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Putois
by
“‘He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one or that one.’
“‘Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond–a good-for-nothing. Don’t trust him, dearest.’
“From that time Putois had a character.'”
II
Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put them in touch with the conversation.
“We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on.”
“Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?” said Monsieur Goubin, wiping the glass of his monocle.
“Willingly,” replied Monsieur Bergeret. “There was no gardener. The gardener did not exist. My mother said: ‘I am waiting for the gardener.’ At once the gardener was. He lived.”
“Dear master,” said Monsieur Goubin, “how could he live since he did not exist?”
“He had a sort of existence,” replied Monsieur Bergeret.
“You mean an imaginary existence,” Monsieur Goubin replied, disdainfully.
“Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?” exclaimed the master. “And have not mythical beings the power to influence men! Consider mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not real beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and lasting influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have no more reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love, terror and hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and customs. Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a mythical personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest order. The coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our peasants in the North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture by Jordaens and a fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax appeared in the noble world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate, will be always neglected by artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the unusual style and character. He was conceived by minds too reasonable, among people who knew how to read and write, and who had not that delightful imagination in which fables take root. I think, Messieurs, that I have said enough to show you the real nature of Putois.”
“I understand it,” said Monsieur Goubin. And Monsieur Bergeret continued his discourse.
“Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and you will admit that a state of being by no means implies substance, and means only the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a relation.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Jean Marteau; “but a being without attributes is a being less than nothing. I do not remember who at one time said, ‘I am that I am.’ Pardon my lapse of memory. One cannot remember everything. But the unknown who spoke in that fashion was very imprudent. In letting it be understood by this thoughtless observation that he was deprived of attributes and denied all relations, he proclaimed that he did not exist and thoughtlessly suppressed himself. I wager that no one has heard of him since.”–“You have lost,” answered Monsieur Bergeret.
“He corrected the bad effect of these egotistical expressions by employing quantities of adjectives, and he is often spoken of, most often without judgment.”–“I do not understand,” said Monsieur Goubin.–“It is not necessary to understand,” replied Jean Marteau. And he begged Monsieur Bergeret to speak of Putois.–“It is very kind of you to ask me,” said the master.–“Putois was born in the second half of the nineteenth century, at Saint-Omer. He would have been better off if he had been born some centuries before in the forest of Arden or in the forest of Broceliande. He would then have been a remarkably clever evil spirit.”–“A cup of tea, Monsieur Goubin,” said Pauline.–“Was Putois, then, an evil spirit?” said Jean Marteau.–“He was evil,” replied Monsieur Bergeret; “he was, in a way, but not absolutely. It was true of him as with those devils that are called wicked, but in whom one discovers good qualities when one associates with them. And I am disposed to think that injustice has been done Putois. Madame Cornouiller, who, warned against him, had at once suspected him of being a loafer, a drunkard, and a robber, reflected that since my mother, who was not rich, employed him, it was because he was satisfied with little, and asked herself if she would not do well to have him work instead of her gardener, who had a better reputation, but expected more. The time had come for trimming the yews. She thought that if Madame Eloi Bergeret, who was poor, did not pay Putois much, she herself, who was rich, would give him still less, for it is customary for the rich to pay less than the poor. And she already saw her yews trimmed in straight hedges, in balls and in pyramids, without her having to pay much. ‘I will keep an eye open,’ she said, ‘to see that Putois does not loaf or rob me. I risk nothing, and it will be all profit. These vagabonds sometimes do better work than honest laborers. She resolved to make a trial, and said to my mother: ‘Dearest, send me Putois. I will set him to work at Mont-plaisir.’ My mother would have done so willingly. But really it was impossible. Madame Cornouiller waited for Putois at Montplaisir, and waited in vain. She followed up her ideas and did not abandon her plans. When she saw my mother again, she complained of not having any news of Putois. ‘Dearest, didn’t you tell him that I was expecting him?’–‘Yes! but he is strange, odd.’–‘Oh, I know that kind. I know your Putois by heart. But there is no workman so crazy as to refuse to come to work at Montplaisir. My house is known, I think. Putois must obey my orders, and quickly, dearest. It will be sufficient to tell me where he lives; I will go and find him myself.’ My mother answered that she did not know where Putois lived, that no one knew his house, that he was without hearth or home. ‘I have not seen him again, Madame. I believe he is hiding.’ What better could she say?”