And evening comes. . . . The fogs float up, pink
and weightless, enveloping the shore, the village, while
the jetty, almost black, assumes the appearance of the
hull of a huge vessel without masts; the sun inclines
its copper-colored ball toward the sea, tracing a path
of rippling, crimson light upon its limitless extent.
Near the shore the water grows darker, and sparkles
flare up on the crests of the waves. At this sad hour
I return through the fields, meeting again the same
carts pulled by oxen covered with cloths of grey flax,
seeing the same silhouettes of peasants who, bent
over the niggardly soil, struggle grimly with the heath
and the rocks. And upon the heights of Saint-Jean
where the windmills rotate their sails in the blue of
the sky, the same calvary stretches out its supplicating
arms. . . .
I lived at the end of the village with Mother Le Gannec, an excellent woman who took care of me as well as she could. The house which opened on the main road was clean, well-kept, furnished with new and shining furniture. The poor woman strove to please me, worked desperately to invent something that would smooth my brow, that would bring a smile upon my lips. She was really touching. Every time I came down in the morning I would find her, knitting stockings or spinning, finished with her housework, alive, alert, almost pretty in her flat cap, her short black shawl, and her apron of green serge.
"Friend Mintié!" she would exclaim, "I have cooked some nice shell-fish fricassee for supper for you. . . . If you like sea-eel soup better, I'll make you some sea-eel soup."
"Just as you please, Mother Le Gannec."
"But you always say the same thing. Ah! by Jesus! Friend Lirat was not like you at all. 'Mother Le Gannec, I want some oysters and some periwinkles.’
