Read Online The Life of Elves by Muriel Barbery, Alison Anderson - Free Book Online Page B

before I did . . . It is heart-rending . . . and so marvelous . . . ”

M ARIA
The Hare and the Wild Boar
    A fter the excitement with the gray horse and the assault by tornado, life on the farm returned to its country ways, filled with the hunt, salted cheese, and walks through the woods. Now that the fine season had been confirmed by the farms and the church steeple, everyone could count on it serenely while contemplating the billowy snow which, that winter, would cover the land whenever they were thinking of going to fetch the firewood; or while enjoying the many early mornings that were crisp as a cracker, dawn shooting its rosy fingers into skies more transparent than love; or while salting and preserving the fine hunks of game that seemed in never-ending supply; and when the villagers thought of all this, they never failed to nod and exchange a glance, before returning to work, without comment.
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    One evening when talking of the hunt, the father made a remark that caused Maria to raise her eyebrows. They were supping on bacon and beets cooked in ash, garnished with a spoonful of cream laced with coarse salt.
    â€œThe game’s more plentiful, but the hunt is fairer,” he said.
    Maria smiled, then turned back to her steaming beets. The father was a man of the land, rough and taciturn; he walked with a heavy tread and always took his time. When he split logs, he did so at a tempo that anyone in the village could have surpassed, but when they saw that his regularity, together with his tenacity, were even more remarkable than his pace, the widows in the region began to turn to him, requesting he prepare the firewood for them, in return for a modest sum, although they were prepared to pay five times as much. He moved at the same pace in all his activities, including more private ones. He expressed no great sorrow in the face of the ordeals and losses, although they had been terrible, for he and his wife had lost both sons in infancy. But sorrow kept him in its cruel grip longer than it should have. Fortunately, this was also true of joy, and Maria was a blessing late in life, although he never expressed it through any demonstrative display of love; instead, he spread that love equally, in the same manner he used to rake the garden, or plow a field, without haste or interruption, and thus he took pleasure in it as in a gift that graced each year uniformly. Likewise, when he spoke he took care to ensure that his words did not disturb the equilibrium of emotions but rather embraced their contours naturally. Maria knew all this, so she greeted her father’s remark with no more than a smile as it passed over the dinner like a flight of young thrushes.
    But he was right: the hunt had become fairer. Anyone who might have thought that the abundance of game would lead to the pleasure of indiscriminate killing must consider the facts: this was not the case. The generosity that was flooding their woods and offering them a more bountiful catch than their ancestors had ever known also instilled restraint in the men of the village, and they chose their prey with care. Over recent winters they had put a stop to a few routs of boars that had been unearthing the potatoes; they had filled their cellars with salt meat for storing; and each had taken his share of fine victuals, but no more than what was required to replenish the body for the cost of its labor. What was more, they had the feeling they were sending the whips as emissaries rather than scouts, having them order the positions with unusual gentleness, which turned the hunt into a new art of exchange. Oh, of course the men did not start their prey in the thickets waving a white flag and politely asking the rabbits to assemble in front of their rifles, but still: they drove them out respectfully and did not do away with a greater number than was reasonable. In truth, the father’s comment was inspired because that very morning they’d had to