Fruitfulness - Emile Zola
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Then, Valerie having withdrawn without uttering a word, Madame Bourdieu
was greatly surprised to see Mathieu, who had risen from his chair. And
she suddenly became serious, displeased with herself at having spoken in
his presence. Fortunately, a diversion was created by the arrival of
Norine, who came in from the refectory; and Mathieu then promptly settled
his business and went off, after promising Norine that he would return
some day to see her.
To make up for lost time he was walking hastily towards the Rue La
Boetie, when, all at once, he came to a halt, for at the very corner of
that street he again perceived Valerie, now talking to a man, none other
than her husband. So Morange had come with her, and had waited for her in
the street while she interviewed Madame Bourdieu. And now they both stood
there consulting together, hesitating and evidently in distress. It was
plain to Mathieu that a terrible combat was going on within them. They
stamped about, moved hither and thither in a feverish way, then halted
once more to resume their conversation in a whisper. At one moment the
young man felt intensely relieved, for, turning into the Rue La Boetie,
they walked on slowly, as if downcast and resigned, in the direction of
Grenelle. But all at once they halted once more and exchanged a few
words; and then Mathieu's heart contracted as he saw them retrace their
steps along the Rue La Boetie and follow the Rue de la Pepiniere as far
as the Rue du Rocher. He readily divined whither they were going, but
some irresistible force impelled him to follow them; and before long,
from an open doorway, in which he prudently concealed himself, he saw
them look round to ascertain whether they were observed, and then slink,
first the wife and afterwards the husband, into the dark passage of La
Rouche's house. For a moment Mathieu lingered in his hiding-place,
quivering, full of dread and horror; and when at last he turned his steps
homeward it was with a heavy heart indeed.
The weeks went by, the winter ran its course, and March had come round,
when the memory of all that the young fellow had heard and seen that
day--things which he had vainly striven to forget--was revived in the
most startling fashion. One morning at eight o'clock Morange abruptly
called at the little pavilion in the Rue de la Federation, accompanied by
his daughter Reine. The cashier was livid, haggard, distracted, and as
soon as Reine had joined Mathieu's children, and could not hear what he
said, he implored the young man to come with him. In a gasp he told the
dreadful truth--Valerie was dying. Her daughter believed her to be in the
country, but that was a mere fib devised to quiet the girl. Valerie was
elsewhere, in Paris, and he, Morange, had a cab waiting below, but lacked
the strength to go back to her alone, so poignant was his grief, so great
his dread.
Mathieu was expecting a happy event that very day, and he at first told
the cashier that he could not possibly go with him; but when he had
informed Marianne that he believed that something dreadful had happened
to the Moranges, she bravely bade him render all assistance. And then the
two men drove, as Mathieu had anticipated, to the Rue du Rocher, and
there found the hapless Valerie, not dying, but dead, and white, and icy
cold. Ah! the desperate, tearless grief of the husband, who fell upon his
knees at the bedside, benumbed, annihilated, as if he also felt death's
heavy hand upon him.
For a moment, indeed, the young man anticipated exposure and scandal. But
when he hinted this to La Rouche she faintly smiled. She had friends on
many sides, it seemed. She had already reported Valerie's death at the
municipal office, and the doctor, who would be sent to certify the
demise, would simply ascribe it to natural causes. Such was the usual
practice!
Then Mathieu bethought himself of leading Morange away; but the other,
still plunged in painful stupor, did not heed him.
"No, no, my friend, I pray you, say nothing," he at last replied, in a
very faint, distant voice, as though he feared to awaken the unfortunate
woman who had fallen asleep forever. "I know what I have done; I shall
never forgive myself. If she lies there, it is because I consented. Yet I
adored her, and never wished her aught but happiness. I loved her too
much, and I was weak. Still, I was the husband, and when her madness came
upon her I ought to have acted sensibly, and have warned and dissuaded
her. I can understand and excuse her, poor creature; but as for me, it is
all over; I am a wretch; I feel horrified with myself."
All his mediocrity and tenderness of heart sobbed forth in this
confession of his weakness. And his voice never gave sign of animation,
never rose in a louder tone from the depths of his annihilated being,
which would evermore be void. "She wished to be gay, and rich, and
happy," he continued. "It was so legitimate a wish on her part, she was
so intelligent and beautiful! There was only one delight for me, to
content her tastes and satisfy her ambition. You know our new flat. We
spent far too much money on it. Then came that story of the Credit
National and the hope of speedily rising to fortune. And thus, when the
trouble came, and I saw her distracted at the idea of having to renounce
all her dreams, I became as mad as she was, and suffered her to do her
will. We thought that our only means of escaping from everlasting penury
and drudgery was to evade Nature, and now, alas! she lies there."
Morange's lugubrious voice, never broken by a sob, never rising to
violence, but sounding like a distant, monotonous, mournful knell, rent
Mathieu's heart. He sought words of consolation, and spoke of Reine.
"Ah, yes!" said the other, "I am very fond of Reine. She is so like her
mother. You will keep her at your house till to-morrow, won't you? Tell
her nothing; let her play; I will acquaint her with this dreadful
misfortune. And don't worry me, I beg you, don't take me away. I promise
you that I will keep very quiet: I will simply stay here, watching her.
Nobody will even hear me; I shan't disturb any one."
Then his voice faltered and he stammered a few more incoherent phrases as
he sank into a dream of his wrecked life.
Mathieu, seeing him so quiet, so overcome, at last decided to leave him
there, and, entering the waiting cab, drove back to Grenelle. Ah! it was
indeed relief for him to see the crowded, sunlit streets again, and to
breathe the keen air which came in at both windows of the vehicle.
Emerging from that horrid gloom, he breathed gladly beneath the vast sky,
all radiant with healthy joy. And the image of Marianne arose before him
like a consolatory promise of life's coming victory, an atonement for
every shame and iniquity. His dear wife, whom everlasting hope kept full
of health and courage, and through whom, even amid her pangs, love would
triumph, while they both held themselves in readiness for to-morrow's
allotted effort! The cab rolled on so slowly that Mathieu almost
despaired, eager as he was to reach his bright little house, that he
might once more take part in life's poem, that august festival instinct
with so much suffering and so much joy, humanity's everlasting hymn, the
coming of a new being into the world.
That very day, soon after his return, Denis and Blaise, Ambroise, Rose,
and Reine were sent round to the Beauchenes', where they filled the house
with their romping mirth. Maurice, however, was again ailing, and had to
lie upon a sofa, disconsolate at being unable to take part in the play of
the others. "He has pains in his legs," said his father to Mathieu, when
he came round to inquire after Marianne; "he's growing so fast, and
getting such a big fellow, you know."
Lightly as Beauchene spoke, his eyes even then wavered, and his face
remained for a moment clouded. Perhaps, in his turn, he also had felt the
passing of that icy breath from the unknown which one evening had made
Constance shudder with dread whilst she clasped her swooning boy in her
arms.
But at that moment Mathieu, who had left Marianne's room to answer
Beauchene's inquiries, was summoned back again. And there he now found
the sunlight streaming brilliantly, like a glorious greeting to new life.
While he yet stood there, dazzled by the glow, the doctor said to him:
"It is a boy."
Then Mathieu leant over his wife and kissed her lovingly. Her beautiful
eyes were still moist with the tears of anguish, but she was already
smiling with happiness.
"Dear, dear wife," said Mathieu, "how good and brave you are, and how I
love you!"
"Yes, yes, I am very happy," she faltered, "and I must try to give you
back all the love that you give me."
Ah! that room of battle and victory, it seemed radiant with triumphant
glory. Elsewhere was death, darkness, shame, and crime, but here holy
suffering had led to joy and pride, hope and trustfulness in the coming
future. One single being born, a poor bare wee creature, raising the
faint cry of a chilly fledgeling, and life's immense treasure was
increased and eternity insured. Mathieu remembered one warm balmy spring
night when, yonder at Chantebled, all the perfumes of fruitful nature had
streamed into their room in the little hunting-box, and now around him
amid equal rapture he beheld the ardent sunlight flaring, chanting the
poem of eternal life that sprang from love the eternal.
VII
"I TELL you that I don't need Zoe to give the child a bath," exclaimed
Mathieu half in anger. "Stay in bed, and rest yourself!"
"But the servant must get the bath ready," replied Marianne, "and bring
you some warm water."
She laughed as if amused by the dispute, and he ended by laughing also.
Two days previously they had re-installed themselves in the little
pavilion on the verge of the woods near Janville which they rented from
the Seguins. So impatient, indeed, were they to find themselves once more
among the fields that in spite of the doctor's advice Marianne had made
the journey but fifteen days after giving birth to her little boy.
However, a precocious springtide brought with it that March such balmy
warmth and sunshine that the only ill-effect she experienced was a little
fatigue. And so, on the day after their arrival--Sunday--Mathieu, glad at
being able to remain with her, insisted that she should rest in bed, and
only rise about noon, in time for dejeuner.
"Why," he repeated, "I can very well attend to the child while you rest.
You have him in your arms from morning till night. And, besides, if you
only knew how pleased I am to be here again with you and the dear little
fellow."
He approached her to kiss her gently, and with a fresh laugh she returned
his kiss. It was quite true: they were both delighted to be back at
Chantebled, which recalled to them such loving memories. That room,
looking towards the far expanse of sky and all the countryside,
renascent, quivering with sap, was gilded with gayety by the early
springtide.
Marianne leant over the cradle which was near her, beside the bed. "The
fact is," said she, "Master Gervais is sound asleep. Just look at him.
You will never have the heart to wake him."
Then both father and mother remained for a moment gazing at their
sleeping child. Marianne had passed her arm round her husband's neck and
was clinging to him, as they laughed delightedly over the cradle in which
the little one slumbered. He was a fine child, pink and white already;
but only a father and mother could thus contemplate their offspring. As
the baby opened his eyes, which were still full of all the mystery whence
he had come, they raised exclamations full of emotion.
"You know, he saw me!"
"Certainly, and me too. He looked at me: he turned his head."
"Oh, the cherub!"
It was but an illusion, but that dear little face, still so soft and
silent, told them so many things which none other would have heard! They
found themselves repeated in the child, mingled as it were together; and
detected extraordinary likenesses, which for hours and for days kept them
discussing the question as to which of them he most resembled. Moreover,
each proved very obstinate, declaring that he was the living portrait of
the other.
As a matter of course, Master Gervais had no sooner opened his eyes than
he began to shriek. But Marianne was pitiless: her rule was the bath
first and milk afterwards. Zoe brought up a big jug of hot water, and
then set out the little bath near the window in the sunlight. And
Mathieu, all obstinacy, bathed the child, washing him with a soft sponge
for some three minutes, while Marianne, from her bed, watched over the
operation, jesting about the delicacy of touch that he displayed, as if
the child were some fragile new-born divinity whom he feared to bruise
with his big hands. At the same time they continued marvelling at the
delightful scene. How pretty he looked in the water, his pink skin
shining in the sunlight! And how well-behaved he was, for it was
wonderful to see how quickly he ceased wailing and gave signs of
satisfaction when he felt the all-enveloping caress of the warm water.
Never had father and mother possessed such a little treasure.
"And now," said Mathieu, when Zoe had helped him to wipe the boy with a
fine cloth, "and now we will weigh Master Gervais."
This was a complicated operation, which was rendered the more difficult
by the extreme repugnance that the child displayed. He struggled and
wriggled on the platform of the weighing scales to such a degree that it
was impossible to arrive at his correct weight, in order to ascertain how
much this had increased since the previous occasion. As a rule, the
increase varied from six to seven ounces a week. The father generally
lost patience over the operation, and the mother had to intervene.
"Here! put the scales on the table near my bed, and give me the little
one in his napkin. We will see what the napkin weighs afterwards."
At this moment, however, the customary morning invasion took place. The
other four children, who were beginning to know how to dress themselves,
the elder ones helping the younger, and Zoe lending a hand at times,
darted in at a gallop, like frolicsome escaped colts. Having thrown
themselves on papa's neck and rushed upon mamma's bed to say
good-morning, the boys stopped short, full of admiration and interest at
the sight of Gervais in the scales. Rose, however, still rather uncertain
on her legs, caught hold of the scales in her impatient efforts to climb
upon the bed, and almost toppled everything over. "I want to see! I want
to see!" she cried in her shrill voice.
At this the others likewise wished to meddle, and already stretched out
their little hands, so that it became necessary to turn them out of
doors.
"Now kindly oblige me by going to play outside," said Mathieu. "Take your
hats and remain under the window, so that we may hear you."
Then, in spite of the complaints and leaps of Master Gervais, Marianne
was at last able to obtain his correct weight. And what delight there
was, for he had gained more than seven ounces during the week. After
losing weight during the first three days, like all new-born children, he
was now growing and filling out like a strong, healthy human plant. They
could already picture him walking, sturdy and handsome. His mother,
sitting up in bed, wrapped his swaddling clothes around him with her
deft, nimble hands, jesting the while and answering each of his plaintive
wails.
"Yes, yes, I know, we are very, very hungry. But it is all right; the
soup is on the fire, and will be served to Monsieur smoking hot."
On awakening that morning she had made a real Sunday toilette: her superb
hair was caught up in a huge chignon which disclosed the whiteness of her
neck, and she wore a white flannel lace-trimmed dressing-jacket, which
allowed but a little of her bare arms to be seen. Propped up by two
pillows, she laughingly offered her breast to the child, who was already
protruding his lips and groping with his hands. And when he found what he
wanted he eagerly began to suck.
Mathieu, seeing that both mother and babe were steeped in sunshine, then
went to draw one of the curtains, but Marianne exclaimed: "No, no, leave
us the sun; it doesn't inconvenience us at all, it fills our veins with
springtide."
He came back and lingered near the bed. The sun's rays poured over it,
and life blazed there in a florescence of health and beauty. There is no
more glorious blossoming, no more sacred symbol of living eternity than
an infant at its mother's breast. It is like a prolongation of
maternity's travail, when the mother continues giving herself to her
babe, offering him the fountain of life that shall make him a man.
Scarce is he born to the world than she takes him back and clasps him to
her bosom, that he may there again have warmth and nourishment. And
nothing could be more simple or more necessary. Marianne, both for her
own sake and that of her boy, in order that beauty and health might
remain their portion, was naturally his nurse.
Little Gervais was still sucking when Zoe, after tidying the room, came
up again with a big bunch of lilac, and announced that Monsieur and
Madame Angelin had called, on their way back from an early walk, to
inquire after Madame.
"Show them up," said Marianne gayly; "I can well receive them."
The Angelins were the young couple who, having installed themselves in a
little house at Janville, ever roamed the lonely paths, absorbed in their
mutual passion. She was delicious--dark, tall, admirably formed, always
joyous and fond of pleasure. He, a handsome fellow, fair and square
shouldered, had the gallant mien of a musketeer with his streaming
moustache. In addition to their ten thousand francs a year, which enabled
them to live as they liked, he earned a little money by painting pretty
fans, flowery with roses and little women deftly postured. And so their
life had hitherto been a game of love, an everlasting billing and cooing.
Towards the close of the previous summer they had become quite intimate
with the Froments, through meeting them well-nigh every day.
"Can we come in? Are we not intruding?" called Angelin, in his sonorous
voice, from the landing.
Then Claire, his wife, as soon as she had kissed Marianne, apologized for
having called so early.
"We only learnt last night, my dear," said she, "that you had arrived the
day before. We didn't expect you for another eight or ten days. And so,
as we passed the house just now, we couldn't resist calling. You will
forgive us, won't you?" Then, never waiting for an answer, she added with
the petulant vivacity of a tom-tit whom the open air had intoxicated:
"Oh! so there is the new little gentleman--a boy, am I not right? And
your health is good? But really I need not ask it. _Mon Dieu_, what a
pretty little fellow he is! Look at him, Robert; how pretty he is! A real
little doll! Isn't he funny now, isn't he funny! He is quite amusing."
Her husband, observing her gayety, drew near and began to admire the
child by way of following her example. "Ah yes, he is really a pretty
baby. But I have seen so many frightful ones--thin, puny, bluish little
things, looking like little plucked chickens. When they are white and
plump they are quite nice."
Mathieu began to laugh, and twitted the Angelins on having no child of
their own. But on this point they held very decided opinions. They wished
to enjoy life, unburdened by offspring, while they were young. As for
what might happen in five or six years' time, that, of course, was
another matter. Nevertheless, Madame Angelin could not help being struck
by the delightful picture which Marianne, so fresh and gay, presented
with her plump little babe at her breast in that white bed amid the
bright sunshine.
At last she remarked: "There's one thing. I certainly could not feed a
child. I should have to engage a nurse for any baby of mine."
"Of course!" her husband replied. "I would never allow you to feed it. It
would be idiotic."
These words had scarcely passed his lips when he regretted them and
apologized to Marianne, explaining that no mother possessed of means was
nowadays willing to face the trouble and worry of nursing.
"Oh! for my part," Marianne responded, with her quiet smile, "if I had a
hundred thousand francs a year I should nurse all my children, even were
there a dozen of them. To begin with, it is so healthful, you know, both
for mother and child: and if I didn't do my duty to the little one I
should look on myself as a criminal, as a mother who grudged her
offspring health and life."
Lowering her beautiful soft eyes towards her boy, she watched him with a
look of infinite love, while he continued nursing gluttonously. And in a
dreamy voice she continued: "To give a child of mine to another--oh no,
never! I should feel too jealous. I want my children to be entirely my
own. And it isn't merely a question of a child's physical health. I speak
of his whole being, of the intelligence and heart that will come to him,
and which he ought to derive from me alone. If I should find him foolish
or malicious later on, I should think that his nurse had poisoned him.
Dear little fellow! when he pulls like that it is as if he were drinking
me up entirely."
Then Mathieu, deeply moved, turned towards the others, saying: "Ah! she
is quite right. I only wish that every mother could hear her, and make it
the fashion in France once more to suckle their infants. It would be
sufficient if it became an ideal of beauty. And, indeed, is it not of the
loftiest and brightest beauty?"
The Angelins complaisantly began to laugh, but they did not seem
convinced. Just as they rose to take their leave an extraordinary uproar
burst forth beneath the window, the piercing clamor of little wildings,
freely romping in the fields. And it was all caused by Ambroise throwing
a ball, which had lodged itself on a tree. Blaise and Denis were flinging
stones at it to bring it down, and Rose called and jumped and stretched
out her arms as if she hoped to be able to reach the ball. The Angelins
stopped short, surprised and almost nervous.
"Good heavens!" murmured Claire, "what will it be when you have a dozen?"
"But the house would seem quite dead if they did not romp and shout,"
said Marianne, much amused. "Good-by, my dear. I will go to see you when
I can get about."
The months of March and April proved superb, and all went well with
Marianne. Thus the lonely little house, nestling amid foliage, was ever
joyous. Each Sunday in particular proved a joy, for the father did not
then have to go to his office. On the other days he started off early in
the morning, and returned about seven o'clock, ever busily laden with
work in the interval. And if his constant perambulations did not affect
his good-humor, he was nevertheless often haunted by thoughts of the
future. Formerly he had never been alarmed by the penury of his little
home. Never had he indulged in any dream of ambition or wealth. Besides,
he knew that his wife's only idea of happiness, like his own, was to live
there in very simple fashion, leading a brave life of health,
peacefulness, and love. But while he did not desire the power procured by
a high position and the enjoyment offered by a large fortune, he could
not help asking himself how he was to provide, were it ever so modestly,
for his increasing family. What would he be able to do, should he have
other children; how would he procure the necessaries of life each time
that a fresh birth might impose fresh requirements upon him? One situated
as he was must create resources, draw food from the earth step by step,
each time a little mouth opened and cried its hunger aloud. Otherwise he
would be guilty of criminal improvidence. And such reflections as these
came upon him the more strongly as his penury had increased since the
birth of Gervais--to such a point, indeed, that Marianne, despite
prodigies of economy, no longer knew how to make her money last her till
the end of the month. The slightest expenditure had to be debated; the
very butter had to be spread thinly on the children's bread; and they had
to continue wearing their blouses till they were well-nigh threadbare. To
increase the embarrassment they grew every year, and cost more money. It
had been necessary to send the three boys to a little school at Janville,
which was as yet but a small expense. But would it not be necessary to
send them the following year to a college, and where was the money for
this to come from? A grave problem, a worry which grew from hour to hour,
and which for Mathieu somewhat spoilt that charming spring whose advent
was flowering the countryside.
The worst was that Mathieu deemed himself immured, as it were, in his
position as designer at the Beauchene works. Even admitting that his
salary should some day be doubled, it was not seven or eight thousand
francs a year which would enable him to realize his dream of a numerous
family freely and proudly growing and spreading like some happy forest,
indebted solely for strength, health, and beauty to the good common
mother of all, the earth, which gave to all its sap. And this was why,
since his return to Janville, the earth, the soil had attracted him,
detained him during his frequent walks, while he revolved vague but
ever-expanding thoughts in his mind. He would pause for long minutes, now
before a field of wheat, now on the verge of a leafy wood, now on the
margin of a river whose waters glistened in the sunshine, and now amid
the nettles of some stony moorland. All sorts of vague plans then rose
within him, uncertain reveries of such vast scope, such singularity, that
he had as yet spoken of them to nobody, not even his wife. Others would
doubtless have mocked at him, for he had as yet but reached that dim,
quivering hour when inventors feel the gust of their discovery sweep over
them, before the idea that they are revolving presents itself with full
precision to their minds. Yet why did he not address himself to the soil,
man's everlasting provider and nurse? Why did he not clear and fertilize
those far-spreading lands, those woods, those heaths, those stretches of
stony ground which were left sterile around him? Since it was just that
each man should bring his contribution to the common weal, create
subsistence for himself and his offspring, why should not he, at the
advent of each new child, supply a new field of fertile earth which would
give that child food, without cost to the community? That was his sole
idea; it took no more precise shape; at the thought of realizing it he
was carried off into splendid dreams.