Nêne/Part 1/Chapter 1
NÊNE
PART ONE
CHAPTER I
THE air was alive and young; the earth steamed. Behind the plough a thousand little vapours rose, individual, separate, feathery; they seemed to be trying to rise high above the earth, as if glad to escape from the weight of the clods. Then they floated down again and settled at last, like drowsy plumes. The slanting breath of the oxen kept ahead of the team and, rising, covered the six animals with a whiter vapour, through which danced whirls of flies.
Wag-tails were fluttering from furrow to furrow; those nearest looking like fussy, coquettish little ladies, the others being nothing more than drifting flakes of mist. You could hardly make them out singly, but you were aware of great crowds of them, all busily hunting for the slow-moving, awkward grubs, bewildered at being turned up to the light of day. At the upper end of the field a magpie stood out clear, stiff and self-important as a dapper constable.
Above the mist the golden wonder of the sunlight held sway. The upper mould-board of the heavy plough gleamed bright and the colter, as it caught the glint of the sun, looked like the stubby sword of a dwarf knight, stocky and slow.
Two men were at work in the field; the younger, a lad of seventeen or eighteen, with limbs still loose-jointed and enormous hands, was spreading manure. He sang as he worked. The immature voice exploded in heavy gusts of song which, for all that, rang out, so resonant was the air.
The man at the plough did not sing, but like his companion, he felt the joy of the moment. He had had a Sunday's rest and as he began the week, his implement felt light to his hand. He was tall and straight, with a finely chiseled head and rather long legs. His round hat, stuck on the back of his head, left uncovered his lean, brown, clean-shaven face. His black eyes were quick and roving.
He drove his animals with a skilled hand, without any shouting. Yet, he was breaking in two young bullocks, but he had placed them in the middle of the team and immediately worked them so hard that they were soon under control, panting and submissive. Even at the headland the bullocks meekly followed their leaders. All the ploughman had to do was to quietly lift his plough and turn it back, without fear that his team would drag him beyond the starting point of the new furrow.
He had expected to find the soil too dry and so had harnessed three yoke for a deep ploughing. It was well that he had.
He had placed his regulator at the last notch and the sock bit in easily and deeply. The "heel" of the plough left on the headland a trail of fresh earth and the moist clods crumbled and fell apart of themselves in the sun; a light harrowing, and the soil would be ready, as fine as dust.
The eyes of the ploughman twinkled, because all his thought was on his work and it was the sort of work he liked.
As he came within ten paces of the hedge, a voice asked,
"How goes the work?"
"Mighty well," he answered.
"Grand weather!" said the other.
"It's a blessing!"
He eased his plough and stopped the oxen. Between two hazel branches appeared the big blond head of a giant of a man.
"Good morning, Trooper," said the farmer. "It's you! I didn't know your voice."
"It's me. Hello, Corbier! You have a strong team there, and a fine plough."
"I've no fault to find with them," said the ploughman with a touch of pride. They were silent for a moment, smiling at the work done, and their eyes caressed the six shiny, well muscled backs and the new plough lying flat on the earth, like a strong, lean bird.
Then Corbier lifted his head and asked,
"What news?"
"Nothing you don't know. I just took my sister to your house. You hired her from to-day, didn't you? You don't mean to say you'd forgotten?"
"Not at all! Only, I wasn't thinking of you in that connection. It wasn't you I hired; your hands are a bit large for a servant girl's."
The big fellow broke into a slow laugh that showed his white teeth; and the farmer went on:
"You aren't—maybe—stretching out Sunday a little, Trooper?"
The laugh was cut short.
"I'm not one of your town boys. A bit of a spree doesn't drive me to bed, nor upset my work days. And don't you forget it, Corbier!"
"No offence, I hope"
"Oh, not much I usually work on Monday. But to-day is my day off. I kept out four days in the year like that, for my mother, in my bargain with the boss. One when it's getting on to winter, to 'tend to the firewood; two for the garden; and the fourth for things—unforeseen odd jobs, as you might say."
"I know," said Corbier.
The other, once started, ran on.
"This morning, I've been digging since dawn. I wasn't playing at it, either—though the soil was easy. I've spaded the whole patch and spaded it deep. There won't be much weeding needed, after me."
Corbier nodded approval and the big fellow continued:
"It was like this. Madeleine came out to where I was in the garden patch and said, 'You come and help me,' so I carried her bundles for her and took her along the road within sight of the Moulinettes. Then I came back by the short cut, because I don't like folks to see me on the highways on working days."
"Right!" said Corbier.
"It was just to please her that I went along with her. Madeleine didn't really need me to help her. I don't want to boast about her, Corbier, but speaking of a woman's strength, there aren't many stronger than her in these parts. Now I'm off.—You've got a fine piece of land there!—Good-bye!"
As the man disappeared, Corbier righted his plough and started on a new furrow. But he was unable to keep his thoughts on his animals and his work. Instead, they now strayed toward things disturbing and sad. This meeting had stirred him as his plough stirred the soil. A mist settled over his heart, a heavy mist through which the sun did not shine and where no birds fluttered. Not that there had ever been between him and that big fellow whom he had called Trooper anything but the ordinary exchange of good will; and as for this Madeleine who was to be his servant now, he hardly knew her.
No, these people had nothing to do with his sorrow; but they brought home to him the burden he had to bear.
A widower at thirty, he found himself alone with a farm to manage and two babies on his hands. Of course, he still had his father with him, but the old man was so often crippled with rheumatism that he was rather a drag than a help. There was no one to lend a hand, little ready money, and no one to run the house.
His worries began eleven months ago: to him it seemed eleven years. At first he had hired an elderly woman to keep house for him. She was very good and gentle with the babies, but untidy and absolutely incapable of running the house. Then came his sister-in-law, efficient enough, but frivolous, hard and, worst of all, obviously and boldly intent on catching him. She had to go, after an unpleasant scene.
Now his father had hired this Madeleine Clarandeau.
Corbier knew the family. The mother, a widow on the threshold of old age, worked out by the day. The children, three girls and a boy, were hired by the year on farms round about, and helped her with a little money. The boy was said to be one of the best farm hands, though rather too fond of drink and, when under its influence, a dangerous chap to quarrel with. The girls of the family he knew less about. Least of all the eldest, Madeleine, who had been working away from home, in the Vendée, for several years.
Now this unknown woman was to keep house for him! A big, strong girl, her brother had said. He hadn't bargained for so much physical strength. Clumsy fingers were not fit to care for Lalie and little Georges. A hulky person, probably,—exuberantly merry and insolently healthy. He had agreed to pay her high wages, too; altogether, he felt irritated over the whole situation.
The young bullocks, no longer feeling his eye on them, suddenly drew wide. He beat them back mercilessly. The young farm hand paused in his work near by, a song on his lips. Corbier yelled at him:
"Use your muscle, damn it! Much good your fiddle-faddle's doing!"
The boy was silent for a moment, then, insolently, began a loud whistling of the same tune and resumed his work,—as leisurely and gawky as ever.
Corbier felt lonely and weak, without the support of human sympathy. Why had Marguerite had to die? He found himself mumbling words that only accentuated the sadness of his mood.
"Marguerite, why did you leave me so soon? Why did you leave my house for God's house? Why are you no longer on the threshold when I come home from the fields? … Marguerite, your children are neglected by strangers. My eyes find no light in the sunshine, my heart no joy under Heaven."
He had come upon a stiff piece of soil, where the oxen needed urging.
"Come on, Galant! Vermeil! Up, lads!" His voice died away in a quaver. He drew himself up, threw back his head in defiance. "Châtain! Lamoureux! Up there! Don't let it beat you!" But the words stuck in his throat. Then, beaten, he drew his hat down over his eyes and let the tears flow.