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Section 2 of 1916, First Chapters, Collection. This is a LibreBox recording. All LibreBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreBox.org. Reading by Matt Perard.

1916, First Chapters, Collection. By various. Section 2, Light. By Henri Barbos. Translated by FitzWalter Ray.

Chapter 1, Myself. All the days of the week are alike, from their beginning to their end. At seven in the evening, one hears the clock strike gently, and then the instant tumult of the bell. I close the desk, wipe my pen, and put it down.

I take my hat and muffler, after a glance, at the mirror, a glance which shows me the regular oval of my face, my glossy hair, and fine moustache. It is obvious that I am rather more than a workman. I put out the light and descend from my little glass partitioned office. I cross the boiler house, myself in the grip of the thronging, echoing peel, which has

from among the dark and hurrying crowd, which increases in the corridors and rolls down the stairways like a cloud. Some passing voices cry to me, good night, Monsieur Simon, or with less familiarity, good night, Monsieur Paulin. I answer here and there, and allow myself to be borne away by everybody else.

Outside, on the threshold of the porch, which opens on the naked plain and its pallid horizons, one sees the squares and triangles of the factory like a huge black background of the stage and the tall extinguished chimney whose only crown now is the cloud of falling night. Confusedly, the dark flood carries me away. Along the wall which faces the porch, women are walking like a curtain of shadow which

yields glimpses of their pale and expressionless faces. With nod or word, we recognize each other from the mask. Couples are formed by the quick hooking of arms. All along the ghostly avenue, one's eyes follow the toilers' scrambling flight. The avenue is a long track cut across the open fields.

Its course is marked afar by lines of puny trees sooting as snucked candles, by telegraph posts and their long spider webs, by bushes or by fences which are like the skeletons of bushes. There are a few houses. Up yonder, a strip of sky still shows pale yellow.

Above the meager suburb where it creeps, the muddy crowd detached from the factory. The west wind sets quivering their overalls, blue or black or khaki. The city sights the wooly tails that flutter from muffled necks, scatter some evil odours, attacks the sightless faces so deep drowned beneath the sky. There are taverns anon which catch the eye.

Their doors are closed, but their windows and van lights shine like gold. Between the taverns rise the fronts of some old houses, tenantless and hollow. The streets of the city are covered by knotted trees and old houses in ruins cut into this gloomy valley of the homes of men with notches of sky. The iron-shod feet all around me on the hard road sound like the heavy rolling of drums

and then on the paved footpath like dragged chains. It is in vain that I walk with head bent. My own footsteps are lost in the rust. I cannot hear them. in the inky landscape where a tall and twisted tree seems to writhe as if it had a soul,

we begin suddenly to descend, our feet plunging forward. Down below we see the lights of Vivier sparkle. These men, whose day is worn out, strive towards those earthly stars. One hope is like another in the evening, as one weariness is like another. We are all alike. I, also, I go towards my light, like all the others, as on every evening. When we have descended for a long time, the gradient ends. The avenue flattens out like a river and widens as it pierces the town.

Through the lappest boughs of the old plan trees, still naked on this last day of March, one glimpses the workmen's houses, upright in space, hazy and fantastic chessboards with squares of light, dabbed on in places, or like vertical cliffs in which our swarming is absorbed, scattering among the twilight colonnade of the trees. These people engulf themselves in the heaped-up lodgings and rooms. They flow together in the cavity of doors. They plunge into the houses,

and there they are vaguely turned into lights. I continue to walk, surrounded by several companions who are foremen and clerks, for I do not associate with the workmen. Then there are handshakes, and I go on alone. Some dimly seen wayfarers disappear. The sounds of sliding walks and closing shutters are heard here and there. The houses have shut themselves up. The night-bound town becomes a desert, profound. I can hear nothing now but my own footfall.

Biffier is divided into two parts, like many towns, no doubt. First, the rich town, composed of the main street, where you find the Grand Café, the elegant hotels, the sculptured houses, the church, and the castle on the hilltop. The other is the lower town, which I am now entering. It is a system of streets, reached by an extension of that avenue which is flanked by the workmen's barracks and climbs to the level of the factory, such as the way which it has been my

custom to climb in the morning and to descend when the light is done during the six years of my clerkship with Mr. Gozlon and company. In this quarter, I am still rooted. Someday, I should like to live yonder, but between the two houses of the town there is a division, a sort of frontier, which has always been and will always be. In the roux, there I meet only a street-lamp, and then a mouse-like little girl who emerges from the shadows and enters them again without

seeing me. So intent is she on pressing to her heart, like a doll, the big love they have sent her to buy. Here is the roux de la Tarte, my street. Through the semi-darkness, a luminous movement peepers the hairdresser's shop and takes shape on the double spring of his window. His transparent door, with its arched inscription, opens just as I pass, and under the sub-dish, whose jingle summons customers, Monsieur Justin Pucard himself appears, along with a rich gust of

scented light. He is seeing a customer out and improving the occasion by the utterance of certain sentiments, and I had time to see that the customer convinced not a descent, and that Monsieur Pucard, the oracle, was caressing his white and ever-new beard with his luminous hand. I turn round the cracked walls of the former ten-plate works, now bowed and crumbling, whose windows are felted with grime or broken into black stars. A few steps farther, I think I saw the

childish shadow of my little Antoinette, whose bad eyes they don't seem to be curing, but not being certainly enough to go and find her, I turn into my court, as I do every evening. Every evening I find Monsieur Très-Lam, at the door of his shop at the end of the court, where all day long he is fiercely bent upon trivial jobs, and he rises before me like a post. At sight of me, the kindly giant nods his big shaven face and the square cap on top, his huge nose and vast ears. He taps the leather

apron that is hard as a plank. He swims me along to the side of the street, sets my back against the porch, and says to me, in a low voice, but with heated conviction, that Petrarch, chap, he's really a bad lot. He takes off his cap, and while the crescendo, nodding of his bristly head, seems to brush the knife, he adds, I've mended him his purse. It had become percolated. I've put him a patch on that, cost me thirty centimes, and I've rezoned the edge with braid and all the lot. They're expensive, them jobs.

Well, when I open my mouth to talk about that matter of his sewing machine that I'm interested in, and that he can't use himself, he becomes congealed. He recounts to me the mad claims of Trompson in the matter of his new souls and the conduct of Monsieur Becquere, who, though old enough to know better, had taken advantage of his good faith by paying for the repair of his spout with a knife that would cut anything it sees. He goes on to detail, for my benefit, all the important

matters in his life. Then he says, I'm not rich, I'm not, but I'm consentious. If I'm a botcher, it's because my father and my grandfather were botchers before me. There's something that's for making a big stir in the world. There are. I don't hold with that idea. What I does, I does. Suddenly, a sonorous tramp persists and repeats itself in the roadway, in a shape of uncertain equilibrium emerges and advances towards us, but fits and starts a shape that clings to itself

and is impelled by a force stronger than itself. It is Bribille, the blacksmith, drunk as usual. The spineless Bribille utters exclamations. When he has reached us, he hesitates, and then, smitten by a sudden idea, he comes to a standstill, his boots clanking on the stones as if he were a cart. He measures the height of the curb with his eye, but clenches his fists, swallows what he wanted to say, and goes off reeling with an odour of hatred and wine, and his face slashed with red

patches. That anarchist, said Creon, in disgust, loathsome notions now, aren't they? Ah, who rid us of him and his alcoholites, he adds, as he offers me his hand. Good night, I'm always saying to the town council. You must give him clink, I says that gang of Bolshevists, for the slightest infractionment of the laws against drunkenness. Yes, indeed, there's that Jean Latourie in the town council, eh? They talk about keeping order, but as soon as it's a question of a doing of it,

they seem like a cold drop. The good fellow is angry. He raises his great fist and shakes it in space like a medieval mace, pointing where Bribille has just plunged, floundering into the night. He says, that's what socialists are, the conquering people what can't stand up on their legs. I may be a botcher in life, but I'm for peace and order. Good night, good night. Is she well? I'm Josephine. I'm for tranquility and liberty and order. That's why I've always kept clear of their

crowd. A bit since, I saw her trotting past, as vivacious as a young girl. But there, I talk, and I talk. He enters his shop, but turns on his heel and calls me back with a mysterious sign. You know they've all arrived up yonder at the castle. Respect has subdued his voice. A vision is absorbing him of the lords and ladies of the manor, and as he leaves me, he bows instinctively. His shop is a narrow glass cage, which is added to our house like a family relation. Within,

I can just make out the strong plebeian framework of Creon himself, upright beside a serrated heap of ruins, over which a candle is enthroned. The light which falls on his accumulated tools and on those hanging from the wall, makes a decoration obscurely golden around the picture of this wise man. This soul, all innocent of envious demands, turning again to his botching, as his father and grandfather botched. I have mounted the steps and pushed our door. The gray

door, his only relief is the key. The door goes in grumblingly and makes way for me into the dark passage, which was formerly paved, though now the traffic of souls has kneaded it with earth and changed it into a footpath. My forehead strikes the lap which is hooked on the wall. It is out, oozing oil, and it stinks. One never sees that lap and always bangs it. And though I had hurried so, I don't know why, to get home, at this moment of arrival, I slow down.

Every evening, I have the same small and dull disillusion. I go into the room, which serves us as kitchen and dining room, where my aunt is lying. This room is buried in almost complete darkness. Good evening, man. A sigh and then a sob arise from the bed crammed against the pale celestial squares of the window. Then I remember that there was a scene between my old aunt and me after our early morning coffee. Thus it is two or three times a week. This time it was about a

dirty window pane, and on this particular morning, exasperated by the continuous gush of her reproaches, I flung an offensive word and banged the door as I went off to work. So, ma'am has had to weep all the day. She has fostered and ruminated her spleen and stiffed up her tears, even while busy with household duties. Then, as the day declined, she put out the lap and went to bed with the object of sustaining and displaying her chagrin. When I came in,

she was in the act of peeling invisible potatoes. There are potatoes scattered over the floor, everywhere. My feet kicked them and send them rolling heavily among odds and ends of utensils and a soft deposit of garments that are lying about. As soon as I am there, my thought overflows with noisy tears. Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner. Over the bed, I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture, silhouetted against the

curtains, which slightly blackened the window. It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself. Gradually, she raises her voice and begins to lament, You've no feelings. No, you're heartless. That dreadful word you said to me. You said, you and your jolly. Ah, people don't know what I have to put up with. Ill-natured cart horse. In silence, I hear these tear-streaming words that fall and found her in the dark room

from that obscure blot on the pillow, which is her face. I stand up. I sit down again. I risk my breath, saying, Come now, come, that's all done with. She cries, Done with? Ah, it will never be done with. With the sheath that night is begrimming, she muzzles herself and hides her face. She shakes her head to left and to right, violently, so as to wipe her tears and signify dissent at the same time. Never a word like that you said to me breaks the heart forever. But I must get up and get you

something to eat. You must eat. I brought you up when you were a little one. Her voice capsizes. I've given up all for you and you treat me as if I were an adventurous. I hear the sound of her skinny feet as she plants them successively on the floor like two boxes. She is seeking her things, scattered over the bed or slipped to the floor. She is swallowing sobs. Now she is upright, shapeless in the shadow. But from time to time, I see her remarkable leanness out blind. She slips

on a camisole and a jacket, a spectral vision of garments, which unfold themselves about her handle like arms and above the hollow framework of her shoulders. She talks to herself while she dresses and gradually, all my life history, all my past comes forth from what the poor woman says, my only near relative on earth, as it were my mother and my servant. She strikes a match. The lamp emerges from the dark and zigzags about the room like a portable fairy. My aunt is enclosed

in a strong light. Her eyes are level with her face. She has heavy and spongy eyelids and a big mouth which stirs with ruminated sorrow. Fresh tears increase the dimensions of her eyes, make them sparkle and varnish the points of her cheeks. She comes and goes with undiminished spleen. Her wrinkles form heavy mouldings on her face and the skin of chin and neck is so folded that it looks intestinal, while the crude light tings it all with something like blood.

Now that the lamp is alight, some items become visible on the dismal super chaos in which we are walled up. The piece of bed-ticking fastened with two nails across the bottom of the window because of drops. The marble-topped chest of drawers with its woollen cover and the door lock stocked with a protruding plug of paper. The lamp is flaring and as Mame does not know where to stand it among the litter, she puts it on the floor and crutches to regulate the wick. There rises from

the medley of the old lady, vividly variegated with vermilion and night, a jet of black smoke which returns in parachute form. Mame sighs but she cannot check her continual talk. You, my lad, you who are so genteel when you like and earn a hundred and eighty francs a month. You're genteel but you're short of good manners. It's that, chiefly, I find fault with you about. So you spat on the window pane, I'm certain of it. May I drop dead if you didn't? And you're nearly

twenty-four. And to revenge yourself because I'd found out that you'd spat on the window, you told me to stop my drawing. But that's what you said to me. After all, ah vulgar fellow that you are. The factory gentlemen are too kind to you. Your poor father was their best workman. You are more genteel than your poor father, more English, and you preferred to go into business rather than go on learning Latin. And everybody thought you quite right, but for hard work you're

not much good. Ah la la, confess that you spat on the window. For your poor mother, the ghost of Mame goes on as she crosses the room with a wooden spoon in her hand. One must say that she had good taste in dress. That's no harm, no. But certainly they must have the wherewithal. She was always a child. I remember she was twenty-six when they carried her away. Ah, how she loved hats. But she had handsome ways. For all that, when she said, come along with us, Josephine, so I brought you up,

I did, and sacrificed everything. Overcome by the mention of the past, Mame's speech in action, though, sees she chokes and wags her head and wipes her face with her sleeve. I risk saying gently, yes, I know it well. A sigh is my answer. She lights the fire. The coal sends out a cushion of smoke, which expands and rolls up the stove, falls back and piles its muslin on the floor. Mame manipulates the stove with her feet in the cloudy deposit and the hazy white hair,

which escapes from her black cap, is also like smoke. Then she seeks her handkerchief and pats her pockets to get the velvet coal dust off her fingers. Now, with her back turned, she is moving casseroles about. Monsieur Creon's father, she says, old Dominec, had come from County Cher to settle down here in 66 or 67. He's a sensible man, saying he's a town councillor. We must tell him nicely to take his buckets away from our door. Monsieur Bonniat is very rich, and he speaks so

well in spite of his bad neck. You must show yourself off to all these gentlemen. You're genteel, and you're already getting 180 francs a month, and it's vexing that you haven't got some sign to show that you're on the commercial side and not a workman when you're going in and out of the factory. That can be seen easily enough. I'd rather you had a badge. Breathing damply and forcefully, she sniffs harder and quicker and looks here and there for her handkerchief. She prowls

with a laugh. As my eyes follow her, the room awakens more and more. My groping gaze discovers the tidal floor, the conference of chairs backed side by side against the wall, the motionless power of the window in the background above the low and swollen bed, which is like a heap of earth and plaster. The clothes lying on the floor like molehills, the protruding edges of tables and shelves, pots, bottles, kettles, and hanging clouts, and that lock with a cotton wool in its

ear. I like orderliness so much, says Maim, as she's taxed and worms her way through this accumulation of things, all covered with a downy layer of dust like the corners of pastel pictures. According to habit, I stretch out my legs and put my feet on the stool, which long use has polished and glorified till it looks new. My face turns this way and that towards the lean phantom of my aunt, and I lull myself of the sounds of her stirring and her endless murmur. And now, suddenly, she has

come near to me. She is wearing her jacket of grey and white stripes, which hangs from her acute shoulders. She puts her arm around my neck and trembles as she says, You can mount high, you can, with the gifts that you have. Someday, perhaps, you will go and tell men everywhere the truth of things that has happened. There have been men who were in the right, above everybody. Why shouldn't you be one of them, my lad, you, one of these great apostles? And with her head gently nodding

and her face still tear-stained, she looks afar and sees the streets attentive to my eloquence. Hardly has this strange imagining in the bosom of our kitchen passed away when Maim adds, with her eyes on mine. My lad, mind you, never look higher than yourself. You are already something of a home bird. You have already serious and elderly habits. That's good. Never try to be different from others. No danger of that, Maim. No, there is no danger of that.

I should like to remain as I am. Something holds me to the surroundings of my infancy in childhood, and I should like them to be eternal. No doubt I hope for much from life. I hope. I have hopes, as everyone has. I do not even know all that I hope for, but I should not like too great changes. In my heart I should not like anything which changed the position of the stove, of the tap, of the chestnut wardrobe, nor the form of my evening rest, which faithfully returns.

The fire alight, my aunt warms up the stew, stirring it with the wooden spoon. Sometimes there spurts from the stove a mournful flame which seems to illumine her with tatters of light. I get up to look at the stew. The thick brown gravy is purring. I can see pale bits of potato, and it is uncertainly spotted with the mucosity of onions. Maim pours it into a big white plate. That's for you, she says. Now, what shall I have? We settle ourselves each side of the

little swarthy table. Maim is fumbling in her pocket. Now her lean hand, lumpy and dark, unroots itself. She produces a bit of cheese, scrapes it with a knife which she holds by the blade, and swallows it slowly. By the raise of the lamp which stands beside us, I see that her face is not dry. A drop of water has lingered on the cheek that each mouthful protrudes and glitters there. Her great mouth works in all directions and sometimes swallows the remains of tears.

So there we are, in front of our plates, of a salt which is placed on a bit of paper, of my share of jam which is put into a mustard pot. There we are, narrowly close, our foreheads and hands brought together by the light, and for the rest but poorly clothed by the huge gloom. Sitting in this shaded armchair, my hands on this ill-balanced table, which if you lean on one side of it, begins at once to limp. I feel that I am deeply rooted where I am, in this room, disordered as an abandoned

garden, this worn out room where the dust touches you softly. After we have eaten, our remarks grow rarer. Then Maim begins again to mumble. Once again she yields to emotion under the harsh flame of the lamp, and once again her eyes grow dim in her complicated Japanese mask that is crowned with cotton wool and something dimly shining close with them. The tears of the sensitive old soul plush on that lip so voluminous that it seems a sort of heart. She leans towards me. She comes so

near, so near, that I feel sure she is touching me. I have only her in the world to love me, really. In spite of her humours and her lamentations, I know well that she is always in the right. I yarn while she takes away the dirty plates and proceeds to hide them in a dark corner. She fills the big bowl from the pitcher and then carries it along to the stove for the crockery. Antonia has given me an appointment for 8 o'clock near the kiosk. It is 10 past 8.

I go out. The passage. The court. By night all these familiar things surround me, even while they hide themselves. A vague light still hovers in the sky. Creole's prismatic shock. Gleams like a carnation in the bosom of the night. Behind the riotous disorder of his buckets. There I can see Creole. He never seems to stop. Filling something. Examining his work close to a candle which flutters like a butterfly and snared

and then reaching for the glue pot which steams on a wooden stove. One can just see his face. The engrossed and heedless face of the archivist of the good old days. The black plates of his ill-shavin' cheeks and protruding from his cap a visor of stiff air. He coughs and the window panes vibrate. In the street, shadow and silence. In the distance are venturing shapes. People emerging or entering and some light echoing sounds. Almost at once, on the corner, I see

Monsieur Joseph Bonnier vanishing, stiff as a ramrod. I recognize the thick white kerchief which consolidates the boils on his neck. As I pass the hairdresser's door it opens, just as it did a little while ago. And his agreeable voice says, that's all there is to it in business. Absolutely, replies a man who is leaving. In the oven of the street, one can see only his littleness. He must be a considerable personage.

All the same, Monsieur Picard is always applying himself to business and thinking of great schemes. A little farther, in the depths of a cavity, stoppored by an iron-grilled window, I divine the presence of old Udo, the bird of ill Omen, the strange old man who coughs and has a bad eye and whines continually. Even indoors he must wear his mournful cloak and the lampshade of his hood. People call him a spy and not without reason. Here is the kiosk. It is waiting quite alone

with its point in the darkness. Antonia has not come, for she would have waited for me. I am impatient first and then relieved. A good riddance. No doubt Antonia is still tempting when she is present. There is a reddish fever in her eyes and her slenderness sets you on fire. But I am hardly in harmony with the Italian. She is particularly engrossed in her private affairs with which I am not concerned. Big Victorine. Always ready is worth a hundred of her or Madame

Achaia, the pensively vicious, though I am equally satiated of her too. Truth to tell, I plunge unreflectingly into a heap of amorous adventures which I shortly find vulgar, but I can never resist the magic of a first temptation. I shall not wait. I go away. I skirt the forge of the noble Breveen. It is the last house in that chain of low hills which is the street, out of the deep dark. The smithy window flames with vivid orange behind its black tracery.

In the middle of that square, warm page of light, I see transparently outlined the smith's eccentric silhouette, now black and sharp, now softly huge, spectrally through the glare, and in blundering frenzy, he strives and struggles and fumbles horribly on the anvil. Swing. He seems to rush to right and to left, like a passenger on a hell-bound ferry. The more drunk he is, the more furiously he falls upon his iron and his fire. I return home. Just as I am about to enter,

a timid voice calls me. Sigh. It is Antonia. So much the worse for her. I hurry in, followed by the weak appeal. I go up to my room. It is bare and always cold. Always I must shiver some minutes before I shake it back to life. As I close the shutters, I see the street again, the massive, slanting blackness of the roofs and the population of chimneys clear cut against the minor blackness of space, some still waking, milk-white windows, and at the end of a jacket

and gloomy background, the blood-red, stumbling apparition of the mad blacksmith. Farther still, I can make out in the cavity the cross on the steeple, and again, very high and blazing with light on the hilltop, the castle, a rich crown of masonry. In all directions, the eye loses itself among the black ruins which conceal their hosts of men and of women, all so unknown and so like myself.

End of section two. Light by Henri Barbos, translated by Fitzwater Ray.