Gertrude Atherton - The Dead and the Countess

The dead sleep peacefully -- until a railway is built near their cemetery. While the old priest works to keep them at rest, the Count's dying wife begs to be buried near the railway. But when her last wish is granted, the priest finds that the sound of the train leaves the Countess far from at peace.

With apologies for poor French pronounciation.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
It was an old cemetery, and they had been long dead.
Those who died nowadays were put in a new burying
place on the hill close to the boyd Omoor and
within the sound of the bells Ac called the Livington Mass.
But the little church where the mass was celebrated stood
faithfully beside the older dead. A new church, indeed, had
not been built in that forgotten corner of Finis Stare

(00:20):
for centuries, not since a cavalry on its pile of
stones had been raised in the tiny square, surrounded then
as now passed by gray naked cottages, not since the
castle with its round tower down on the river had
been erected for the counts of Croissac. But the stone
walls inclosing that ancient cemetery had been kept in good repair,

(00:41):
and there were no weeds within or toppling headstones. It
looked cold and gray and desolate, like all cemeteries of Brittany,
but it was made hideous neither by tawdry jewgaws nor
the license of time. And sometimes it was close to
a picture of early beauty. When the village celebrated its
yearly pardon, a great procession came out of the church,

(01:03):
priests in glittering robes, young men in the gala costume
of black and silver, holding flashing standards aloft, and many
maidens in flapping white head dress and collar, black frocks
and aprons flaunting with ribbons and lace. They marched, chanting
down the road beside the wall of the cemetery, where
lay the generations that in their day had held the banners,

(01:25):
enchanted the service of the pardon. For the dead were
the peasants and priests. The crossacks had their burying place
in a hollow of the hills behind the castle. Old
men and women had wept and died for the fishermen
that had gone to the Grand Passion returned no more.
And now and again a child slept there. Those who
walked past the dead at the pardon or after the

(01:47):
marriage ceremony, or took part in any one of the
minor religious festivals with which the Catholic village enlivens its existence,
all young and old looked grave and sad. The women
from childhood know that it is their lot to wait
and dread and weep, and the men know that the
ocean is treacherous and cruel. But the bread cannot be

(02:08):
wrung from another master. Therefore, the living have little sympathy
for the dead, who have laid down their crushing burden,
and the dead, under their stones slumber contentedly enough. There's
no envy among them for the young who wonder the
evening and pledge their troth in the boy door. More,
only pity for the groups of women who wash their

(02:29):
linen in the creek that flows to the river. They
look like pictures in the green, quiet book of Nature,
these women, in their glistening white head gear and deep collars.
But the dead no better than to envy them, and
the women and the lovers no better than to pity
the dead. The dead laid rest in their boxes and

(02:49):
thanked God. They were quiet and had found everlasting peace.
And one day even this for which they had patiently
endured life, was taken from them. The village was picturesque,
and there was none quite like it, even in finished are.
Artists discovered it and made it famous. After the artists
followed the tourists, and the old creaking diligence became an absurdity.

(03:12):
Brittany was the fashion for three months of the year,
and whenever there is a fashion, there is at least
one railway, the one built to satisfy the thousands who
wished to visit the wild, sad beauties of the west
of France, was laid along the road beside the little cemetery.
Of this tale, it takes a long while to awaken
the dead. These heard neither the voluble working men nor

(03:36):
the first snort of the engine, And of course they
neither heard nor knew of the pleadings of the old
priest that the line should be laid elsewhere. One night
he came out onto the old cemetery and sat on
a grave and wept, for he loved his dead, and
felt it to be a tragic pity that the greed
of money, and the fever of travel, and the petty

(03:57):
ambitions of men whose place was in the great city
where such ambitions were born, should shatter forever the holy
calm of those who had suffered so much on earth.
He had known many of them in life, that he
was very old, And although he believed, like all good Catholics,
in heaven and purgatory and hell, yet he always saw
his friends as he had buried them, peacefully asleep in

(04:19):
their coffins, the souls lying with folded hands like the
bodies that held them patiently awaiting the final call. He
would never have told you, this good old priest, that
he believed heaven to be a great echoing palace in
which God and the archangels dwelt alone, waiting for that
great day when the elected dead should rise and enter

(04:40):
the presence together. That he was a simple old man
who had read and thought little, But he had a
zigzag a fancy about his humble mind. And he saw
his friends and his ancestors friends, as I have related
to you, soul and body in the deep and dreaming
sleep of death. But sleep not a rotted body deserted
by its affrighted men. And to all who sleep, there

(05:01):
comes sooner or later the time of awakening. He knew
they had slept through the wild storms of rage on
the coast to finished there, when ships are flung on
the rocks and trees crashed down in the boydoor moor.
He knew that soft, slow chantings of the pardon never
struck a chord in those frozen memories, meager and monotonous

(05:23):
as their store had been, nor in the bagpipes down
in the open village hall, a mere roof on poles,
when the bride and her friends danced for three days
without a smile on their sad brown faces. All this
the dead had known in life, and it could not
disturb nor interest them now. But that hideous intruder from

(05:46):
the modern civilization, a train of cars with a screeching
engine that would shake the earth which held them, and
rend the peaceful air with such discordant sounds that neither
the dead nor the living could sleep. His life had
been one long under broken sacrifice, and he sought in
vain to imagine one greater, which he would cheerfully assume.
Could this disaster be spared? Tis dead? But the railway

(06:09):
was built, and the first night the train went screaming,
by shaking the earth and rattling the windows of the church.
He went out and out and sprinkled every grave with
holy water. And thereafter twice a day, at dawn and
at night, as the train tore a tunnel in the
quiet air, like the Plebeian upstart, it was, he sprinkled
every grave, rising sometimes from a bed of pane, and

(06:31):
at other times defying wind and rain and hail. And
for a while he believed that his holy device had
deepened the sleep of his dead locked them beyond the
power of man to awake. But one night he heard
them muttering. It was late, there were but a few
stars on a black sky. Not a breath of wind

(06:53):
came over the lonely plains beyond the wall from the sea.
There would be no recks to night in all the
world seemed at peace. The lights were out in the village.
One burned in the tower of Crossiairk, where the young
wife of the count lay ill. The priest had been
wither when the train thundered by, and she had whispered
to him, would that I were on it? Oh, this lonely,

(07:13):
lonely land, this cold, echoing chateau, with no one to
speak to, day after day. If it kills me, mont Pierre,
make him lay me in the cemetery by the road
that twice a day I may hear the train go by,
that train that goes to Paris. If they put me
down there over the hill, I shall shriek in my coffin.

(07:34):
Every night, the priest administered as best he could to
the ailing soul of the young noblewoman, with whose like
he seldom dealt, and hastened back to his dead. He mused,
as he toiled along the dark road with rheumatic legs,
on the fact that the woman should have the same
fancy as himself. Yet she really is sincere, the poor
young thing, he thought, I shall forbear to sprinkle the

(07:56):
holy water on her grave, for those who suffer while alive,
of all they desire after death. And I am afraid
the Count neglects her. But I pray God that my
dead have not heard that monster to night. And he
tugged his gown under his arm and hurriedly told his rosary.
But when he went about the graves of the Holy water,
he heard the dead muttering. Jean Marie said, a voice,

(08:20):
fumbling amongst its unused tones for forgotten notes. Art thou ready,
surely that is the last call? Nay, nay, rumbled another voice,
For that is not the sound of a trumpet fancoir.
That will be sudden, sharp and loud, like the great
blasts of the north when they come plundering over from
the sea out of the awful, gorgeous of Iceland. Dost

(08:41):
thou remember them, Francois, Thank the good God they spared
us to die in our beds with our grandchildren about us,
and only the little wind sighing in the boyd a
more ah, the poor comrades had died in their manhood,
and went to the Grand pesche once too often, dost
thou remember in the great curled round Ignaci like his

(09:01):
poor wife's arms, and we saw him no more. We
clasped each other's hands, for we believed that we would follow.
But we lived and went again and again to the
Grand presh, and died in our beds. They said you,
why dost thou think of that now here in the grave,
where it matters not even to the living. I know not,
But it was of that night, when Ignaci went down

(09:23):
that I thought that living breath went out at me.
Of what didst thou think? As thou layest dying of
the money I owed to Dominique and could not pay.
I sow to ask my son to pay it. That
death came suddenly, and I could not speak. Garden knows
how they treat my name today in the village of
CINTILII thou art forgotten, murmured another voice. I died forty

(09:46):
years after thee and men remember not so long and
finished there. But their son was my friend, and I
remember he paid that money. And my son, what of him?
Is he here too? Nay? He lies deep in the
northern sea. It was his second voyage, and he had
returned with a purse for the young wife the first time.
But he returned no more, and she washed in the

(10:08):
river for the Dames of the Crossiak, and day by
day she died. I would have married her, but she
said it was enough to lose one husband. I married another.
And she grew ten years with every three, and I
went to the Grand fresh alas Writtney. She has no youth,
and thou wert thou an old man? When thou camest

(10:29):
here sixty my wife came first, like many wids. She
lies here? Jin is that thy voice? My husband? Not
the Lord Jesus Christ's. What miracle is this? I thought
that terrible sound was the trumpet of doom. It could
not be old Gin, for we are still in our graves.
When the trump sounds, we shall have wings and robes

(10:52):
of light and fly straight up to heaven. Hast thou
slept well? Hi? But why are we awakened? Is it
time for purgatory? Oh? Have we been there? The Good
God knows? I remember nothing that frightened would that I
could hold thy hand, as when thou didst slip from
life into that long sleeve. Thoudst fear yet welcome. I

(11:15):
am frightened, my husband, But it is sweet to hear
thy voice, hoarse and hollow, though it is from the
mold of the grave. Thank the good God, thou didst
bury me with the rosary in my hands. She began
telling the beads rapidly. If God is good, cried once
more harshly, and his voice came plainly to the priest's ears,
as if the lid of the coffin had rotted. Why

(11:37):
are we weakened before our time? What foul fiend was it?
The thundered and screamed through the frozen avenues of my brain.
Has God perchance been vanquished? And does the evil one
reign in his stead? Thou blasphemist, God reigns now and always,
but a punishment he has laid upon us for the
sins of the earth. Truly, we were punished enough before

(12:00):
we descended into the peace of this narrow house. Ah,
but it is dark and cold. Shall we lie like
this for an eternity? Perhaps? On earth? We longed for death,
but feared the grave I would that I were alive again,
poor and old and alone and in pain. It were
better than this. Cursed a foul fiend woke us. Curse not,

(12:24):
my son, said a soft voice, and the priest stood
up and uncovered and crossed himself, for it was the
voice of his aged predecessor. I cannot tell you what
this is, and what has rudely shaken us from our
graves and freed our spirits of their blessed thralldom. And
I like not the consciousness of this narrow house, this
load of earth on my tired heart. But it is right,

(12:45):
and it must be right, or it would not be
at all. For a baby cried softly, hopelessly, and from
a grave beyond came a mother's anguish attempt to still it.
Oh the good God, she cried, I too, thought it
was my great call, And in that moment I should
rise and find my child and go to make Nazi,
and my Nazi, whose bones lie white on the floor

(13:06):
of the sea. Will he find them, my father, when
the dead shall rise again to lie here and doubt
that were worse than life? Yes, yes, said the priest,
All will be well, my daughter. But all is not well,
my father, for my baby cries, and it is alone

(13:27):
in a little box in the ground, and if I
could claw my way to it with my hands, my
old mother lies between us. Tell your beads, commanded the
priest sternly, tell your beads, all of you, and all
ye that have not your beads, say the Hail Mary
one hundred times. Immediately a rapid, monotonous muttering arose from

(13:48):
every lonely chamber of that desecrated ground. All obeyed, but
the baby, who still moaned with the hopeless grief of
a deserted child. The living priest knew that they would
talk no more that night, and went to the church
to pray till dawn. He was sick with horror and terror,
but not for himself. When the sky was pink and
the air was full of the sweet scents of morning,

(14:11):
and a piercing scream tore a rent in the early silences,
he hastened and sprinkled his graves with double allowance of
holy water. The train rattled by with two short erisive shrieks,
and before the earth had ceased to tremble, the priest
laid his ear to the ground alas they was still awake.

(14:32):
A fiend is undow way again, said Jean Marie. And
as he passed, I felt the finger of God touch
my brow. It can do us no harm. I too
felt that heavenly caress, exclaimed the priest. And I and
I and I came from every grave with the babies.
The Priest of the earth, deeply, thankful that his simple

(14:54):
device had comforted them, went rapidly down the road to
the castle. He forgot that he not broken his fist
or slept. The count was one of the directors of
the railroad, and to him he would make one final appeal.
It was early, but no one slept at the crosierk
The young countess was dead. A great bishop had arrived

(15:16):
in the night and administered the last rites. The priest
hopefully asked if he might venture into the presence of
the bishop, and, after a long wait in the kitchen,
was told that he could speak with Monsieur Yvique. He
followed the servant up the wide spiral stair of the tower,
and from its twenty eighth step entered a room hung
with purple cloth and stamped with gold fleur de lys.

(15:39):
The bishop lay six feet above the floor on one
of those splendid carved cabinet beds that are built against
the walls in Brittany. Heavy curtains shrouded his cold white face.
The priest, who was small and bowed, felt immeasurably below
that august presence, and sought for words. What is it,
my son, asked the bishop his cold, weary voice. Is

(16:02):
the matter so pressing? I am very tired? Brokenly, nervously.
The priest told his story, and as he stroved to
convey the tragedy of the tormented dead, he not only
felt the poverty of his expression, for he was little
used to narrative, but the torturing thought that sailed him,
that what he said sounded wild and unnatural, reel as
it was to him, but he was not prepared for

(16:23):
its effect on the Bishop. He was standing in the
middle of the room, whose gloom was softened and gilded
by the waxen lights of huge candelabra, and his eyes,
which had wandered in ceasingly from one massive piece of
carved furniture to the next, suddenly lit upon the bed,
and he stopped abruptly, his tongue rolling out. The Bishop

(16:44):
was sitting up. He was livid with the wrath, and
this was thy matter of life and death. Thou prattling
on madman, he thundered, And for this string of foolish lies,
I'm kept away from my rest as if I was
another old lunatic like thyself. Thou art not fit to
be a priest, and thou have the care of souls tomorrow.
But the priest had fled, wringing his hands as he

(17:09):
stumbled down the winding stair. He ran straight into the
arms of the Count. Monsieur de Crosiac had just closed
the door behind him. He opened it, and, leading the
priest into the room, pointed to his dead countess, who
lay high up against the wall on the pale pedestals
at the head and foot of her magnificent couch. The
pale flames rose from the tarnish golden candlesticks. The blue

(17:32):
hangings of the room were faded, like the rugs on
the old dim floor. For the splendor of the Crossiacs
had departed with the Baubon. The count lived in the
old chateau because he must. But he reflected bitterly tonight
that if he had made the mistake of bringing a
young girl to it, there were several things he might
have done to save her from despair and death. Pray

(17:55):
for her, he said to the priest, and you will
bury her in the old cemetery was her last record.
He went out, and the priest sank on his knees
and mumbled his prayers for the dead. But his eyes
wandered to the high, narrow windows through which the countess
had stared for hours and days, stared at the fishermen
sailing north of the Grand Fleche, followed along the shore

(18:17):
of the river by wives and mothers, until their boats
were caught in the great waves of the ocean beyond.
Often had nought more animate than the dark flood, the
wooded banks, the ruins, the rain driving like needles through
the water. The priest had eaten nothing since his meager
breakfast at twelve the day before, and his imagination was active.

(18:38):
He wondered if the soul was up there, rejoicing in
the death of the beautiful, restless body, the passionate, brooding mind.
He could not see her face from where he knelt,
only the waxen hands. He wondered if the face was
peaceful in death, or peevish and angry, as when he
had seen it last, yet the great change had smothered
and sealed it. Then perhaps the soul would sink deep

(18:59):
and the dark waters, grateful for oblivion, and that cursed
train would not awaken it for years to come. Curiosity
succeeded wonder. He cut his prayers short, got to his weary,
swollen feet, and pushed a chair to the bed. He
mounted it and his faces close to the dead woman's

(19:20):
alas it was not peaceful. It was stamped with the
tragedy of a bitter renunciation. After all, she had been
young and at last had died unwillingly. There was still
a fierce tenseness about the nostrils, and her upper lip
was curled, as if her last word had been a curse.
But she was still very beautiful, despite the emaciation of

(19:42):
her features. Her lashes looked too heavy for the sunken cheeks.
Beuvois Petit, thought the priest. No, she will not rest,
nor will she wish to I will not sprinkle holy
water on her grave. It is wondrous that the monster
can give comfort to anyone, But if he can, so
be it. And he went into the little oratory adjoining

(20:06):
the bedroom and trade more fervently, but when the watchers
came an hour later, they found him in a stupor,
huddled at the foot of the altar. When he awoke,
he was in his own house beside the church. It
was four days before they would let him rise and
go about his duties, and by that time the countess
was in her grave. The old housekeeper left him to

(20:26):
take care of himself. It was raining thinly, a gray,
quiet rain that blurred the landscape and soaked the ground
in the boydio. More, it was so wet about the graves, too,
that the priest had given little heed to the elements
in his long life. Her crucified self, And as he
heard the remote echo of the evening train, he hastened
out with his holy water and sprinkled every grave but one.

(20:50):
When the train sped by, then he knelt and listened eagerly.
It was five days since he had knelt there last.
Perhaps they had sunk again to rest. In a moment,
he wrung his hands and raised them to the heaven.
All the earth beneath him was filled with lamentation. They
wailed for mercy, for peace, for rest. They cursed the

(21:11):
foul fiend who had shattered the locks of death, and
among the voices of the men, and the children and
the women, the priest distinguished the quavering notes of his
aged predecessor, not cursing but praying with bitter entreaty. The
baby was screaming with the accents of mortal terror, and
his mother was too frantic to care alas cried the

(21:33):
voice of Jean Marie, that they never told us what
purgatory was like. Whether the priests know when we were
threatened with punishment for our sins? Not a hint if
we have of this To sleep for a few hours,
haunted with a moment of awakening, and then a cruel
insult from the earth that is now tired of us,
and the orchestra hell again and again and again, Oh God,

(21:57):
how long? How long? The priest stumbled to his feet
and run over the graves and paths to the mound
above the countess. There he would hear a voice praising
the monster of night and dawn, a note of content
in this terrible chorus of despair, which he believed would
drive him mad. He vowed that on the morrow he
would move his dead, and if he had to, and

(22:19):
bury them with his own hands. And carry them up
the hill to graves of his own. Making for a
moment he heard no sound. He knelt and laid his
ear to the grave, and then pressed it more closely,
and held his breath. A long rumbling moon reached it,
then another and another, but there were no words. Is

(22:41):
she moaning in sympathy with my poor friends? He thought?
Or have they terrified her? Why does she not speak
to them? Perhaps they would forget their plight were she
to tell him of the world they have left so long,
and it was not their world. Perhaps it is that
which distresses her, for she will be lonely. You hear
than on earth.

Speaker 2 (23:01):
Ah, a sharp, horrified cry pierced to his ears, and
in a gasping shriek, and another, all dying away in
a dreadful, smothered rumble. The priest rose and wrung his hands,
looking to the wet skies hed inspiration alas he sobbed.
She is not content. She's made a terrible mistake. She

(23:22):
would rest in the deep, sweet peace of death. And
that monster of iron had fired, And the frantic dead
about her are tormenting a soul so tormented in life.
They may be rest for her in the vault behind
the castle. But not here, I know, and I shall
do my duty now. At once, he gathered his robes

(23:43):
about him and ran as fast as his old legs
and rheumatic feet would take him towards the chateau. The
lights gleamed through the rain, and on the bank near
the river, he met a fisherman and begged to be
taken by boat. The fisherman wondered who had picked up
the priest in his strong arms, lowered him into the boat,
and rowed swiftly towards the chateau. When they landed, he

(24:04):
made fast. I will wait for you in the kitchen,
my father, he said, and the priest blessed him and
hurried up to the castle once more. He entered through
the door of the great kitchen, with its blue tiles,
its glittering brass, and bronze warming pans, which had comforted
nobles and monarchs in the days of the crossacks splendor.

(24:24):
He sank into a chair beside the stove, while a
maid hastened to the count. She returned while the priest
was still shivering, and announced that her master would see
his holy visitor in the library. It was a dreary room,
where the Count sat waiting for the priest. It smelled
of musty calf for the books on the shelves were old.
A few novels and newspapers lay on the heavy table,

(24:47):
and a fire burnt in the grate, but the paper
on the wall was very dark, and the fleur de
lys were tarnished and dull. The Count, when at home,
divided his time between the library and the water when
he could not chase the boar or stag in the forests,
but he often went to Paris, where he could afford
the life of a bachelor in a wing of his
great hotel. And he had known too much of the

(25:09):
extravagance of women to give his wife the key of
the faded salons. He had loved the beautiful girl when
he married her, but his repinings and bitter discontent had
alienated him, and during the past year he had held
himself aloof from her in sullen resentment. Too late, he
understood and dreamed passionately of atonement. She had been a

(25:31):
high spirited, brilliant, eager creature, and her unsatisfied mind had
dwelt constantly on the world she had vividly enjoyed for
one year, and he had given her so little in return.
He rose as the presentered, and bowed low. The visit
bored him, but the good old priest commanded his respect. Moreover,

(25:51):
he had performed many offices and writes in his family.
He moved a chair towards his guest, but the old
man shook his head, and nurse obviously twisted his hands together.
Alas Monsieur, he said, it may be that you too
will tell me that I am an old lunatic, as
did Monsieur le Vic. Yet I must speak, even if
you tell your servants to fling me out of the chateau.

(26:14):
The Count had started slightly. He recalled a certain acid
comment of the bishop, followed by a statement that the
young curie should be sent gently to supersede the old priest,
who was in his dutage. But he replied, suavely, you know,
my father, that in no one in this castle will
ever show you disrespect. Say what you want, have no fear,

(26:34):
but will you not sit down? I'm so tired.

Speaker 1 (26:40):
The priest took the chair and fixed his eyes appealingly
on the count. It is this, monsieur, He spoke rapidly,
lest his courage should go that terrible train, with its
brute of iron and live coals and foul smoke and
screeching throat. As a weakened by dead. I guarded them
with holy water, and they heard it. Not until one night,

(27:00):
when I missed. I was with Madame as the train
shrieked by shaking the nail out of the coffin. I
had it back, But the mischief was done. The dead
were awake. The dear sleep of eternity was shattered. They
thought it was the last trump, and wondered why they
were still in their graves. But they talked together, and

(27:22):
it was not so bad at first. But now now
they are frantic. They're in hell, and I have come
to beseech you to see that they are moved up
farther up the hill. Think, think, monsieur, what it is
to have the last song asleep of the graves so
rudely disturbed the sleep for which we all live and

(27:44):
endure so patiently. He stopped abruptly and caught his breath.
The count listened without a change of countenance, convinced that
he was facing a madman. But the fires wearied him,
and involuntarily his hand had moved towards the bell on
the monsieur, not yet, not yet panted the priest. It

(28:05):
is of the countess that I come to speak. I've forgotten.
She told me she wished to lie there and listen
to the train go by to Paris. So I sprinkled
no holy water on her grave. But she too is
wretched and horror stricken, Monsieur. Her coffin is new and strong,
and I cannot hear her words. But I have heard
those of frightful sounds coming from her grave tonight, Monsieur,

(28:25):
I swear it on the cross, Oh, monsieur, thou dost
believe me? At last? And for a moment, the Count,
as white as the woman had been in her coffin
and shaking from head to foot, had staggered from his chair,
and was staring at the priest as if he saw
the goost of his countess. You heard, he gasped, She

(28:45):
is not at piece, Monsieur. She moans and shrieks in
a terrible, smothered way, as if a hand were on
her mouth. But he had uttered the last of his words.
The Count had suddenly recovered himself and dashed from the room,
passed his hands slowly across his forehead, and sank slowly
to the floor. He will see that I spoke the

(29:07):
truth he thought as he fell asleep, And to morrow
he will intercede for my poor friends. The priest lies
high on the hill, where no train will ever disturb him,
and his old comrades of the violated cemetery are close
about him. For the count and Countess of Crossiak, who
adore his memory, hastened to give him a death which

(29:30):
he had most desired in the last of his life.
And with them all things a well, for a man
too may be born again, and without descending into the grave.