Collected works of eugen.., p.173
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 173
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
The first edition title page of this translation
TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE
The Gold Sickle; or, Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen, is the initial story of the series that Eugène Sue wrote under the collective title of The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages.
The scheme of this great work of Sue’s was stupendously ambitious — and the author did not fall below the ideal that he pursued. His was the purpose of producing a comprehensive “universal history,” dating from the beginning of the present era down to his own days. But the history that he proposed to sketch was not to be a work for closet study. It was to be a companion in the stream of actual, every-day life and struggle, with an eye especially to the successive struggles of the successively ruled with the successively ruling classes. In the execution of his design, Sue conceived a plan that was as brilliant as it was poetic — withal profoundly philosophic. One family, the descendants of a Gallic chief named Joel, typifies the oppressed; one family, the descendants of a Frankish chief and conqueror named Neroweg, typifies the oppressor; and across and adown the ages, the successive struggles between oppressors and oppressed — the history of civilization — is thus represented in a majestic allegory. In the execution of this superb plan a thread was necessary to connect the several epochs with one another, to preserve the continuity requisite for historic accuracy, and, above all, to give unity and point to the silent lesson taught by the unfolding drama. Sue solved the problem by an ingenious scheme — a series of stories, supposedly written from age to age, sometimes at shorter, other times at longer intervals, by the descendants of the ancestral type of the oppressed, narrating their special experience and handing the supplemented chronicle down to their successors from generation to generation, always accompanied with some emblematic relic, that constitutes the first name of each story. The series, accordingly, though a work presented in the garb of “fiction,” is the best universal history extant: Better than any work, avowedly on history, it graphically traces the special features of class-rule as they have succeeded one another from epoch to epoch, together with the special character of the struggle between the contending classes. The “Law,” “Order,” “Patriotism,” “Religion,” “Family,” etc., etc., that each successive tyrant class, despite its change of form, fraudulently sought refuge in to justify its criminal existence whenever threatened; the varying economic causes of the oppression of the toilers; the mistakes incurred by these in their struggles for redress; the varying fortunes of the conflict; — all these social dramas are therein reproduced in a majestic series of “novels” covering leading and successive episodes in the history of the race — an inestimable gift, above all to our own generation, above all to the American working class, the short history of whose country deprives it of historic back-ground.
It is not until the fifth story is reached — the period of the Frankish conquest of Gaul, 486 of the present era — that the two distinct streams of the typical oppressed and typical oppressor meet. But the four preceding ones are necessary, and preparatory for the main drama, that starts with the fifth story and that, although carried down to the revolution of 1848 which overthrew Louis Philippe in France, reaches its grand climax in The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic, that is, the French Revolution. These stories are nineteen in number, and their chronological order is the following:
1. The Gold Sickle; or, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen;
2. The Brass Bell; or, The Chariot of Death;
3. The Iron Collar; or, Faustine and Syomara;
4. The Silver Cross; or, The Carpenter of Nazareth;
5. The Casque’s Lark; or, Victoria, The Mother of the Fields;
6. The Poniard’s Hilt; or, Karadeucq and Ronan;
7. The Branding Needle; or, The Monastery of Charolles;
8. The Abbatial Crosier; or, Bonaik and Septimine;
9. Carlovingian Coins; or, The Daughters of Charlemagne;
10. The Iron Arrow-Head; or, The Maid of the Buckler;
11. The Infant’s Skull; or, The End of the World;
12. The Pilgrim’s Shell; or, Fergan the Quarryman;
13. The Iron Pincers; or, Mylio and Karvel;
14. The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the Champion;
15. The Executioner’s Knife; or, Joan of Arc;
16. The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer;
17. The Blacksmith’s Hammer; or, The Peasant-Code;
18. The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic;
19. The Galley-Slave’s Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn.
Long and effectually has the influence of the usurping class in the English-speaking world succeeded in keeping this brilliant torch that Eugène Sue lighted, from casting its rays across the path of the English-speaking peoples. Several English translations were attempted before this, in England and this country, some fifty years ago. They were all fractional: they are all out of print now: most of them are not to be found even in public libraries of either England or America, not a wrack being left to them, little more than a faint tradition. Only two of the translations are not wholly obliterated. One of them was published by Trübner & Co. jointly with David Nutt, both of London, in 1863; the other was published by Clark, 448 Broome street, New York, in 1867. The former was anonymous, the translator’s identity being indicated only with the initials “K. R. H. M.” It contains only eight of the nineteen stories of the original, and even these are avowedly abridgments. The latter was translated by Mary L. Booth, and it broke off before well under way — extinguished as if snuffed off by a gale. Even these two luckier fragmentary translations, now surviving only as curios in a few libraries, attest the vehemence and concertedness of the effort to suppress this great gift of Sue’s intellect to the human race. It will be thus no longer. The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages will henceforth enlighten the English-speaking toiling masses as well.
DANIEL DE LEON.
New York, May 1, 1904.
CHAPTER I.
THE GUEST.
HE WHO WRITES this account is called Joel, the brenn[A] of the tribe of Karnak; he is the son of Marik, who was the son of Kirio, the son of Tiras, the son of Gomer, the son of Vorr, the son of Glenan, the son of Erer, the son of Roderik chosen chief of the Gallic army that, now two hundred and seventy-seven years ago, levied tribute upon Rome.
[A] Gallic word for chief.
Joel (why should I not say so?) feared the gods, he was of a right heart, a steady courage and a cheerful mind. He loved to laugh, to tell stories, and above all to hear them told, like the genuine Gaul that he was.
At the time when Cæsar invaded Gaul (may his name be accursed!), Joel lived two leagues from Alrè, not far from the sea and the isle of Roswallan, near the edge of the forest of Karnak, the most celebrated forest of Breton Gaul.
One evening towards nightfall — the evening before the anniversary of the day when Hena, his daughter, his well-beloved daughter was born unto him — it is now eighteen years ago — Joel and his eldest son Guilhern were returning home in a chariot drawn by four of those fine little Breton oxen whose horns are smaller than their ears. Joel and his son had been laying marl on their lands, as is usually done in the autumn, so that the lands may be in good condition for seed-time in the spring. The chariot was slowly climbing up the hill of Craig’h at a place where that mountainous road is narrowed between two rocks, and from where the sea is seen at a distance, and still farther away the Isle of Sen — the mysterious and sacred isle.
“Father,” Guilhern said to Joel, “look down there below on the flank of the hill. There is a rider coming this way. Despite the steepness of the descent, he has put his horse to a gallop.”
“As sure as the good Elldud invented the plow, that man will break his neck.”
“Where can he be riding to in such a hurry? The sun is going down; the wind blows high and threatens a storm; and that road that leads to the desert strand—”
“Son, that man is not of Breton Gaul. He wears a furred cap and a shaggy coat, and his tanned-skin hose are fastened with red bands.”
“A short axe hangs at his right and he has a long knife in a sheath at his left.”
“His large black horse does not seem to stumble in the descent.... Where can he be going in such a hurry?”
“Father, the man must have lost his way.”
“Oh, my son, may Teutates hear you! We shall tender our hospitality to the rider. His dress tells he is a stranger. What beautiful stories will he not be able to tell us of his country and his travels!”
“May the divine Ogmi, whose words bind men in golden chains, be propitious to us, father! It is long since any strange story-teller has sat at our hearth.”
“Besides, we have had no news of what is going on elsewhere in Gaul.”
“Unfortunately so!”
“Oh, my son, if I were all-powerful as Hesus, I would have a new story-teller every evening at supper.”
“I would send men traveling everywhere, and have them return and tell their adventures.”
“And if I had the power of Hesus, what wonderful adventures would I not provide for my travelers so as to increase the interest in their stories on their return.”
“Father, the rider is coming close to us!”
“Yes, he reins in because the road is here narrow, and we bar his passage with our chariot. Come, Guilhern, the moment is favorable; the passenger must have lost his way; let us offer him hospitality for to-night. We shall then keep him to-morrow, and perhaps several other days. We shall have done him a good turn, and he will give us the news from Gaul and of the other countries that he has visited.”
“Besides, it will be a great joy to my sister Hena who is to come home to-morrow for the feast of her birthday.”
“Oh, Guilhern, I never thought of the pleasure that my beloved daughter will have listening to the stranger! He must be our guest!”
“That he shall be, father! Indeed, he shall!” answered Guilhern resolutely.
Joel and his son alighted from the chariot, and advanced towards the rider. Once close to him, both were struck with the majesty of the stranger’s looks. Nothing haughtier than his eyes, more masculine than his face, more worthy than his bearing. On his forehead and on one cheek were visible the traces of two wounds only freshly healed. To judge by his dauntless appearance, the rider must have been one of those chiefs whom the tribes elect from time to time to lead them in battle. Joel and his son were all the more anxious to have him accept their hospitality.
“Friend traveler,” said Joel, “night is upon us; you have lost your way; the road you are on leads nowhere but to the desert strands; the tide will soon be washing over them because the wind is blowing high. To keep on your route by night would be dangerous. Come to my house. You may resume your journey to-morrow.”
“I have not lost my way; I know where I am going to; and I am in a hurry. Turn your oxen aside; make room for me to pass,” was the brusque answer of the rider, whose forehead was wet with perspiration from the hurry of his course. By his accent he seemed to be from central Gaul, towards the Loire. After having thus addressed Joel, he struck his large black horse with both heels in the flanks and tried to draw still nearer to the oxen that now completely barred his passage.
“Friend traveler, did you not hear me?” rejoined Joel. “I told you that this road led only to the seashore, that night was on, and that I offer you my house.”
The stranger, however, beginning to wax angry, replied: “I do not need your hospitality.... Draw your oxen aside.... Do you not see that the rocks leave me no passage either way?... Hurry up; I am in haste—”
“Friend,” said Joel, “you are a stranger; I am of this country; it is my duty to prevent you from going astray.... I shall do my duty—”
“By Ritha-Gaür, who made himself a blouse out of the beard of the kings he shaved!” cried the stranger, now in towering rage. “I have traveled a deal since my beard began to grow, have seen many countries, many peoples and many strange customs, but never yet have I come across two fools like these!”
Learning from the mouth of the stranger himself that he had seen many countries, many peoples and many strange customs, Joel and his son, both of whom were passionately fond of hearing stories, concluded that many and charming must be the ones the stranger could tell, and they felt all the more desirous of securing such a guest. Accordingly, so far from turning the chariot aside, Joel advanced close to the rider, and said to him with the sweetest voice that he could master, his natural voice being rather rough:
“Friend, you shall go no further! I wish to be respectful to the gods, above all to Teutates, the god of travelers, and shall therefore keep you from going astray by making you spend a good night under a good roof, instead of allowing you to wander about the strand, where you would run the risk of being drowned in the rising tide.”
“Take care!” replied the unknown rider carrying his hand to the axe that hung from his belt. “Take care!... If you do not forthwith turn your oxen aside, I shall make a sacrifice to the gods, and shall join you to the offering!”
“The gods cannot choose but protect such a worshipper as yourself,” answered Joel, who, smiling, had passed a few words in a low voice to his son. “The gods will prevent you from spending the night on the strand.... You’ll see—”
Father and son precipitated themselves unexpectedly upon the traveler. Each took him by a leg, and both being large and robust men, raised him erect over his saddle, giving at the same time a thump with their knees to his horse’s belly. The animal ran ahead, and Joel and Guilhern respectfully lowered the rider on his feet to the ground. Now in a wild rage, the traveler tried to resist, but before he could draw his knife he was held fast by Joel and Guilhern, one of whom produced a strong rope with which they firmly tied the stranger’s feet and hands — all of which was done with great mildness and affability on the part of the story-greedy father and son, who despite the furious wrestling of the stranger, deposited him on the chariot with increasing respect and politeness, seeing they were increasingly struck by the virile dignity of his face.
Guilhern then mounted the traveler’s horse and followed the chariot that Joel led, urging on the oxen with his goad. They were in earnest haste to reach the shelter of their house: the gale increased; the roar of the waves was heard dashing upon the rocks along the coast; streaks of lightning glistened through the darkening clouds; all the signs portended a stormy night.
All these threatening signs notwithstanding, the unknown rider seemed nowise thankful for the hospitality that Joel and his son had pressed upon him. Extended on the bottom of the chariot he was pale with rage. He ground his teeth and puffed at his mouth. But keeping his anger to himself he said not a word. Joel (it must be admitted) passionately loved a story, but he also passionately loved to talk. He turned to the stranger:
“My guest, for such you are now, I give thanks to Teutates, the god of travelers, for having sent me a guest. You should know who I am. Yes, I must tell you who I am, seeing you are to sit down at my hearth;” and unaffected by the stranger’s gesture of anger, which seemed to say he cared not to know who Joel was, the latter proceeded:
“My name is Joel ... I am the son of Marik, who was the son of Kirio ... Kirio was the son of Tiras ... Tiras was the son of Gomer ... Gomer was the son of Vorr ... Vorr was the son of Glenan ... Glenan, son of Erer, who was the son of Roderik, chosen brenn of the confederated Gallic army, who two hundred and seventy-six years ago levied tribute upon Rome in order to punish the Romans for their treachery. I have been chosen brenn of my tribe, which is the tribe of Karnak. From father to son we have been peasants; we cultivate our fields as best we can, following the example left by Coll to our ancestors.... We sow more wheat and barley than rye and oats.”
The stranger continued nursing his rage rather than paying any attention to these details. Joel continued imperturbably:
“Thirty-two years ago, I married Margarid, the daughter of Dorlern. I have from her three sons and a daughter. The elder boy is there behind us, leading your good black horse, friend guest ... his name is Guilhern. He and several other relatives help me in the cultivation of our field. I raise a good many black sheep that pasture on our meadows, as well as half-wild hogs, as vicious as wolves and who never sleep under a roof.... We have some fine meadows in this valley of Alrè.... I also raise horses, colts of my spirited stallion Tom-Bras.[B] My son amuses himself raising war and hunting dogs. The hunting dogs are of the breed of a greyhound named Tyntammar; the ones destined for war are the whelps of a large mastiff named Deber-Trud.[C] Our horses and our dogs are so renowned that people come more than twenty leagues from here to buy them. So you see, my guest, that you might have fallen into a worse house.”
