something was happening. I hastened back. The irreproachable wife was
dead, killed by the lovers, whom two days had sufficed to unite in
indissoluble bonds of infamy. The unlucky creature lay with her skull
broken open by their beaks, and the murderers sated their ferocity upon
the dead body, which I had difficulty in wresting from them.
There are no courts of law in the animal world, wherefore Providence had
no option but to crown the triumph of crime with happy peace. This it
did with its customary generosity. The two villains live happy in their
love. They have had, and will yet have, many children.
XVII
SIX CENTS
Here is the history of a man without a history. As far back as I can
remember, I can see in the great court of honour of the Manor, devoted
to plebeian uses since the Revolution, Six Cents, the sawyer, silently
occupied with making boards out of the trunks of poplars, elms, and
oaks, which at the end of my last vacation I had left green and living,
filled with the song of birds, and whose corpses I found on my return
tragically piled up for the posthumous torture by which man pursues his
work of death-dealing civilization.
Jacques Barbot, commonly called Six Cents, was in those days the
representative of industry in the rural world; he typified man in the
first stage above the purely agricultural labourer of olden times. To
prepare the raw material for the next man to use was his social
function. He had certainly never given thought to this, any more than to
the cruel fate which makes of man the first victim of his inventions,
pregnant though they be of future benefit. For how many centuries the
grinding of wheat chained the slave to the millstone, until the day
dawned when the beast of burden, the wind, water and steam, came to take
his place. Even to-day, how much serf's labour still awaits the
ingenuity of future liberators!
It is certain that Six Cents, although he expressed his views to nobody,
for discretion of thought was chief among his characteristics, did not
feel himself a slave, in his quiet patience under the common subjugation
of labour. As it happened, the machine which set him free promptly dealt
him his death blow.
Employee and employer as well, he hired a comrade, whose pay was nearly
equal to his own, and all the year round, in the cold and the rain, the
sun or the wind, he matched himself with untiring energy against the
wide-branched giants, and defeated those adversaries. The ever-renewed
struggle against the eternal resistance of the woody monsters made up
his entire life. Beyond that, no horizon, no thought; his was the
unconsciousness of the soul in the making. Gladstone, stupidly and
without the excuse of necessity, used to hack down the noble leafy
creations that form so great a part of the earth's beauty. Six Cents, as
insensible as he to the esthetic aspect of tree life, engaged in a
mortal combat to wrest his living from the obstinate fibres clinging to
life with obscure yet tenacious vitality.
On winter days, favourable for felling trees, the executioners would
arrive on the spot, axe in hand, to carry out the death sentence
pronounced by interest against life and beauty. In the desolate country,
overflown by bands of crows with their ill-omened croaking, the strokes
of the sinister axe would echo far around, as they accomplished their
work of death. The tall trunk rocks at each deeper entering of the iron,
while the plumy branches beat the air in shudders of agony. The rope
fastened to the top of the tree grows taut--a sharp blow, followed by a
long wail, and the groaning colossus falls heavily to earth. Like a hero
on the fields of Ilion hurling himself upon the spoils of the vanquished
foe, Six Cents on the instant is chopping, cutting, trimming, drawing
lines where the saw is to divide the tree into logs. Soon the stripped
shaft, chained to the sawing trestle, will show on its length as well as
its girth black lines, drawn straight by aid of a string for the
sawyer's reliance in guiding the steel teeth.
One man stands above and one below the trestle. The thin notched blade,
working its way forward with a soft swish muffled by the sawdust, rises
and falls with the rhythmic motion of the bodies alternately bending
down and straightening up. From a distance you see two men in front of
each other, one facing earthward, the other skyward, and perpetually
bowing as if in mutual greeting. When the entire existence of a human
being has for its sole activity an incessant bowing, not even to the
tree about to die, but to its corpse, into which he is driving the iron
a little further with each courteous gesture, there results a monotony
of sensation, of thought (if the two words may be used in this
connection,) progressively benumbing the spirit, or reducing it to the
minimum of cogitation compatible with a continuance of life. The inert
intelligence becomes atrophied. What is the mentality of the slave
harnessed to the millstone? Not greatly superior to that of the beast of
burden substituted for him. Six Cents, slaughtering his trees, took from
them only vegetative life. His victims unconsciously revenged themselves
by bringing him down through the continuity of enforced labour to the
lowest rank of conscious life.
One must not suppose that Six Cents was stupid. His countenance, with
its regular features, was frank and open. His eyes, which though lacking
in fire were gentle and appeared to dwell on something far away,
reminded one of those of certain dogs, "very intelligent," but incapable
of any effort beyond primitive comprehension. He was not a mere animal,
but simply an undeveloped man. He did not know how to read, nor had he
ever stopped to wonder what might be contained in a book. To saw to-day,
to saw to-morrow: a narrow cycle of dull thoughts brought him
continually back to his starting point. The wide gray velvet trousers
from the pocket of which protruded the points of a pair of compasses
distinguished him from tillers of the soil. The stamp of science and
art was upon him, but so rudimentary, that the appropriate mechanical
gesture was the Ultima Thule of his attainment. The smooth-shaven face,
framed in long gray locks, under a cloth cap in the fashion of Louis XI,
inspired respect by its placid gravity. His slow, heavy step could be
heard on the road as he went silently to his work, whereas the plowmen,
exchanging greetings as they passed one another, urged on their beasts
with shouts, held them back with oaths, or brightened the day with love
songs. Presently, they would be turning over their furrows, still
shouting, still swearing, and still singing, followed by the feathered
host, to whom the plowshare furnishes inexhaustible feasts. During this,
Six Cents, at the foot of the trestle, gazing upward open mouthed,
without sound, his attention centred upon not departing from the
straight line, would stretch to full height with arms extended, then
stoop to the ground as if to touch it, bend over only to lift himself,
and lift himself only to bend again.
And what of the interludes between work hours? There is the cheer of the
coarse but comforting repast, with the zest of its thin, sourish white
wine "warming to the heart"--the walk from work to food and from food to
work; sleep, when strength is spent, and rising when it would be
pleasant to go on sleeping. On Sundays, there is first and foremost the
joy of doing nothing, then there are the heavy conversations during
which no one has anything to say, each having no interest in any but his
own case, "feeling only his own ills," as the popular saying has it;
there is the talk about the weather, the tedium of an idle day,
occasionally the diversion of rural debate on the church square after
mass; there is communion with the blessed bottle, substituting a
paradise of dreams for the irksome reality of things. What further?
Married in a purely animal sense, as is the case with the majority of
the human race, Six Cents lived in the relation of male to female with
his "good wife," finding in marriage the advantage of partnership in
labour. Were they faithful to each other? In a village these matters,
which create so much commotion in the city, have small importance.
People are too close to nature to resist the attraction of the moment.
And I cannot see that the dwellers in cities set them such a shining
example. The distraction of fairs is unknown to the sawyer who has
nothing to sell. Thefts are too common, crimes too rare, they are not
common subjects of conversation. Finally, to satisfy the rudimentary
urge of idealism, there are politics and religion, represented by the
mayor and the priest. From the pulpit fall incomprehensible words to
which no one pays attention, since no one can see that they have any
real effect upon anything whatsoever. Religion consists principally in
believing that we must by means of certain ceremonies get on the right
side of a God who will otherwise burn us up. At the approach of death
one tries to get the balance in his favour at all costs. But this
changes nothing in the conduct of life. Local politics are in general,
as they are everywhere, a matter of business. The calculation can
quickly be made as to the value of a vote on one side or the other.
There is no other problem. This is how a great many Frenchmen still
express the "national will" concerning the most important matters of
politics and sociology. The point ever present to the mind is the
question of remuneration. But the conditions determining the wages of
labour escape the power of analysis of such fellows as Six Cents. What
can they do but say "I work too much and earn too little," and stop,
amazed before the insoluble puzzle.
One day, however, Six Cents heard news, when he happened to complain
that "Boards did not find as good market as they used to." He was told
about pines, and water power, and sawmills in Norway, and cheap
transportation, a tale which he did not entirely understand, but from
which he gathered that the evil was irremediable. He therefore resigned
himself as he had always done, bowing under the inevitable. He earned
less and still less, while working harder and harder because of arms
grown weaker, and back grown stiff with the years. In spite of the
kindly advice of philanthropical political economists, Six Cents,
wearing out his body by continual labour, had no savings. He had no old
sock filled with gold pieces against a rainy day, such as the simple
like to believe in. Why economize, when one knows that a lifetime of
pinching would lead to a ludicrously inadequate result?
Old age is upon him. Pitiless progress has done its work. Humble village
craftsmen like Six Cents are out of date. The concentration of capital
demands the mustering of labourers in the all-devouring factory. Six
Cents looks on without understanding, without complaining. He has come
to poverty, want. Utter destitution as he nears the grave seems to him
but one fate-ordained calamity more to throw on the heap with the
others. Is any one surprised at heat in summer and cold in winter? We
must accept things as they come, and if nothing comes, still be content,
since we cannot change the actual course of things. It is the same
resignation as that of beasts under the whip. Six Cents' wife with a
sack on her back goes from door to door begging for a crust or a few
potatoes, grudgingly given to her. The sawyer does such small odd jobs
as he finds to do. They keep alive, and at times appear contented.
Seated on a stone at the threshold of his hut, Six Cents watches the
world go by. The young come, merry, wilful, noisy. The aged pass,
dejected, resigned, silent.
"With all the boards I have sawed," said he, the other day, "it will
certainly be strange if four cannot be found to make my last home."
The history of a man without a history I have called this. But even
without events, without passions, without desires, without revolts,
without search for better things, and with the apathy of lifelong labour
directed to no end, is it not still a history? The evolution of human
society cannot be denied. But the time seems distant when men shall keep
abreast in their progression. Up to the present time, what a lot of
laggards! Consider the mental development of the cave man, chipping his
flint, polishing his stone axe, sharpening his arrows, dividing his time
between hunting and fighting, defending his hearth with vigilant effort,
and trying to destroy the hearth of his neighbour, and then tell me
whether the wretched man who spends all the days of his life sawing the
same board, hammering the same iron-bar, turning the same crank of the
same machine all day long--whether this man is intellectually superior
to the cave man? All this, of course, must change. Let us, in order to
help on the good work, take account as we go of the temporary conditions
of human kind.
XVIII
FLOWER O' THE WHEAT
Flower o' the Wheat was the prettiest girl in my village. Tall, well set
up, stepping along with a fine self-confidence, she brightened by her
clear laughter the fields, the woods, the deep road cuts of the Vendée.
With the first warm days of spring the milky whiteness of her skin would
be dotted over with a constellation of freckles.
The peasants used to say: "The good Lord threw a handful of bran in her
face."
Bran and flour, it would seem, for her face under the sun's rays
remained as white as if dusted over with the powder of bolted wheat.
Hence, perhaps, her surname, or possibly she owed it to her red hair,
matched rather unusually by tawny eyes. She gave one the impression of
being all of the beautiful gold-brown tone of ripe wheat. Flower o' the
Wheat was beautiful, and knew it because she was told so all day long.
The man of the fields is not by a long way insensible to beauty. His
esthetic sense is not the same as ours. He is not moved by a line, a
contour, the grace of a moving form, but he is powerfully affected by
colour, as are all whom civilization has not overrefined. Flower o' the
Wheat being a creature of living colour, had, therefore, the pleasure of
hearing herself proclaimed fair, and of having to fend off the
playfulness, and occasionally the somewhat robust caresses, of manly
youth all the way from Sainte Hermine to Chantonnay. Plant a flower
wherever you will, there the bees will congregate. Wherever you meet
beauty, you will see men coming to forage, with eyes and hands and lips.
Between city and country there is only a difference of setting.
As her fame spread beyond the borders of the canton, Flower o' the Wheat
had a throng of admirers such as had not been seen for many a day in our
neighbourhood. The pride of it shone in her eyes, dazzled by their own
attractiveness, and if she had been told of Cleopatra on whom was
centred the gaze of the world, it is not certain that she would have
thought the Egyptian queen had an advantage over the country maid. For
which I praise her, for enumerating a multitude of adorers is a foolish
pastime. Moreover, the queen was dead and the peasant girl alive: the
best argument of all.
The delightful part of the story is that Flower o' the Wheat, while
permitting herself to be admired by every man, and envied by every
woman, kept her heart faithful to the friend who had known how to win
it, in which she differed notably from Cleopatra. Now, that friend, for
I must finally come to my confession, was none other than your humble
servant. I may be pardoned the pride of that avowal: I loved Flower o'
the Wheat, and Flower o' the Wheat entertained sentiments for me which
she was not in the least loth to exhibit. I used to follow her about the
fields with her dog, "Red Socks," so called because of his four tawny
paws, and while the flock browsed very improperly beyond the limit set
by the rural guard, I told her all about Nantes, where I had spent the
winter. I amazed her with tales from my books, or else she talked to me
about animals, what they did, what they thought; she told me
extraordinary stories. Our souls were very near to each other, I will
not say the same of our hearts, for the sad part of our love was, alas,
that she was twenty and I was six--or seven, if I stood on tiptoe. This
did not make it difficult for either of us, however, to hug the other.
It was only later that I realized my misfortune.
Our best days were at harvest time. The abominable smoke of the
threshing machine had not yet invaded the countryside. The flail was
still in use. At dawn, men and women divided into groups would begin the
round of the threshing floor, their motions accompanied by the rhythmic
thud of the wooden flail, muffled by the straw on the ground; one half
of the quadrille would slowly retreat, while the other half gradually
advanced. The necessity for attention, and the sustained effort, obliged
them to be silent. But what a reaction of laughter and song when the
wooden pitch forks came into play, stacking the straw! Noonday would see
the ground strewn with harvesters taking their rest in the full glare of
the sun, for the peasant fears the treacherous shade. Upon the stroke of
a bell, the noisy concert of the flails would again fill the air on
every side.
At evening there were dances, and there were songs, in which Flower o'
the Wheat excelled. She knew every song of that region, and would sing
in a nasal, untutored voice, delicious to the rustic ear, ingenuous
poems, in which "The King's Son," the "Nightingale," and the "Rose"
appeared in fantastic splendours, joyful or sad. A local bard had even
made about Flower o' the Wheat, a somewhat free and outspoken song in
dialect, the refrain of which said that the flower of the wheat
surrenders its grain under the harvester's flail. Flower o' the Wheat
without false shame celebrated herself in song, and there were fine
jostlings if some young fellow jokingly made believe to put the refrain
into action.
Sooner or later, Flower o' the Wheat was bound to come under the
harvester's flail. And here I call the reader's attention to this story,
whose merit is that it is the story of everyone. I know of no greater
error than to suppose that extraordinary adventures are what make life
interesting. If one looks closely, one finds that the truly marvellous
things are those which happen to us every day, and that duels, dagger
thrusts, even automobile accidents, with accompanying hatred, jealousy,
betrayed love, and treachery, are in reality the vulgar incidents in the
enormous drama of our common life from birth to death.
To bring, without any will of our own, our ego to the consciousness of
this world, be subject to a fatal concatenation of joys and sorrows
dealt by the hazard of fortune, and end in the slow decay which brings
us back to the condition preceding our existence, is not this the
supreme adventure? What more is needed to make us marvel? Some, who are
called pessimists, accept it with a certain amount of grumbling. Others,
regarded as optimists, consider their misfortune so great that they
eagerly add to it, by way of consolation, the dream of a celestial
adventure which everyone is free to embellish as much as he pleases.
Flower o' the Wheat did not bother her head with any of this. She was
twenty, a more engrossing fact. She listened to the voice of her youth,
like the women gone before her, as well as those who will follow her on
this earth. In the fields, nature being so close, people are very little
hampered by the more or less fantastic social conventions, which
undertake to regulate the human relations between two young creatures
hungering and thirsting for each other.
A special sort of cake called "_échaudé_" is the chief industrial
product of my village: a cake made of flour and eggs, very delectable
when fresh from the oven, but heavy, and cause of a formidable
thirstiness, by the time it has travelled through the bracken as far as
Niort, La Rochelle, or Fontenay. Its transportation is carried on by
night, in long carts drawn by a horse whose slow and steady gait rocks
the slumbers of the driver and of the woman who accompanies him to
preside over the sale of the cakes. These carts are terrible
go-betweens. The scent of fern is full of danger. The two lie down to
sleep, side by side, under the open sky. They do not always sleep, even
after a long day's labour. The market town is far away. The unkindly
disposed and censorious are shut within their own four walls. Temptation
is increased by the jolts that throw people one against the other.
Wherefore resist, since one must finally surrender?
Flower o' the Wheat, who was in the service of a rich dealer in
_échaudés_, one fine day married her "master," after having given him,
to the surprise of no one, two unequivocal proofs of her aptitude for
the joys as well as duties of maternity. Her neighbours in the country
will tell you that there was nothing out of the ordinary in her life.
Her husband beat her only on Sundays, after vespers, when he had been
drinking too much, and she took no more revenge upon him than was
necessary to show outsiders that he did not have the last word.
I saw her again, at that time, after a fairly long period of absence.
The handful of flour and bran was still there. Her eyes had kept their
lustre, and her hair still blazed under the fluttering white wings of
her coif. But her glance seemed to me sharper, and already the curve of
her lips betrayed weariness of life. Her pretty name still clung to her,
but the flower had lost its bloom. She still laughed, but she no longer
sang. Fortune had come to her, as rings and brooches and gold chains
attested. On Sundays she wore a silk skirt and apron to church, and
carried a gilded book, a thing found useful even by those who cannot
read, since it gives them the satisfaction of exciting their neighbours'
envy.
My visits to the village had become brief and far spaced. We had lived
very far apart, when I met her one day, in one of our deep road cuts,
leading her cow to pasture. An old, wrinkled, broken, worn-out woman. We
stopped to chat. Her husband was dead and had left her with "property,"
but the children were pressing her to make over everything to them. They
would have an allowance settled on her "at the notary's," they said.
"I shall have to make up my mind to do it," she ended with a sigh. "Will
you believe that my son came near beating me yesterday, because I would
not say yes or no?"
Ten more years passed. One day, as I was going through a neighbouring
hamlet, a tumble-down hovel was pointed out to me and I was told that
"the Barbotte" was ending her days there. Flower o' the Wheat was no
more. She was now "the Barbotte," from her husband's name, Barbot.
I entered. In the half light, I could see, under the remnants of an old
mantle, the shaking head of an aged woman, with a dried-up, shrivelled
parchment face, pierced by two yellow eyes wherein slumbered the dim
vestiges of a glance. A neighbour told me all about it. The children did
not pay the allowance, which surprised no one. It was the usual thing.
From time to time, they brought her a crust of bread, occasionally soup,
or scraps of food on Sunday, after mass. The old woman was infirm, and
waited on herself with difficulty. A servant was supposed to come and
see her once a day. Often she forgot.
"Why not make a complaint?" said I, thoughtlessly.
"She spoke, one day, of letting the notary know. They beat her for it.
And who would be willing to take her message? No one is anxious to make
enemies. Her children are already none too well pleased that any one
should enter the hut. They do not want people meddling with their
affairs."
During this talk tears were shining in the blinking yellow eyes. "The
Barbotte" had recognized me.
"Don't be troubled on my account," she said in a thin voice that
betrayed the fear of being beaten. "I need nothing. My children are
very kind. They come every day. Maybe you are like the rest, sir, you
think I find time heavy on my hands. Do you know what I do, when I am
here alone? I sing, in my mind, all the songs of long ago. I had
forgotten them, and now they have come back to me. All day I sing them,
without making any noise. _I sing them inside._ One after the other.
When I have finished them all, I begin over again. It is like telling my
beads. It is funny, is it not?"
And she tried to smile.