DISCOVERY 



273 



making this comparison between Fenelon's somewhat 

 artificial description of the ancient classical world 

 and the verj' real pictures of nature with which she 

 was surrounded that her mind developed in its particu- 

 lar direction. 



Almost simultaneously with the writing of her first 

 poems slie determined to give up weaving, owing to 

 the detrimental effect which work under such terrible 

 conditions as those already mentioned was having 

 on her health, and become a general servant. The 

 history of letters contains many pathetic stories, 

 but I think there is hardl}- one sadder than that which 

 opened at this period of Rose Harel's life. Her entering 

 into service was the signal for a multitude of misfor- 

 tunes and, worse still, persecutions, which only ended 

 with her death. During more than thirty years she 

 passed from house to house in Vimoutiers. Pont 

 I'Eveque, and Lisieux, hardly ever treated with 

 consideration, and frequently ill-treated and ill-fed. 

 Norman housewives could not understand this woman 

 with high, intellectual forehead and most intelligent 

 eyes, who showed so keen a desire for learning and who 

 wrote poetry in her leisure hours ; they looked upon 

 her as a vain creature, apeing the manners of w'omen 

 of education, and they even declared she was a folk. 

 How deeply she felt this attitude may be realised 

 from the poem, written when she was thirty, begin- 

 ning "J'ai vecu longtemps pauvre, mais sans 

 orgueil " {Long have I li\-ed in poverty, but without 

 pride) . 



Losing place after place, Rose Harel at last endea- 

 voured, as far as lay in her power, to hide the talent 

 which a number of friends belonging to the more 

 intellectual section of the inhabitants of Pont I'Eveque 

 and Lisieux had helped to foster. But in repressing 

 her instinctive desire to put her impressions on paper 

 she suffered much mentally. Moreover, whilst work- 

 ing in the cellar at Vimoutiers she had contracted 

 tuberculosis, and her bodily health began to show signs 

 of decline. After the appearance of her first volume 

 of poems, which was published in 1864 by private 

 subscription, principally^ through the efforts of one of 

 her most enthusiastic admirers, M. Adolphe Bordes, 

 she was no longer able to obtain a good position as a 

 servant. She sank lower and lower, until, mentally 

 cast dowii and undermined by disease, she was driven 

 to accept a situation with a cheese-merchant on the 

 Boulevard de Pont rEvec|ue, at Lisieux, who employed 

 her in scraping cheeses and in doing the rough work 

 about the house. It was there — in a cold, pestilential, 

 windowless cellar — that a literary lady of Lisieux, 

 Mme. Marie de Besneray, who had been struck by the 

 beauty of her poems, found her one winter's day, and 

 rescuing her from bondage, provided for all her needs 

 for the few remaining years of her life. 



On July 5, 1SS5, the poetess died in the arms of 

 the excellent woman who had befriended her. Not 

 long before, the cure of the parish of Lisieux had been 

 summoned to administer the last sacraments, but Rose 

 declined to see him. " Ce monsieur le cure-la," she 

 said to Mme. de Besneray, " is too grand a gentleman 

 for me. ... I do not want this fine cathedral God 

 whom he brings to me. ... If you wish to brmg any- 

 one to see me, find a good, very simple God, a good God 

 of the countryside." A hon Dieu de campagne was 

 found in the cure of Beuvillers, who persuaded her 

 to observe the rules of the Church, but " on condition," 

 she said, " that there are plenty of flowers." Her 

 thoughts to the last were centred on the pageantry 

 of nature. 



Rose Harel's two volumes — L'Aloiielk' aiix bles, 

 published in 1864, and Fleiirs d'automne, published in 

 1885 under the auspices of Mme. de Besneray — contain 

 abundant evidence that the things of nature moved her 

 deeply. Her poetry, it is true, is unequal, which 

 is not in the least surprising, but it is sweet and musical, 

 and moreover her descriptions of the country are 

 characterised by the strength and simplicity of Nature 

 herself. 



L'AIotteUe aiix bles — " this book into which I have 

 put all my soul," as she confesses in an opening poem 

 — and Fleurs d'antomne are both largely autobio- 

 graphical. She is constantly telling the reader of her 

 ideals and life as a child, or describing the old cottage 

 at Bellon and its surroundings. Wandering about in 

 the woods and fields she relates how enraptured she 

 used to be — " sans savoir pourquoi ni comment " — 

 by Mother Earth. In these reminiscences — pictures 

 of shady forests, winding footpaths buried in trees, 

 solitary places shaded by oaks and elms, waving corn- 

 fields and blossom-laden orchards — she is nearly 

 always light-hearted and cheerful. There are times, 

 however, when her note is entirely melancholy. A 

 single flower is sometimes enough to make her ask 

 herself, in her captivity amongst townspeople, if the 

 coimtry is really still rich with golden corn ; if the 

 redbreast still sings there in the evening ; if chaffinches 

 still make their nests in the moss-grown apple-trees 

 of Normandy orchards. 



S'il me plait d'invoquer pendant mes reveries 



Mes premiers jours passes, mes songes de vingt ans, 



Je dis S, mon esprit : " Retournez dans les champs, 



Dans les grands bois touffus, dans les vertes prairies. 



Oil, jeune, j'aimais tant ci m'egarer le soir 



(Juand mon coeur debordait et de seve et d'espoir. " 



Lorsque j'ai ressaisi seulement pour une heure 



Ces reves envoles, ces souvenirs des champs, 



De mon cceur rechauffe montent alors des chants. 



Chants oii I'espoir sourit, chants ou le regret pleure . . . 



Espoir, bonheur, amour, fantomes du passe, 



Comme vous fuyez vite &. mon souffle glace ! 



