Then began the life out upon the open sea, in the
solitude of three or four rough companions, on the
moving thin planks in the midst of the seething waters
of the northern seas.
Until now La Marie followed the custom of many
Icelanders, which is merely to touch at Paimpol, and
then to sail down to the Gulf of Gascony, where fish
fetches high prices, or farther on to the Sandy Isles,
with their salty swamps, where they buy the salt for
the next expedition. The crews of lusty fellows
stay a few days in the southern, sun-kissed harbour-towns,
intoxicated by the last rays of summer, by the sweetness
of the balmy air, and by the downright jollity of youth.
With the mists of autumn they return home to Paimpol,
or to the scattered huts of the land of Goelo, to
remain some time in their families, in the midst of
love, marriages, and births. Very often they
find unseen babies upon their return, waiting for godfathers
ere they can be baptized, for many children are needed
to keep up this race of fishermen, which the Icelandic
Moloch devours.
At Paimpol, one fine evening of this same year, upon
a Sunday in June, two women were deeply busy in writing
a letter. This took place before a large open
window, with a row of flowerpots on its heavy old granite
sill.
As well as could be seen from their bending over the
table, both were young. Once wore a very large
old-fashioned cap; the other quite a small one, in
the new style adopted by the women of Paimpol.
They might have been taken for two loving lasses writing
a tender missive to some handsome Icelander.
The one who dictated—the one with the large
head-dress—drew up her head, wool-gathering.
Oh, she was old, very old, notwithstanding her look
from behind, in her small brown shawl—we
mean downright old. A sweet old granny, seventy
at least. Very pretty, though, and still fresh-coloured,
with the rosy cheeks some old people have. Her
coiffe was drawn low upon the forehead and
upon the top of the head, was composed of two or three
large rolls of muslin that seemed to telescope out
of one another, and fell on to the nape. Her venerable
face, framed in the pure white pleats, had almost
a man’s look, while her soft, tender eyes wore
a kindly expression. She had not the vestige of
a tooth left, and when she laughed she showed her
round gums, which had still the freshness of youth.
Although her chin had become as pointed “as
the toe of a sabot” (as she was in the
habit of saying), her profile was not spoiled by time;
and it was easily imagined that in her youth it had
been regular and pure, like the saints’ adorning
a church.
She looked through the window, trying to think of
news that might amuse her grandson at sea. There
existed not in the whole country of Paimpol another
dear old body like her, to invent such funny stories
upon everybody, and even upon nothing. Already
in this letter there were three or four merry tales,
but without the slightest mischief, for she had nothing
ill-natured about her.
