Complete Works of Emile Zola (1633 page)

When Luc thanked him, however, his heart was wrung afresh by the composed answer:

“It is perfectly natural; I have done nothing more than my duty; but, nevertheless, Monsieur Luc, it will be absolutely necessary for me to convert you to my ideas. Otherwise, all of us will end by dying of hunger.”

A few days after this another incident completed Luc’s depression. He was just descending from the blast-furnace with Bonnaire, when they had occasion to pass before the kilns that belonged to Lange. The potter had obstinately refused to leave the tiny bit of land lying under the rocky hill-side, which had been made over to him, and which he had enclosed with a low wall of rough stone. Luc had vainly endeavored to entice him away by offering him the superintendency of the crucible manufactory which he had been obliged to establish. Lange wished to remain free, and to own, as he said, neither God nor master. He therefore continued to manufacture common pottery at the back of his cave, and to carry about his pots, dishes, and earthen vessels of all kinds in a little cart, by means of which he conveyed them to the markets and fairs of the neighboring villages. He himself dragged the cart, and Barefoot pushed it; and on this particular evening both were just returning from one of their journeys as Luc and Bonnaire made their appearance before the door of the enclosure.

“Well, Lange,” inquired the former, cordially, “how is business?”

“Good enough for us to have bread, Monsieur Luc. You know that is all that I ask.”

Lange did not carry his pottery about for sale, in fact, unless he was actually in want of food. At other times he forgot himself, in the potteries that were not for sale, and remained for hours looking at these, with eyes full of imagination, like a rustic poet, whose passion is to give life to inanimate objects. Even the rudest utensils that he manufactured displayed an originality, a purity of outline, and a grace at once simple and dignified. He who was himself sprung from the people had discerned by instinct the primitive beauty of the people, that beauty of the humble domestic object that is born of perfect proportions, and of complete adaptation to the purpose for which the object is to be used.

This peculiar beauty struck Luc forcibly as he examined some unsold articles in the little cart. He was also filled with an admiration mingled with astonishment at the sight of Barefoot, who was a dark, beautiful girl, with the graceful and muscular limbs of a wrestler, and the small, firm throat of a warrior.

“It must be hard work,” said he, addressing himself to her, “to push this all day.” But she was a silent person, and contented herself with smiling and looking at him with her great, wild eyes, while the potter answered for her:

“
Nonsense! We rest in the shade on the side of the road whenever we meet a spring. It is all the same to us, is it not, Barefoot, so long as we are happy?”

She turned her eyes towards the speaker, filled with a boundless adoration for him who was to her a master all-powerful and good, a savior, and a God. Then, without uttering a word, she ended by pushing the little cart into the enclosure and placing it under a shed.

Lange himself followed her with a look of profound tenderness. He made a pretence of using her harshly sometimes, as though she were a Bohemian picked up on the road, whose master he intended to remain. But at present it was she who was mistress. He loved her with a passion that he would not own, and which he concealed under an uncouth peasant manner. This little, dumpy man, with a square head, surrounded by a thicket of tangled hair and beard, had really a disposition of infinite tenderness and affection.

He turned suddenly towards Luc, whom he affected to treat as a comrade, and rejoined, with brutal frankness: “Well, the happiness of all does not seem to work, then? Those imbeciles who consent to shut themselves up in those barracks of yours are not willing to be happy in your way?”

He had been in the habit of jeering at Luc whenever they met, in regard to the latter’s attempt to establish Fourierist communism at La Crêcherie. And, as Luc contented himself with smiling, he added:

“I confidently expect that before six months are out you will come over to us anarchists. Once more, I repeat to you, everything is rotten, and there is nothing more to be done but to destroy the old society with bombs.” Bonnaire, who up to this moment had kept silence, interrupted, brusquely:

“Oh! with bombs! That is rank foolishness!”

He, who was a pure collectivist, did not favor attempts to propagandize by unlawful means, although he entirely believed in the necessity of a general and violent revolution.

“How, you idiot?” cried Lange, much offended. “Do you imagine that your precious socialization of the implements of labor will ever take place unless the middle class are made ready for it? It is your disguised capitalism that is rank foolishness. Begin, then, by destroying everything, in order to reconstruct everything.”

They continued arguing in this fashion, the anarchy of one disputing with the collectivism of the other, and Luc had nothing to do but to listen to them. The gulf fixed between Lange and Bonnaire was as wide as that between Bonnaire and himself.

In listening to them one would have believed, from the bitterness and violence of their quarrel, that they were men of different races, at enmity for ages, and ready to devour each other alive, in the absence of any possibility of mutual understanding. Yet, in spite of this, they were equally desirous of the happiness of others. They were united in striving for the same end, namely, justice, peace, and organized labor, which should give daily bread and a share in the joy of existence to all. But the moment that they began to discuss the means to this end, what violence, what aggressive, murderous hatred they displayed! Were these stony contests to occur at every halt, among brothers on a march along the rough road of progress, over the simple question as to whether it were necessary to turn to the right hand or to the left, notwithstanding they were both inspired with the same desire for freedom.

“Every one is free to act in his own way,” said Lange, at last. “Sleep peacefully, comrade, in your
bourgeois
comer, if that is what suits you. For myself, I understand clearly what I must do. Those little presents, those little pots that we are going some fine day to leave with the sub-prefect, with the mayor, with the judge, and with the
curé,
they will do their work; is it not so, Barefoot? That will be a famous excursion, hey? Ah, with what delight we shall push the cart that morning?”

The tall, beautiful girl had returned, and was standing on the threshold, where she remained, like the sculptured figure of a queen, among the red earthen vessels in the enclosure. Her eyes flamed afresh, and she had the smile of the devotee who is ready to follow her master even to the lengths of crime.

“She is in it, comrade,” added Lange, quietly, with his manner in which moroseness and tenderness were mingled. “She is helping me.”

After Luc and Bonnaire had left him, without any anger, despite their lack of agreement, they continued their walk for a few minutes in silence. Then the latter experienced the need of resuming his arguments, in order to demonstrate once more that there was no safety possible outside of the doctrine of collectivism. He damned the anarchists as he damned the Fourierists, the latter because they did not immediately seize upon all capital, and the former because they would suppress it by force. And Luc was obliged once more to reflect that a reconciliation between the two would be possible only in the city of his dreams, when all parties were lost in the realized vision of the community. Then there would be no more dissensions in regard to the best direction to be followed, there would be but one desired end for all, and brotherly kindness would reign. But he felt a mortal uneasiness at the thought of the long road that was still to be travelled, and an extreme dread of seeing these men, who should be as brothers, destroy each other, simply because they hindered one another upon the march.

These continual collisions depressed Luc greatly, for they were so many impediments to his own work. As soon as two men wished to act, they misunderstood each other. Whenever he was alone, the cry, which always lay latent in his heart, burst from his lips:

“They do not love me! If they did but love me, everything would increase and prosper; everything would grow and expand like a plant in the sunshine.”

Morfain, also, was causing him annoyance. Luc had endeavored, without success, to civilize the former a little by inducing him to abandon his cave in the rock and come down to live in one of the little, well-lighted houses of La Crêcherie. But the master-founder had always obstinately refused, under the pretext that he was nearer to his work up above, and, therefore, had it more completely under his eye. Luc allowed himself to be entirely led by Morfain, and left the management of the blastfurnace completely to him, the letter being still carried on in the old-fashioned way, pending the advent of the batteries of electric furnaces, upon which Jordan was still incessantly at work. The true cause of Morfain’s obstinacy, however, his real reason for refusing to come down and live among the men who peopled the new town, was the contempt, which amounted, indeed, almost to hatred, in which he held them. He himself represented the Vulcan of primitive times, the conqueror of fire, the workman whose spirit has been crushed by long slavery, who gives his exertions like a hero of resignation, and who ends by loving the gloomy grandeur of the galleys to which fate has condemned him; and to such as he there was nothing but irritation in these works, where the employés expected eventually to be gentlemen, and where the use of their arms was to be replaced by machines that would soon be run by children. All this effort to economize labor and to contend no longer with fire and iron seemed to him petty and miserable. It was entirely beyond his comprehension, and he shrugged his shoulders, without speaking during the long silences that he sometimes maintained for entire days. He therefore remained all alone in his pride upon the side of the mountain, reigning over the blast-furnace, and superintending the works where, regularly, four times in every twenty-four hours, the dazzling tappings crowned with flames appeared.

There was still another reason for Morfain’s prejudice against the new times, of which he wished to remain in ignorance, to such an extent that their very breath should not even lightly touch his rough skin, tanned by labor. And in this respect the heart of the taciturn man must have bled frightfully. His daughter, Ma Bleue, whose blue eyes were for him the blue of heaven, that majestic and beautiful creature who, since the death of her mother, had been his beloved housekeeper, had gone astray. On learning this he first flew into a passion, and then pardoned her, for he said to himself that some day she would be married. But when she confessed to him the name of her lover, and he learned that it was Achille Gourier, the son of the mayor, he had no further pardon to give. Their attachment had lasted for years, and their meeting-place had been along the mountain paths of the Monts Bleuses, with their fragrant beds of thyme and lavender, under the free expanse of the starry night. Achille, disgusted and wearied by the
bourgeoisie
to which he belonged, had come to an open rupture with his family, and entreated Luc to employ him at La Crêcherie, where he became a draughtsman. He broke all ties, and resolved to love where and how he pleased, and to work for the woman of his choice, showing himself, in fact, the converted offspring of old social conditions, in conforming himself to the requirements of a new age. Morfain’s chief cause of distress was that Ma Bleue had been led astray by a gentleman; and it was this, indeed, which made him drive her out in disgrace, for he recognized nothing in her case that was not rebellion and deviltry. The ancient social edifice that he respected must be crumbling to pieces when a girl who was so beautiful and so good had herself shaken one of its foundations by listening to and, perhaps, even enticing the son of the mayor.

Ma Bleue, driven out of her home, had naturally taken refuge with Achille, and Luc was obliged to intervene. The two young people had no idea of marrying. They saw no reason for it, since they were perfectly sure of loving each other and of never deserting each other. Besides, it would be necessary, if they were to be married, that Achille should obtain the legal consent of his father, and this seemed to him a useless and vexatious complication. Sœurette, feeling that the good reputation of La Crêcherie for morality was at stake, urged a legal marriage very strongly, but in vain, and Luc at length advised her to close her eyes to the situation. Morfain, however, did not accept it thus easily, and Luc went to see him one evening in order to reason with him. Since he had turned his daughter out-of-doors, the master-founder had lived alone with his son Petit-Da, the two between them managing the household affairs of their rocky cave. This evening, after they had finished their dinner of soup, they remained seated on their wooden stools before their rude oak table, which they had hewn out of the wood themselves, while the feeble lamp that lighted the room projected their colossal shadows upon the smoky walls.

“Nevertheless, father,” said Petit-Da, “the world moves on. It is impossible to remain stationary.”

Morfain shook the heavy table with a blow of his fist, and said:

“I have lived as my father lived, and your duty was to live as I live.”

The two men did not usually exchange half a dozen words a day. But for some time a feeling of constraint had been growing between them, and although they did everything to avoid discussions, these would sometimes arise. The son knew how to read and write, and was somewhat more in touch with the march of progress, of which the echoes extended even to the depths of these rocky fastnesses. But the father, in his glorious obstinacy, being nothing more than a sturdy workman, whose effort sufficed to control fire and conquer iron, flew into a violent passion upon finding that his race was becoming debased by all this science and all these useless ideas.

“If your sister had not read books, and had not taken an interest in what was going on down below, she would still be with us.... Ah! that new town, that accursed town, that has taken her away from us!”