Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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"What!" exclaimed La Couteau, "does Marie Lebleu frighten you? She had
better not give me any of her nonsense if she wants me ever to find her
another situation. I'll speak to her, never fear."
Celeste thereupon placed Andree on a blanket, which was lying there, side
by side with the infant of which the new nurse had rid herself a moment
previously, and undertook to conduct La Couteau to Marie Lebleu's room.
Deathlike silence now reigned there, but the nurse-agent only had to give
her name to secure admittance. She went in, and for a few moments one
only heard her dry curt voice. Then, on coming out, she tranquillized
Valentine, who had gone to listen, trembling.
"I've sobered her, I can tell you," said she. "Pay her her month's wages.
She's packing her box and going off."
Then, as they went back into the linen-room, Valentine settled pecuniary
matters and added five francs for this new service. But a final
difficulty arose. La Couteau could not come back to fetch La Catiche's
child in the evening, and what was she to do with it during the rest of
the day? "Well, no matter," she said at last, "I'll take it; I'll deposit
it at the office, before I go my round. They'll give it a bottle there,
and it'll have to grow accustomed to the bottle now, won't it?"
"Of course," the mother quietly replied.
Then, as La Couteau, on the point of leaving, after all sorts of bows and
thanks, turned round to take the little one, she made a gesture of
hesitation on seeing the two children lying side by side on the blanket.
"The devil!" she murmured; "I mustn't make a mistake."
This seemed amusing, and enlivened the others. Celeste fairly exploded,
and even La Catiche grinned broadly; while La Couteau caught up the child
with her long claw-like hands and carried it away. Yet another gone, to
be carted away yonder in one of those ever-recurring _razzias_ which
consigned the little babes to massacre!
Mathieu alone had not laughed. He had suddenly recalled his conversation
with Boutan respecting the demoralizing effects of that nurse trade, the
shameful bargaining, the common crime of two mothers, who each risked the
death of her child--the idle mother who bought another's services, the
venal mother who sold her milk. He felt cold at heart as he saw one child
carried off still full of life, and the other remain there already so
puny. And what would be fate's course? Would not one or the other,
perhaps both of them be sacrificed?
Valentine, however, was already leading both him and Santerre to the
spacious salon again; and she was so delighted, so fully relieved, that
she had recovered all her cavalier carelessness, her passion for noise
and pleasure. And as Mathieu was about to take his leave, he heard the
triumphant Santerre saying to her, while for a moment he retained her
hand in his clasp: "Till to-morrow, then." And she, who had cast her
buckler of defence aside, made answer: "Yes--yes, to-morrow."
A week later La Catiche was the acknowledged queen of the house. Andree
had recovered a little color, and was increasing in weight daily. And in
presence of this result the others bowed low indeed. There was every
disposition to overlook all possible faults on the nurse's part. She was
the third, and a fourth would mean the child's death; so that she was an
indispensable, a providential helper, one whose services must be retained
at all costs. Moreover, she seemed to have no defects, for she was a
calm, cunning, peasant woman, one who knew how to rule her employers and
extract from them all that was to be extracted. Her conquest of the
Seguins was effected with extraordinary skill. At first some
unpleasantness seemed likely, because Celeste was, on her own side,
pursuing a similar course; but they were both too intelligent to do
otherwise than come to an understanding. As their departments were
distinct, they agreed that they could prosecute parallel invasions. And
from that moment they even helped one another, divided the empire, and
preyed upon the house in company.
La Catiche sat upon a throne, served by the other domestics, with her
employers at her feet. The finest dishes were for her; she had her
special wine, her special bread, she had everything most delicate and
most nourishing that could be found. Gluttonous, slothful, and proud, she
strutted about, bending one and all to her fancies. The others gave way
to her in everything to avoid sending her into a temper which might have
spoilt her milk. At her slightest indisposition everybody was distracted.
One night she had an attack of indigestion, and all the doctors in the
neighborhood were rung up to attend on her. Her only real defect,
perhaps, was a slight inclination for pilfering; she appropriated some
linen that was lying about, but madame would not hear of the matter being
mentioned.
There was also the chapter of the presents which were heaped on her in
order to keep her in good temper. Apart from the regulation present when
the child cut its first tooth, advantage was taken of various other
occasions, and a ring, a brooch, and a pair of earrings were given her.
Naturally she was the most adorned nurse in the Champs-Elysees, with
superb cloaks and the richest of caps, trimmed with long ribbons which
flared in the sunlight. Never did lady lead a life of more sumptuous
idleness. There were also the presents which she extracted for her
husband and her little girl at the village. Parcels were sent them by
express train every week. And on the morning when news came that her own
baby, carried back by La Couteau, had died from the effects of a bad
cold, she was presented with fifty francs as if in payment for the loss
of her child. Little Andree, meanwhile, grew ever stronger, and thus La
Catiche rose higher and higher, with the whole house bending low beneath
her tyrannical sway.
On the day when Mathieu called to sign the deed which was to insure him
the possession of the little pavilion of Chantebled with some fifty acres
around it, and the privilege of acquiring other parts of the estate on
certain conditions, he found Seguin on the point of starting for Le
Havre, where a friend, a wealthy Englishman, was waiting for him with his
yacht, in order that they might have a month's trip round the coast of
Spain.
"Yes," said Seguin feverishly, alluding to some recent heavy losses at
the gaming table, "I'm leaving Paris for a time--I have no luck here just
now. But I wish you plenty of courage and all success, my dear sir. You
know how much I am interested in the attempt you are about to make."
A little later that same day Mathieu was crossing the Champs-Elysees,
eager to join Marianne at Chantebled, moved as he was by the decisive
step he had taken, yet quivering also with faith and hope, when in a
deserted avenue he espied a cab waiting, and recognized Santerre inside
it. Then, as a veiled lady furtively sprang into the vehicle, he turned
round wondering: Was that not Valentine? And as the cab drove off he felt
convinced it was.
There came other meetings when he reached the main avenue; first Gaston
and Lucie, already tired of play, and dragging about their puny limbs
under the careless supervision of Celeste, who was busy laughing with a
grocer's man; while farther off La Catiche, superb and royal, decked out
like the idol of venal motherhood, was giving little Andree an outing,
with her long purple ribbons streaming victoriously in the sunshine.
XI
ON the day when the first blow with the pick was dealt, Marianne, with
Gervais in her arms, came and sat down close by, full of happy emotion at
this work of faith and hope which Mathieu was so boldly undertaking. It
was a clear, warm day in the middle of June, with a pure, broad sky that
encouraged confidence. And as the children had been given a holiday, they
played about in the surrounding grass, and one could hear the shrill
cries of little Rose while she amused herself with running after the
three boys.
"Will you deal the first blow?" Mathieu gayly asked his wife.
But she pointed to her baby. "No, no, I have my work. Deal it yourself,
you are the father."
He stood there with two men under his orders, but ready himself to
undertake part of the hard manual toil in order to help on the
realization of his long thought of, ripening scheme. With great prudence
and wisdom he had assured himself a modest livelihood for a year of
effort, by an intelligent scheme of association and advances repayable
out of profits, which would enable him to wait for his first harvest. And
it was his life that he risked on that future crop, should the earth
refuse his worship and his labor. But he was a faithful believer, one who
felt certain of conquering, since love and determination were his.
"Well then, here goes!" he gallantly cried. "May the earth prove a good
mother to us!"
Then he dealt the first blow with his pick.
The work was begun to the left of the old pavilion, in a corner of that
extensive marshy tableland, where little streams coursed on all sides
through the reeds which sprang up everywhere. It was at first simply a
question of draining a few acres by capturing these streams and turning
them into canals, in order to direct them afterwards over the dry sandy
slopes which descended towards the railway line. After an attentive
examination Mathieu had discovered that the work might easily be
executed, and that water-furrows would suffice, such was the disposition
and nature of the ground. This, indeed, was his real discovery, not to
mention the layer of humus which he felt certain would be found amassed
on the plateau, and the wondrous fertility which it would display as soon
as a ploughshare had passed through it. And so with his pick he now began
to open the trench which was to drain the damp soil above, and fertilize
the dry, sterile, thirsty ground below.
The open air, however, had doubtless given Gervais an appetite, for he
began to cry. He was now a strong little fellow, three months and a half
old, and never neglected mealtime. He was growing like one of the young
trees in the neighboring wood, with hands which did not easily release
what they grasped, with eyes too full of light, now all laughter and now
all tears, and with the ever open beak of a greedy bird, that raised a
tempest whenever his mother kept him waiting.
"Yes, yes, I know you are there," said she; "come, don't deafen us any
longer."
Then she gave him the breast and he became quiet, simply purring like a
happy little kitten. The beneficent source had begun to flow once more,
as if it were inexhaustible. The trickling milk murmured unceasingly. One
might have said that it could be heard descending and spreading, while
Mathieu on his side continued opening his trench, assisted by the two men
whose apprenticeship was long since past.
He rose up at last, wiped his brow, and with his air of quiet certainty
exclaimed: "It's only a trade to learn. In a few months' time I shall be
nothing but a peasant. Look at that stagnant pond there, green with
water-plants. The spring which feeds it is yonder in that big tuft of
herbage. And when this trench has been opened to the edge of the slope,
you will see the pond dry up, and the spring gush forth and take its
course, carrying the beneficent water away."
"Ah!" said Marianne, "may it fertilize all that stony expanse, for
nothing can be sadder than dead land. How happy it will be to quench its
thirst and live again!"
Then she broke off to scold Gervais: "Come, young gentleman, don't pull
so hard," said she. "Wait till it comes; you know very well that it's all
for you."
Meantime the blows of the pickaxes rang out, the trench rapidly made its
way through the fat, moist soil, and soon the water would flow into the
parched veins of the neighboring sandy tracts to endow them with
fruitfulness. And the light trickling of the mother's milk also continued
with the faint murmur of an inexhaustible source, flowing from her breast
into the mouth of her babe, like a fountain of eternal life. It ever and
ever flowed, it created flesh, intelligence, and labor, and strength. And
soon its whispering would mingle with the babble of the delivered spring
as it descended along the trenches to the dry hot lands. And at last
there would be but one and the same stream, one and the same river,
gradually overflowing and carrying life to all the earth, a mighty river
of nourishing milk flowing through the world's veins, creating without a
pause, and producing yet more youth and more health at each return of
springtide.
Four months later, when Mathieu and his men had finished the autumn
ploughing, there came the sowing on the same spot. Marianne was there
again, and it was such a very mild gray day that she was still able to
sit down, and once more gayly give the breast to little Gervais. He was
already eight months old and had become quite a personage. He grew a
little more every day, always in his mother's arms, on that warm breast
whence he sucked life. He was like the seed which clings to the seed-pod
so long as it is not ripe. And at that first quiver of November, that
approach of winter through which the germs would slumber in the furrows,
he pressed his chilly little face close to his mother's warm bosom, and
nursed on in silence as if the river of life were lost, buried deep
beneath the soil.
"Ah!" said Marianne, laughing, "you are not warm, young gentleman, are
you? It is time for you to take up your winter quarters."
Just then Mathieu, with his sower's bag at his waist, was returning
towards them, scattering the seed with broad rhythmical gestures. He had
heard his wife, and he paused to say to her: "Let him nurse and sleep
till the sun comes back. He will be a man by harvest time." And, pointing
to the great field which he was sowing with his assistants, he added:
"All this will grow and ripen when our Gervais has begun to walk and
talk--just look, see our conquest!"
He was proud of it. From ten to fifteen acres of the plateau were now rid
of the stagnant pools, cleared and levelled; and they spread out in a
brown expanse, rich with humus, while the water-furrows which intersected
them carried the streams to the neighboring slopes. Before cultivating
those dry lands one must yet wait until the moisture should have
penetrated and fertilized them. That would be the work of the future, and
thus, by degrees, life would be diffused through the whole estate.
"Evening is coming on," resumed Mathieu, "I must make haste."
Then he set off again, throwing the seed with his broad rhythmical
gesture. And while Marianne, gravely smiling, watched him go, it occurred
to little Rose to follow in his track, and take up handfuls of earth,
which she scattered to the wind. The three boys perceived her, and Blaise
and Denis then hastened up, followed by Ambroise, all gleefully imitating
their father's gesture, and darting hither and thither around him. And
for a moment it was almost as if Mathieu with the sweep of his arm not
only cast the seed of expected corn into the furrows, but also sowed
those dear children, casting them here and there without cessation, so
that a whole nation of little sowers should spring up and finish
populating the world.
Two months more went by, and January had arrived with a hard frost, when
one day the Froments unexpectedly received a visit from Seguin and
Beauchene, who had come to try their luck at wild-duck shooting, among
such of the ponds on the plateau as had not yet been drained. It was a
Sunday, and the whole family was gathered in the roomy kitchen, cheered
by a big fire. Through the clear windows one could see the far-spreading
countryside, white with rime, and stiffly slumbering under that crystal
casing, like some venerated saint awaiting April's resurrection. And,
that day, when the visitors presented themselves, Gervais also was
slumbering in his white cradle, rendered somnolent by the season, but
plump even as larks are in the cold weather, and waiting, he also, simply
for life's revival, in order to reappear in all the triumph of his
acquired strength.
The family had gayly partaken of dejeuner, and now, before nightfall, the
four children had gathered round a table by the window, absorbed in a
playful occupation which delighted them. Helped by Ambroise, the twins,
Blaise and Denis, were building a whole village out of pieces of
cardboard, fixed together with paste. There were houses, a town hall, a
church, a school. And Rose, who had been forbidden to touch the scissors,
presided over the paste, with which she smeared herself even to her hair.
In the deep quietude, through which their laughter rang at intervals,
their father and mother had remained seated side by side in front of the
blazing fire, enjoying that delightful Sunday peace after the week's hard
work.
They lived there very simply, like genuine peasants, without any luxury,
any amusement, save that of being together. Their gay, bright kitchen was
redolent of that easy primitive life, lived so near the earth, which
frees one from fictitious wants, ambition, and the longing for pleasure.
And no fortune, no power could have brought such quiet delight as that
afternoon of happy intimacy, while the last-born slept so soundly and
quietly that one could not even hear him breathe.
Beauchene and Seguin broke in upon the quiet like unlucky sportsmen, with
their limbs weary and their faces and hands icy cold. Amid the
exclamations of surprise which greeted them, they complained of the folly
that had possessed them to venture out of Paris in such bleak weather.
"Just fancy, my dear fellow," said Beauchene, "we haven't seen a single
duck! It's no doubt too cold. And you can't imagine what a bitter wind
blows on the plateau, amid those ponds and bushes bristling with icicles.
So we gave up the idea of any shooting. You must give us each a glass of
hot wine, and then we'll get back to Paris."
Seguin, who was in even a worse humor, stood before the fire trying to
thaw himself; and while Marianne made haste to warm some wine, he began
to speak of the cleared fields which he had skirted. Under the icy
covering, however, beneath which they stiffly slumbered, hiding the seed
within them, he had guessed nothing of the truth, and already felt
anxious about this business of Mathieu's, which looked anything but
encouraging. Indeed, he already feared that he would not be paid his
purchase money, and so made bold to speak ironically.
"I say, my dear fellow, I am afraid you have lost your time," he began;
"I noticed it all as I went by, and it did not seem promising. But how
can you hope to reap anything from rotten soil in which only reeds have
been growing for centuries?"
"One must wait," Mathieu quietly answered. "You must come back and see it
all next June."
But Beauchene interrupted them. "There is a train at four o'clock, I
think," said he; "let us make haste, for it would annoy us tremendously
to miss it, would it not, Seguin?"
So saying, he gave him a gay, meaning glance. They had doubtless planned
some little spree together, like husbands bent on availing themselves to
the utmost of the convenient pretext of a day's shooting. Then, having
drunk some wine and feeling warmed and livelier, they began to express
astonishment at their surroundings.
"It stupefies me, my dear fellow," declared Beauchene, "that you can live
in this awful solitude in the depth of winter. It is enough to kill
anybody. I am all in favor of work, you know; but, dash it! one must have
some amusement too."
"But we do amuse ourselves," said Mathieu, waving his hand round that
rustic kitchen in which centred all their pleasant family life.
The two visitors followed his gesture, and gazed in amazement at the
walls covered with utensils, at the rough furniture, and at the table on
which the children were still building their village after offering their
cheeks to be kissed. No doubt they were unable to understand what
pleasure there could possibly be there, for, suppressing a jeering laugh,
they shook their heads. To them it was really an extraordinary life, a
life of most singular taste.
"Come and see my little Gervais," said Marianne softly. "He is asleep;
mind, you must not wake him."
For politeness' sake they both bent over the cradle, and expressed
surprise at finding a child but ten months old so big. He was very good,
too. Only, as soon as he should wake, he would no doubt deafen everybody.
And then, too, if a fine child like that sufficed to make life happy, how
many people must be guilty of spoiling their lives! The visitors came
back to the fireside, anxious only to be gone now that they felt
enlivened.
"So it's understood," said Mathieu, "you won't stay to dinner with us?"
"Oh, no, indeed!" they exclaimed in one breath.
Then, to attenuate the discourtesy of such a cry, Beauchene began to
jest, and accepted the invitation for a later date when the warm weather
should have arrived.
"On my word of honor, we have business in Paris," he declared. "But I
promise you that when it's fine we will all come and spend a day
here--yes, with our wives and children. And you will then show us your
work, and we shall see if you have succeeded. So good-by! All my good
wishes, my dear fellow! Au revoir, cousin! Au revoir, children; be good!"
Then came more kisses and hand-shakes, and the two men disappeared. And
when the gentle silence had fallen once more Mathieu and Marianne again
found themselves in front of the bright fire, while the children
completed the building of their village with a great consumption of
paste, and Gervais continued sleeping soundly. Had they been dreaming?
Mathieu wondered. What sudden blast from all the shame and suffering of
Paris had blown into their far-away quiet? Outside, the country retained
its icy rigidity. The fire alone sang the song of hope in life's future
revival. And, all at once, after a few minutes' reverie the young man
began to speak aloud, as if he had at last just found the answer to all
sorts of grave questions which he had long since put to himself.
"But those folks don't love; they are incapable of loving! Money, power,
ambition, pleasure--yes, all those things may be theirs, but not love!
Even the husbands who deceive their wives do not really love their
mistresses. They have never glowed with the supreme desire, the divine
desire which is the world's very soul, the brazier of eternal life. And
that explains everything. Without desire there is no love, no courage,
and no hope. By love alone can one create. And if love be restricted in
its mission there is but failure. Yes, they lie and deceive, because they
do not love. Then they suffer and lapse into moral and physical
degradation. And at the end lies the collapse of our rotten society,
which breaks up more and more each day before our eyes. That, then, is
the truth I was seeking. It is desire and love that save. Whoever loves
and creates is the revolutionary saviour, the maker of men for the new
world which will shortly dawn."
Never before had Mathieu so plainly understood that he and his wife were
different from others. This now struck him with extraordinary force.
Comparisons ensued, and he realized that their simple life, free from the
lust of wealth, their contempt for luxury and worldly vanities, all their
common participation in toil which made them accept and glorify life and
its duties, all that mode of existence of theirs which was at once their
joy and their strength, sprang solely from the source of eternal energy:
the love with which they glowed. If, later on, victory should remain with
them, if they should some day leave behind them work of value and health
and happiness, it would be solely because they had possessed the power of
love and the courage to love freely, harvesting, in an ever-increasing
family, both the means of support and the means of conquest. And this
sudden conviction filled Mathieu with such a glow that he leant towards
his wife, who sat there deeply moved by what he said, and kissed her
ardently upon the lips. It was divine love passing like a flaming blast.
But she, though her own eyes were sparkling, laughingly scolded him,
saying: "Hush, hush, you will wake Gervais."
Then they remained there hand in hand, pressing each other's fingers amid
the silence. Evening was coming on, and at last the children, their
village finished, raised cries of rapture at seeing it standing there
among bits of wood, which figured trees. And then the softened glances of
the parents strayed now through the window towards the crops sleeping
beneath the crystalline rime, and now towards their last-born's cradle,
where hope was likewise slumbering.
Again did two long months go by. Gervais had just completed his first
year, and fine weather, setting in early, was hastening the awaking of
the earth. One morning, when Marianne and the children went to join
Mathieu on the plateau, they raised shouts of wonder, so completely had
the sun transformed the expanse in a single week. It was now all green
velvet, a thick endless carpet of sprouting corn, of tender, delicate
emerald hue. Never had such a marvellous crop been seen. And thus, as the
family walked on through the mild, radiant April morning, amid the
country now roused from winter's sleep, and quivering with fresh youth,
they all waxed merry at the sight of that healthfulness, that progressing
fruitfulness, which promised the fulfilment of all their hopes. And their
rapture yet increased when, all at once, they noticed that little Gervais
also was awaking to life, acquiring decisive strength. As he struggled in
his little carriage and his mother removed him from it, behold! he took
his flight, and, staggering, made four steps; then hung to his father's
legs with his little fists. A cry of extraordinary delight burst forth.