Complete Works of Emile Zola (937 page)

Buteau had brusquely shrugged his shoulders. A pretty piece of work, revolting. To be laid hold of by gendarmes. Oh, yes! All the others, moreover, since the little book had begun to relate their forefathers’ risings, had listened with downcast eyes, not venturing on the least gesture, but full of mistrust although at home. These were things no one ought to talk about openly; no one need know what they thought on the subject. Hyacinthe, having tried to interrupt, announcing that he would shortly be at the throats of more than one, Bécu violently declared that all Republicans were pigs, and Fouan had to silence them, solemnly, with the subdued gravity of an old man who knows a thing or two but won’t speak. La Grande, while the other women seemed to become more interested than ever in their knitting, observed: “What one has one keeps” — a remark which did not appear to have any connection with what was being read. Françoise alone, her work dropping on her lap, gazed at Corporal, amazed at his reading so long without making a mistake.

“Ah, dear me! Dear me!” repeated Rose, sighing more deeply.

The style of the book changed. It became lyrical, and magniloquently celebrated the Revolution. ‘Twas then, in the apotheosis of ‘89, that Jacques Bonhomme triumphed. After the taking of the Bastille, while the peasants burned the châteaux, the night of the 4
th
of August legalised the con­quests of centuries by recognising the freedom of man and the equality of civil rights. “In one night, the ploughman had be­come the equal of the lord who, by virtue of his parchments, had drunk the peasant’s sweat and devoured the fruits of his toilsome nights.” Abolition of serfdom, of all the privileges of the nobles, of the ecclesiastical and manorial courts of justice; the re-purchase of vested rights, the equalisation of taxation, the admission of every citizen to all civil or military offices — so the list went on. The evils of the old life seemed to vanish one by one. It was the hosanna of a new golden age dawning for the ploughman, who was made the subject of a whole pageful of eulogy, and hailed as king and foster-father of the world. He only was of importance: down on your knees before his holy plough! The horrors of ‘93 were stigmatised in burning words, and the book wound up with a high-flown panegyric on Napoleon, the child of the Revolution, who had succeeded in “extricating it from the grooves of License, to ensure the happiness of the rural districts.”

“That’s true!” from Bécu, as Jean turned to the last page.

“Yes, that’s true,” said old Fouan. “We had fine times of it, I can tell you, when I was young. I saw Napoleon once, at Chartres. I was twenty. We were free; we had land; it was first-rate! I mind how my father once said that he sowed coppers and reaped crowns. Then we had Louis XVIII, Charles X., and Louis Philippe. Things still went on; we had enough to eat, and couldn’t complain. And now we’ve got Napoleon III., and things weren’t so bad, either, up to last year. Only—”

He meant to break off, but the words forced their way.

“Only, what the odds does it make to Rose and me, their liberty and their equality? Are we any the fatter for it, after toiling and moiling for fifty years?”

Then, in a few slow and hesitating words, he unwittingly summed up the whole of this tale. The soil so long tilled for the lord’s benefit by the cudgelled and naked slave, whose skin was not even his own — the soil, fertilised by his efforts, pas­sionately loved and desired during close constant intimacy, like another man’s wife, whom one tends, embraces, but must not possess — the soil, after centuries of such longing torment, at length taken full possession of, becoming one’s own, a love-dalliance and life-spring. This desire of ages, this hope con­stantly delayed, explained the peasant’s love for his field, his passion for land, for the utmost quantity possible, for the loamy soil, palpable to the touch, and poiseable in the palm of the hand. And yet the indifference and ingratitude of this earth! Worship it as you would, it never warmed nor produced one grain the more. Too much rain rotted the seeds, hail ravaged the green wheat, a thunderstorm laid the stalks low, two months’ drought shrivelled the ears; and what with devouring insects, nipping frosts, cattle plagues, and leprosies of noxious weeds, everything conspired to bring ruin; the struggle was a daily one, every mistake a danger, one’s faculties were ever at full stretch. Surely he had never hung back; had worked body and soul, and had maddened to find his toil insufficient. He had withered his sinews, had withheld nothing of himself from this soil that, after having barely fed him, left him wretched, unsated, ashamed of his senile impotence, to seek the arms of another, without so much as a pitying thought for those poor bones of his that would soon be earth.

“And that’s where it is!” went on the old fellow. “In youth we’re always hard at it; and, having contrived with great difficulty to make both ends meet, we find ourselves old, and have to quit. Isn’t it so, Rose?”

The mother bent her trembling head. Great heaven, yes! She, too, had worked harder than a man, for certain. Rising before the rest of the household, getting the meals, sweeping, scouring, wearing herself out over a thousand duties — the cows, the pigs, the baking — and always the last in bed. She must have had a strong constitution not to have broken down altogether, and her only reward was to have lived her life. One got nothing but wrinkles, and one was lucky if, after pinch­ing and screwing, after going to bed in the dark and putting up with bread and water, one saved just enough to keep the wolf from the door in one’s old age.

“All the same,” resumed Fouan, “we mustn’t complain. I’ve heard tell there are districts where the land gives a deal more trouble. Thus, in Le Perche, there’s nought but flintstones. In La Beauce, the ground is still soft, and only wants good, steady work. But it’s spoiling. It’s certainly less fertile than formerly, and fields that once gave crops of seven quarters now yield little more than five. And for a year past the prices have been going down. They say that corn is coining in from savage parts. There’s some mischief brewing — a crisis, as they say. Is misfortune ever at an end? This universal suffrage, now, it don’t bring meat to the pot, does it? The land tax weighs us down, they keep on taking our chil­dren away to fight. It’s not a bit of use having revolutions, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, and a peasant always remains a peasant.”

The methodical Jean had been waiting to finish his reading. Silence being re-established, he went on softly:

“Happy husbandman, forsake not the village for the town, where everything — milk, meat, vegetables — must be bought, and where you would always spend more than necessary, be­cause of the opportunities offered. Have you not fresh air and sunshine, healthy toil, and honest joys in the village? Rural life is peerless; far from gilded pomp, you enjoy true happiness; in proof thereof, do not the town artisans go for jaunts into the country, just as the tradesman’s one dream is to seek retire­ment near you, culling flowers, eating fruit off the tree, and gambolling on the sward. Be sure, Jacques Bonhomme, that money is but a chimera. If your bosom be at peace, your fortune is made.”

Jean’s voice faltered. He was fain to repress his emotion, this big, tender-hearted, town-bred fellow, whose soul was touched by these pictures of rustic bliss. The others remained gloomy; the women bending over their needles, the men stolid and moody. Was the book making game of them? Money was the only desirable thing, and they were starving in penury. As the young fellow found this silence — heavy with suffering and spleen — rather oppressive, he ventured on a sage reflection:

“Anyhow, things would, perhaps, be better with education. People were wretched in former times because they knew nothing. Now-a-days we know a little, and times are certainly easier. So the thing is to be taught thoroughly, and have schools of agriculture.”

Fouan, an old fogey averse to new-fangled ways, inter­rupted him violently:

“Come, hang you and your science! The more a man knows the worse he gets on. I tell you the land gave a better yield fifty years ago! It gets angry at being worried so, and never gives more than it chooses, the beggar! Hasn’t Mon­sieur Hourdequin run through his own weight in silver, pottering about with new inventions? No, no; a peasant is bound to remain a peasant, that’s flat!”

Ten o’clock was striking, and after this conclusive remark, as weighty as the chop of an axe, Rose got up to fetch a pot of chestnuts, which she had left in the hot ashes in the kitchen. This was the usual treat on All Hallow E’en. She even brought two quarts of white wine to make the festival complete. Thence­forward stories were forgotten, the fun grew fast and furious, and nails and teeth alike were busy extracting the steaming boiled chestnuts from their husks.

La Grande at once pocketed her share, as she was slower at eating than the others. Bécu and Hyacinthe gulped theirs down, skin and all, pitching them into their mouths from a distance; while Palmyre, grown bold, cleaned hers with extreme care, and stuffed Hilarion with them, as if he were a fowl. As for the children, they “made pudding.” La Trouille dug one tooth into the chestnut, and then squeezed it so as to cause a thin stream to spurt out, which Delphin and Nénesse licked up. This being very nice, Lise and Françoise decided to do the same. Then the candle was snuffed for the last time, and glasses were clinked to the good fellowship of all present. The heat had increased; a ruddy vapour rose from the liquid manure; the cricket chirped more loudly in the great shifting shadows of the rafters; and, so that the cows might join in the festivities, they were given some husks, which they munched with a sub­dued and measured noise.

Finally, at half-past ten, the party broke up. First of all Fanny led Nénesse away. Then Hyacinthe and Bécu went out quarrelling, the outer cold bringing on a relapse of intoxica­tion; and La Trouille and Delphin were soon heard sus­taining their respective parents, prodding them and restoring them to the right path, as if they were restive animals forgetful of the way to the stables. Every time the door swung to, an icy gust blew in from the snow-white road. La Grande did not hurry at all, as she twisted her handkerchief round her neck and pulled on her mittens. Not a glance did she vouchsafe to­wards Palmyre and Hilarion, who slunk timidly away, shiver­ing in their rags; but, eventually betaking herself back to her home, which was adjacent, she slammed the door violently after her. There only remained Françoise and Lise.

“I say, Corporal,” asked Fouan, “you’ll see them on their way as you go back to the farm, won’t you? It’s on your way.”

Jean nodded assent, while the two girls were wrapping their shawls round their heads.

Buteau had got up and was pacing to and fro in the cow­house, grim, restless, and preoccupied. Since the reading he had been silent, as if engrossed by the book’s tales about the laboriously acquired land. Why not have the whole? A division had become intolerable to him. And there were other things besides confusedly jostling each other within his thick skull: wrath, pride, a dogged resolve to keep to his word, the exasperated craving of the man who would like, and yet will not, for fear of being taken advantage of. However, he abruptly came to a decision.

“I am going up to bed. Good-bye!” he said.

“How good-bye?”

“I shall start for La Chamade before daybreak. Good-bye, in case I don’t see you again.”

His father and mother, shoulder to shoulder, had planted themselves in front of him.

“Well, and your share?” said Fouan. “Do you accept it?”

Buteau walked as far as the door, then, turning round:

“No!” he replied.

The old peasant trembled in every limb. He drew himself up to his full height, and his ancient authority flashed forth for the last time.

“Very good. You are a wicked son. I shall give your brother and sister their shares, and shall let them farm yours; and when I die, I shall arrange for them to keep it. You shall have nothing. Be off with you!”

Buteau did not flinch from his rigid attitude. Then Rose, in her turn, tried to soothe him.

“Why, you are just as much cared for as the others, silly! You’re only quarrelling with your bread and butter. Accept!”

“No!” And then off he went, going up to bed.

Outside, Lise and Françoise, aghast at the scene, walked a few steps in silence. They had again taken one another’s waist, and their figures mingled, looking quite black against the snow which glimmered through the night. Jean, who followed them, also in silence, presently heard them crying. He then tried to cheer them up.

“Come, come, he’ll think better of it; he’ll say yes to-morrow.”

“Ah, you don’t know him!” cried Lise. “He’d be cut to pieces sooner than give way. No, no, it’s all over!”

Then, despairingly, she added:

“What shall I do with his child?”

“Well, it’ll have to come any way,” murmured Françoise.

This made them laugh. But their spirits were too low, and they began to cry again.

When Jean had seen them to their door he made the best of his way across the plain. It had left off snowing; the sky was once more clear and bright; a wide, star-spangled, frosty sky it was, shedding a crystalline blue light; and La Beauce ex­tended afar, quite white, and level and still like a sea of ice. Not a breath came from the distant horizon; he heard nothing but the tramp of his own thick shoes on the hard soil. ‘Twas a deep calm, the peacefulness of the cold. All that Jean had read was whirling in his brain. He took off his cap to cool himself, feeling an oppression behind his ears, and wishing to escape from thought. The idea of that girl with child and her sister annoyed him too. The tramp of his thick shoes still rang out. Then a shooting-star started down the sky, furrowing it with fire in its silent flight.

Over there, the farm of La Borderie was vanishing from sight, hardly forming as much as a bump on the white expanse of snow; and as soon as Jean had entered the cross-path, he remembered the field he had sown in the vicinity some days before. Looking to the left, he recognised it under the wind­ing-sheet that covered it. The layer of snow, of the lightness and purity of ermine, was a thin one, leaving the crests of the furrows apparent, and but imperfectly veiling the earth’s benumbed limbs. How soundly must the seeds be sleeping! How deep a rest in those icy flanks until the warm morn, when the Spring sun would again awaken them to life!