Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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"What a splendid night!" murmured Mathieu. "How beautiful and how
pleasant to live in it!"
Then, after a moment's rapture, during which they both heard their hearts
beating, he began to tell her of his day. She questioned him with loving
interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie.
"No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday. Constance never cared
much for us, as you well know. Their boy Maurice is suffering in the
legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed
again. I will tell you all about that. On the other hand, the Moranges
have promised to come. You can't have an idea of the delight and vanity
they displayed in showing me their new flat. What with their eagerness to
make a big fortune I'm much afraid that those worthy folks will do
something very foolish. Oh! I was forgetting. I called on the landlord,
and though I had a good deal of difficulty over it, he ended by
consenting to have the roof entirely relaid. Ah! what a home, too, those
Seguins have! I came away feeling quite scared. But I will tell you all
about it by and by with the rest."
Marianne evinced no loquacious curiosity; she quietly awaited his
confidences, and showed anxiety only respecting themselves and the
children.
"You received your salary, didn't you?" she asked.
"Yes, yes, you need not be afraid about that."
"Oh! I'm not afraid, it's only our little debts which worry me."
Then she asked again: "And did your business dinner go off all right? I
was afraid that Beauchene might detain you and make you miss your train."
He replied that everything had gone off properly, but as he spoke he
flushed and felt a pang at his heart. To rid himself of his emotion he
affected sudden gayety.
"Well, and you, my dear," he asked, "how did you manage with your thirty
sous?"
"My thirty sous!" she gayly responded, "why, I was much too rich; we
fared like princes, all five of us, and I have six sous left."
Then, in her turn, she gave an account of her day, her daily life, pure
as crystal. She recapitulated what she had done, what she had said; she
related how the children had behaved, and she entered into the minutest
details respecting them and the house. With her, moreover, one day was
like another; each morning she set herself to live the same life afresh,
with never-failing happiness.
"To-day, though, we had a visit," said she; "Madame Lepailleur, the woman
from the mill over yonder, came to tell me that she had some fine
chickens for sale. As we owe her twelve francs for eggs and milk, I
believe that she simply called to see if I meant to pay her. I told her
that I would go to her place to-morrow."
While speaking Marianne had pointed through the gloom towards a big black
pile, a little way down the Yeuse. It was an old water-mill which was
still worked, and the Lepailleurs had now been installed in it for three
generations. The last of them, Francois Lepailleur, who considered
himself to be no fool, had come back from his military service with
little inclination to work, and an idea that the mill would never enrich
him, any more than it had enriched his father and grandfather. It then
occurred to him to marry a peasant farmer's daughter, Victoire Cornu,
whose dowry consisted of some neighboring fields skirting the Yeuse. And
the young couple then lived fairly at their ease, on the produce of those
fields and such small quantities of corn as the peasants of the district
still brought to be ground at the old mill. If the antiquated and badly
repaired mechanism of the mill had been replaced by modern appliances,
and if the land, instead of being impoverished by adherence to
old-fashioned practices, had fallen into the hands of an intelligent man
who believed in progress, there would no doubt have been a fortune in it
all. But Lepailleur was not only disgusted with work, he treated the soil
with contempt. He indeed typified the peasant who has grown weary of his
eternal mistress, the mistress whom his forefathers loved too much.
Remembering that, in spite of all their efforts to fertilize the soil, it
had never made them rich or happy, he had ended by hating it. All his
faith in its powers had departed; he accused it of having lost its
fertility, of being used up and decrepit, like some old cow which one
sends to the slaughter-house. And, according to him, everything went
wrong: the soil simply devoured the seed sown in it, the weather was
never such as it should be, the seasons no longer came in their proper
order. Briefly, it was all a premeditated disaster brought about by some
evil power which had a spite against the peasantry, who were foolish to
give their sweat and their blood to such a thankless creature.
"Madame Lepailleur brought her boy with her, a little fellow three years
old, called Antonin," resumed Marianne, "and we fell to talking of
children together. She quite surprised me. Peasant folks, you know, used
to have such large families. But she declared that one child was quite
enough. Yet she's only twenty-four, and her husband not yet
twenty-seven."
These remarks revived the thoughts which had filled Mathieu's mind all
day. For a moment he remained silent. Then he said, "She gave you her
reasons, no doubt?"
"Give reasons--she, with her head like a horse's, her long freckled face,
pale eyes, and tight, miserly mouth--I think she's simply a fool, ever in
admiration before her husband because he fought in Africa and reads the
newspapers. All that I could get out of her was that children cost one a
good deal more than they bring in. But the husband, no doubt, has ideas
of his own. You have seen him, haven't you? A tall, slim fellow, as
carroty and as scraggy as his wife, with an angular face, green eyes, and
prominent cheekbones. He looks as though he had never felt in a good
humor in his life. And I understand that he is always complaining of his
father-in-law, because the other had three daughters and a son. Of course
that cut down his wife's dowry; she inherited only a part of her father's
property. And, besides, as the trade of a miller never enriched his
father, Lepailleur curses his mill from morning till night, and declares
that he won't prevent his boy Antonin from going to eat white bread in
Paris, if he can find a good berth there when he grows up."
Thus, even among the country folks, Mathieu found a small family the
rule. Among the causes were the fear of having to split up an
inheritance, the desire to rise in the social system, the disgust of
manual toil, and the thirst for the luxuries of town life. Since the soil
was becoming bankrupt, why indeed continue tilling it, when one knew that
one would never grow rich by doing so? Mathieu was on the point of
explaining these things to his wife, but he hesitated, and then simply
said: "Lepailleur does wrong to complain; he has two cows and a horse,
and when there is urgent work he can take an assistant. We, this morning,
had just thirty sous belonging to us, and we own no mill, no scrap of
land. For my part I think his mill superb; I envy him every time I cross
this bridge. Just fancy! we two being the millers--why, we should be very
rich and very happy!"
This made them both laugh, and for another moment they remained seated
there, watching the dark massive mill beside the Yeuse. Between the
willows and poplars on both banks the little river flowed on peacefully,
scarce murmuring as it coursed among the water plants which made it
ripple. Then, amid a clump of oaks, appeared the big shed sheltering the
wheel, and the other buildings garlanded with ivy, honeysuckle, and
creepers, the whole forming a spot of romantic prettiness. And at night,
especially when the mill slept, without a light at any of its windows,
there was nothing of more dreamy, more gentle charm.
"Why!" remarked Mathieu, lowering his voice, "there is somebody under the
willows, beside the water. I heard a slight noise."
"Yes, I know," replied Marianne with tender gayety. "It must be the young
couple who settled themselves in the little house yonder a fortnight ago.
You know whom I mean--Madame Angelin, that schoolmate of Constance's."
The Angelins, who had become their neighbors, interested the Froments.
The wife was of the same age as Marianne, tall, dark, with fine hair and
fine eyes, radiant with continual joy, and fond of pleasure. And the
husband was of the same age as Mathieu, a handsome fellow, very much in
love, with moustaches waving in the wind, and the joyous spirits of a
musketeer. They had married with sudden passion for one another, having
between them an income of some ten thousand francs a year, which the
husband, a fan painter with a pretty talent, might have doubled had it
not been for the spirit of amorous idleness into which his marriage had
thrown him. And that spring-time they had sought a refuge in that desert
of Janville, that they might love freely, passionately, in the midst of
nature. They were always to be met, holding each other by the waist, on
the secluded paths in the woods; and at night they loved to stroll across
the fields, beside the hedges, along the shady banks of the Yeuse,
delighted when they could linger till very late near the murmuring water,
in the thick shade of the willows.
But there was quite another side to their idyl, and Marianne mentioned it
to her husband. She had chatted with Madame Angelin, and it appeared that
the latter wished to enjoy life, at all events for the present, and did
not desire to be burdened with children. Then Mathieu's worrying thoughts
once more came back to him, and again at this fresh example he wondered
who was right--he who stood alone in his belief, or all the others.
"Well," he muttered at last, "we all live according to our fancy. But
come, my dear, let us go in; we disturb them."
They slowly climbed the narrow road leading to Chantebled, where the lamp
shone out like a beacon. When Mathieu had bolted the front door they
groped their way upstairs. The ground floor of their little house
comprised a dining-room and a drawing-room on the right hand of the hall,
and a kitchen and a store place on the left. Upstairs there were four
bedrooms. Their scanty furniture seemed quite lost in those big rooms;
but, exempt from vanity as they were, they merely laughed at this. By way
of luxury they had simply hung some little curtains of red stuff at the
windows, and the ruddy reflection from these hangings seemed to them to
impart wonderfully rich cheerfulness to their home.
They found Zoe, their peasant servant, asleep over her knitting beside
the lamp in their own bedroom, and they had to wake her and send her as
quietly as possible to bed. Then Mathieu took up the lamp and entered the
children's room to kiss them and make sure that they were comfortable. It
was seldom they awoke on these occasions. Having placed the lamp on the
mantelshelf, he still stood there looking at the three little beds when
Marianne joined him. In the bed against the wall at one end of the room
lay Blaise and Denis, the twins, sturdy little fellows six years of age;
while in the second bed against the opposite wall was Ambroise, now
nearly four and quite a little cherub. And the third bed, a cradle, was
occupied by Mademoiselle Rose, fifteen months of age and weaned for three
weeks past. She lay there half naked, showing her white flowerlike skin,
and her mother had to cover her up with the bedclothes, which she had
thrust aside with her self-willed little fists. Meantime the father
busied himself with Ambroise's pillow, which had slipped aside. Both
husband and wife came and went very gently, and bent again and again over
the children's faces to make sure that they were sleeping peacefully.
They kissed them and lingered yet a little longer, fancying that they had
heard Blaise and Denis stirring. At last the mother took up the lamp and
they went off, one after the other, on tiptoe.
When they were in their room again Marianne exclaimed: "I didn't want to
worry you while we were out, but Rose made me feel anxious to-day; I did
not find her well, and it was only this evening that I felt more at ease
about her." Then, seeing that Mathieu started and turned pale, she went
on: "Oh! it was nothing. I should not have gone out if I had felt the
least fear for her. But with those little folks one is never free from
anxiety."
She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu,
instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, and
drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket. When he had
counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a
bitter, jesting way, "The money hasn't grown on the road. Here it is; you
can pay our debts to-morrow."
This remark gave him a fresh idea. Taking his pencil he began to jot down
the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary. "We
say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk. How much do you
owe the butcher?" he asked.
"The butcher," replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes;
"well, say twenty francs."
"And the grocer and the baker?"
"I don't know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether. There is
nobody else."
Then Mathieu added up the items: "That makes sixty-two francs," said he.
"Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and
thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a nice
month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if little
Rose should fall ill."
The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, saying:
"Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to be
almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as full
of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life if
one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the little
ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!"
At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and
mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great
length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty
and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges,
the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they had
said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident
starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never have
factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand francs a
year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had been their own
work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident. And he
went on with his recollections, telling Marianne that he feared nothing
for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn her and the little ones
to want and poverty. She was surprised at first, and by degrees became
colder, more constrained, as he told her all that he had upon his mind.
Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he
spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but burst into sobs. She did
not question what he said, she spoke no words of revolt, but it was
evident that her whole being rebelled, and that her heart was sorely
grieved.
He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to her
own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with
himself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her to
him: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that way.
Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over and talk
about it some other time."
She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her
head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving,
trustful woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more and more
confused, more and more ashamed of himself, ashamed of having given heed
to the base, sordid, calculating principles which others made the basis
of their lives. He thought with loathing of the sudden frenzy which had
possessed him during the evening in Paris. Some poison must have been
instilled into his veins; he could not recognize himself. But honor and
rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness in life were fast
returning. Through the window, which had remained open, all the sounds of
the lovely spring night poured into the room. It was spring, the season
of love, and beneath the palpitating stars in the broad heavens, from
fields and forests and waters came the murmur of germinating life. And
never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever loss may result,
whatever difficulty may arise, whatever fate may be in store, all the
creative powers of the world, whether of the animal order, whether of the
order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life's great incessant battle
against death. Man alone, dissolute and diseased among all the other
denizens of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks death
for death's sake, the annihilation of his species. Then Mathieu again
caught his wife in a close embrace, printing on her lips a long, ardent
kiss.
"Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both of us. It would be impossible
for either of us to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let the others
hold us in derision and contempt if they choose. Let us love and live as
nature tells us, for you are right: therein lies true wisdom and true
courage."
V
MATHIEU rose noiselessly from his little folding iron bedstead beside the
large one of mahogany, on which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and
saw that she was awake and smiling.
"What! you are not asleep?" said he. "I hardly dared to stir for fear of
waking you. It is nearly nine o'clock, you know."
It was Sunday morning. January had come round, and they were in Paris.
During the first fortnight in December the weather had proved frightful
at Chantebled, icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold. This
rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance that Marianne was
again expecting to become a mother, had finally induced Mathieu to accept
Beauchene's amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion in
the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of the works had lived before
building the superb house on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied
this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture of former days,
had lately died. And the young folks, desiring to be near their friend,
worthy Dr. Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not intend to
return to Chantebled until the first fine days in April.
"Wait a moment," resumed Mathieu; "I will let the light in."
He thereupon drew back one of the curtains, and a broad ray of yellow,
wintry sunshine illumined the dim room. "Ah! there's the sun! And it's
splendid weather--and Sunday too! I shall be able to take you out for a
little while with the children this afternoon."
Then Marianne called him to her, and, when he had seated himself on the
bed, took hold of his hand and said gayly: "Well, I hadn't been sleeping
either for the last twenty minutes; and I didn't move because I wanted
you to lie in bed a little late, as it's Sunday. How amusing to think
that we were afraid of waking one another when we both had our eyes wide
open!"
"Oh!" said he, "I was so happy to think you were sleeping. My one delight
on Sundays now is to remain in this room all the morning, and spend the
whole day with you and the children." Then he uttered a cry of surprise
and remorse: "Why! I haven't kissed you yet."
She had raised herself on her pillows, and he gave her an eager clasp. In
the stream of bright sunshine which gilded the bed she herself looked
radiant with health and strength and hope. Never had her heavy brown
tresses flowed down more abundantly, never had her big eyes smiled with
gayer courage. And sturdy and healthful as she was, with her face all
kindliness and love, she looked like the very personification of
Fruitfulness, the good goddess with dazzling skin and perfect flesh, of
sovereign dignity.
They remained for a moment clasped together in the golden sunshine which
enveloped them with radiance. Then Mathieu pulled up Marianne's pillows,
set the counterpane in order, and forbade her to stir until he had tidied
the room. Forthwith he stripped his little bedstead, folded up the
sheets, the mattress, and the bedstead itself, over which he slipped a
cover. She vainly begged him not to trouble, saying that Zoe, the servant
whom they had brought from the country, could very well do all those
things. But he persisted, replying that the servant plagued him, and that
he preferred to be alone to attend her and do all that there was to do.
Then, as he suddenly began to shiver, he remarked that the room was cold,
and blamed himself for not having already lighted the fire. Some logs and
some small wood were piled in a corner, near the chimney-piece.
"How stupid of me!" he exclaimed; "here am I leaving you to freeze."
Then he knelt down before the fireplace, while she protested: "What an
idea! Leave all that, and call Zoe."
"No, no, she doesn't know how to light the fire properly, and besides, it
amuses me."
He laughed triumphantly when a bright clear fire began to crackle,
filling the room with additional cheerfulness. The place was now a little
paradise, said he; but he had scarcely finished washing and dressing when
the partition behind the bed was shaken by a vigorous thumping.
"Ah! the rascals," he gayly exclaimed. "They are awake, you see! Oh!
well, we may let them come, since to-day is Sunday."
For a few moments there had been a noise as of an aviary in commotion in
the adjoining room. Prattling, shrill chirping, and ringing bursts of
laughter could be heard. Then came a noise as of pillows and bolsters
flying about, while two little fists continued pummelling the partition
as if it were a drum.
"Yes, yes," said the mother, smiling and anxious, "answer them; tell them
to come. They will be breaking everything if you don't."
Thereupon the father himself struck the wall, at which a victorious
outburst, cries of triumphal delight, arose on the other side. And
Mathieu scarcely had time to open the door before tramping and scuffling
could be heard in the passage. A triumphal entry followed. All four of
them wore long nightdresses falling to their little bare feet, and they
trotted along and laughed, with their brown hair streaming about, their
faces quite pink, and their eyes radiant with candid delight. Ambroise,
though he was younger than his brothers, marched first, for he was the
boldest and most enterprising. Behind him came the twins, Blaise and
Denis, who were less turbulent--the latter especially. He taught the
others to read, while Blaise, who was rather shy and timid, remained the
dreamer of them all. And each gave a hand to little Mademoiselle Rose,
who looked like an angel, pulled now to the right and now to the left
amid bursts of laughter, while she contrived to keep herself steadily
erect.
"Ah! mamma," cried Ambroise, "it's dreadfully cold, you know; do make me
a little room."
Forthwith he bounded into the bed, slipped under the coverlet, and
nestled close to his mother, so that only his laughing face and fine
curly hair could be seen. But at this the two others raised a shout of
war, and rushed forward in their turn upon the besieged citadel.
"Make a little room for us, mamma, make a little room! By your back,
mamma! Near your shoulder, mamma!"
Only little Rose remained on the floor, feeling quite vexed and
indignant. She had vainly attempted the assault, but had fallen back.
"And me, mamma, and me," she pleaded.
It was necessary to help her in her endeavors to hoist herself up with
her little hands. Then her mother took her in her arms in order that she
might have the best place of all. Mathieu had at first felt somewhat
anxious at seeing Marianne thus disturbed, but she laughed and told him
not to trouble. And then the picture they all presented as they nestled
there was so charming, so full of gayety, that he also smiled.
"It's very nice, it's so warm," said Ambroise, who was fond of taking his
ease.
But Denis, the reasonable member of the band, began to explain why it was
they had made so much noise "Blaise said that he had seen a spider. And
then he felt frightened."
This accusation of cowardice vexed his brother, who replied: "It isn't
true. I did see a spider, but I threw my pillow at it to kill it."
"So did I! so did I!" stammered Rose, again laughing wildly. "I threw my
pillow like that--houp! houp!"
They all roared and wriggled again, so amusing did it seem to them. The
truth was that they had engaged in a pillow fight under pretence of
killing a spider, which Blaise alone said that he had seen. This
unsupported testimony left the matter rather doubtful. But the whole
brood looked so healthful and fresh in the bright sunshine that their
father could not resist taking them in his arms, and kissing them here
and there, wherever his lips lighted, a final game which sent them into
perfect rapture amid a fresh explosion of laughter and shouts.