Complete Works of Emile Zola (946 page)

“Mark this,” he continued, “a strife has set in, and is growing in acrimony, between the larger and smaller land­owners. Some, like me, favour the system of large holdings, because they seem more in accord with science and progress, with the increased use of machinery, and the circulation of large sums of money. Others, on the contrary, only believe in individual effort, and praise the system of small holdings; dreaming of cultivation on the most minute scale; a system in which every one would produce his own manure, look after his own quarter of an acre, sort out his seeds one by one, allotting the required soil to each kind, and then raise each plant by itself under glass. Which of the two will get the upper hand? Hang me if I’ve any idea! I am well aware, as I told you just now, that every year large ruined farms are dropping to pieces in my neighbourhood, and falling into the hands of gangs, and that the system of small holdings is gaining ground. I know, moreover, at Rognes, a very curious instance of an old woman who derives quite a comfortable subsistence for herself and her husband from less than an acre of land. They nick­name her Mother Caca, because she doesn’t shrink from emptying the contents of her own and her husband’s chamber vase on to her vegetables, as is the custom of the Chinese, so it would seem. But that is hardly better than gardening. I can’t picture cereals growing in beds like turnips; and if, for a peasant to be independent, he produced something of every­thing, what would become of our Beaucerons — who have only their wheat to rely upon — when our Beauce has been cut up like a chess-board? However, if one lives long enough, one will see which will triumph in the future — the system of large holdings or that of small ones.”

At this point he broke off and shouted: “Are we going to have that coffee to-day or to-morrow?”

Then, lighting his pipe, he resumed: “Unless both be killed at once, and that’s what folks are in a fair way of doing. Mark this, agriculture is on its last legs, and will die if some one doesn’t come to its assistance. Everything is crushing it down — taxes, foreign competition, the continued rise in the cost of manual labour, the drain of money which goes to manufacturing undertakings, and stocks and shares. To be sure, there are no end of promises abroad. Every one is lavish of them — the prefects, the ministers, the Emperor. But the dust rises on the roads, and nothing is seen coming. Shall I tell you the strict truth? Now-a-days, a cultivator who holds on either wastes his own money or other people’s. It’s all right for me, because I have a few coppers laid by. But I know people who borrow money at five per cent, while their land does not yield them so much as three. The collapse is fatally ahead. A peasant who borrows is a ruined man. He will infallibly be stripped of everything — to his last shirt.

“Only last week one of my neighbours was evicted, the parents and their four children being flung into the street, after the lawyers had robbed them of their live stock, their land, and their house. And yet for years and years people have been promising us the establishment of an agricultural loan-company which would lend money at a reasonable rate of interest. I only wish they may get it! All this disgusts even good workers, who have come to such a pass that they think twice even before getting their wives into the family way. No, thanks! What! another mouth to feed — another starveling born to wretchedness! When there isn’t bread enough for all, no more children are born and the nation perishes.”

Monsieur de Chédeville, who was quite disconcerted, ven­tured on an uneasy smile, and murmured: “You don’t look on the bright side of things.”

“That is true, there are times when I feel inclined to let everything go hang,” replied Hourdequin gaily. “And no wonder; these troubles have been going on now for thirty years. I don’t know why I have persisted. I ought to have sold everything off, and taken to something else. One reason with me, no doubt, was force of habit; and then there is the hope that things will mend, and then — why not confess it? — a pas­sionate fondness for the occupation. When once this cursed land gets hold of you, it doesn’t let go in a hurry. Look here! Look at that ornament on that table. It is foolish of me, perhaps, but when I look at it I feel consoled.”

He stretched out his hand and pointed to a silver cup, pro­tected from the flies by a piece of muslin. It was a reward of merit gained in an agricultural competition.

These competitions, in which he triumphed, were the whetstone of his vanity and one of the causes of his ob­stinacy.

In spite of the obvious weariness of his guest, he dallied over his coffee, and was pouring some brandy into his cup for the third time when, drawing out his watch, he suddenly started up: “Goodness! It’s two o’clock, and I am due at a meeting of the Municipal Council. It’s about a road. We are quite willing to pay half the money, but we should like to obtain a subsidy from the State for the other half.”

Monsieur de Chédeville had risen from his chair, delighted at being set free.

“In that matter I can be of service to you,” he said. “I’ll get your subsidy for you. Shall I take you to Rognes in my gig since you are pressed for time?”

“Just the thing!” replied Hourdequin, and he went out to see to the harnessing of the conveyance, which had remained in the yard.

When he came back the deputy was no longer in the room, but eventually he perceived him in the kitchen. No doubt he had pushed the door open; and he was standing there smiling in front of the radiant Jacqueline, and complimenting her at such close quarters that their faces nearly touched. Having sniffed each other, they had summed each other up, and told each other so by unmistakable glances.

When Monsieur de Chédeville had got into his gig again, La Cognette held Hourdequin back for a minute to whisper in his ear:

“He is nicer than you are. He doesn’t think that I am only fit to be hidden away.”

On the road, while the vehicle was rolling along between the wheat fields, the farmer returned to his one pre-occupation, the soil. He now volunteered manuscript notes and figures, for he had kept accounts for some years. In the whole of La Beauce there were not three people who did as much, and the small landowners, the peasants, shrugged their shoulders at the idea, and did not even understand it. Nevertheless, one’s situation could only be made clear by accounts, which indi­cated what products had proved profitable and what had entailed a loss. Moreover, accounts gave one the cost price, and thus indicated on what terms one ought to sell. At Hourdequin’s, every servant, every animal, every field, every tool even, had a page to itself, with debit and credit columns, so that he was constantly enlightened as to the success or failure of his operations.

“At all events,” said he, with his hoarse laugh, “I know how I am ruining myself.” Then he broke off to indulge in a muttered curse. During the last few minutes, as the vehicle rolled along, he had been trying to make out what was going on by the roadside some distance off. Although it was Sun­day, he had sent a recently-purchased hay-making machine, on a new system, to turn a cutting of lucern, which required immediate attention. The farm-hand, being off his guard, and not recognising his master in this strange vehicle approaching, was making fun of the machine in company with three peasants whom he had stopped on the way. “There,” said he, “that’s a nice old tin-pot thing. It creaks like an old pulley, breaks the grass to bits, and poisons it. On my word, three sheep have already died of it.”

The peasants, meanwhile, sneered and examined the hay-making machine as if it were some strange, spiteful animal. One of them even said: “All these things are devilish inventions to ruin poor folks. What will our wives do when people are able to make hay without them?”

“A precious lot the masters care about that,” resumed the farm-hand, launching out a kick at the machine. “Ugh! you beast!”

Hourdequin had heard him, and popping his head and shoulders out of the vehicle, he shouted: “Go back to the farm, Zéphyrin, get your wages, and take yourself off.”

The farm-hand stood stupefied, while the three peasants went off, indulging in insulting laughter and loudly audible jests.

“There,” said Hourdequin, throwing himself back on the seat. “You saw them. That’s the state in which they are. One might imagine that improved machinery burnt their fingers. Besides, they treat me as if I were a townsman. They take less trouble with my land than with other people’s, saying that I can afford to pay higher prices; and they are supported by my neighbours, who accuse me of getting the country folk into idle ways. They even assert that if there were many like me, the farmers would no longer be able to get their work done as they used to.”

The gig now reached the foot of the hill, and was entering Rognes by the Bazoches-le-Doyen road, when the deputy perceived the Abbé Godard coming out of Macqueron’s shop, where he had breakfasted that morning after mass. Monsieur de Ohédeville’s election worries once more took possession of him, and he asked: “How about the religious feeling in our country districts?”

“Oh! there’s an outward show, but nothing at the bottom of it,” carelessly replied Hourdequin, who certainly made no outward show himself. He stopped at the tavern kept by Macqueron, who was standing at the door with the priest, and he introduced his assessor, who was wearing a greasy old overcoat. Cœlina, looking very neat in her print dress, ran up, pushing forward her daughter Berthe, the pride of the family, who was genteelly clad in a silk dress, with narrow mauve stripes.

Meanwhile, the village, which had been in a dead-alive state, as if every one had been made lazy by so fine a Sunday, woke up in its surprise at this unusual visit. Peasants appeared on the thresholds, and children peeped out from behind their mothers’ skirts. At the Lengaignes’ especially there was much hurrying to and fro, and the husband was craning his head out, with his razor in his hand, while his wife, Flore, stopped weighing twopennyworth of tobacco to press her face against the window-pane, both of them being extremely vexed at seeing the gentleman get down at their rival’s door. Little by little people came round, and a crowd collected, the whole of Rognes being by this time aware of the important event.

Addressing the deputy, Macqueron, who was flushed and embarrassed, exclaimed: “This is, indeed, an honour, sir.”

But Monsieur de Chédeville was not listening to him, being enchanted with the pretty face of Berthe, who, with her bright eyes, surrounded by slight bluish rings, was staring at him boldly. Her mother was saying how old she was and where she had been to school; while she herself, smiling and curtsey­ing, invited the gentleman to condescend to walk in.

“Why, certainly, my dear child!” he exclaimed.

Meanwhile the Abbé Godard, button-holing Hourdequin, was begging him once more to persuade the Municipal Council to vote some funds, so that Rognes might at length have a priest of its own. He returned to this subject every six months, giving his reasons — the strain it was upon him, and the constant quarrels he used to have with the village; not to mention that the service itself suffered. “Don’t say no!” he added, quickly, seeing the farmer make an evasive gesture. “Speak about it, all the same; I will await the reply.”

Then just as Monsieur de Chédeville was on the point of following Berthe, he pushed forward and stopped him in his stubborn, genial way.

“Excuse me, sir,” he began. “But the poor church here is in such a state! I want to show it to you, and you must get it repaired for me. No one listens to me. Come, come, I implore you!”

Very much annoyed, the ex-beau was resisting, when Hourdequin, on learning from Macqueron that several of the councillors were already at the municipal offices, where they had been waiting half-an hour, said unceremoniously: “That’s the thing! Go and see the church. You will kill time like that until I have done, and then you can take me back home.” Monsieur de Chédeville was thus obliged to follow the priest. The crowd had now become larger, and several people started off, dogging his steps. They had grown bolder, too, and every­body was thinking of asking him for something.

When Hourdequin and Macqueron had gone upstairs into the room where the council met, they found three councillors there — Delhomme and two others. The apartment, a moder­ately large white-washed room, had no other furniture than a long deal table and twelve straw-bottomed chairs. Between the two windows, from which one overlooked the road, there was a cupboard in which the archives were kept, mingled with sundry official documents, while on shelves round the wall there were piles of canvas fire-buckets, the gift of a gentleman, which they did not know where to put, and which proved a useless encumbrance, as they had no fire-engine.

“Gentlemen,” said Hourdequin, politely, “I ask your pardon. I have had Monsieur de Chédeville breakfasting with me.”

No one moved a muscle; and it was impossible to say whether they accepted this excuse. From the windows they had certainly seen the deputy arrive, and they were also interested in the coming election. But it was not politic for them to commit themselves.

“The devil!” now cried the farmer. “There are only five of us. We shall not be able to come to any decision.”

Fortunately, Lengaigne came in. At first he had resolved not to attend the meeting, as the question of the road did not interest him, and he had even hoped that his absence would hamper the voting. Later on, the arrival of Monsieur de Chédeville throwing him into a fever of curiosity, he had decided to go upstairs to find out all about it.

“Good! There are six of us now, and we shall be able to vote,” cried the mayor.

Lequeu — who acted as secretary — having made his appear­ance, with a snappish, surly air, and with the minute-book under his arm, there was no further impediment in the way of open­ing the meeting. Delhomme, however, had begun to whisper to his neighbour, Clou, the farrier, a tall, withered fellow, very dark. As the others began to listen to them, they suddenly became silent. One name had, however, been caught — that of the independent candidate, Monsieur Rochefontaine — and then the rest of them, after sounding each other, fell with a word, a sneer, or a simple grimace upon this candidate, whom nobody even knew. They were on the side of order; in favour of keeping things as they were, and of remaining submissive to the authorities who ensured the sale of produce. Did that gentleman think himself stronger than the Government? Did he imagine that he could raise corn to eighty-eight francs a quarter? It was bold, indeed, for a man without a vestige of support to send out circulars and promise more butter than bread.