The Earth

by Emile Zola

  ‘No, no, I can't possibly, not possibly.’

  Jean was struck by his frightened look and the women made a gesture of helplessness. After all, that was something that concerned the sisters themselves, they couldn't be forced to make their peace. And at that moment, a sound was heard, faint at first like the buzzing of a blowfly, then louder and louder, booming like a gust of wind blowing through trees. Fanny gave a start.

  ‘Is that the drum? Here they are, goodnight all!’

  She disappeared without even stopping to give her cousin a farewell kiss.

  La Grande and Frimat's wife had gone to the doorway to look. Only Françoise and Jean were left, she obstinately still and silent, perhaps hearing all that was said but determined to die like an animal which had crawled into its den; he standing in front of the open window, racked with doubt and plunged in grief caused, so it seemed to him, by both people and things. The whole vast plain of Beauce. How loudly this drum was echoing through his whole being, this never-ending drum roll which mingled his present sorrow and past memories of barracks and battles, of that dog's life of poor bastards who haven't a wife or children to love them!

  As soon as the flag appeared in the distance on the flat road, gloomy in the fading light of day, a throng of urchins started running along in front of the conscripts and a group of parents formed at the entrance to the village. The whole nine as well as the drummer were already drunk, bellowing out a song in the melancholy evening light and wearing favours of red, white and blue ribbons; most of them had their number pinned to their hats. When they came in sight of the village, they bawled even louder and swaggered in like conquering heroes.

  Delphin was still in charge of the flag but now he was carrying it slung over his shoulder like a cumbersome, useless piece of rag. His face looked drawn and hard and he was not singing; nor had he a number pinned to his cap. As soon as she caught sight of him, his mother rushed trembling towards him, at the risk of being knocked over by the marching group.

  ‘Well?’

  Without slackening his pace, Delphin furiously thrust her aside:

  ‘Go to hell!’

  Bécu had come up, all agog like his wife. When he heard his son's remark, he did not enquire further and, as his wife started sobbing, he had the greatest difficulty in holding back his own tears, despite his earlier patriotic claptrap.

  ‘What the bloody hell good is that! He's a goner!’

  Left behind on the deserted road, they both made their way laboriously back to the village, he recalling his hard life as a soldier while his wife turned angrily on the God to whom she had twice gone to plead and who had not heard her prayers.

  On his hat Nénesse was wearing the number 214, superbly daubed in red and blue. This was one of the highest numbers and he was exultant at his good fortune, flourishing his stick to beat time for the wild singing of the rest. When she saw the number, instead of being delighted Fanny gave a sorrowful moan: if only they had known, they wouldn't have put one thousand francs into Monsieur Baillehache's lottery. But she and Delhomme embraced their son, all the same, as if he had just escaped from a grave danger.

  ‘Don't fuss me!’ he cried. ‘It gets on my nerves.’

  The band of young men stamped their way through the village, to the dismay of the inhabitants. And now their parents took care to steer clear of them, realizing that they would be told to go to hell, for all the lads were using the same foul language, those who would be going as well as those who were staying. In any case, they were incapable of speech, with their eyes popping out of their heads, and drunk as much from their bellowing as from their drinking. One wag who was blowing his trumpet with his nose had, in fact, picked a losing number, while two others, looking wan and with rings round their eyes, were certainly amongst the successful ones. If the enthusiastic drummer had led them into the depths of the Aigre they would gladly have toppled in.

  Finally Delphin handed over the flag at the town-hall:

  ‘Christ, I've had enough of that bloody rag. It brought me nothing but bad luck!’

  He took Nénesse by the arm and led him away while the others took Lengaigne's tap-room by storm, surrounded by parents and friends, who finally learnt the facts. Macqueron appeared in his doorway, his heart aching to see that all this custom was going to his rival.

  ‘Come along with me,’ repeated Delphin laconically. ‘I'm going to show you something funny.’

  Nénesse followed him. They'd have time for a drink later. The damned drum was no longer battering their eardrums and it was a relief for them to go off together along the road which was now steadily sinking into darkness. And as his friend said nothing, plunged in thoughts which were doubtless not very cheerful, Nénesse started talking to him about a big business opportunity. The day before yesterday he had gone to the Rue aux Juifs for a bit of fun and he had heard that the Charles' son-in-law Vaucogne was intending to sell the establishment. With a skunk like that at the mercy of his women, the place couldn't possibly keep going! But what a chance to put the house on its feet and what a juicy prospect for an energetic, intelligent young man who was tough and had a good business sense! And the moment was just right, too, because in the restaurant where he was working he was in charge of the dancing and had to see that the tarts behaved themselves, so you can imagine! Well, the trick was to scare the Charles, make them see that No. 19 was within an inch of being closed by the police because of the unsavoury things that were happening, and acquire it for a song. Eh? That'd be better than being a farmer, he'd become a gentleman straight away.

  Absorbed in his own thoughts, Delphin was not listening very attentively and he jumped as the other lad gave him a friendly dig in the ribs.

  ‘Lucky people are always lucky,’ he said quietly. ‘You're going to be your mother's pride and joy.’ And then he fell silent again while Nénesse, like a young man who knows all about such things, started explaining in advance all the improvements he would introduce at No. 19 if his parents could put up the necesary funds. He was a bit young but he felt that he had a real vocation for the job. And at that very moment he caught sight of La Trouille hurrying by in the dark on her way to meet one of her boy friends; so to show his familiarity with women he gave her a smart slap on the bottom as she passed. La Trouille was just going to hit him back when she recognized the two of them:

  ‘Oh, hello, it's you two. Haven't we all grown up!’

  She was laughing as she remembered the games they used to get up to in the past. She had changed least of all, because even at twenty-one she was still a simple little tomboy, as slender as a young poplar, with her tiny girlish breasts. She was glad to see them and she gave them both a kiss.

  ‘We're still friends, aren't we?’

  And she would have been willing to start their old tricks if they had wanted to, merely for the pleasure of seeing them again, like old friends having a drink together.

  ‘Listen, La Trouille,’ said Nénesse, pulling her leg. ‘I may be going to buy the Charles' shop. Will you come and work there?’

  At that, she stopped laughing and burst into indignant tears. She disappeared, swallowed up in the shadows, desperately stammering in her childish way:

  ‘Oh, that's dirty, that's dirty, I don't like you any more.’

  Delphin had not said a word and now he set off again with a determined air.

  ‘Come along. I'm going to show you something funny.’

  He walked quickly ahead and left the road to make his way through the vineyards to the house which the council had let his father have ever since they had given the priest the presbytery. He lived there with his father. He took his friend into the kitchen and lit a candle, pleased to see that his parents had not yet come home.

  ‘Let's have a drink,’ he said, putting a litre of wine and two glasses on the table.

  Then, after his drink, he rolled his tongue round his mouth and went on:

  ‘So, I just wanted to tell you that if they think they've got me with that beastly number, the
y're mistaken. When I had to go and spend three days in Orléans on the death of Uncle Michael, it nearly killed me, because I felt so rotten at not being at home. You think that's silly, don't you, but what can I do, I can't help it, I'm like a tree that dies if you uproot it. And they want to take me off to God knows where, to places that I've never even heard of? No, they never will!’

  Nénesse had often heard him talking like this. He gave a shrug.

  ‘People say that and then they go off just the same. Don't forget the gendarmes.’

  Without answering, Delphin turned round and with his left hand picked up a little hatchet beside the wall, used for splitting sticks. Then he calmly laid his right forefinger on the edge of the table and, with a sharp blow, chopped it off.

  ‘That's what I wanted to show you. I want you to tell the others whether a coward could have done that.’

  ‘You silly bugger,’ exclaimed Nénesse in dismay. ‘People don't mutilate themselves like that. You're not a man any more!’

  ‘Bugger that! Now the gendarmes can come if they like, I'm certain not to have to go.’

  And he picked up the finger he had chopped off and threw it into the log fire. Then he shook his hand, dripping with blood, and roughly bandaged it in his handkerchief, which he then tied with a piece of string to stop the bleeding.

  ‘We mustn't let that stop us knocking off the bottle before we go back and join the others. Cheerio!’

  ‘Cheerio.’

  By now, with all the smoke and shouting, you couldn't see or hear a thing in Lengaigne's tap-room. Apart from the lads who had just drawn lots, the room was packed: Jesus Christ and his friend Canon were busily leading old Fouan astray with a litre bottle of spirits between the three of them; shattered by his son's bad luck, Bécu had slumped into a drunken slumber, head on table; Delhomme and Clou were playing piquet; not to mention Lequeu, who had his nose stuck in a book and was pretending to read despite the din. Another scuffle amongst the women had caused feelings to run high: Flore had gone to the fountain to fetch a jug of water and there met Coelina, who had flung herself at her to scratch her eyes out, accusing her of taking money from the revenue-men so as to split on her neighbours. Macqueron and Lengaigne had rushed up and nearly come to blows as well, the former swearing that he would catch him out wetting his tobacco while the latter grinned and taunted him about his enforced resignation, and everybody else joined in, just for the fun of waving their fists about and bawling, so that for a moment there seemed a danger of a general brawl. It had ended without blows but there was still pent-up anger and a quarrelsome mood in the air.

  First, there was nearly a row between Victor, the son of the house, and the conscripts. He had done his time and he was showing off in front of these youngsters, outbawling them, challenging them to idiotic wagers, such as holding a bottle of wine up in the air and emptying it straight down your throat or pumping a full glass of wine out with your nose without a drop going through your mouth. All at once, on the subject of the Macquerons and the imminent marriage of their daughter Berthe, young Couillet started laughing and cracking jokes about the old story of Not Got Any. They'd have to ask her husband next day: had she got any or not? They'd been discussing it for so long, it really was stupid.

  And people were surprised when Victor suddenly flew into a rage, for he had always been keenest to claim that she hadn't got any.

  ‘Look, shut up, she has got some!’

  This statement created an uproar. So he'd seen her, had he? Been to bed with her? But he formally denied it. You can see without touching. He had worked out a plan, one day when he hadn't been able to put the idea out of his head and wanted to make sure. How had he done it? That was his business.

  ‘She has got some, word of honour!’

  There followed a terrible row when young Couillet kept asserting loudly that she hadn't got any, knowing nothing about it but refusing to back down. Victor was shouting that he used to say that, too, and he hadn't changed his mind because he wanted to support those lousy Macquerons but because truth is truth. And he flung himself on the conscript and had to be dragged off.

  ‘Say that she has, Christ Almighty, or I'll do you!’

  A lot of people still remained doubtful. Nobody could explain Victor's exasperation because he was normally very hard towards women and had publicly renounced his sister, who had had to go into hospital as a result of her loose living. Suzanne was rotten through and through. It was a good thing she had kept away and not come and infected them with her filthy body.

  Flore fetched up some more wine and everybody started drinking again, but, despite this, insults and punches were still floating about in the air. No one would have thought of deserting the bar to go and eat. When you're drinking, you don't feel hungry. The conscripts struck up a patriotic chorus to the accompaniment of such a banging of fists that the three paraffin lamps on the table flickered, emitting trails of acrid smoke. It was stifling. Delhomme and Clou decided to open a window behind them. At that moment Buteau came in and slipped into a corner. He did not have his usual aggressive look and his little eyes slid furtively round the room, looking at everyone in turn. He had doubtless come to satisfy his need to discover what news there was, unable to remain any longer in his house where he had been shut up since the day before. He seemed to be so taken aback by the presence of Jesus Christ and Canon that he did not even tackle them for making old Fouan drunk. He also scrutinized Delhomme at length. But it was the sleeping Bécu, oblivious of the frightful din, who particularly intrigued him. Was he really asleep or just shamming? He nudged him with his elbows and was somewhat reassured when he noticed that he was dribbling down his sleeve. He then concentrated his whole attention on the schoolmaster, struck by the extraordinary look on his face. Was something wrong? Why wasn't he looking normal?

  Indeed, although he was pretending to be concentrating on his reading, Lequeu kept giving violent jerks. The conscripts' songs and mindless joviality were putting him beside himself.

  ‘Bloody clodhoppers!’ he said in a low voice, still trying to restrain himself.

  In the last few months his situation in the commune had been deteriorating. He had always been rough and coarse towards the children, boxing their ears and telling them to go home to their dungheap. But his outbursts of temper had been growing worse, and he had run into serious trouble by splitting open a little girl's ear with a ruler. Some parents had written asking for him to be replaced. And on top of it all Berthe Macqueron's marriage had just destroyed a long cherished hope and calculations for the future that he thought were coming to fruition. What a miserable lot these peasants were, refusing him their daughters and now taking the bread out of his mouth all because of a stupid girl's ear.

  Suddenly, exactly as though he had been in his classroom, he slapped his book with his hands and shouted to the conscripts:

  ‘Can't you pipe down, for Christ's sake! Do you really think it's as funny as all that to get your mug bashed in by a Prussian?’

  They stared at him in astonishment. No, of course it wasn't funny, everyone agreed on that, and Delhomme produced the old argument that everyone should defend his own bit of land. If the Prussians came to Beauce, they'd soon see that the people there weren't cowards. But to have to go and fight for other people's bits of land, that certainly wasn't funny at all.

  And at that very moment Delphin came in, very red in the face and with a feverish look in his eyes. Nénesse followed him. Delphin heard the last remark and, as he sat down with his friends, he cried out:

  ‘That's the stuff, let 'em come, those Prussians, and we'll have 'em for breakfast!’

  They had noticed his handkerchief tied round his hand and asked him about it. It was nothing, just a cut. The table shook as he thumped his other fist down on it and ordered a litre of wine.

  Canon and Jesus Christ were watching these young men with a pitiful, patronizing look. They too were thinking that you had to be young and pretty stupid, and even Canon's heart began to soften
as he thought about his formula for future happiness. Resting his chin on his hands, he said out loud:

  ‘Yes, war's bloody awful and, by Christ, it's time we took over. You know what I think. No more military service, no more taxes. Complete satisfaction of everybody's appetites for the least possible amount of work. And it's going to come, the day's not far off when you'll be able to hang onto your children and your money if you follow us.’

  Jesus Christ nodded approvingly; but, unable to restrain himself any longer, Lequeu exploded:

  ‘Oh, yes, you bloody humbug, you and your earthly paradise, forcing everyone to be happy in spite of themselves. What a joke! Do you think that's possible with us? Aren't we already rotten to the core? What we need is for some savages or other to come and clean us up first, Cossacks or Chinks!’

  This time everyone was stunned into complete silence. So this slyboots could talk, this spineless little man who'd never shown anyone the colour of his opinions before and used to make himself scarce as soon as he might have to stand up and be counted, for fear of his superiors. They were all agog, particularly Buteau, who was anxiously listening to hear what he would have to say, as if these questions could have some relevance to the other matter. Opening the window had cleared the room of smoke and the dank, warm night air was coming in, there was a feeling of great peace extending far out over the dark, slumbering countryside. And with his ten long years of timidity bottled up inside him and so angry that he no longer cared a damn for compromising his career, the schoolmaster at last vented the hatred which had been stifling him: