The Trees, The Forest, and The Roots: On The Basque Global Identity
By Pedro J. Oiarzabal

On not seeing the forest for the trees

The study of the elusive and complex concept of identity, and particularly of that of migrants and their descendants, has attracted the attention of many scholars from a variety of disciplines. Common knowledge suggests that all individuals have their own unique sense of identity. Consequently, there might be as many identities as individuals. This might be the case for those who identify as Basque, in the homeland as well as in the diaspora. Our understanding of Basqueness is shaped, for instance, by our own life stories, socialization processes, socio-historical contexts, and ideological traditions. Indeed, there are as many ways to experience and express a single collective identity as the individuals that are part of such social group. However, this fact cannot force us to ignore the existence of collective identities such as of the Basque.

That is to say, in our world-spanning Basque forest, individual trees should not obstruct the vision of the forest, but, instead, they should enrich it. Paraphrasing a popular saying, it is not the forest that explains the trees, but the trees are the ones that give meaning to the forest; and even more, the roots of the trees are those that maintain alive the forest. The roots are, to a certain extent, our collective memory as Basques. In a sense, our collective memory and shared sense of being and belonging provide a solid guide to interpret our present world. Could we imagine ourselves without memory? Let´s think for a moment that we lose our memory; then, let´s ask ourselves who am I? Who are we?

Pedro J. Oiarzabal was born and raised in Bilbao and has spent much of his life between the Basque Country, Ireland and the United States. He holds a PhD in Basque Studies-Political Science from the University of Nevada, Reno, a MPhil in Economics and Social Sciences from Queen’s University of Belfast (N. Ireland), and BA in History from the University of Deusto (Bilbao). Currently, Oiarzabal is a Research Scholar on International Migration at the University of Deusto, Bilbao. His research examines diaspora creation and diaspora interaction with information and communication technologies as well as the meaning of identity in both homeland and diaspora realities, with particular emphasis on the Basque case. Among his publications are La Identidad Vasca en el Mundo (2005), A Candle in the Night: Basque Studies at the University of Nevada, 1967-2007 (2007), Gardeners of Identity: Basques in the San Francisco Bay Area (2009), and Diasporas in the New Media Age: Identity, Politics, and Community (2010).

A is for Aitxitxa and Amuma, who left the Old Country to find a better life.

B is for Basajaun, lord of the forest, and the first blacksmith.

C is for Chorizo, the Basque hotdog!

“An endangered language will progress if its speakers can make use of electronic technology”
David Crystal [ Cambridge University, 2004 ]

“languages without social prestige will disappear”
Amadeu Abril i Abril [ .cat domain ]

The Basque language, Euskara, faces a new challenge: creating its own name on the Internet. In this virtual space, both the existence of something as well as its name go hand in hand. Therefore, something unnamed simply does not exist. And that is the goal that the Community of the Basque Language and Culture [EEKK, according to its initials in Euskara] wants to achieve: the creation of a symbol that allows its international recognition in the virtual space of the Internet: the .EUS domain.

This is why we have started the PuntuEus Association: in order to assure and control .EUS domain creation process.

Johnny has sent photos of all of the work he has had done, a project that continues to evolve, most recently including the footprints of his daughter, right in the middle of his chest!  Because of the number of photos, I’ve created a separate gallery for Johnny’s tattoos, and he’s given explanations for each one, with photos from multiple perspectives of each arm and leg.

While such ink is not for everyone, it is still a wonder what Johnny has done.  I look forward to seeing what he comes up with next!

Joanes or the Basque Whaler is inspired by the oldest known texts to be produced in North America, the last will and testament of Joanes de Echaniz, a Basque whaler.  The story follows a fictionalized Joanes as he tries to make his fortune as a whaler in an era when the whales in the Bay of Biscay were scarce.  Joanes is forced to look farther afield, but he doesn’t have the resources to do so.  This is when Guillermo begins to depart from historical fact and weave in elements of Basque mythology.  Joanes consults a witch, who summons a devil from the sea who assists Joanes, but for a price.  The first book ends with the threat of that price tempering the success Joanes and his crew have just had in their first hunt.

The story is told mostly via the visuals, with just enough text to push the story along.  And this both suits the story as well as highlights Guillermo’s talents as an artist.  The detail he brings to the art is wonderful, especially the various types of ships, the animals, and the cities.  He misses no chance to fold in Basque symbolism. His mariners are covered in tattoos of Basque symbols.  His witches wear traditional Basque dress.  Joanes’ boat is also covered in lauburus and rosettas.  But where Guillermo’s art shines, in my opinion, is in the faces of his characters.  They are all distinct and their facial expressions convey the action of the story as strongly as does the text.

Joanes or the Basque Whaler is a fantastic blend of history and mythology that leads to an amazing adventure in what Guillermo refers to as the Wild West era of Basque history, of daring men, amazing exploits, and a vast wilderness.  This is only the first book of a series, and I’m very interested to see where Joanes’ adventures lead him.

I am an American, born and raised.  And I’m extremely proud of that fact.  My boyhood hero was Thomas Jefferson and I think that the collection of men that founded the United States was one of the greatest ever assembled.  Growing up in the US, I had an immediate connection to these men, and the others that helped form the US through the history classes I took and the books I read.  However, my connection to these men is a result of no more a coincidence than I was born in the nation they helped found.

My dad isn’t an American.  A Basque immigrant who came to the US to herd sheep, looking for opportunity, he grew up in Franco Spain.  And my grandfather, while born in the US, was the son of two Basque immigrants.  Their histories are not that of the founding fathers, the American Revolution, and the Civil War.  Rather, their’s is of the Carlist Wars, the Spanish Civil War, and the repression of Basque culture; of whalers daring the high seas and an origin lost to history.

It is this reason that I personally identify so strongly as not just American, but Basque-American.  It is an avenue by which I connect to the history and experience of my ancestors, of the people who came before me, but didn’t have the same national narrative.  It gives me some idea, as basic as it might be, of the person my father is, of the boy he was.

And it has gone beyond that as I have delved into the Basque culture.  My dad’s Basque Country was a very different place than the Basque Country of today.  But that connection to the old Basque Country, through my dad, gives me a connection as well to the modern Basque Country, with its punk rock and kalimotxos and Guggenheim museum.  The initial bond through my dad has grown into my own identification, though remote, with the Basque Country as a place that, in some sense, I connect with, that is a sort of home for me.  It is the place of my ancestors, but it is also a place they would be hard pressed to recognize and it is therefore a place also uniquely mine.

Blas Uberuaga

Blas is the son and great-grandson of Basque immigrants to the American West, Basques who left their home in search of better opportunities.  He spent one year in Donosti attempting, with only limited success, to learn Euskara.  He is the creator of Buber’s Basque Page.

That said, I’d like to break the silence with a new series, entitled “Nor Naiz, Gu Gara”, roughly translated as “Who I Am, We Are.”  The goal is to explore what it means to be Basque, from many different perspectives.  The question of Basque identity is complex.  For some, being Basque begins and ends at speaking Euskara, hence the word Euskaldun.  For others, it means having so many Basque surnames in your genealogy.  For yet others, it is an expression of their heritage via dance or music.  This series aims to explore these different facets of what it means to be Basque, from Basques all over the world.

I’ve invited a few friends and acquaintances to help me kick this series off, and their postings will be showing up over the coming weeks.  I’ll begin with my own, in the very next post.  Any and all who would like to participate, please feel free to send me a couple of paragraphs about what being Basque means to you, why it is important to you, why identifying yourself as Basque is something you do.  I can’t promise all will make it on the site, but I will do my best.

All of the postings in this series can be found via this link.

Now, on with the show!

The Crime of Old Blas

by

Catulle Mendes

Part III: The End of the Story of the Little Boy Who Had No Ears, and of the Black Dog Who Smoked His Pipe

He did not return. He crossed the plain, climbed the mountain, slept a sleep full of horrible dreams under a projecting rock, and on awakening, fled again. He feared that he was not far enough away from that river that had taken away his child, from that dear farm-house where now they only wept.

With a few sous that he found in his pockets, he bought some food while passing through a village. People were afraid of him, because he was very pale and was continually looking back, like one who is afraid of being followed. A woman who was sowing corn, seeing him begin to run when he had passed the last house in the village, said to herself, “One would say that that old man had just done something wicked.”

The next day he came to another valley where nobody knew him, because in the Basque country the mountains are frontiers that are seldom passed. As he had only a dozen sous left, he asked a man who was breaking stones on the road if he could not be employed in that work.

With the woe-begone air that he had now, he did not inspire confidence; nevertheless, the man answered, “You cannot get this kind of work in a day. It is necessary to have a friend in the government. I advise you to look for some other work. Now if you are an honest man, which everybody that happens along is not, you would do well to go to that saw-mill there, at the end of the valley, by the stream. The owner wants workmen and, although you don’t look very strong, perhaps he will hire you to watch the mill, or for some other easy work.”

He followed that advice: went to the mill, asked to see the master, offered himself and was accepted. There were some difficulties made, because he had no passport, and did not have a very reassuring look. The master said lo himself that he didn’t like to take in vagabonds that came from nobody knows where, perhaps from prison; and then added, “I shall keep an eye on that old man.”

Days and weeks passed. The work that had been given to him was to scrape the mill-wheel paddles with a knife, so that stones and sand could not lodge there. At first, the work was very painful, on account of the noise of the stream always beside him; it made him shudder; but he soon resigned himself to it. Old and bent, he ran his knife amid the paddles and always looked as if he were thinking of something afar off.

The death of his grandson had nearly killed him. He was not even sure now that he himself was alive. His ideas grew obscure, his mind confused. He had only these thoughts — little Blas was in the water — it is all true — it is all over — now they know all at the farm and, in their tears, curse him; and he was as if made drowsy by the weight of his sorrow.

Being so absorbed, he did not notice the glances that the other workmen cast on him. At noon, nobody spoke to him, but he would not have heard them if they had. He did not think how suspicious his silence was; he did not know what stories were told about him.

They said that perhaps he had more money than he showed. It happened frequently that a thief, having robbed some peasant, made a show of working and of being poor, for a time, so as not to awaken suspicion. They even said he might have assassinated somebody in order to rob them, because one evening, seated by the water, watching with a mournful eye its rapid flow, he had beep heard repeating in a low voice: “Ah! my poor Blas, my poor Blas, I have killed him!”

All this talk made the master determined to find out the truth. The peddlers who go from valley to valley hear much gossip and never keep it to themselves.

So one day the master made old Blas come to him. As he was a rough man, he said harshly, “Old man, you must leave.”

Blas, stupefied, said, “Go away! Why?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” said the master, “we know your story.”

”Well?” said the old man.

“Well,” said the master, “it is possible that you did not kill the child, I do not say that you did kill him, but you went out together, you were alone together, the child did not come back, and you fled without saying anything to the parents.”

Old Blas burst into tears. Ah, Heaven! see what they believed; that he had killed Blas, his little Blas, for whom he would have died twenty times, had it been possible; who was all his delight, all his joy, all his life! He tried to explain, but the story about the bridge, which was raised and lowered, did not appear very clear. A child that falls into the water at the very moment a train is passing — it is very unlikely. And then to think that this poor man, a peasant, hardly knowing how to read, had had the perfect heroism to sacrifice his grandson for the safety of some unknown travelers.  It would be necessary to esteem him so much that it was much simpler to Judge him guilty.

He himself, who had done a sublime act, without analyzing it; naturally, because it seemed that he ought to do it, could not now explain the sentiment that had animated him; he could not find words to justify himself; he stammered and grew ashamed.

The master said, “All is possible, we will not discuss it. It is not I who send you away; all my workmen will leave me if I do not dismiss you. There they are; speak to them; they will not conceal their opinions.”

The workmen entered, two by two, carrying long, swaying planks. They formed a group, spoke in low tones, and then from all sides words like these were heard : “Yes, yes, the old man must go. We will not have him among us. It is too bad to have to work beside a man who has killed a child; to sit beside him at table. Just a glance at his hands and one must shudder. His face, too, says very well what he is. Come, draw your wages, old man, and don’t let us see you around here again, or one of us will make an end of you.”

Under this unjust wrath, before these menaces, old Blas bent as if he were a criminal, opened the door with trembling hands and went out. Poor, admirable old man! When he commenced to mount the side of the valley, he looked back and saw all the workmen before the mill, who cursed him still with cries he could no longer hear, and who still shook their fists furiously after him.

He advanced through a ravine, the old bed of a mountain torrent, dry at that season. The stones, rolling under his heavy step, made it hard walking. The little Blas had perished in calling to him, stretching out his arms to him; he had been forced to flee the dear farm where his happy old age laughed, and this was not enough. Now they accused him of a crime, and because he had done right, they believed him infamous.

All this seemed very cruel to him. He suffered the more because in his obscure conscience, the conviction of having done well was not sufficiently clear to enable him to console himself, for injustice done him, by pride in his noble deed.

A strong mind would have asserted itself, certain of its rectitude, but this humble intelligence bent under the load. He had even sometimes the idea that he was wrong, since all the world said so.

Where would he go now? They sent him away from here; they would send him away everywhere. To return to the farm? He would never dare. How would Cadije feel toward him ? How Antonin Perdigut would hate him, since people who were neither the father nor the mother hated him so much. He must go on, that was evident. But to go on without knowing where, when the heart is heavy with sorrow and the eyes are full of tears, when you are sleepy and hungry and very old,— ah! it is terrible.

Without rebelling, still submissive, he, nevertheless, could not keep from thinking that all the world was very bitter against him, a poor old man.

He climbed upward, pushing through bushes, which scratched his face and tore his beard: maltreated by things as well as by man, he thinks that he resembles a little that Guignonet of the story, always punished when he had done nothiing bad.

The day appeared very long. His old limbs were fatigued with climbing slowly, but steadily, the rocky ravine. When evening came, having neither eaten nor drank, he felt that he could go no farther. He threw himself down on a rock, and rested against a fir trunk, worn out, desolate.

Around him were innumerable blocks of granite, huge, weather-beaten, broken by avalanches of long ago. A somber verdure grew between the rocks, and against the sky, where the clouds were gathering, the savage cliff raised itself, black and threatening.

Suddenly, with inconceivable quickness, a thunder-storm bends the trees, moves the huge stones, raises a whirlwind of branches and stones. These sudden storms are common in the Pyrenees. The traveler hardly sees the lightning, before he is enveloped by the whirlwind.

The clouds, hurling themselves together, thunder: from their broken sides the rain pours down, driven in sheets by the wind; already it is running in streams down the rocks. Broken tree-trunks roll down, stripped of foliage; bowlders leap from side to side of the ravine and, above the howling of the storm, now sounds the roar of the avalanche.

It has carried away old Blas. From stone to stone, from tree to tree, amid this tumultuous descent, with hands and head bleeding, dragged as if on an immense hurdle, he can not save himself until the bottom of the ravine is reached. Rocks and trees pile themselves above him, bruised wounded, dying, as if heaven itself had built his tomb.

Under the ever increasing weight of stones which pressed upon him, he was dying. Every inch of his body was in agony.

And then, ready to render up his soul, this old man, although hitherto resigned, revolted.

No! He had done no wrong! And it was terrible, that chance first, then man, and now nature, had been so bitter against him. The plain had cast him unto the mountain, and lo! the mountain had cast him unto death.

Ah, well; there was, then, no such thing as justice; there was no good God. With what could he be reproached? Nothing. Why then must he suffer? Why kill him?

He panted under the immense weight, while the thunder roared and the wind howled.

But hold! He feels a great numbness that mounts his legs, gains his chest, and finally reaches his head, now less painful. Blood still flows from his wounds, but he feels them less and less. He enters into a kind of calm, deep and profound, perhaps because it is the beginning of the everlasting sleep. He hears only vaguely, and like a noise that comes from afar off, the thundering of the tempest. Then he ceases to hear even that. He can almost believe he is sleeping in his old bed at the farm, so soft the stones seem, so comfortable is everything.

Thus, as in a dream, he thinks that he is again on the banks of the river, near the bridge, playing.with little Blas amid the flowers of the garden. Yes, the little Blas is there! Oh! he knows well when he had the little Blas on his knees! But the child is no longer a child; his face shines like a brilliant star; he has wings, white like the seraphim.

The little Blas says to him, “Now, that I am in heaven, I know many stories, and I will tell you some if you wish. The end of your beautiful story about the boy without ears and the dog who smoked his pipe — the end of that delightful story you were rather in doubt about, were you not? Listen, grandpa, I will tell it to you myself.

“When the little Guignonet found himself in prison, because they accused him of having stolen, he was at first very sad, as you are now. He, also, had done nothing but good, and all the world was against him, because of the good he had done. But while he was weeping, believing that he was lost, behold! the black dog who smoked his pipe entered the dungeon, still smoking the pipe, and said, ‘Guignonet, thy trials are over. The beggar on the road who returned you your sou with curses, it was I. The hen whose eggs you broke, it was I. The raven with great wings and the dwarf and the policemen — each was I. But I am not a black dog who smokes his pipe. I am a fairy, a good fairy. Look at me.’

“And then the prison was no longer a prison, but a garden all ablaze with luminous flowers. And Guignonet saw a beautiful lady with golden hair, who was clad like the sun in splendor, and who had a diamond wand.

“‘Guignonet,’ said she, ‘you have resisted all temptations, you have never rebelled against injustice; now rejoice, because you are in the golden garden of heaven, where you will play forever, with little angels as companions.’ And when she had spoken thus, the fairy disappeared. Guignonet saw running toward him a crowd of beautiful children, more beautiful than he had ever imagined. They asked him to come and play with them, and there is nothing more pleasant than to play hide and seek in the garden of heaven.”

It was thus that the little Blas, an angel with snowy wings, spoke to old Blas lying under the rocky debris, and thus ended the history of “the Little Boy who had no Ears and the Black Dog who smoked his Pipe.”

And the good man, understanding now that justice does exist and that there is a good God, died, without sorrow, on the hard bed of rocks, pressing against his heart the little Blas, now the little angel.

The grandfather hastened to hear the beautiful stories that the child in his turn was now going to tell him in the garden of heaven.

The Crime of Old Blas

by

Catulle Mendes

Part II: The Story of the Little Boy Who Had No Ears, and of the Black Dog Who Smoked His Pipe

“Once upon a time–”

“Where?”

“In a country. Once upon a time, there was a man and his wife, peasants, as we are, but much more unfortunate — a man and his wife to whom nothing ever happened, except that very frequently they had no bread for supper before going to sleep.”

“But soup?”

“Not even the soup dish, for the cat had broken it. They were really very poor, and what made themi sadder still was that their little boy was a child who had no ears.”

“Then he could not hear!”

“Oh yes!”

“How?”

“By the nose, perhaps, or by the eyes. The story does not explain that.”

Little Blas reflected a moment and then said: “It is not very amusing, this story.”

“But this is only the beginning. You will see very soon. Now the boy who had no ears and who yet heard very well, heard his father tell his mother one day, that, in a mountain in that country, there was a cave where a very rich enchanter had concealed much gold and silver, and that, by permission of the enchanter, the treasure would belong to the one who had the courage to go to seek it amid a thousand dangers.”

“An eachanter?”

“Like in the ‘Blue Princess.’”

“Ah, yes!”

“Guignonet, for that was the boy’s name, thought ‘I should like to go to that mountain to see the enchanter’s gold and silver, because we should then be rich, and father and mother would not have to work as they do, and we should not have to go to bed without any supper.’ He was, you see, of a good disposition, this little boy without ears; and he resolved to start for the mountain all alone, without saying a word to anybody, because he wished to surprise his parents when he came back with the treasure. What made him hesitate a little was that he usually did not have much luck in what, he undertook. When he did something very good, things turned out so that it seemed that he had done something very bad, and he was punished for his good intentions. There are many people like him in the world, who never meet with any success, and who are always wrongfully accused.

Thus, one day, seeing a beggar on the road, although he was very poor himself, Guignonet gave him a sou that he had received as a present. What do you think the beggar said to him? ‘Thanks? ‘ Not at all. He suddenly threw the sou in his face and cried out, shaking his fist, ‘it is very wicked in you to try to deceive a poor beggar — the good God will punish you well.’”

“Why did the beggar say that?”

“The sou was bad; but that was not Guignonet’s fault, as it had been given to him.

“Another time, during the night, he heard a hen cackle in the stable; it cackled and cackled. He felt so sorry for it that he jumped out of bed and went to the aid of the poor fowl. He found it tied in a round basket, and it cackled as if asking somebody to help it. Guignonet caressed it, but it still cackled. Then he said to himself, ‘it must be that there is something in the basket that hurts it’ ; He. wanted to help it, so he opened the basket. The hen flew out with wide-stretched wings, cackling louder than ever; and what do you think fell out of the basket? Twp dozen eggs. And all the eggs were broken. You can imagine whether Guignonet was scolded by his parents who had put the eggs in the basket for the hen to hatch. Still the little earless boy wanted to help the hen.

“And wait; in regard to his ears; I must tell you how he Iost them; because he was not born so. He was one time in the woods, when he was about eight years old, and he came upon a big black dog, seated on his haunches, who quietly smoked his pipe.”

“Who smoked his pipe?”

“Yes. In the country where Guignonet lived, you met, very frequently, dogs who smoked while walking in the streets and on the roads. In our country, they are much more rare. The dog that Giiignonet met smoked his pipe quietly, or rather, he did not smoke, but that was not his fault, because the pipe had gone out.

“Guignonet approached him and said, ‘Mr. Dog, if you wish, I will go to the village to get you some matches.’ Was not that amiable and polite ? Well, the dog raised himself on his paws, barked furiously, threw himself upon Guignonet and in two bites took off both his ears. Then turning and running quickly away, he disappeared in the forest.”

“With Guignonet’s ears?”

“With both ears.”

“Say, grandfather, in the story, does he not get them back again later?”

“I can’t tell you that yet. Who listens will know: You can understand that all these adventures had rendered Guignonet a little timid, but, nevertheless, the desire of doing good was stronger than the fear of being ill-treated, and so one night, when everybody in the house was asleep, he got up, took his shoes in his hand, so as to make no noise, went out, and, although it was very dark on the road, started without any fear for the mountain.

“Now, that mountain was all black like the one before us, and there was no road up it; and, besides, Guignonet did not know in what place he would find the cave, so that he was very much puzzled, and he was on the point of returning home when a great raven came flying around his head.

“As it flew, the raven croaked, but in a manner that had nothing frightful or terrible in it. You would have said on the contrary, that the great black bird had good intentions and wished to give good advice to the little earless boy.

“Guignonet looked at it, and it seemed to him that he had already seen that large, pointed head, which held in its beak a pine twig. No, he had never seen it, but the raven with the pine twig in its beak resembled, a little, the black dog who smoked his pipe.

“On account of this resemblance the child wished to flee, fearing for his eyes or his nose, since his ears were gone; but the raven flying over him said, ‘Guignonet, don’t be discouraged. The beggar to whom you gave the sou called you names. You were scolded for helping the cackling hen. The black dog has stolen your ears, because you offered to get him matches to light his pipe. Many other things have happened in which you had not the least luck, and it is on that account that you are called Guignonet, or Little Luckless. But sooner or later the good that you do will bring its reward, as the seed brings the harvest, as the acorn becomes the oak. Be always a good little boy, ready to sacrifice yourself for others, and do not trouble yourself about anything else. Now Seat yourself between my wings, and I will carry you to the side of the cave where the enchanter has concealed his treasure.

“After speaking thus, the raven perched on the ground with wings extended. It was such a big bird that Guignonet, who was very little and very thin because he did not have much to eat, easily found room between the great wings.

“The raven flew off, but Guignonet was not afraid. He thought of the pleasure of his parents when he brought them the treasure of the mountain. After it had flown higher than the highest peak, the raven gradually descended into a clump of bushes in a kind of ravine which was very dark and very terrible, because you could see, shining here and there, the frightful eyes of owls.

“Guignonet jumped down, saying: ‘Thanks, Mr. Raven. I pray you now to show me the way that leads to the cave.’ But the bird was no longer a bird. It had changed very quickly into an old black dwarf, who looked with an evil smile and who had a pipe in his mouth. Guignonet thought again of the wicked dog whothad stolen his ears. But he was not afraid, and be said: ‘Mr. Dwarf, will you please show me the road which leads to the cave of the enchanter?’ Then it was terrible. The dwarf with a great stick, the owls with their beaks, began to beat, pinch and maltreat in every way the little earless boy. ‘Go, you thief! You have no right to take money that does not belong to you! What would you do with the treasure of the mountains? You would buy marbles to play in the street, instead of going to school.’ Guignonet answered: ‘I can take the money, because it belongs to nobody, since the enchanter has left it for the most courageous of men. And I assure you, it is not to buy marbles that I want it; but so that my parents may not have to go to bed hungry, and that I may give alms to the beggars.’ But they were useless words.

“The wicked birds and the cruel dwarf did not cease to abuse the little boy, who, finally fleeing, all bruised from the strokes of the stick, all bleeding from the bites of the beaks, slipped and slid down over the stony side of the ravine to a great hole that opened there.

“Anybody else would have given up the enterprise on account of the injustice that was shown him. Guignonet did not lose courage for so little. He thought of nothing but of making his parents happy.

“It was very dark in the hole on which he had chanced, and in the blackness there was some kind of a beast, more black still, that looked like a wolf. It had between its teeth a bone that it had gnawed all white, so that you might well have taken it for a great pipe. The wolf said, ‘Get out of my house, little wretch; I am the guardian of the treasure which is there under the stone, and I will not allow you to touch it.’ But Guignonet threw himself boldly upon the wolf, and his desire to be useful lent him so much strength that he threw the beast over backwards, raised the stone that concealed the treasure, and there in place of the money and gold he had expected, he saw a little open casket in which was a great number of jewels, so beautiful that one alone would have been enough to make the fortune of many kings. He seized the heavy box, while the wolf snapped at his heels and bit his legs: but Guignonet paid no attention to the sharp teeth that bit him. He thought of the happiness of his mother when she would have beautiful dresses like those of the city ladies, and when she would be able every day to give soup to the passing beggars.

“That was the kind of boy he was. It was all right for him to suffer, provided others were happy. Then, pursued by the wolf that clung close to his heels, he sought among the brambles to find the road that led to the foot of the mountain and to his home. He found a little stony path which descended very rapidly.

“But in the shadows all around him was a crowd of creatures, men and beasts, which ran backwards and forwards, crying with all their might, ‘See the little boy who has committed a great crime;’ and the birds following him, flying among, the branches, sang, ‘Catch the robber!’

“Guignonet was very sad because he was afraid that they would kill him, but more sad to see that everybody thought so badly of him. When he reached the plain, he believed that he was out of danger and that nobody could any longer call him wicked names. He already saw himself waking his father and mother in the little chamber. ‘Behold the treasure concealed by the enchanter of the mountain cave, and which was reserved for the bravest of men! I have found it and I have brought it to you. Rejoice! Eat, drink, and share with all the world the fortune which I have gained at the peril of my life!’

“But things did not stop here as the little earless boy hoped. He saw suddenly by his side and in front of him three monstrous policemen, and as the moon had risen, he could see clearly the shining steel of their sabers and their white belts. But what was very extraordinary in these three policemen was that they all had, over their faces, great dog’smuzzles, and,nevertheless, they quietly smoked their pipes.”

Old Blas had reached this point in his story when the electric bell was heard. The first train would soon pass; it was time to lower the bridge. He was just getting up, but little Blas, stopped him, saying, “Then, grandfather, those policemen were dogs?”

“Real dogs,” answered old Blas. And as he knew the train would not arrive for a quarter of an hour yet, and a couple of minutes were all that were necessary to lower the bridge, by means of the crank, he continued —

“At least they looked like real dogs, but, you know, in stories, people are not always what they seem.

“When the policemen saw Guignonet they ran to him, took his casket away from him and said, ‘It is you, then, who robbed the travelers in the woods?’

“The earless boy answered, ‘You are mistaken. I come from the mountain. I am carrying to my parents the treasure which belongs to the bravest.’

“They would not listen to a word. They put handcuffs on him and led him to the city prison. There he was placed in a very dark dungeon where the rats ran all over him. All the city was aroused. From his cell he heard the people outside say, ‘Oh! Oh! He is arrested; that little thief! Who would have thought that Guignonet, with his honest face, was such a rascal?’

“In loneliness, he wept, knowing well that he had not wished to do wrong, and feeling that he had not really done wrong.”

Here old Blas jumped up quickly. Two whistles were heard, and one could already see, below, the black rolling smoke. He ran toward the bridge, while the child began to play with the stones in the path. He began to turn the crank. He heard behind him, but still far off, the whistle, roar and thunder of the heavy locomotive and its long train of cars.

It was an express train. If old Blas had turned, he could have seen the travelers, whose heads were thrust out the windows, looking at the high mountain under which they were going.

The bridge descended slowly, had already descended a little more than a third of its way. Old Blas did not hurry; he had plenty of time. All was well. Suddenly there came a cry. He knew that voice; it was the voice of little Blas. Playing on the river’s edge, on the sand and stones, the child had slipped, rolled down, fallen into the water. Alas, he saw his grandchild, his love, his darling, disappear in the current.

Old Blas was seventy-one, but he was strong, a splendid swimmer too. He dropped the crank and leaped toward the water. He would save his child, whose head appeared there, farther down.

But the train was now very near — if he did not hasten to lower the bridge, the locomotive would hurl itself against the massive platform; there would be a frightful disaster, the engine and cars would be crushed into fragments; and men and women would lie there, dead and dying.

The child appeared again, still farther off, calling to him, stretching his arms to him. What did the grandfather do? He turned, took the crank in his two strong hands, and very soon the bridge rested on the opposite side. The loco-motive and its cars rolled over with the noise of thunder, buried itself in the tunnel and disappeared; there was only a distant roar that shook the mountain. The train had passed, — the child was drowned.

Old Blas, with horror-stricken eyes, stared at the river that had carried away little Blas.

He stood there, stupefied, watching the deep water and the flowing current. His little Blas was drowned, his little Blas was dead. Two things tormented him; its impossibility and its reality.

What! He would never see again that pretty, happy face, those clear blue eyes where laughed the sun ? He would never hear again, the cries of joy over a butterfly caught, or a bird pursued; never, never for him, poor old man, that ecstasy again.

He started to run along the bank. He would find the little body. He would again hold it in his arms. No! The river had too great a start. The current so quickly carries away bodies, especially when they are little and light.

And then, he must stay where he was, to watch over the road, to make the customary signals; he must remain at his post, since he was a kind of soldier. He would not even have the consolation of seeing the pale body of his grandson stopped by some tree, or caught in the grass.

“Did I do right in lowering the bridge? If I had left the crank alone without troubling myself about the train, if I had immediately thrown myself into the water, I could have saved my poor, dear child. The cars would have hurled themselves, broken into a frightful mass, against the bridge of iron and wood, many of the travelers would have perished; they would now be lying there bleeding, wounded, shattered. But what are the misfortunes and curses of others to me? A grandfather ought first to save his child. I did wrong to do my duty.

He said this in his sorrow, but it seemed to him, nevertheless, that he had done right. He should not even have hesitated between the life of his child and that of so many men and women. Yes, but it was terrible just the same. He was in despair and was fainting with grief. He gained the little flower-surrounded hut. He looked at the narrow walks that he had made for the saunterings of the boy, and throwing himself upon the ground caressed the place where the boy had seated himself to listen to the story. In his white beard, the daisies which little Blas had thrown at him, still clung, and old Blas, picking them off, kissed them, with sobs that shook his whole body.

The setting sun reddened the granite mountain, like a fire in the depths of a black mirror, then, little by little, the shadows mounted, and, amid the great silence, old Blas heard only the sinister sound ot the rushing waters.

It was time to go back to the farm. To enter alone without the child — what should he say to the mother? He took a staff from the hut; he needed it now. How gay supper had always been when the day’s task was done! How many times he used to empty his glass of cider; and how would the lad, to whom the grandfather had been passing the tidbits of his supper, under the table, go to sleep finally in his high chair, tired and happy.

But this evening’s supper! The old man walked slowly, like one who did not wish to advance. He rested against a tree as if not able to take another step, and leaned his head against the bark, weeping.

To tell this to Cadjie and the father? How? With what words? The cry of the mother, when he said to her, ‘Little Blas is drowned’ — that cry, sharp, bitter, terrible, already rang in his ears. And not only would he see his daughter sob, his son-in-law turn pale, not only would he witness their awful anguish, but he foresaw, as a supreme agony, their reproaches.

He understood it well. A father and mother would not stop to think whether he ought to consider others first and then himself and his own. “It was necessary to save the little one,” Cadije would cry, “and let all those people we do not know, die.” Yes, Cadije would say that; old mind, troubled by that great catastrophe, thinks perhaps she is right.

Heroic by instinct then, he was not sure now that he had done right and he thinks, perhaps he himself, if Cadije, on entering the house some evening, had said, “I had sacrificed the little one in order to save a crowd of people” — perhaps he would have cried, “You are a bad mother.”

All this weighed him down. He walked with head lowered and shoulders bent, like one who carries a heavy burden. He wished that the farm was very far off, ten leagues, twenty leagues, or that between it and him there was a lofty mountain peak that could not be climbed.

But no matter how slowly he walked, he had finally to come to his journey’s end. It was now dark. He went along the hedge, bending down so as not to be seen. He remembered how joyously he had passed there that morning. And he was so weak that he was hardly able to open the wooden gate. He recoiled, alarmed at the noise of the dog’s chain as he passed the kennel. He advanced toward the other side of the yard; the wide open door showed the well-lighted table where the supper was smoking. Cadije appeared on the door-sill.

“Ah! father!” said she with a smile, “where now are your twenty-year-old legs? The good man is already returned. The soup is hot. Hurry, because it is not so good cold, and I have brought you a cup of cider to cheer you up.”

He drew near with a timid look, and hesitated, with the air of a dog that is going to be beaten. Seated before the table, Antonin Perdigut lowered his head to smell the sweet cabbage, and then cried joyously, “Enough talking; I am dying of hunger in here.”

This calm, like that of other evenings, this home-coming, like all the others, frightened old Blas. Ah! How it would all change! How they would cease laughing! How their hunger would depart! The mother demanded, “But, where is the child?”

Behold, the moment had come! The confession could no longer be kept back. It was necessary to answer, “The child is drowned.” He raised his head, mouth open, eyes fixed; as one looks at death, if it rises suddenly before him, so he looked at the strong, good, happy Cadije, with her gay smile.

Then he lowered his head and stammered, — “The child is there, behind the hedge; he has walked slowly on account of a nest that we have found. It is the truth, it is really the truth. Wait an instant. He is there, behind the hedge. I will go and find him.”

“Ho! Blas!” called the mother.

“No! no!” repeated he, trembling in all his limbs, “he will — will not obey. — He thinks that he is going to be scolded, because we are so late. I tell you that I am going to look for him myself. Do not be impatient and — begin supper.”

Then old Blas turned around, passed through the gate, closed it, and when he was alone outside the farm-yard, said “No, truly no; — I did not dare; I was not able.”

And quickly, without any other thought than that of not seeing his daughter in despair, of not hearing the curse of his son, he began to run across the fields, through the shadows and darkness, like one who has committed a crime, or a beast suddenly stricken with madness.