" + +Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and +Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together. +Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her +aunt should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh +with and in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the +brother and sister were quite different in character. + +"Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me." + +"Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest +market-gardeners, he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But +he did not satisfy his customers and got in a bad way. Having given +up business, he went out by the day. Those who employed him could not +always congratulate themselves." + +At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined; + +"Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his +pens, his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: 'I suspect Putois has been +here'?" + +"Ah!" said Monsieur Bergeret, "Putois had not a good reputation." + +"Is that all?" asked Pauline. + +"No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that +while we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless--" + +"--He did not exist," said Zoe. + +Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach. + +"What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say +it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, +that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions +of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it +is true that his was a peculiar existence." + +"I understand less and less," said Pauline, discouraged. + +"The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that +Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a +little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our +parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by +an old lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of +Montplaisir, twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of +my mother's. By right of relationship she insisted that our father +and mother come to dine every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were +excessively bored. She said that it was the proper thing to have a +family dinner on Sunday and that only people of common origin failed to +observe this ancient custom. My father was bored to the point of tears +at Montplaisir. His desperation was painful to contemplate. But Madame +Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw nothing, My mother was braver. +She suffered as much as my father, and perhaps more, but she smiled." + +"Women are made to suffer," said Zoe. + +"Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents +refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take +them each Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was +an obligation from which there was absolutely no escape. It was an +established order that only a revolt could break. My father finally +revolted and swore not to accept another invitation from Madame +Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother to find decent pretexts and varied +reasons for these refusals, for which she was the least capable. Our +mother did not know how to pretend." + +"Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as +any one." + +"It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than +invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at +table: 'Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go +to Montplaisir for some time'?" + +"That was true!" said Zoe. + +"You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother: +Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at +Montplaisir.' Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame +Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this extremity, a +reason that was not the truth. 'I am extremely sorry, dear Madame, but +that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the gardener.' + +"On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of +the salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies +looked as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely +never to know it. 'You expect the gardener! What for?' + +"'To work in the garden.' + +"And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little +square of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, +recognized with dismay the improbability of her excuse. + +"'This man,' said Madame Cornouiller, 'could just as well work in your +garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.' One +should not work on Sunday.' + +"'He works all the week.' + +"I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are +the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller +insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to +give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: + +"'What do you call your gardener, dearest?' + +"'Putois,' answered my mother without hesitation. + +"Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took +herself off, murmuring: 'Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. +Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does +he live?' + +"'He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one +or that one.' + +"'Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond--a good-for-nothing. Don't +trust him, dearest.' + +"From that time Putois had a character.'" + + + + +II + +Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put +them in touch with the conversation. + +"We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at +Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on." + +"Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?" said Monsieur Goubin, wiping +the glass of his monocle. + +"Willingly," replied Monsieur Bergeret. "There was no gardener. The +gardener did not exist. My mother said: 'I am waiting for the gardener.' +At once the gardener was. He lived." + +"Dear master," said Monsieur Goubin, "how could he live since he did not +exist?" + +"He had a sort of existence," replied Monsieur Bergeret. + +"You mean an imaginary existence," Monsieur Goubin replied, +disdainfully. + +"Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?" exclaimed the master. +"And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider +mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real +beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting +influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more +reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror +and hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and +customs. Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a +mythical personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest +order. The coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our +peasants in the North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture +by Jordaens and a fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax +appeared in the noble world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, +will be always neglected by artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the +unusual style and character. He was conceived by minds too reasonable, +among people who knew how to read and write, and who had not that +delightful imagination in which fables take root. I think, Messieurs, +that I have said enough to show you the real nature of Putois." + +"I understand it," said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued +his discourse. + +"Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you +will admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and +means only the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a +relation." + +"Undoubtedly," said Jean Marteau; "but a being without attributes is a +being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, 'I am +that I am.' Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. +But the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting +it be understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of +attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist +and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of +him since."--"You have lost," answered Monsieur Bergeret. + +"He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by +employing quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, +most often without judgment."--"I do not understand," said Monsieur +Goubin.--"It is not necessary to understand," replied Jean Marteau. And +he begged Monsieur Bergeret to speak of Putois.--"It is very kind of you +to ask me," said the master.--"Putois was born in the second half of the +nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he +had been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the +forest of Broceliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil +spirit."--"A cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin," said Pauline.--"Was Putois, +then, an evil spirit?" said Jean Marteau.--"He was evil," replied +Monsieur Bergeret; "he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true +of him as with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one +discovers good qualities when one associates with them. And I +am disposed to think that injustice has been done Putois. Madame +Cornouiller, who, warned against him, had at once suspected him of being +a loafer, a drunkard, and a robber, reflected that since my mother, who +was not rich, employed him, it was because he was satisfied with little, +and asked herself if she would not do well to have him work instead of +her gardener, who had a better reputation, but expected more. The +time had come for trimming the yews. She thought that if Madame Eloi +Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois much, she herself, who was +rich, would give him still less, for it is customary for the rich to +pay less than the poor. And she already saw her yews trimmed in straight +hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her having to pay much. 'I +will keep an eye open,' she said, 'to see that Putois does not loaf +or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. These vagabonds +sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She resolved to make a +trial, and said to my mother: 'Dearest, send me Putois. I will set him +to work at Mont-plaisir.' My mother would have done so willingly. +But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for Putois at +Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and did not +abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of not +having any news of Putois. 'Dearest, didn't you tell him that I was +expecting him?'--'Yes! but he is strange, odd.'--'Oh, I know that kind. +I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy as to +refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. +Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient +to tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.' My mother +answered that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his +house, that he was without hearth or home. 'I have not seen him again, +Madame. I believe he is hiding.' What better could she say?" + +Madame Cornouiller heard her distrustfully; she suspected her of +misleading, of removing Putois from inquiry, for fear of losing him or +making him ask more. And she thought her too selfish. "Many judgments +accepted by the world that history has sanctioned are as well founded as +that."--"That is true," said Pauline.--"What is true?" asked Zoe, half +asleep.--"That the judgments of history are often false. I remember, +papa, that you said one day: 'Madame Roland was very ingenuous to +appeal to the impartiality of posterity, and not perceive that, if her +contemporaries were ill-natured monkeys, their posterity would be also +composed of ill-natured monkeys.'"--"Pauline," said Mademoiselle Zoe +severely, "what connection is there between the story of Putois and this +that you are telling us?"--"A very great one, my aunt."--"I do not grasp +it."--Monsieur Bergeret, who was not opposed to digressions, answered +his daughter: "If all injustices were finally redressed in the world, +one would never have imagined another for these adjustments. How do you +expect posterity to pass righteous judgment on the dead? How question +them in the shades to which they have taken flight? As soon as we are +able to be just to them we forget them. But can one ever be just? And +what is justice? Madame Cornouiller, at least, was finally obliged to +recognize that my mother had not deceived her and that Putois was not to +be found. However, she did not give up trying to find him. She asked all +her relatives, friends, neighbors, servants, and tradesmen if they knew +Putois, Only two or three answered that they had never heard of him. For +the most part they believed they had seen him. 'I have heard that name,' +said the cook, 'but I cannot recall his face.'--'Putois! I must know +him,' said the street-sweeper, scratching his ear. 'But I cannot tell +you who it is.' The most precise description came from Monsieur Blaise, +receiver of taxes, who said that he had employed Putois to cut wood in +his yard, from the 19th to the 28d of October, the year of the comet. +One morning, Madame Cornouiller, out of breath, dropped into my father's +office. 'I have seen Putois. Ah! I have seen him.'--'You believe +it?'--'I am sure. He was passing close by Monsieur Tenchant's wall. Then +he turned into the Rue des Abbesses, walking quickly. I lost him.'--'Was +it really he?'--'Without a doubt. A man of fifty, thin, bent, the air of +a vagabond, a dirty blouse.'--'It is true,'" said my father, "'that this +description could apply to Putois.'--'You see! Besides, I called him. I +cried: "Putois!" and he turned around.'--'That is the method,' said +my father, 'that they employ to assure themselves of the identity of +evil-doers that they are hunting for.'--'I told you that it was he! I +know how to find him, your Putois. Very well! He has a bad face. You +had been very careless, you and your wife, to employ him. I understand +physiognomy, and though I only saw his back, I could swear that he is a +robber, and perhaps an assassin. The rims of his ears are flat, and that +is a sign that never fails.'--'Ah! you noticed that the rims of his ears +were flat?'--'Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur Bergeret, if you do +not wish to be assassinated with your wife and your children, do not let +Putois come into your house again. Take my advice: have all your +locks changed.'--Well, a few days afterward, it happened that Madame +Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her vegetable garden. The +robber not having been found, she suspected Putois. The gendarmes were +called to Montplaisir, and their report confirmed the suspicions of +Madame Cornouiller. Bands of marauders were ravaging the gardens of the +countryside. But this time the robbery seemed to have been committed by +one man, and with singular dexterity. No trace of anything broken, no +footprints in the damp earth. The robber could be no one but Putois. +That was the opinion of the corporal, who knew all about Putois, and +had tried hard to put his hand on that bird. The 'Journal of Saint-Omer' +devoted an article to the three melons of Madame Cornouiller, and +published a portrait of Putois from descriptions furnished by the town. +'He has,' said the paper, 'a low forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty +glance, crow's-feet, sharp cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to +the ears. Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance, in reality he is +unusually strong. He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first +finger and the thumb.' There were good reasons for attributing to him a +long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole +town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been +arrested and locked up in prison. But it was soon recognized that the +man that had been taken for him was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As +no charge could be brought against him, he was discharged after fourteen +months of detention on suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. +Madame Cornouiller was the victim of another robbery, more audacious +than the first. Three small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. +She recognized in this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door +of her bedroom, and was unable to sleep.... + +About ten o'clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room, +Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: "Do not forget to relate how +Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller's cook."--"I was thinking of it, my +sister," answered Monsieur Bergeret. "To omit it would be to lose the +best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was +carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it +was known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty to +find him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many shrewd ones +at Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen simultaneously in the +streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another trait was thus added +to his character. He was accorded the gift of ubiquity, the attribute +of many popular heroes. A being capable of leaping long distances in +a moment, and suddenly showing himself at the place where he was least +expected, was honestly frightening. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. +Madame Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had stolen from her three +melons and three little spoons, lived in a state of fear, barricaded at +Montplaisir. Bolts, bars, and locks did not reassure her. Putois was +for her a frightfully subtle being who could pass through doors. Trouble +with her servants redoubled her fear. Her cook having been betrayed, +the time came when she could no longer hide her misfortune. But she +obstinately refused to name her betrayer."--"Her name was Gudule," said +Mademoiselle Zoe.--"Her name was Gudule, and she believed that she was +protected from danger by a long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. +The sudden appearance of a beard protected the innocence of that holy +daughter of the king that Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, +did not suffice to protect the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller +urged Gudule to tell her the man. Gudule burst into tears, but kept +silent. Prayers and menaces had no effect. Madame Cornouiller made a +long and circumstantial inquiry. She adroitly questioned her neighbors +and tradespeople, the gardener, the street-sweeper, the gendarmes; +nothing put her on the track of the culprit. She tried again to obtain +from Gudule a complete confession. 'In your own interest, Gudule, tell +me who it is.' Gudule remained mute. All at once a ray of light flashed +through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: 'It is Putois!' The cook cried, +but did not answer. 'It is Putois! Why did I not guess it sooner? It +is Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!' and Madame Cornouiller +remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at Saint-Omer, from the +judge to the lamplighter's dog, knew Gudule and her basket At the news +that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled with surprise, +wonder, and merriment.... + +With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached +to our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and +it was believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He was +never seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his shadow, +his voice, his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw his back in +the twilight, at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he gradually +changed in character. He remained mischievous and malevolent, but he +became childlike and very ingenuous. He became less real and, I +dare say, more poetical. He entered in the artless Cycle of childish +traditions. He became more like Croquemitaine,* like Pere Fouettard, or +the sand man who closes the children's eyes when evening comes. + + *The national "bugaboo" or "bogy man." + +It was not that imp that tangled the colts' tails at night in the +stable. Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, +he made ink mustaches on my sister's dolls. In our bed, before going to +sleep, we listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with +the dogs, he filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs +of belated drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and +familiar to us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of +him was associated with all the objects about us. Zoe's dolls, my school +books, in which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the +garden wall, over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow; +the blue porcelain jar that he cracked one winter's night, unless it +was the frost; the trees, the streets, the benches--everything recalled +Putois, the children's Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not +equal in grace and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of +Sicily or Thessaly. But he was still a demigod. He had quite a different +character for our father; he was symbolical and philosophical. Our +father had great compassion for men. He did not think them altogether +rational; their mistakes, when they were not cruel, amused him and +made him smile. The belief in Putois interested him as an epitome and a +summary of all human beliefs. As he was ironical and a joker, he spoke +of Putois as if he were a real being. He spoke with so much insistence +sometimes, and detailed the circumstances with such exactness, that my +mother was quite surprised and said to him in her open-hearted way: +'One would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: you know well, +however...' He replied gravely: 'All Saint-Omer believes in the +existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One should +look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.' Only +a perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a +Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public +sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois, +but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the +melons and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the +existence of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in +his explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so +in this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible +man. + + * A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus. + +"As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of +Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child +of our mother's invention, as Caliban was the poet's invention. Without +doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than +Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her little +falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve such a +prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over town +and threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned pale, +believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That day, +a servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to her +that a man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. 'What man +is it?'--'A man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.'--'Did he give his +name?'--'Yes, Madame.'--'Well! what is his name?'--'Putois.'--'He told +you that was his name?'--'Putois, yes, Madame.'--'He is here?'--'Yes, +Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.'--'You saw him?'--'Yes, +Madame.'--'What does he want?'--'He did not say. He will only tell +Madame.'--'Go ask him.' + +"When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This meeting +of the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from that day +I think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might well exist and +that she had not told a falsehood after all." + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + +***** This file should be named 23219.txt or 23219.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/1/23219/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Putois + 1907 + +Author: Anatole France + +Release Date: October 27, 2007 [EBook #23219] +Last Updated: October 5, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PUTOIS + </h1> + <h2> + By Anatole France + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated by William Patten. <br /> Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier + & Son. <br /> <b>Dedicated to Georges Brandes</b> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that one + could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of smiles + and surprises. + </p> + <p> + “Lucien, do you recall Putois?” asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips + pressed, bending over her work. + </p> + <p> + “Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois + remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face and + his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium...” + </p> + <p> + “A low forehead,” added Mademoiselle Zoe. + </p> + <p> + And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice, + with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description: + </p> + <p> + “A low forehead.” + </p> + <p> + “Squinting eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “A shifty glance.” + </p> + <p> + “Crow’s-feet at the temples.” + </p> + <p> + “The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining.” + </p> + <p> + “His ears had no rims to them.” + </p> + <p> + “The features were devoid of all expression.” + </p> + <p> + “His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning.” + </p> + <p> + “Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance...” + </p> + <p> + “In reality he was unusually strong.” + </p> + <p> + “He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the + thumb...” + </p> + <p> + “Which was enormous.” + </p> + <p> + “His voice was drawling...” + </p> + <p> + “And his speech mild.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: “Zoe! we have forgotten ‘Yellow hair + and sparse beard.’ Let us begin all over again.” + </p> + <p> + Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital, asked + her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this bit of + prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered: + </p> + <p> + “Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used by the + Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it may not perish + with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter, your grandfather, + Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles, thought highly of this + bit, principally because of its origin. He called it ‘The Anatomy of + Putois.’ And he used to say that he preferred, in certain respects, the + anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of Quaresmeprenant. ‘If the description + by Xenomanes,’ he said, ‘is more learned and richer in unusual and choice + expressions, the description of Putois greatly surpasses it in clarity and + simplicity of style.’ He held this opinion because Doctor Ledouble, of + Tours, had not yet explained chapters thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two + of the fourth book of Rabelais.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand at all,” said Pauline. + </p> + <p> + “That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must understand + that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and in that of + your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we constantly + spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him.” + </p> + <p> + Pauline asked: + </p> + <p> + “Who was this Putois?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and + Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together. + Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her aunt + should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh with and + in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the brother and + sister were quite different in character. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest market-gardeners, + he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer. But he did not satisfy + his customers and got in a bad way. Having given up business, he went out + by the day. Those who employed him could not always congratulate + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined; + </p> + <p> + “Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his pens, + his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: ‘I suspect Putois has been here’?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Monsieur Bergeret, “Putois had not a good reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” asked Pauline. + </p> + <p> + “No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that while + we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless—” + </p> + <p> + “—He did not exist,” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach. + </p> + <p> + “What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say + it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist, + that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions of + existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it is + true that his was a peculiar existence.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand less and less,” said Pauline, discouraged. + </p> + <p> + “The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that + Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a + little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer. Our + parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered by an old + lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of Montplaisir, + twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of my mother’s. By + right of relationship she insisted that our father and mother come to dine + every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were excessively bored. She said + that it was the proper thing to have a family dinner on Sunday and that + only people of common origin failed to observe this ancient custom. My + father was bored to the point of tears at Montplaisir. His desperation was + painful to contemplate. But Madame Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw + nothing, My mother was braver. She suffered as much as my father, and + perhaps more, but she smiled.” + </p> + <p> + “Women are made to suffer,” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + “Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents + refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take them each + Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was an obligation from + which there was absolutely no escape. It was an established order that + only a revolt could break. My father finally revolted and swore not to + accept another invitation from Madame Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother + to find decent pretexts and varied reasons for these refusals, for which + she was the least capable. Our mother did not know how to pretend.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as + any one.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than + invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at + table: ‘Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to go + to Montplaisir for some time’?” + </p> + <p> + “That was true!” said Zoe. + </p> + <p> + “You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my mother: + Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine Sunday at + Montplaisir.’ Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to give Madame + Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this extremity, a + reason that was not the truth. ‘I am extremely sorry, dear Madame, but + that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the gardener.’ + </p> + <p> + “On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of the + salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies looked + as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely never to + know it. ‘You expect the gardener! What for?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘To work in the garden.’ + </p> + <p> + “And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little square + of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden, recognized + with dismay the improbability of her excuse. + </p> + <p> + “‘This man,’ said Madame Cornouiller, ‘could just as well work in your + garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better.’ One should + not work on Sunday.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He works all the week.’ + </p> + <p> + “I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are the + least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller + insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to + give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked: + </p> + <p> + “‘What do you call your gardener, dearest?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Putois,’ answered my mother without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took + herself off, murmuring: ‘Putois! It seems to me that I know that name. + Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does he + live?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one or + that one.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond—a good-for-nothing. + Don’t trust him, dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + “From that time Putois had a character.’” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put + them in touch with the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at + Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?” said Monsieur Goubin, wiping + the glass of his monocle. + </p> + <p> + “Willingly,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “There was no gardener. The + gardener did not exist. My mother said: ‘I am waiting for the gardener.’ + At once the gardener was. He lived.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear master,” said Monsieur Goubin, “how could he live since he did not + exist?” + </p> + <p> + “He had a sort of existence,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. + </p> + <p> + “You mean an imaginary existence,” Monsieur Goubin replied, disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?” exclaimed the master. + “And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider + mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real + beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting + influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more + reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror and + hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and customs. + Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a mythical + personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest order. The + coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our peasants in the + North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture by Jordaens and a + fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax appeared in the noble world + of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, will be always neglected by + artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the unusual style and character. + He was conceived by minds too reasonable, among people who knew how to + read and write, and who had not that delightful imagination in which + fables take root. I think, Messieurs, that I have said enough to show you + the real nature of Putois.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand it,” said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued + his discourse. + </p> + <p> + “Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you will + admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and means only + the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a relation.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Jean Marteau; “but a being without attributes is a + being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, ‘I am + that I am.’ Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. But + the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting it be + understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of + attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist + and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of him + since.”—“You have lost,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. + </p> + <p> + “He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by employing + quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, most often without + judgment.”—“I do not understand,” said Monsieur Goubin.—“It is + not necessary to understand,” replied Jean Marteau. And he begged Monsieur + Bergeret to speak of Putois.—“It is very kind of you to ask me,” + said the master.—“Putois was born in the second half of the + nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he had + been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the forest of + Brocéliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil spirit.”—“A + cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin,” said Pauline.—“Was Putois, then, an + evil spirit?” said Jean Marteau.—“He was evil,” replied Monsieur + Bergeret; “he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true of him as + with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one discovers good + qualities when one associates with them. And I am disposed to think that + injustice has been done Putois. Madame Cornouiller, who, warned against + him, had at once suspected him of being a loafer, a drunkard, and a + robber, reflected that since my mother, who was not rich, employed him, it + was because he was satisfied with little, and asked herself if she would + not do well to have him work instead of her gardener, who had a better + reputation, but expected more. The time had come for trimming the yews. + She thought that if Madame Eloi Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois + much, she herself, who was rich, would give him still less, for it is + customary for the rich to pay less than the poor. And she already saw her + yews trimmed in straight hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her + having to pay much. ‘I will keep an eye open,’ she said, ‘to see that + Putois does not loaf or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. + These vagabonds sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She + resolved to make a trial, and said to my mother: ‘Dearest, send me Putois. + I will set him to work at Mont-plaisir.’ My mother would have done so + willingly. But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for + Putois at Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and + did not abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of + not having any news of Putois. ‘Dearest, didn’t you tell him that I was + expecting him?’—‘Yes! but he is strange, odd.’—‘Oh, I know + that kind. I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy + as to refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. + Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient to + tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.’ My mother answered + that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his house, that + he was without hearth or home. ‘I have not seen him again, Madame. I + believe he is hiding.’ What better could she say?” + </p> + <p> + Madame Cornouiller heard her distrustfully; she suspected her of + misleading, of removing Putois from inquiry, for fear of losing him or + making him ask more. And she thought her too selfish. “Many judgments + accepted by the world that history has sanctioned are as well founded as + that.”—“That is true,” said Pauline.—“What is true?” asked + Zoe, half asleep.—“That the judgments of history are often false. I + remember, papa, that you said one day: ‘Madame Roland was very ingenuous + to appeal to the impartiality of posterity, and not perceive that, if her + contemporaries were ill-natured monkeys, their posterity would be also + composed of ill-natured monkeys.’”—“Pauline,” said Mademoiselle Zoe + severely, “what connection is there between the story of Putois and this + that you are telling us?”—“A very great one, my aunt.”—“I do + not grasp it.”—Monsieur Bergeret, who was not opposed to + digressions, answered his daughter: “If all injustices were finally + redressed in the world, one would never have imagined another for these + adjustments. How do you expect posterity to pass righteous judgment on the + dead? How question them in the shades to which they have taken flight? As + soon as we are able to be just to them we forget them. But can one ever be + just? And what is justice? Madame Cornouiller, at least, was finally + obliged to recognize that my mother had not deceived her and that Putois + was not to be found. However, she did not give up trying to find him. She + asked all her relatives, friends, neighbors, servants, and tradesmen if + they knew Putois, Only two or three answered that they had never heard of + him. For the most part they believed they had seen him. ‘I have heard that + name,’ said the cook, ‘but I cannot recall his face.’—‘Putois! I + must know him,’ said the street-sweeper, scratching his ear. ‘But I cannot + tell you who it is.’ The most precise description came from Monsieur + Blaise, receiver of taxes, who said that he had employed Putois to cut + wood in his yard, from the 19th to the 28d of October, the year of the + comet. One morning, Madame Cornouiller, out of breath, dropped into my + father’s office. ‘I have seen Putois. Ah! I have seen him.’—‘You + believe it?’—‘I am sure. He was passing close by Monsieur Tenchant’s + wall. Then he turned into the Rue des Abbesses, walking quickly. I lost + him.’—‘Was it really he?’—‘Without a doubt. A man of fifty, + thin, bent, the air of a vagabond, a dirty blouse.’—‘It is true,’” + said my father, “‘that this description could apply to Putois.’—‘You + see! Besides, I called him. I cried: “Putois!” and he turned around.’—‘That + is the method,’ said my father, ‘that they employ to assure themselves of + the identity of evil-doers that they are hunting for.’—‘I told you + that it was he! I know how to find him, your Putois. Very well! He has a + bad face. You had been very careless, you and your wife, to employ him. I + understand physiognomy, and though I only saw his back, I could swear that + he is a robber, and perhaps an assassin. The rims of his ears are flat, + and that is a sign that never fails.’—‘Ah! you noticed that the rims + of his ears were flat?’—‘Nothing escapes me. My dear Monsieur + Bergeret, if you do not wish to be assassinated with your wife and your + children, do not let Putois come into your house again. Take my advice: + have all your locks changed.’—Well, a few days afterward, it + happened that Madame Cornouiller had three melons stolen from her + vegetable garden. The robber not having been found, she suspected Putois. + The gendarmes were called to Montplaisir, and their report confirmed the + suspicions of Madame Cornouiller. Bands of marauders were ravaging the + gardens of the countryside. But this time the robbery seemed to have been + committed by one man, and with singular dexterity. No trace of anything + broken, no footprints in the damp earth. The robber could be no one but + Putois. That was the opinion of the corporal, who knew all about Putois, + and had tried hard to put his hand on that bird. The ‘Journal of + Saint-Omer’ devoted an article to the three melons of Madame Cornouiller, + and published a portrait of Putois from descriptions furnished by the + town. ‘He has,’ said the paper, ‘a low forehead, squinting eyes, a shifty + glance, crow’s-feet, sharp cheek-bones, red and shining. No rims to the + ears. Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance, in reality he is + unusually strong. He easily bends a five-franc piece between the first + finger and the thumb.’ There were good reasons for attributing to him a + long series of robberies committed with surprising dexterity. The whole + town was talking of Putois. One day it was learned that he had been + arrested and locked up in prison. But it was soon recognized that the man + that had been taken for him was an almanac seller named Rigobert. As no + charge could be brought against him, he was discharged after fourteen + months of detention on suspicion. And Putois remained undiscoverable. + Madame Cornouiller was the victim of another robbery, more audacious than + the first. Three small silver spoons were taken from her sideboard. She + recognized in this the hand of Putois, had a chain put on the door of her + bedroom, and was unable to sleep.... + </p> + <p> + About ten o’clock in the evening, Pauline having gone to her room, + Mademoiselle Bergeret said to her brother: “Do not forget to relate how + Putois betrayed Madame Cornouiller’s cook.”—“I was thinking of it, + my sister,” answered Monsieur Bergeret. “To omit it would be to lose the + best of the story. But everything must be done in order. Putois was + carefully searched for by the police, who could not find him. When it was + known that he could not be found, each one considered it his duty to find + him; the shrewd ones succeeded. And as there were many shrewd ones at + Saint-Omer and in the suburbs, Putois was seen simultaneously in the + streets, in the fields, and in the woods. Another trait was thus added to + his character. He was accorded the gift of ubiquity, the attribute of many + popular heroes. A being capable of leaping long distances in a moment, and + suddenly showing himself at the place where he was least expected, was + honestly frightening. Putois was the terror of Saint-Omer. Madame + Cornouiller, convinced that Putois had stolen from her three melons and + three little spoons, lived in a state of fear, barricaded at Montplaisir. + Bolts, bars, and locks did not reassure her. Putois was for her a + frightfully subtle being who could pass through doors. Trouble with her + servants redoubled her fear. Her cook having been betrayed, the time came + when she could no longer hide her misfortune. But she obstinately refused + to name her betrayer.”—“Her name was Gudule,” said Mademoiselle Zoe.—“Her + name was Gudule, and she believed that she was protected from danger by a + long, forked bead that she wore on her chin. The sudden appearance of a + beard protected the innocence of that holy daughter of the king that + Prague venerates. A beard, no longer youthful, did not suffice to protect + the virtue of Gudule. Madame Cornouiller urged Gudule to tell her the man. + Gudule burst into tears, but kept silent. Prayers and menaces had no + effect. Madame Cornouiller made a long and circumstantial inquiry. She + adroitly questioned her neighbors and tradespeople, the gardener, the + street-sweeper, the gendarmes; nothing put her on the track of the + culprit. She tried again to obtain from Gudule a complete confession. ‘In + your own interest, Gudule, tell me who it is.’ Gudule remained mute. All + at once a ray of light flashed through the mind of Madame Cornouiller: ‘It + is Putois!’ The cook cried, but did not answer. ‘It is Putois! Why did I + not guess it sooner? It is Putois! Miserable! miserable! miserable!’ and + Madame Cornouiller remained convinced that it was Putois. Everybody at + Saint-Omer, from the judge to the lamplighter’s dog, knew Gudule and her + basket At the news that Putois had betrayed Gudule, the town was filled + with surprise, wonder, and merriment.... + </p> + <p> + With this reputation in the town and its environs he remained attached to + our house by a thousand subtle ties. He passed before our door, and it was + believed that he sometimes climbed the wall of our garden. He was never + seen face to face. At any moment we would recognize his shadow, his voice, + his footsteps. More than once we thought we saw his back in the twilight, + at the corner of a road. To my sister and me he gradually changed in + character. He remained mischievous and malevolent, but he became childlike + and very ingenuous. He became less real and, I dare say, more poetical. He + entered in the artless Cycle of childish traditions. He became more like + Croquemitaine,* like Père Fouettard, or the sand man who closes the + children’s eyes when evening comes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *The national “bugaboo” or “bogy man.” + </pre> + <p> + It was not that imp that tangled the colts’ tails at night in the stable. + Less rustic and less charming, but equally and frankly roguish, he made + ink mustaches on my sister’s dolls. In our bed, before going to sleep, we + listened; he cried on the roofs with the cats, he howled with the dogs, he + filled the mill hopper with groans, and imitated the songs of belated + drunkards in the streets. What made Putois ever-present and familiar to + us, what interested us in him, was that the remembrance of him was + associated with all the objects about us. Zoe’s dolls, my school books, in + which he had many times rumpled and besmeared the pages; the garden wall, + over which we had seen his red eyes gleam in the shadow; the blue + porcelain jar that he cracked one winter’s night, unless it was the frost; + the trees, the streets, the benches—everything recalled Putois, the + children’s Putois, a local and mythical being. He did not equal in grace + and poetry the dullest satyr, the stoutest fawn of Sicily or Thessaly. But + he was still a demigod. He had quite a different character for our father; + he was symbolical and philosophical. Our father had great compassion for + men. He did not think them altogether rational; their mistakes, when they + were not cruel, amused him and made him smile. The belief in Putois + interested him as an epitome and a summary of all human beliefs. As he was + ironical and a joker, he spoke of Putois as if he were a real being. He + spoke with so much insistence sometimes, and detailed the circumstances + with such exactness, that my mother was quite surprised and said to him in + her open-hearted way: ‘One would say that you spoke seriously, my friend: + you know well, however...’ He replied gravely: ‘All Saint-Omer believes in + the existence of Putois. Would I be a good citizen if I deny him? One + should look twice before setting aside an article of common faith.’ Only a + perfectly honest soul has such scruples. At heart my father was a + Gassendiste.* He keyed his own particular sentiment with the public + sentiment, believing, like the countryside, in the existence of Putois, + but not admitting his direct responsibility for the theft of the melons + and the betrayal of the cook. Finally, he professed faith in the existence + of a Putois, to be a good citizen; and he eliminated Putois in his + explanations of the events that took place in the town. By doing so in + this instance, as in all others, he was an honorable and a sensible man. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * A follower of Gassendi (d. 1655), an exponent of Epicurus. +</pre> + <p> + “As for our mother, she reproached herself somewhat for the birth of + Putois, and not without reason. Because, after all, Putois was the child + of our mother’s invention, as Caliban was the poet’s invention. Without + doubt the faults were not equal, and my mother was more innocent than + Shakespeare. However, she was frightened and confused to see her little + falsehood grow inordinately, and her slight imposture achieve such a + prodigious success, that, without stopping, extended all over town and + threatened to extend over the world. One day she even turned pale, + believing that she would see her falsehood rise up before her. That day, a + servant she had, new to the house and the town, came to say to her that a + man wished to see her. He wished to speak to Madame. ‘What man is it?’—‘A + man in a blouse. He looks like a laborer.’—‘Did he give his name?’—‘Yes, + Madame.’—‘Well! what is his name?’—‘Putois.’—‘He told + you that was his name?’—‘Putois, yes, Madame.’—‘He is here?’—‘Yes, + Madame. He is waiting in the kitchen.’—‘You saw him?’—‘Yes, + Madame.’—‘What does he want?’—‘He did not say. He will only + tell Madame.’—‘Go ask him.’ + </p> + <p> + “When the servant returned to the kitchen Putois was gone. This meeting of + the new servant with Putois was never cleared up. But from that day I + think my mother commenced to believe that Putois might well exist and that + she had not told a falsehood after all.” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Putois, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUTOIS *** + +***** This file should be named 23219-h.htm or 23219-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/2/1/23219/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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