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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Eug√®ne Sue's "The Branding Needle; or, The Monastery of Charolles" intricately weaves a tale of intrigue and moral governance, set against the backdrop of 19th-century France. This novel, rich in melodrama and social critique, employs a narrative style that combines vivid descriptions with engaging dialogue, embodying the romantic tradition of the time. Sue explores themes of class struggle, justice, and the consequences of malevolent power, as his characters navigate a labyrinth of conspiracies entwined with the monastic order. The novel's historical context sheds light on the changing social dynamics of post-revolutionary France, reflecting the rapid industrialization and the rise of urban proletariats during a critical period in European history. Eug√®ne Sue, a novelist and political activist, emerged as a prominent figure during the Romantic era and was deeply influenced by the social inequities he witnessed in France. His earlier works, particularly in the genre of feuilleton, allowed him to critique societal injustices and advocate for reform. Sue'Äôs personal experiences, including his family's financial struggles and his activism against the monarchy, shaped his narrative techniques and thematic concerns, providing a voice for the marginalized through his compelling storytelling. I highly recommend "The Branding Needle" for readers interested in the interplay of historical context and social commentary in literature. Sue's ability to evoke empathy for his characters while illuminating the societal ills of his time makes this work both poignant and relevant. This novel is a must-read for anyone seeking to understand the complexities of human morality and institutional power in the tapestry of 19th-century France.
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The Branding Needle; or, The Monastery of Charolles
Table of Contents
PART I
THE VALLEY OF CHAROLLES
CHAPTER I.
THE SIGNAL.
About fifty years have elapsed since King Clotaire had his son Chram burned alive together with the latter's wife and daughters. Let us forget the spectacle of desolation that conquered Gaul continues to present under the descendants of Clovis for the last fifty years, and rest our eyes upon the Valley of Charolles.
Oh, the fathers of the happy inhabitants who people that corner of the land did not bend their necks under the yoke of either Frankish seigneurs or Gallic bishops. No, no—they proved the old Gallic blood still flowed in their veins. The consequence is noticed in the picture of dignified felicity that the valley offers. Behold on the slope of the hill the cosy homes half shaded by vines, that carpet the walls and the ripe maturity and luxuriant quality of which are attested by their leaves and grapes that the autumn sun has reddened and gilt. Each of the houses is surrounded by a garden of flowers with a clump of shade-giving trees. Never did the eye of man dwell upon a more smiling village. A village? No; it rather resembles a large borough. From at least six to seven hundred houses are scattered on the slope of that hill, without counting the vast thatched structures that are situated below on the meadow, which is watered by a river that rises to the north of the valley, crosses it and forms its boundary far away where the horizon dips. Yonder the river parts in two arms; one flows eastward, the other westward, after bathing in its course the feet of a forest of gigantic chestnut trees from between the tops of which the roof of a tall stone building is perceived, surmounted by a cross of iron.
No, never yet was promised land better calculated to reward industry with abundance. Half way up the slope of the hill, the purple colored vines; above the vineyards, the agricultural fields, on which the stubble of rye and wheat left from the last harvest is here and there seen burning. The fertile acreage stretches up to the skirts of the forests that crown the surrounding eminences, within which the spacious valley is locked. Below the vineyards are meadowlands watered by the river. Numerous flocks of sheep and herds of horses browse and graze upon the succulent pasture. The bells of the bulls and wethers are heard tinkling their rural melody. Here and yonder carts drawn by oxen slowly roll over the ground where the stubble was burned the day before, or four-wheeled wagons slowly descend the slopes of the vineyards and wend their way towards the common wine-presses, which, together with the stables, the sheep-folds and the pig-sties, all alike common, are located in the neighborhood of the river. Several workshops also lie contiguous to the river; the wash and spinning houses, where the flax is prepared and the wool washed preparatorily to being transformed into warm clothing; there also are situated the tanneries, the forges, the mills equipped with enormous grind-stones. Peace, security, contentment and work are seen everywhere reflected in the valley. The sound of the beetles of the washerwomen and the curriers, the clang of the blacksmiths' hammers, the joyful cries of the men and women engaged at the vintage, the rythmic chant of the husbandmen keeping time to the even and slow gait of the draft-oxen, the rustic flute of the shepherds,—all these sounds, including the hum of the swarming bees, another set of indefatigable toilers, who are busily gathering the honey from the last autumnal flowers,—all these different sounds, from the furthest and vaguest to the nearest and loudest, mingle into one harmony that is at once sweet and imposing; it is the voice of labor and happiness rising heavenward as a continuous thanksgiving.
What is it that is going on in yonder house, which, although constructed like all the others, nevertheless, being nearest to the crest of the hill, seems to be the culminating point of the settlement, and commands a full view of the valley? Dressed in festive garb, the dwellers of that house are seen going in and out. They are seen heaping dry vine twigs in a sort of pyre at a goodly distance from the door. Young girls and children are seen and heard merrily bringing in their arms their contributions of dry wood, and running off again for more combustibles. A short old woman, with hair as white as silver, dainty, comely and still quick despite her advanced age, superintends the preparation of the pyre. As all old women are apt to do, she finds fault and sermonizes—but not in anger, on the contrary. Listen to her:
"Oh, those young girls, those young girls! Always giddy-headed! Work more and laugh less; the pyre is not yet high enough. What does it avail that you rose at early dawn in order to finish your daily tasks before your companions, if you now only frolic instead of hastening the work on the pyre? I am quite sure that more than one impatient look is being cast up here from the valley below, and that more than one voice is saying: 'What may they be up to on the hill that they do not yet give us the signal? Can they be asleep as in winter?' I am certain such are the serious suspicions that you are exposing yourselves to, you eternal gigglers! Such are the pranks of your age. I know it, I should not blame you; but remember that the days are short at this season; before our good men shall have had time to lead the cattle back from the fields, stalled the draft-oxen and the wagons, and put on their holiday clothes, the sun will be down. We shall not be able to reach the monastery until after dark, and the community expects the signal from us before sunset."
"A few more armfuls of dry wood, dame Odille, and all that will be left to do will be to set it on fire," answered a handsome lassie of sixteen years with blue eyes and black hair; "I shall take charge of lighting the pyre; you will see how bold I can be!"
"Oh, Fulvia, your grandmother, my old friend the Bishopess, is right, indeed, when she says that you are a dare-devil."
"My good grandmother is like yourself, dame Odille; her scoldings are but caresses; she loves all that is young and gay."
"And I presume you act so crazily merely in order to please her?"
"Yes, dame Odille; because you must know that it costs me a good deal, it is awfully hard for me to be gay! Alas! Alas!"
And the lass punctuated each exclamation with such a hearty outburst of laughter and droll action, that the good little old woman could not refrain from following the example. Whereupon she said:
"As true as this is the fiftieth time that we celebrate the anniversary of our settling in the Valley of Charolles, I never saw a girl of a more unalterably happy disposition than yours, my lovely Fulvia."
"Fifty years! How awfully long that is, dame Odille. It seems to me I could never live to see fifty years!"
"It looks that way at your charming age of sixteen; but to me, Fulvia, these fifty years of peace and happiness have sped like a dream—except, of course, the evil year when I saw Ronan's father die, and lost my first-born son."
"Look, dame Odille! There are your consolations, now coming up from the field!"
These "consolations" were her husband Ronan himself and his second son Gregory, a man now of mature age who was, in turn, accompanied by his two children, Guenek, a strapping lad of twenty, and Asilyk, a handsome girl of eighteen. Despite his white hair and beard, and despite his seventy-five years, Ronan the Vagre was still quick of motion, vigorous and frolicsome as ever.
"Good evening," he called out to his wife as he embraced her; "good evening, little Odille."
And after him it was the turn of Gregory and his children to embrace the dame.
"Good evening, dear mother."
"Good evening, dear grandmother."
"Do you hear them?" put in Ronan's wife with that smile that sits so charming on the lips of happy elderly people. "Do you hear them? To these two I am 'grandmother,' and for this one here I am 'Little Odille.'"
"Even when you will be a hundred years old, and you will surely reach that age, by the faith of Ronan! I shall always call you 'Little Odille' just as, my little Odille, I shall always call these two friends who are approaching the 'Master of the Hounds' and the 'Bishopess.'"
Just then the Master of the Hounds and his wife joined the group where Ronan stood; the heads of both the new arrivals had been whitened with age, but their faces beamed with happiness.
"Ho! Ho! How fine you look, my old companion, with your new blouse and embroidered cap! And you, beautiful Bishopess, you are no less gorgeously arrayed!"
"Ronan, by the faith of an old Vagre!" said the Master of the Hounds, "I love my Fulvia, in the matron's dress that she now wears, with her brown robe and her coif as white as her hair, as much as I did when she wore her orange skirt, blue sash, gold necklace and silver embroidered red stockings. Do you remember, Ronan? Do you?"
"Odille, if my husband and yours begin to talk about olden days, we shall not arrive at the monastery until to-morrow morning. But Loysik is waiting for us. Let us start."
"Beautiful and wise Bishopess, we shall hearken unto you," merrily replied Ronan. "Come, Gregory; come, my children; let us start, that will take us all the quicker to my good brother Loysik."
A minute later, Fulvia, the grandchild of the Bishopess, came out of the house with several of her girl friends, with a lighted brand in her hand, wherewith she set the pyre on fire. The gladsome cries of the girls and children greeted the bright and sparkling column of fire that mounted heavenward. At the signal, the people down in the valley who were still at work in the fields, started homeward, and an hour later they marched in a body, men, women and children, the old and the young, in festive groups to the monastery of Charolles.
CHAPTER II.
THE ANNUAL CELEBRATION.
The monastic establishment of Charolles was a large sized and solid stone building, without any ornamentation whatever. Besides the cells of the monks, it contained within its precincts a granary, a chapel, a hospital for the male patients of the valley, and a school for young children. During the fifty years of the existence of the settlement, the monk laborers re-elected Loysik every year their superior, and, a strange thing in these days, they all remained lay, Loysik having ever warned them against rashly binding themselves by eternal vows and confounding themselves with the clergy. The monks of the monastery of Charolles lived under rules which they established for themselves and rigorously observed. The discipline of the Order of St. Benoit, which was adopted by a large number of the monasteries of Gaul, seemed to Loysik, by reason of some of its statutes, to either annihilate or at least, degrade human conscience, reason and dignity. If, for instance, the superior ordered a monk to do a thing that was physically impossible, then the monk, after having humbly informed his chief of the impossibility of what was demanded of him, was in duty bound to bow before the order. Another of the statutes provided literally: "It is not allowed to a monk to have his own body and will under his own command." Worst of all it was formally forbidden a monk "to either defend or protect his fellow monk, even though they be united by the bonds of consanguinity." Such a voluntary renunciation of the tenderest and self-respecting impulses; such an abnegation of conscience and of human reason, carried to the point of imbecility; such passive obedience, which turns man into a soulless machine, a species of corpse, seemed too absurd to Loysik, and he resisted the invasion of Charolles by the rules of the Order of St. Benoit, however generally accepted they otherwise were in Gaul.
Loysik presided over the labors of the monastery, and himself took part in them until with old age his strength no longer permitted him to do so. He tended the sick, and assisted by several other brothers he taught the children of the inhabitants of the valley. In the evening, after the hard work of the day, he gathered the brothers around him; in summer, under the vault of the gallery that surrounded the inside yard of the cloister; in winter, in the refectory. There, faithful to the traditions of his family, he narrated to his brothers the glories of ancient Gaul, and the deeds of the valiant heroes of olden times, thus keeping alive in the hearts of all the sacred cult of the fatherland, and combating the feeling of discouragement that often seized upon the firmest spirits at the sight of the abject plight in which all the Gallic provinces subject to Frankish rule found themselves.
The community had thus lived peacefully and industriously for many years under the direction of Loysik. Rarely had he occasion to restore harmony among the brothers. Nevertheless, a few ferments of fleeting dissension, speedily, however, allayed by the ascendency of the aged monk laborer, manifested themselves ever and anon. The following was the source of these untoward events:
Although absolutely free and independent in all that concerned its internal regulations, the election of its superior, the disposition of the yield of the land which it cultivated, nevertheless the monastery of Charolles was subject to the jurisdiction of the diocese of the bishop; moreover, the prelate had the right to place at the monastery the priests of his own choice to read mass, administer communion and the other sacraments, and officiate in the chapel of the monastery which was also the place of religious worship for the other inhabitants of the Valley of Charolles. Loysik submitted to these requirements which the times imposed, in order to insure the tranquility of his brothers and of the other inhabitants of the Valley. But the priests, who thus entered the bosom of the lay cloister, sought more than once to sow discord among the monk laborers, saying to some that they devoted too little time to prayer, urging others to enter the church and become ecclesiastical monks, and thus share the power of the clergy. More than once did these underhanded manoeuvres reach the ears of Loysik who would then firmly address these concocters of dissension in these terms:
"Who labors prays. Jesus of Nazareth severely condemns the do-nothings who will not move with one of their fingers the heavy burdens and grievous to be borne which they lay on their brothers' shoulders and for a pretence make long prayers. We want no idlers here. We are all brothers, and the children of one God. Whether a monk be lay or ecclesiastic they are all alike, provided they live Christian lives. If any there be who, having done his full share in the work of the cloister, chooses to employ in prayer the leisure that man needs after work, he is free to do so—as free as are other members of our community to employ their leisure in the cultivation of flowers, in reading, in conversation with their friends, in fishing, in promenading, in singing, in designing manuscripts, or in any other accomplishment, including the exercise of arms, seeing that we live in days when it is often necessary to repel force with force, and defend one's own life and the lives of his family against violence. Accordingly, in my eyes, he who, after work, seeks honest recreation, is as worthy as he who employs his leisure in prayer. Only idlers are impious! We despise all those who refuse to work."
Loysik was so universally venerated and the community was so happy and thriving that the outside priests never succeeded in permanently disturbing its quiet and harmony. Moreover, Loysik owned both the land and the buildings of the monastery by virtue of an authentic charter issued to him by King Clotaire. Accordingly, the prelates of Chalon found themselves obliged to respect his rights, while they never desisted from pursuing their ends through perfidious means.
On this day the colony and community of Charolles had a holiday. The monk laborers strove to give the best possible reception to their friends of the Valley, who, agreeable to a long established custom, came to thank Loysik for the happy life that they owed him, these descendants of Vagres, brave devils whom the monk's word had converted. Only once a year was the freely adopted rule suspended that interdicted the admittance of women to the cloister. The monks were setting up long tables wherever any could be placed, in the refectory, in the halls where they worked at several manual industries, under the open galleries that ran around the inner courtyard, and even in the yard itself, which, on such solemn and festive occasions, was over-roofed by sheets of linen held fast with cords. In fact, there were tables even in the hall of arms. What! An arsenal in a monastery? Yes. The arms of the Vagres, the founders of the colony and the community, had all been deposited there—a wise measure, advised by Loysik, and which the monk laborers and colonists appreciated at the time when the troops of Chram attacked the Valley. No similar occurrence had happened again since then, but the arsenal was carefully kept and increased. Twice each month, both in the village and the community, the men exercised themselves in the handling of arms, an ever useful precaution in these days, Loysik would say, when one might from one moment to another be called upon to repel some armed band of the Frankish seigneurs.
