Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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When La Couteau at last reappeared with empty arms she said never a word,
and Mathieu put no question to her. Still in silence, they took their
seats in the cab; and only some ten minutes afterwards, when the vehicle
was already rolling through bustling, populous streets, did the woman
begin to laugh. Then, as her companion, still silent and distant, did not
condescend to ask her the cause of her sudden gayety, she ended by saying
aloud:
"Do you know why I am laughing? If I kept you waiting a bit longer, it
was because I met a friend of mine, an attendant in the house, just as I
left the office. She's one of those who put the babies out to nurse in
the provinces.* Well, my friend told me that she was going to Rougemont
to-morrow with two other attendants, and that among others they would
certainly have with them the little fellow I had just left at the
hospital."
* There are only about 600 beds at the Hopital des Enfants
Assistes, and the majority of the children deposited there
are perforce placed out to purse in the country.--Trans.
Again did she give vent to a dry laugh which distorted her wheedling
face. And she continued: "How comical, eh? The mother wouldn't let me
take the child to Rougemont, and now it's going there just the same. Ah!
some things are bound to happen in spite of everything."
Mathieu did not answer, but an icy chill had sped through his heart. It
was true, fate pitilessly took its own course. What would become of that
poor little fellow? To what early death, what life of suffering or
wretchedness, or even crime, had he been thus brutally cast?
But the cab continued rolling on, and for a long while neither Mathieu
nor La Couteau spoke again. It was only when the latter alighted in the
Rue de Miromesnil that she began to lament, on seeing that it was already
half-past five o'clock, for she felt certain that she would miss her
train, particularly as she still had some accounts to settle and that
other child upstairs to fetch. Mathieu, who had intended to keep the cab
and drive to the Northern terminus, then experienced a feeling of
curiosity, and thought of witnessing the departure of the nurse-agents.
So he calmed La Couteau by telling her that if she would make haste he
would wait for her. And as she asked for a quarter of an hour, it
occurred to him to speak to Norine again, and so he also went upstairs.
When he entered Norine's room he found her sitting up in bed, eating one
of the oranges which her little sisters had brought her. She had all the
greedy instincts of a plump, pretty girl; she carefully detached each
section of the orange, and, her eyes half closed the while, her flesh
quivering under her streaming outspread hair, she sucked one after
another with her fresh red lips, like a pet cat lapping a cup of milk.
Mathieu's sudden entry made her start, however, and when she recognized
him she smiled faintly in an embarrassed way.
"It's done," he simply said.
She did not immediately reply, but wiped her fingers on her handkerchief.
However, it was necessary that she should say something, and so she
began: "You did not tell me you would come back--I was not expecting you.
Well, it's done, and it's all for the best. I assure you there was no
means of doing otherwise."
Then she spoke of her departure, asked the young man if he thought she
might regain admittance to the works, and declared that in any case she
should go there to see if the master would have the audacity to turn her
away. Thus she continued while the minutes went slowly by. The
conversation had dropped, Mathieu scarcely replying to her, when La
Couteau, carrying the other child in her arms, at last darted in like a
gust of wind. "Let's make haste, let's make haste!" she cried. "They
never end with their figures; they try all they can to leave me without a
copper for myself!"
But Norine detained her, asking: "Oh! is that Rosine's baby? Pray do show
it me." Then she uncovered the infant's face, and exclaimed: "Oh! how
plump and pretty he is!" And she began another sentence: "What a pity!
Can one have the heart--" But then she remembered, paused, and changed
her words: "Yes, how heartrending it is when one has to forsake such
little angels."
"Good-by! Take care of yourself!" cried La Couteau; "you will make me
miss my train. And I've got the return tickets, too; the five others are
waiting for me at the station! Ah! what a fuss they would make if I got
there too late!"
Then, followed by Mathieu, she hurried away, bounding down the stairs,
where she almost fell with her little burden. But soon she threw herself
back in the cab, which rolled off.
"Ah! that's a good job! And what do you say of that young person,
monsieur? She wouldn't lay out fifteen francs a month on her own account,
and yet she reproaches that good Mademoiselle Rosine, who has just given
me four hundred francs to have her little one taken care of till his
first communion. Just look at him--a superb child, isn't he? What a pity
it is that the finest are often those who die the first."
Mathieu looked at the infant on the woman's knees. His garments were very
white, of fine texture, trimmed with lace, as if he were some little
condemned prince being taken in all luxury to execution. And the young
man remembered that Norine had told him that the child was the offspring
of crime. Born amid secrecy, he was now, for a fixed sum, to be handed
over to a woman who would quietly suppress him by simply leaving some
door or window wide open. Young though the boy was, he already had a
finely-formed face, that suggested the beauty of a cherub. And he was
very well behaved; he did not raise the faintest wail. But a shudder
swept through Mathieu. How abominable!
La Couteau quickly sprang from the cab as soon as they reached the
courtyard of the St. Lazare Station. "Thank you, monsieur, you have been
very kind," said she. "And if you will kindly recommend me to any ladies
you may know, I shall be quite at their disposal."
Then Mathieu, having alighted on the pavement in his turn, saw a scene
which detained him there a few moments longer. Amid all the scramble of
passengers and luggage, five women of peasant aspect, each carrying an
infant, were darting in a scared, uneasy way hither and thither, like
crows in trouble, with big yellow beaks quivering and black wings
flapping with anxiety. Then, on perceiving La Couteau, there was one
general caw, and all five swooped down upon her with angry, voracious
mien. And, after a furious exchange of cries and explanations, the six
banded themselves together, and, with cap-strings waving and skirts
flying, rushed towards the train, carrying the little ones, like birds of
prey who feared delay in returning to the charnel-house.
And Mathieu remained alone in the great crowd. Thus every year did these
crows of ill omen carry off from Paris no fewer than 20,000 children, who
were never, never seen again! Ah! that great question of the depopulation
of France! Not merely were there those who were resolved to have no
children, not only were infanticide and crime of other kinds rife upon
all sides, but one-half of the babes saved from those dangers were
killed. Thieves and murderesses, eager for lucre, flocked to the great
city from the four points of the compass, and bore away all the budding
Life that their arms could carry in order that they might turn it to
Death! They beat down the game, they watched in the doorways, they
sniffed from afar the innocent flesh on which they preyed. And the babes
were carted to the railway stations; the cradles, the wards of hospitals
and refuges, the wretched garrets of poor mothers, without fires and
without bread--all, all were emptied! And the packages were heaped up,
moved carelessly hither and thither, sent off, distributed to be murdered
either by foul deed or by neglect. The raids swept on like tempest
blasts; Death's scythe never knew dead season, at every hour it mowed
down budding life. Children who might well have lived were taken from
their mothers, the only nurses whose milk would have nourished them, to
be carted away and to die for lack of proper nutriment.
A rush of blood warmed Mathieu's heart when, all at once, he thought of
Marianne, so strong and healthy, who would be waiting for him on the
bridge over the Yeuse, in the open country, with their little Gervais at
her breast. Figures that he had seen in print came back to his mind. In
certain regions which devoted themselves to baby-farming the mortality
among the nurslings was fifty per cent; in the best of them it was forty,
and seventy in the worst. It was calculated that in one century seventeen
millions of nurslings had died. Over a long period the mortality had
remained at from one hundred to one hundred and twenty thousand per
annum. The most deadly reigns, the greatest butcheries of the most
terrible conquerors, had never resulted in such massacre. It was a giant
battle that France lost every year, the abyss into which her whole
strength sank, the charnel-place into which every hope was cast. At the
end of it is the imbecile death of the nation. And Mathieu, seized with
terror at the thought, rushed away, eager to seek consolation by the side
of Marianne, amid the peacefulness, the wisdom, and the health which were
their happy lot.
IX
ONE Thursday morning Mathieu went to lunch with Dr. Boutan in the rooms
where the latter had resided for more than ten years, in the Rue de
l'Universite, behind the Palais-Bourbon. By a contradiction, at which he
himself often laughed, this impassioned apostle of fruitfulness had
remained a bachelor. His extensive practice kept him in a perpetual
hurry, and he had little time free beyond his dejeuner hour. Accordingly,
whenever a friend wished to have any serious conversation with him, he
preferred to invite him to his modest table, to partake more or less
hastily of an egg, a cutlet, and a cup of coffee.
Mathieu wished to ask the doctor's advice on a grave subject. After a
couple of weeks' reflection, his idea of experimenting in agriculture, of
extricating that unappreciated estate of Chantebled from chaos,
preoccupied him to such a degree that he positively suffered at not
daring to come to a decision. The imperious desire to create, to produce
life, health, strength, and wealth grew within him day by day. Yet what
fine courage and what a fund of hope he needed to venture upon an
enterprise which outwardly seemed so wild and rash, and the wisdom of
which was apparent to himself alone. With whom could he discuss such a
matter, to whom could he confide his doubts and hesitation? When the idea
of consulting Boutan occurred to him, he at once asked the doctor for an
appointment. Here was such a confidant as he desired, a man of broad,
brave mind, one who worshipped life, who was endowed with far-seeing
intelligence, and who would therefore at once look beyond the first
difficulties of execution.
As soon as they were face to face on either side of the table, Mathieu
began to pour forth his confession, recounting his dream--his poem, as he
called it. And the doctor listened without interrupting, evidently won
over by the young man's growing, creative emotion. When at last Boutan
had to express an opinion he replied: "_Mon Dieu_, my friend, I can tell
you nothing from a practical point of view, for I have never even planted
a lettuce. I will even add that your project seems to me so hazardous
that any one versed in these matters whom you might consult would
assuredly bring forward substantial and convincing arguments to dissuade
you. But you speak of this affair with such superb confidence and ardor
and affection, that I feel convinced you would succeed. Moreover, you
flatter my own views, for I have long endeavored to show that, if
numerous families are ever to flourish again in France, people must again
love and worship the soil, and desert the towns, and lead a fruitful
fortifying country life. So how can I disapprove your plans? Moreover, I
suspect that, like all people who ask advice, you simply came here in the
hope that you would find in me a brother ready, in principle at all
events, to wage the same battle."
At this they both laughed heartily. Then, on Boutan inquiring with what
capital he would start operations, Mathieu quietly explained that he did
not mean to borrow money and thus run into debt; he would begin, if
necessary, with very few acres indeed, convinced as he was of the
conquering power of labor. His would be the head, and he would assuredly
find the necessary arms. His only worry was whether he would be able to
induce Seguin to sell him the old hunting-box and the few acres round it
on a system of yearly payments, without preliminary disbursement. When he
spoke to the doctor on this subject, the other replied:
"Oh! I think he is very favorably disposed. I know that he would be
delighted to sell that huge, unprofitable estate, for with his increasing
pecuniary wants he is very much embarrassed by it. You are aware, no
doubt, that things are going from bad to worse in his household."
Then the doctor broke off to inquire: "And our friend Beauchene, have you
warned him of your intention to leave the works?"
"Why, no, not yet," said Mathieu; "and I would ask you to keep the matter
private, for I wish to have everything settled before informing him."
Lunching quickly, they had now got to their coffee, and the doctor
offered to drive Mathieu back to the works, as he was going there
himself, for Madame Beauchene had requested him to call once a week, in
order that he might keep an eye on Maurice's health. Not only did the lad
still suffer from his legs, but he had so weak and delicate a stomach
that he had to be dieted severely.
"It's the kind of stomach one finds among children who have not been
brought up by their own mothers," continued Boutan. "Your plucky wife
doesn't know that trouble; she can let her children eat whatever they
fancy. But with that poor little Maurice, the merest trifle, such as four
cherries instead of three, provokes indigestion. Well, so it is settled,
I will drive you back to the works. Only I must first make a call in the
Rue Roquepine to choose a nurse. It won't take me long, I hope. Quick!
let us be off."
When they were together in the brougham, Boutan told Mathieu that it was
precisely for the Seguins that he was going to the nurse-agency. There
was a terrible time at the house in the Avenue d'Antin. A few months
previously Valentine had given birth to a daughter, and her husband had
obstinately resolved to select a fit nurse for the child himself,
pretending that he knew all about such matters. And he had chosen a big,
sturdy young woman of monumental appearance. Nevertheless, for two months
past Andree, the baby, had been pining away, and the doctor had
discovered, by analyzing the nurse's milk, that it was deficient in
nutriment. Thus the child was simply perishing of starvation. To change a
nurse is a terrible thing, and the Seguins' house was in a tempestuous
state. The husband rushed hither and thither, banging the doors and
declaring that he would never more occupy himself about anything.
"And so," added Boutan, "I have now been instructed to choose a fresh
nurse. And it is a pressing matter, for I am really feeling anxious about
that poor little Andree."
"But why did not the mother nurse her child?" asked Mathieu.
The doctor made a gesture of despair. "Ah! my dear fellow, you ask me too
much. But how would you have a Parisienne of the wealthy bourgeoisie
undertake the duty, the long brave task of nursing a child, when she
leads the life she does, what with receptions and dinners and soirees,
and absences and social obligations of all sorts? That little Madame
Seguin is simply trifling when she puts on an air of deep distress and
says that she would so much have liked to nurse her infant, but that it
was impossible since she had no milk. She never even tried! When her
first child was born she could doubtless have nursed it. But to-day, with
the imbecile, spoilt life she leads, it is quite certain that she is
incapable of making such an effort. The worst is, my dear fellow, as any
doctor will tell you, that after three or four generations of mothers who
do not feed their children there comes a generation that cannot do so.
And so, my friend, we are fast coming, not only in France, but in other
countries where the odious wet-nurse system is in vogue, to a race of
wretched, degenerate women, who will be absolutely powerless to nourish
their offspring."
Mathieu then remembered what he had witnessed at Madame Bourdieu's and
the Foundling Hospital. And he imparted his impressions to Boutan, who
again made a despairing gesture. There was a great work of social
salvation to be accomplished, said he. No doubt a number of
philanthropists were trying their best to improve things, but private
effort could not cope with such widespread need. There must be general
measures; laws must be passed to save the nation. The mother must be
protected and helped, even in secrecy, if she asked for it; she must be
cared for, succored, from the earliest period, and right through all the
long months during which she fed her babe. All sorts of establishments
would have to be founded--refuges, convalescent homes, and so forth; and
there must be protective enactments, and large sums of money voted to
enable help to be extended to all mothers, whatever they might be. It was
only by such preventive steps that one could put a stop to the frightful
hecatomb of newly-born infants, that incessant loss of life which
exhausted the nation and brought it nearer and nearer to death every day.
"And," continued the doctor, "it may all be summed up in this verity: 'It
is a mother's duty to nurse her child.' And, besides, a mother, is she
not the symbol of all grandeur, all strength, all beauty? She represents
the eternity of life. She deserves a social culture, she should be
religiously venerated. When we know how to worship motherhood, our
country will be saved. And this is why, my friend, I should like a mother
feeding her babe to be adopted as the highest expression of human beauty.
Ah! how can one persuade our Parisiennes, all our French women, indeed,
that woman's beauty lies in being a mother with an infant on her knees?
Whenever that fashion prevails, we shall be the sovereign nation, the
masters of the world!"
He ended by laughing in a distressed way, in his despair at being unable
to change manners and customs, aware as he was that the nation could be
revolutionized only by a change in its ideal of true beauty.
"To sum up, then, I believe in a child being nursed only by its own
mother. Every mother who neglects that duty when she can perform it is a
criminal. Of course, there are instances when she is physically incapable
of accomplishing her duty, and in that case there is the feeding-bottle,
which, if employed with care and extreme cleanliness, only sterilized
milk being used, will yield a sufficiently good result. But to send a
child away to be nursed means almost certain death; and as for the nurse
in the house, that is a shameful transaction, a source of incalculable
evil, for both the employer's child and the nurse's child frequently die
from it."
Just then the doctor's brougham drew up outside the nurse-agency in the
Rue Roquepine.
"I dare say you have never been in such a place, although you are the
father of five children," said Boutan to Mathieu, gayly.
"No, I haven't."
"Well, then, come with me. One ought to know everything."
The office in the Rue Roquepine was the most important and the one with
the best reputation in the district. It was kept by Madame Broquette, a
woman of forty, with a dignified if somewhat blotched face, who was
always very tightly laced in a faded silk gown of dead-leaf hue. But if
she represented the dignity and fair fame of the establishment in its
intercourse with clients, the soul of the place, the ever-busy
manipulator, was her husband, Monsieur Broquette, a little man with a
pointed nose, quick eyes, and the agility of a ferret. Charged with the
police duties of the office, the supervision and training of the nurses,
he received them, made them clean themselves, taught them to smile and
put on pleasant ways, besides penning them in their various rooms and
preventing them from eating too much. From morn till night he was ever
prowling about, scolding and terrorizing those dirty, ill-behaved, and
often lying and thieving women. The building, a dilapidated private
house, with a damp ground floor, to which alone clients were admitted,
had two upper stories, each comprising six rooms arranged as dormitories,
in which the nurses and their infants slept. There was no end to the
arrivals and departures there: the peasant women were ever galloping
through the place, dragging trunks about, carrying babes in swaddling
clothes, and filling the rooms and the passages with wild cries and vile
odors. And amid all this the house had another inmate, Mademoiselle
Broquette, Herminie as she was called, a long, pale, bloodless girl of
fifteen, who mooned about languidly among that swarm of sturdy young
women.
Boutan, who knew the house well, went in, followed by Mathieu. The
central passage, which was fairly broad, ended in a glass door, which
admitted one to a kind of courtyard, where a sickly conifer stood on a
round patch of grass, which the dampness rotted. On the right of the
passage was the office, whither Madame Broquette, at the request of her
customers, summoned the nurses, who waited in a neighboring room, which
was simply furnished with a greasy deal table in the centre. The
furniture of the office was some old Empire stuff, upholstered in red
velvet. There was a little mahogany centre table, and a gilt clock. Then,
on the left of the passage, near the kitchen, was the general refectory,
with two long tables, covered with oilcloth, and surrounded by straggling
chairs, whose straw seats were badly damaged. Just a make-believe sweep
with a broom was given there every day: one could divine long-amassed,
tenacious dirt in every dim corner; and the place reeked with an odor of
bad cookery mingled with that of sour milk.
When Boutan thrust open the office door he saw that Madame Broquette was
busy with an old gentleman, who sat there inspecting a party of nurses.
She recognized the doctor, and made a gesture of regret. "No matter, no
matter," he exclaimed; "I am not in a hurry: I will wait."
Through the open door Mathieu had caught sight of Mademoiselle Herminie,
the daughter of the house, ensconced in one of the red velvet armchairs
near the window, and dreamily perusing a novel there, while her mother,
standing up, extolled her goods in her most dignified way to the old
gentleman, who gravely contemplated the procession of nurses and seemed
unable to make up his mind.
"Let us have a look at the garden," said the doctor, with a laugh.
One of the boasts of the establishment, indeed, as set forth in its
prospectus, was a garden and a tree in it, as if there were plenty of
good air there, as in the country. They opened the glass door, and on a
bench near the tree they saw a plump girl, who doubtless had just
arrived, pretending to clean a squealing infant. She herself looked
sordid, and had evidently not washed since her journey. In one corner
there was an overflow of kitchen utensils, a pile of cracked pots and
greasy and rusty saucepans. Then, at the other end, a French window gave
access to the nurses' waiting-room, and here again there was a nauseous
spectacle of dirt and untidiness.
All at once Monsieur Broquette darted forward, though whence he had come
it was hard to say. At all events, he had seen Boutan, who was a client
that needed attention. "Is my wife busy, then?" said he. "I cannot allow
you to remain waiting here, doctor. Come, come, I pray you."
With his little ferreting eyes he had caught sight of the dirty girl
cleaning the child, and he was anxious that his visitors should see
nothing further of a character to give them a bad impression of the
establishment. "Pray, doctor, follow me," he repeated, and understanding
that an example was necessary, he turned to the girl, exclaiming, "What
business have you to be here? Why haven't you gone upstairs to wash and
dress? I shall fling a pailful of water in your face if you don't hurry
off and tidy yourself."
Then he forced her to rise and drove her off, all scared and terrified,
in front of him. When she had gone upstairs he led the two gentlemen to
the office entrance and began to complain: "Ah! doctor, if you only knew
what trouble I have even to get those girls to wash their hands! We who
are so clean! who put all our pride in keeping the house clean. If ever a
speck of dust is seen anywhere it is certainly not my fault."
Since the girl had gone upstairs a fearful tumult had arisen on the upper
floors, whence also a vile smell descended. Some dispute, some battle,
seemed to be in progress. There were shouts and howls, followed by a
furious exchange of vituperation.