Complete Works of Emile Zola (1775 page)

“The priests slaughtered victims; then stupidly bending over their palpitating entrails, pretended they read the secrets of heaven there. They wore swords beneath their robes, and preached warfare in the name of their god. Nations at their bidding set upon one another, devouring each other for the glorification of the common Father.

“All humanity was intoxicated; it battered down walls, wallowed on the flagstones soiled with hideous mire. With closed eyes and grasping a double-edged blade in both hands, it struck into the night and massacred.

“A damp breath of carnage passed over the crowd which was hidden in the distance in a reddish mist. It ran, borne along in an outburst of panic, it plunged into orgies with shouts that continued increasing in fury. It trampled on those who fell, and made their wounds yield the last drops of blood. It panted with rage, cursing the corpse, when it could no longer tear a groan from it.

“The earth drank, drank eagerly; its bowels ceased to feel repugnance for the bitter liquor. Like a being degraded by intoxication, it gorged itself with lees.

“I hastened on, anxious not to see my brethren any more. The dark road continued stretching ahead as broad as ever at each new horizon; the stream I was following seemed to be bearing the sanguinary flood to some unknown sea.

“And as I advanced, I saw nature becoming sombre and harsh. The bosom of the plains was profoundly lacerated. Masses of rock divided the ground into sterile hills and dismal dells. The hills rose higher and higher, the dells sank deeper and deeper; stone became mountains, the fields a chasm.

“There was not a leaf, not a piece of moss; naught but barren rocks with the summits bleached by the sun and the base gloomy and overshadowed. The road passed through these rocks and was enshrouded in deathlike silence.

“At last it made a sudden bend, and I found myself on a dismal site.

“Four mountains, resting heavily against one another, formed an immense basin. Their sides, which were steep and smooth, towered up like the walls of a cyclopean city and formed a gigantic well, the breadth of which extended to the horizon.

“And this well, into which the stream discharged itself, was full of blood. The thick, smooth ocean rose slowly from the chasm. It seemed sleeping in its rocky bed. The sky reflected it in purple clouds.

“I then understood that all the blood spilt by violence was running there. From the first murder, each wound had shed its tears into this pit, and tears had poured in there in such abundance, that the pit was full.”

“Last night,” said Gneuss, “I saw a torrent that was running into this accursed lake.”

“Struck with horror,” resumed Clérian, “I approached the brink, judging the depth of the flood with the eye. I could tell by the dull sound that it penetrated to the centre of the earth. Then, glancing at the rocks forming the enclosure, I saw that the flood was approaching the top of them. The voice of the abyss cried out to me: the flood, which is rising, will continue to do so and will attain the summit of the rocks. It will rise higher, and then a river, escaping from the terrible basin, will pour down on to the plains. The mountains, weary of struggling with the flood, will sink down. The entire lake will then fall upon the world and inundate it. It is thus that men who are to come, will die drowned in the blood shed by their fathers.’”

“That day is near at hand,” said Gneuss: “the flood was high last night.”

IV

The sun was rising, when Clérian had completed the account of his dream. The sound of a bugle wafted by the morning breeze, was heard towards the north. It was the signal for the soldiers dispersed over the plain to assemble round the flag.

The three companions rose and took their arms. As they were setting out, casting a last glance at the extinguished fire, they saw Flem advancing towards them, running in the tall grass. His feet were white with dust.

“Friends,” he said, “I have ran so fast that I know not whence I come. I have seen the trees flying behind me in a disorderly dance for hours. The sound of my footsteps lulling me made me close my eyelids, and, while still running, without slackening my speed, I slept a strange sleep.

“I found myself on a desolated hill. The scorching sun fell upon the great rocks. I could not set my feet down without the flesh being burnt. I hastened to reach the summit.

“And, as I bounded onward, I perceived a man walking slowly. He was crowned with thorns; a heavy burden weighed upon his shoulders and his face was bathed in blood-like sweat He advanced slowly, stumbling at each step.

“The ground was burning hot, I could not bear his torment; I went up and waited for him beneath a tree at the top of the hill. Then I saw he was carrying a cross. By his crown, his purple robe stained with mud, it seemed to me that he was a king, and I felt great joy at his suffering.

“Soldiers were following him, hurrying him on with their iron-tipped lances. On reaching the highest rock they stripped him of his garments, and made him lie down on the forbidding timber.

“The man smiled sadly. He held his hands out wide open to the executioners, and the nails made two ghastly holes in them. Then, bringing his feet together, he crossed them, and one nail sufficed.

“He lay silent on his back gazing at the sky. Two tears coursed slowly down his cheeks, tears which he did not feel and which were lost in the submissive smile upon his lips.

“The cross was erected, the weight of the body increased the size of the wounds horribly. The crucified man gave a prolonged shudder. Then, he cast his eyes up to heaven again.

“I gazed at him. Observing his courage in the face of death, I said, ‘This man is not a king.’ Then I felt pity, and cried out to the soldiers to pierce his heart” A feathered songster was singing on the cross. Its song was sad, and sounded in my ears like the voice of a virgin in tears.

“‘Blood colours the flame,’ it sang, ‘blood gives purple to the flower, blood reddens the naked. I stood upon the sand and my claws were covered with blood; I grazed the branches of the oak and my wings were red.

“‘I met a just man and followed him. I had been bathing at the spring, and my coat was pure. My song said: Be joyful, my feathers; on this man’s shoulder you will not be soiled with the rain of murder.

“‘My song says now: Weep, warbler of Golgotha, weep for your coat stained by the blood of him who kept a shelter for thee in his bosom. He came to give the warblers back their purity, helas! and men made him wet me with the dew of his wounds.

“‘I doubt, and I weep over my soiled coat Where shall I find thy brother, O Jesus I so that he may open his linen garment to me? Ah! poor master, what son born of thee will wash my feathers reddened with your blood?’

“The crucified man listened to the warbler. The breath of death made his eyelids quiver; agony distorted his lips. He cast his eyes up towards the bird, and they bore an expression of sweet reproach; his smile was bright and as serene as hope.

“Then, he uttered a loud cry. His head fell upon his breast, and the warbler flew off, borne away in a sob. The sky turned black, earth shuddered in the darkness.

“I continued running, and I still slept. Dawn had come, the valleys were awakening, smiling in the morning mist. The storm of the night had cleared the sky, and had given greater strength to the green leaves. But the path was bordered by the same thorns as tore me on the previous evening. The same hard, sharp flints rolled beneath my feet; the same serpents stole along in the thickets, and threatened me on the way. The blood of the Just One had ran into the veins of the old world, without giving it back the innocence of its youth.

“The warbler passed overhead, and cried to me:

‘“Ah! ah! I am very sad. I cannot find a spring pure enough to bathe in. Look, the earth is as wicked as formerly. Jesus is dead, and the grass has not flowered. Ah! ah! it is but one more murder.’”

V

The bugle continued sounding the departure.

“Boys,” said Gneuss, “our calling is an unpleasant one. Our slumber is troubled by the phantoms of those whom we strike. I, like you, have felt the demon of nightmare weighing on my chest for long hours. For thirty years I have been killing, and I need sleep. Let us leave our brethren there. I know of a glen where ploughs require hands. Shall we taste the bread of toil?”

“We will,” answered his companions.

Thereupon the soldiers dug a great hole at the foot of a rock, and buried their arms. They went down and bathed in the river; then, all four arm in arm disappeared at the turn of the pathway.

THE THIEVES AND THE ASS

I

I know a young man, Ninon, to whom you would give a good scolding. Léon is passionately fond of Balzac and cannot bear George Sand; Michelet’s book almost made him sick. He naïvely says that woman is born a slave, and never utters the words love and modesty without laughing. Ah! how ill he speaks of you! No doubt, he communes with himself at night the better to tear you to pieces during the daytime. He is twenty.

Ugliness seems to him a crime. Small eyes, a mouth too large, set him beside himself. He pretends that as there are no ugly flowers in the fields, all girls should be born equally beautiful. When by chance he meets an ugly one in the street, he fumes for three whole days about her scanty stock of hair, large feet and thick hands. When on the contrary the woman is pretty, he smiles wickedly, and his silence then is so full of naughty thoughts that it seems quite dreadful.

I know not which of you would find favour in his eyes. Blondes and brunettes, young and old, graceful and deformed, he envelops you all in the same malediction. The naughty boy! And how laughingly tender are his eyes! how soft and fondling his speech!

Léon lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter.

And now, Ninon, I feel very much embarrassed At the least thing, I would hold my tongue, regretting I ever had the singular idea to commence this story. Your inquisitive mind is eager for the scandal, and I hardly know how to introduce you to a world where you have never placed the tips of your little toes.

This world, my well-beloved, would be Paradise, if it were not Hell.

Let us open the poet’s volume and read the song of twenty summers. Look, the window faces the south; the garret, full of flowers and light, is so high, so high in the sky, that sometimes one hears the angels chatting on the roof. Like the birds that select the loftiest branch to hide their nests from man, so have the lovers built theirs on the last storey. There the sun gives them his first kiss in the morning and his last farewell at night What do they live on? Who knows? Perhaps on smiles and kisses. They love each other so much, that they have no leisure to think about the missing meal. They have no bread, and yet they throw crumbs to sparrows. When they open the empty cupboard, they satisfy their hunger by laughing at their poverty.

Their love dates from the blooming of the first blue corn flower. They met in a wheat field. Having long known one another, without ever having seen each other, they took the same path to return to the city. She wore a large nosegay at her bosom, like one betrothed. She ascended the seven floors, and, feeling too tired, was unable to go down again.

Will she have strength to do so to-morrow? She does not know. In the meantime she is resting, whilst tripping about the garret, watering the flowers, looking after a home which does not exist. Then she sews, whilst the youth works. Their chairs touch; little by little, for greater comfort, they end by taking only one for both of them. Night comes. They scold each other for their idleness.

Ah! what fibs that poet tells, Ninon, and how delightful his falsehoods are! May that unalterable child never become a man! May he continue to deceive us when he can no longer deceive himself! He comes from Paradise to tell us of its love-making. He met two saints there, Musette and Mimi, whom it pleased him to bring among us. They only just grazed the earth with their wings, and went off again in the ray that brought them. Hearts twenty summers old are seeking for those saints, and weeping at not finding them.

Must I, in my turn, tell you fibs, my well-beloved, by bringing them from Paradise, or must I confess that I met them in Gehenna? If there, near the fire, in that arm-chair where you are rocking yourself, a friend were listening to me, I would boldly raise the golden veil with which the poet has decked such unworthy shoulders! But you — you would close my lips with your little hands, you would get angry, you would vow it was false, because it was so true. How could you believe in lovers of our age drinking in the gutter when they feel thirsty in the street? How angry you would be if I dared tell you that your sisters, the loving ones, have unfastened their fichus and unbound their hair! You live laughing and serene in the nest I built for you; you are ignorant of the ways of the world. I shall not have the courage to confess to you that flowers are very sick of those ways, and that to-morrow, perhaps, the hearts that are there will be dead.

Close not your ears, darling: you will not have to blush.

II

Léon, then, lives in the midst of the Latin Quarter. His hand is more grasped than any other in that land where all hands know one another. His frank look makes each passerby his friend.

The women dare not forgive him the hatred he bears them, and are furious they cannot confess they love him. They detest him whilst doting on him.

Previous to the facts I am about to relate to you, I never knew him to have a sweetheart. He says he is blasé, and speaks of the pleasures of this world as would a Trappist, were he to break his long silence. He has a weakness for good living, and cannot bear bad wine. His linen is very fine, and his garments are always exquisitely elegant.

I see him sometimes stop before pictures representing virgins of the Italian school with moist eyes. A fine marble procures him an hour’s ecstasy.

Léon, moreover, leads a student’s life, working as little as possible, strolling in the sun, lounging obliviously on all the divans he meets with. It is particularly during these hours of semi-slumber that he gives utterance to his worst abuse of women. With closed eyes, he seems to be fondling a vision whilst cursing reality.