Nature Stories (English)

Nature Stories

Histoires naturelles

(English)

Author: Jules Renard 1909

Translator/Editor: Nik Marcel 2018

English translated from French.

Copyright © 2018 Nik Marcel

All rights reserved.

A Bilingual (Dual-Language) Project

2Language Books

SECTION 3

Nature Stories: English

Chapter 1

The Image Hunter; the Hen; Roosters; Ducks; Turkeys; the Guinea Fowl; the Goose; the Pigeons; the Two Pigeons; the Peacock; the Swan.

THE IMAGE HUNTER

He jumps out of bed early in the morning, and does not leave unless his mind is clear, his heart pure, and his body light as a summer garment.

He takes no provisions with him. He will drink the fresh air on the way, and will sniff the health-giving smells.

He leaves his weapons at home, and is content with simply opening his eyes. The eyes serve as nets where the images are imprisoned by themselves.

The first that he makes captive is that of the path which displays its bones, its polished pebbles, and its ruts, punctured veins, between two hedges full of sloes and blackberries.

He then takes a picture of the river. She whitens at the elbows, and sleeps under the caress of the willows. She shimmers when a fish turns up its belly, as if someone were throwing in a silver coin; and, as soon as a fine rain falls, the river has goose bumps.

He captures a picture of moving wheat, of appetizing lucerne, and of meadows hemmed by streams. On the way, he captures the flight of a lark or a goldfinch.

Then he goes into the woods. He did not know that he was endowed with such delicate senses.

Quickly impregnated with scents, he does not miss any dull murmur; and, so that he communicates with the trees, his nerves bind themselves to the veins of the leaves.

Soon, vibrating to the point of feeling faint, he perceives too much, he becomes heated, he is afraid; he leaves the woods and, from a distance, follows the woodcutters returning to the village.

For a moment he stares — so much so that his eye bursts — at the sun which is setting, and which is casting its radiant clothes onto the horizon, its clouds scattered pell-mell.

Finally, having returned home, his head full, he extinguishes his lamp and, for a long time, before falling asleep, he takes pleasure in counting his images.

Docile, they are retrieved from memory. Each of them awakens another, and their phosphorescent troop breeds newcomers ceaselessly, like partridges, pursued and divided all day long, sing in the evening in their hollows, sheltered from danger.

THE HEN

Feet joined, she jumps off her perch, as soon as the gate of the chicken coop opens. She is a common hen, modestly attired, and who never lays golden eggs. Dazzled by the sunlight, she takes a few indecisive steps, in the farmyard.

First she sees the pile of ashes where, every morning, she is in the habit of frolicking about. She rolls in it, immerses herself in it, and, with a lively flurry of wings, her feathers puffed up, she shakes up her fleas from the night.

Then she goes to drink from the hollow dish that the last shower has filled. She drinks nothing but water. She drinks in small strokes and draws up her neck, balancing on the edge of the dish.

Then she seeks out her scattered food. The fine grasses are hers, and the insects and lost seeds. She pecks, she pecks, indefatigable.

From time to time she stops.

Right under her Phrygian cap, her eyes bright, her crop flattering, she listens with one ear, then the other. And, sure that there is nothing new, she goes off searching again.

She raises her stiff legs high, like those who have gout. She spreads her claws and places them carefully, noiselessly.

You could say that she is walking barefoot.

ROOSTERS

I. He has never sang. He has not slept a night in a hen house, has not been intimate with a single hen.

He is made out of wood, with an iron foot in the middle of the belly; and he has lived, for years and years, on an old church — the kind that is no longer built. It looks like a barn, and the ridge of its tiled roof is as straight as the back of a bull.

Now, some construction workers appear at the other end of the church. The wooden rooster looks at them, when a sudden gust of wind forces him to turn his back. And, every time he turns around, new stones block his view a little more.

Soon, with a jerk, raising his head, he sees, at the tip of the steeple that has just been finished, a young rooster who was not there this morning. This stranger is holding his tail high, has his beak open, like those who crow; and, wings on the hip, all brand-new, he dazzles in full sunlight.

Initially, the two roosters try to outdo each other in a spinning competition. But the old wooden rooster quickly wears himself out and surrenders. Under his single foot, the beam threatens ruin. He leans, stiff, almost falling. He creaks and stops.

And here come the carpenters.

They pull down that worm-eaten corner of the church, bring down the rooster, and parade it through the village. Everyone can touch it, in return for a gift. These give an egg, those a penny, and Madame Loriot a silver coin.

The carpenters down a few drinks, and, after arguing over the rooster, they decide to burn it. Having made a nest of straw and sticks, they set fire to him. The wooden rooster crackles crisply, and his flame ascends to heaven, which is well deserved.

II. Every morning, as he jumps off the perch, the rooster looks to see if the other is still there… and the other always is.

The rooster can boast of having defeated all his rivals on earth, but the other is the invincible rival, out of reach.

The rooster launches cries upon cries: he calls, he provokes, he threatens, but the other only responds in his own time, and he does not answer right away.

The rooster preens himself and puffs up its feathers, which are certainly decent, some blue, and others silvery; but the other, all in blue, has a golden glow.

The rooster gathers his hens together, and walks at their head. See, they are his; all love him and all fear him; but, the other is adored by the swallows.

The rooster gives of himself to all. Here and there, he places his commas of love, and celebrates with a sharp cry, with little nothings; but the other gets married and parties with abandon in the village.

The jealous rooster gets himself ready for a supreme fight; his tail looks like a coat-tail hiding a sword. Blood filling his comb, he defies all the roosters of the sky; but the other, who is not afraid to face the stormy winds, plays with the breeze and turns his back.

And the rooster is infuriated for the rest of the day.

His hens go home, one by one. He remains alone, hoarse, knackered, in the already dark yard; but the other again bursts forth, with the last rays of the sunlight, and, with his pure voice, sings the peaceful evening Angelus.

DUCKS

I. It is the duck who goes first, waddling with both feet, to paddle in the hole she knows. The drake follows her. The tips of his wings crossed on the back, he also waddles with two feet. And duck and drake are walking taciturn, as if at a business meeting.

The duck is the first to slip into the muddy water where feathers, droppings, vine leaves, and straw float. She has almost disappeared.

She is waiting. She is ready.

And the drake enters in his turn. He submerges his rich colours. All that is visible is his green head and the kiss-curl of his behind. Indeed, both are there.

The water warms. It is never emptied, and is only renewed on stormy days.

With his flat beak, the drake nibbles and squeezes the neck of the duck. For a moment he throws himself about, but the water is so thick that it scarcely ripples. And quickly calmed, flat, it reflects, in black, a piece of pure sky.

The duck and the drake do not move anymore. The sun is cooking them and is sending them to sleep.

You could pass near them without noticing them. They only give themselves away by the rare air bubbles which end up bursting on the stagnant water.

II. In front of the closed door, the two of them are sleeping, joined and lying flat, like the pair of clogs of a neighbour at a sick person’s place.

TURKEYS

I. She struts about in the middle of the courtyard, as though she were living under the Ancient Regime. The other birds are just eating, all the time, and no matter what.

Between her regular meals, she only concerns herself with looking good. All her feathers are starched, and the tips of her wings scratch the ground, as if to trace the route she follows: it is here that she advances, and not elsewhere.

She puffs herself up so much that she never sees her feet.

She is not suspicious of anyone, and, as soon as I draw near, she imagines that I want to pay my respects to her.

She is already gobbling with pride!

“Noble turkey,” I say to her, “if you were a goose, I would write your eulogy, as Buffon did, with one of your feathers. But you are only a turkey.”

I must have hurt her feelings, because the blood is going to her head. Clusters of anger hang from her beak. She is seeing red. With a curt snap, she opens the fan of her tail, and that old cheeky wench turns her back to me.

II. On the road, here again is the boarding school of turkeys. Every day, whatever the weather, they go for a walk.

They do not fear the rain: no one hitches up their skirt better than a turkey; and nor do they fear the sun: a turkey never goes out without her parasol.

THE GUINEA FOWL

She is the hunchback of my farmyard. She dreams only of wounds, on account of her hump.

The hens say nothing to her; but suddenly, she rushes at them, and harasses them.

Then she lowers her head, tilts her body forward, and, with all the speed her skinny legs can call on, runs to strike — with her hard beak — right at the centre of a turkey’s wheel.

That poser was getting on her nerves!

Thus, with her head blued, her wattles open, jingoistic, she rages from morning to night.

She fights without motive, perhaps because she always imagines that everyone is making fun of her waist, her bald head, and her low tail. And, she keeps on uttering a discordant cry that pierces the air like an arrow.

Sometimes she leaves the yard and disappears. She allows the peaceful birds a moment of respite. But she comes back more turbulent and more noisy. And, frenzied, she sprawls on the ground.

What is wrong with her?

The sneak is playing a joke.

She went to lay her egg in the countryside.

I can look for it if it amuses me.

She rolls in the dust like a hunchback.

THE GOOSE

Tiennette would like to go to Paris, like the other girls in the village. But is she even capable of minding her geese? The truth is, she follows them rather than leads them.

She knits mechanically, behind her flock; and she relies on the Toulouse goose, who has the discernment of a grown-up. The Toulouse goose knows the way, the good grasses, and the time when they must return home.

As brave as the gander is cowardly, she protects her sisters against the bad dog.

Her neck vibrates and snakes along the ground, then straightens up; and she comes out on top against the frightened Tiennette.

As soon as all is well, she celebrates and sings through her nose, making it clear that she knows thanks to whom order reigns. She does not doubt whether she could do better still.

And, one evening, she leaves the area. She goes away on the road, beak to the wind, feathers pressed down. Some women, whom she passes, do not dare stop her. She walks at a frightening pace.

And while Tiennette, remaining there, ends up dulling her mind, and, just like the geese, is no longer distinguishable from them, it is the Toulouse goose who comes to Paris!

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