Complete Works of Emile Zola (1801 page)

Lili pouted like an offended princess. Her friend was decidedly beaten. She had no sunshade, and no one had as yet begged the favour of being presented to her. She lost her colour like a woman who is present at a rival’s triumph. She had passed her arm round Lili’s waist, endeavouring to crumple her frock behind, without her perceiving it. And she smiled at her, moreover, with an adorable smile, displaying little white teeth that were ready to bite.

As they walked away from their mothers, they at last noticed I was watching them. From that moment they became more sugary, and put on the coquettish airs of young ladies who wish to deserve and engage attention. A gentleman was there looking at them. Ah! daughters of Eve, the devil tempts you at the cradle!

Then, they burst out laughing. A detail of my toilette must have surprised, have appeared very comical to them; it was no doubt my hat, the shape of which had ceased to be the fashion. They were making fun of me, literally; they were joking, with their hands before their mouths, retaining their peals of laughter as ladies do in drawing-rooms. At length I felt ashamed, I reddened, and was at a loss to know what to do with myself. And I ran away, leaving the field in possession of these two brats, who had all the gaiety and strange looks of grown-up women.

III

Ah! Ninon, Ninon, take those girls away to the farms, dress them in brown holland and let them roll about in the pools where the ducks dabble. They will return as stupid as geese, as healthy and strong as young trees. When we marry them, we will teach them to love us. They will know quite enough.

THE LEGEND OF CUPID’S LITTLE BLUE MANTLE

I

THE beautiful girl with auburn hair was born on a December morning, as the pure snow was slowly falling. There were positive signs in the air which proclaimed the mission of love she came to perform; the sun shone pink on the white snow, and over the roofs passed the perfume of lilac and the songs of birds, as in springtime.

She first saw daylight in a hovel, no doubt out of a feeling of humility, so as to show that the only riches she prized were those of the heart. She had no family, she could love all humanity, having arms that were sufficiently lithe to embrace the whole world. As soon as she reached the age of love, she left the obscurity where she had been collecting her thoughts, and began to walk along the highways and byways, seeking the hungry, whom she satisfied with her glances.

She was a tall, well-developed girl, with black eyes and ruby lips. Her flesh was of a dull, pale tint, and was covered with a slight down which gave her skin the appearance of white velvet. When she walked her body swayed gently to and fro.

She had understood, on leaving the straw where she was born, that it was part of her mission to attire herself in silk and lace. Nature had gifted her with white teeth and rosy cheeks; she was able to find necklaces of pearls as pure as the former, and skirts that were pink like the latter.

And when she was equipped, it was nice to meet her on the foot-paths, on bright May mornings. Her heart and lips were at the service of all who came forward. When she found a beggar at the edge of a ditch, she questioned him with a smile; if he complained of burnings, of sharp pangs in the heart, her lips quickly gave him alms, and the beggar’s misery was relieved.

Consequently, all the poor of the parish knew her. They thronged to her door awaiting the distribution. She came down morning and night, like a charitable sister, dividing her treasures of tenderness amongst them, giving each his share.

She was as good and sweet as white bread. The poor of the parish had nicknamed her Cupid’s Little Blue Mantle.

II

Now, it happened that a terrible epidemic ravaged the land. All the young men were attacked by it, and the majority ran the risk of dying.

The symptoms of the scourge were terrifying. The heart ceased to beat, the brain was unhinged, the victim became stupid. The young men walked about sniggering like silly clowns, purchasing hearts at the fair as children buy sticks of barley-sugar. When the epidemic attacked worthy young men, the complaint showed itself by intense sadness and excessive despair. Artists wept before their works at their helplessness, unsated lovers went and threw themselves into the rivers.

You can imagine that the beautiful child showed herself to advantage on this momentous occasion. She established ambulances, and nursed the sick day and night, using her lips to close the wounds, and thanking heaven for the great task that had been set her.

She was quite a providence to the young men. She saved a large number. Those whose hearts she could not heal, were those who were already without a heart Her treatment was simple: she gave the sick her helping hands and warm breath. She never asked for payment. She ruined herself with a light heart, distributing charity by the mouthful Consequently, the misers of the time wagged their heads, when they saw the young prodigal scattering in that manner her great wealth of charms. Among themselves they said:

“She will die on a straw pallet, she who gives away her heart’s blood, without ever weighing the drops.”

III

And, indeed, one day as she was searching her heart, she found it empty. She shuddered in terror; she had barely a few sous’ worth of tenderness left, and the epidemic was at its height.

The child was beside herself; she did not give a thought to the immense fortune she had so foolishly squandered, but felt in burning need of charity herself, and that made her wretchedness the more frightful It was so sweet to go in quest of beggars in the bright sunshine, so sweet to love and to be loved! And, now, she must stand in the shade, awaiting in her turn charity, which perhaps would never come.

For a moment, she had the sensible thought of saving preciously the few sous that remained to her, and spending them very prudently. But she felt so cold in her loneliness, that she ended by going out in search of the May sunshine.

On her way, at the first road-stone, she met a young man whose heart was evidently withering from inanition. At that sight her sense of fervent charity awoke. She could not abandon her mission. And, beaming with kindness, superior in her abnegation, she brought the remainder of her heart to her lips, bent down slowly, and gave the youth a kiss, saying to him:

“Look, that is my last louis. Give me the change.”

IV

The young man gave her the change.

That same evening she sent her poor a circular letter, informing them that she found herself compelled to suspend her charity. The dear girl had only just sufficient left to live on in comfortable ease, with the last famished soul she had assisted.

The legend of Cupid’s Little Blue Mantle has no moral.

THE BLACKSMITH

THE blacksmith was a big fellow, the biggest in the neighbourhood; he had knotty shoulders, his face and arms were black with the flames of the forge and the dust from the iron of the hammers. He had the great blue eyes of a child, as clear as steel, fixed in a square head, beneath thick bushy hair. His heavy jaw was replete with laughter and sounds of sonorous breath, similar to the puffing and merry creaking of his bellows; and when he raised his arms with a gesture that marked the satisfaction he felt at his strength — a gesture he had contracted while working at the anvil — he seemed to be bearing the weight of his fifty years with even greater ease than that which he displayed in wielding “the young lady,” a ponderous lump weighing twenty-five pounds, a dreadful little girl which he alone was able to set dancing, between Vernon and Rouen.

I lived a year with the blacksmith, a whole year of convalescence. I had lost my heart, lost my head, I had left, going whither chance led me, endeavouring to become myself again, in search of a spot where I could be at peace and work, where I could recover my vigour. It was thus that one evening, on the highway, after having passed the village, I perceived the forge, all alone, all aflame, standing broadside at the four cross roads. The glare was such, that the cart-door, which stood wide open, set the open space outside ablaze, and made the poplars which grew in a line opposite, beside a brook, smoke like torches. The cadence of the hammers resounded half a league away, in the peaceful twilight, and resembled the gallop of some iron host approaching nearer and nearer. Then, there, in the gaping doorway, in the light, in the uproar, amidst the vibration of that thunder, I stopped, happy and already consoled at the sight of that labour, at gazing on those human hands twisting and flattening out the red-hot bars.

On that autumn evening I saw the blacksmith for the first time. He was forging a ploughshare. With his shirt open, displaying his splendid chest, his ribs at each breath marking his metallic-like frame which had been put to the test, he threw himself back, gave a plunge, and brought down the hammer. And he did so, without a pause, with a smooth and continuous swaying of the body and a resolute pulsion of the muscles. The hammer swung round in a perfect circle, carrying the sparks along with it and leaving a flash behind. It was “the young lady” which the blacksmith had thus set in motion with both hands; whilst his son, a strapping young fellow of twenty, held the flaming iron at the end of the pincers and beat it also, striking dull-sounding blows, which smothered the ringing dance of the elder’s dreadful little girl. Toe, toe; toe, toe; one would have taken it for the grave voice of a mother encouraging the early lisping of her child. “The young lady” continued waltzing, agitating the spangles of her gown, and leaving the imprint of her heels in the ploughshare she was fashioning, each time she rebounded on the anvil. A crimson flame ran on to the ground, lighting up the prominent outlines of two workmen whose great shadows spread over the dark and confused corners of the forge. Little by little the blaze paled, the blacksmith stopped. He stood there black, erect, leaning on the handle of the hammer, and did not even trouble to wipe away the perspiration on his brow. I heard the panting of his flanks, which were still quivering, amidst the rumbling of the bellows which his son was slowly drawing.

I slept at the blacksmith’s that night, and became a fixture there. He had a vacant room upstairs above the forge, which he offered me, and which I accepted. From five o’clock in the morning, before day broke, I associated myself with my host’s work. I awoke amidst the mirth of the entire household, who continued in high spirits until nightfall. The hammers were dancing below. It seemed as if “the young lady” forced me to get out of bed by knocking at the ceiling and calling me a lazy fellow. All the modestly furnished room, with its big cupboard, its deal table, its two chairs, was creaking, shouting to me to be quick. And I had to go down. Below I found the forge already ablaze. The bellows were purring, a blue and red flame ascended from the coal — where a round star seemed to be shining — under the influence of the gusts of wind which penetrated the fuel. In the meanwhile the blacksmith was preparing the day’s task. He was moving iron in the corners, turning over ploughs, examining wheels. When he perceived me he stuck his fists into his sides, the worthy man, and he laughed, making his mouth reach from ear to ear. He felt amused at having brought me out of bed at five o’clock I believe he set hammering in the morning simply for the pleasure of hammering, to give notice with the formidable peal of his hammers that it was time to rise. He placed his great hands on my shoulders, and bent forward as if he were speaking to a child, telling me I looked better since I had been living amongst his old iron. And every morning we drank white wine together seated on the bottom of a little old cart turned upside down.

Then, I often spent a whole day at the forge. In winter particularly, when it was rainy weather, I have passed all my time there. I took an interest in the work. This continual struggle between the blacksmith and raw iron which he manipulated as he pleased, fascinated me like a powerful drama. I followed the metal with my eyes from the furnace to the anvil and met with constant surprises at the sight of it bending, extending, rolling, like a piece of soft wax in response to the workman’s victorious exertion. When the plough was completed, I knelt down before it, I no longer recognised the shapeless mass of the previous day. I examined the pieces, dreaming that astonishingly strong fingers had taken them and fashioned them thus without the aid of fire. Sometimes I smiled when I remembered a young girl whom I had perceived, formerly, opposite my window, engaged whole days, twisting pieces of copper wire with her delicate hands, and then fixing artificial violets to them by the adjunct of silk thread.

The blacksmith never complained. I have often seen him of an evening, after having beaten iron for a day of fourteen hours, laughing his hearty laugh and rubbing his arms with an air of satisfaction. He was never sad, never weary. He would have shored-up the house with his shoulders had it shown signs of collapsing. He would say in the winter that it was nice and warm in his shop. In summer he set the door wide open and let the perfume of the hay enter. When the fine weather came, I used to go and sit down beside him, at the end of the day, before the door. We were half way up a hill, and from where we sat, we could see the entire breadth of the valley. He took pleasure in gazing on this immense expanse of tilled land, which faded out of sight on the horizon in the pale lilac twilight.

And the blacksmith often joked. He said that all this land belonged to him, that the forge had supplied all the neighbourhood with ploughs for two hundred years. That was his pride. Not a crop grew without his help If the plain were green in May and golden in July, it owed that change of colour to him. He loved the harvests as his daughters, was in raptures at the bright sunshine, and shook his fist at a bursting hailstorm. He often pointed out to me some piece of land far away, which seemed no larger than the back of my jacket, and told me in what year he had wrought a plough for that square of oats or rye. Sometimes he set down his hammers during work-time, and went and gazed at the roadside with his hand shading his eyes. He was watching his numerous family of ploughs biting into the land, tracing their furrows opposite to him and to the right and left. The valley was full of them. To see the teams slowly moving along, one would have said they were regiments on the march. The ploughshares glittered in the sun with the brilliancy of silver. And he, extending his arms, called me, shouted to me to come and see what splendid work they were doing.