The Earth Read online

  DOUGLAS PARMÉE

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  THAT morning, Jean had slung a blue canvas seedbag round his middle, and was holding it open with his left hand, whilst with his right he took out a handful of wheat and at every third step scattered it broadcast with a sweep of his arm. His heavy shoes sank into the rich, thick soil which clung to them as he strode along rhythmically swaying his body; and through the constant haze of golden seed, each time he cast you could see the red glow of two corporal's stripes on his old regimental tunic, which he was wearing out. He looked preternaturally tall as he walked slowly forward, alone in front of the harrow covering up the grain behind him and which was drawn by a pair of horses urged on by their driver, who kept cracking his long whip around their ears.

  The field, situated at Les Cornailles and a bare couple of acres in extent, was not large enough for the owner of La Borderie, Monsieur Hourdequin, to have thought it worth-while to send out his mechanical seeder, which was being used elsewhere. In point of fact, the farm buildings themselves lay only about a mile and a half away in front of Jean as he moved up the field from the south to the north. Pausing at the end of the furrow, he lifted his head and stared blankly as he took a breather.

  The low walls and the brown patch of old slate roof seemed lost at the edge of the plain of Beauce which reached out towards Chartres, for beneath the late October sky, vast and overcast, the rich yellow farmland, bare at this time of year, extended for a score of miles or more, its broad stretches of arable alternating with green expanses of clover and lucerne, with no sign of a hillock or a tree as far as the eye could see; everything merged and fell away over the far skyline, as curved and clear-cut as a horizon at sea. Only to the west was the sky fringed by a tiny strip of russet wood. Down the middle went the chalk-white road joining Châteaudun to Orléans, which ran dead straight for a good fifteen miles, geometrically marked by its line of telegraph poles. And that was all, except for three or four wooden windmills, with idle sails, perched on their timber frames. A few villages were scattered about like little islands of stone and in the distance the steeple of an invisible church would emerge from a fold in the ground, hidden in the gentle undulations of this land devoted exclusively to wheat.

  Jean now turned back and set off once again, this time from north to south, his left hand still holding open the bag while his right swept through the air and dispersed its cloud of seed. Directly ahead of him now lay the narrow little valley of the Aigre, cutting through the plain like a dyke, while beyond it the flat lands of Beauce began once again, their vast expanses stretching as far as Orléans. The only hint of meadows or shade was a row of tall poplars whose yellowing heads, protruding from the hollow, looked like low bushes, on a level with the banks of the stream.

  Of the little village of Rognes, built on the slope, there could be glimpsed only a few rooftops, huddled round the church whose tall steeple, of grey stone, provided a venerable haunt for families of rooks. And to the east, beyond the Loir where the chief town of the canton, Cloyes, lay concealed five miles away, the low hills of the Perche rose up in the distance, purple against the slate-grey sky. This was formerly the region of Dunois which nowadays formed part of the administrative district of Châteaudun: lying between Perche and the extreme edge of Beauce, its poor fertility had earned for it the title of the bad lands.

  When Jean reached the end of the field, he stopped once more and cast his eye down along the Aigre, a swift clear stream flowing between meadows parallel to the Cloyes road: and he could see the procession of carts coming in from the country on their Saturday morning market day. Then he turned again and went back up the field. And he continued in this way, up and down, from north to south and then back, always at the same pace and with the same sweeping gesture, enveloped in the living cloud of grain, while behind him at the same gentle, almost meditative, pace, the harrow buried the seed to the sound of the cracking whip. Long spells of wet weather had held up the autumn sowing; the fields had already been newly manured in August and the land had long been ready for the plough, its deep soil, cleaned of unwholesome weeds, ripe to produce its crop of wheat following the rotation of clover and oats. So the fear of the coming frosts, potentially damaging after so much rain, had spurred on the activity of the farmers. The weather had suddenly turned cold and windless and a pitch-black sky spread a sombre, even light over this still ocean of land. They were sowing everywhere: another sower was working three hundred yards away to the left and yet another further along to the right; and for miles around, others and yet others could be seen sinking from sight and receding into the distance over the level ground ahead, tiny black figures, mere lines which grew thinner until they were finally lost from view. But all of them made this same gesture of casting the seed which you could sense floating in the air around them like a living wave. And even in the distance where all was blurred and the scattered sowers could no longer be seen, the plain was still quivering beneath it.

  Jean was on his way down the field for the last time when he spied a large brown and white cow coming from Rognes and led on a rope by a girl, barely more than a child. This little cowgirl and her charge were following the path which ran parallel to the valley at the edge of the plateau; and Jean, going up the slope with his back turned, had just finished his sowing when the sound of running mingled with stifled cries made him raise his head as he was untying his seedbag in preparation for leaving. The cow had bolted and was galloping away through a patch of lucerne, followed by the girl, who was making desperate efforts to hold her back. Afraid that she might come to harm, he shouted:

  ‘Let her go!’

  She ignored him and continued to hurl breathless abuse at the cow in an angry, scared voice:

  ‘Coliche! Now, Coliche, do be good! Oh, you stupid cow! You silly stupid cow!’

  Till then, by dint of running and jumping as fast as her little legs would carry her, she had managed to keep up with the cow. But now she stumbled and fell, picked herself up for a few more steps and then fell down again; and as the animal then took fright, she was dragged along the ground. She was shrieking now and her body was leaving a trail in the lucerne.

  ‘Let her go, for heaven's sake!’ Jean kept crying. ‘Let her go!’ He was shouting automatically, through sheer fright, for by now he was running himself, having at last realized what was wrong: the rope must have caught round her wrist and was being drawn tighter at every jerk. Fortunately, by cutting across a corner of ploughed field he was able to come round in front of the cow and ran towards her so fast that, bemused and scared, she came to a sudden halt. Quickly he undid the rope and made the girl sit up in the grass.

  ‘No bones broken?’

  She had not even fainted. She got to her feet, felt herself all over, calmly pulling her skirt up over her thighs to look at her knees, which were smarting; she was still too breathless to speak.

  ‘That's where it caught me, see? Anyway, I'm all in one piece, it's not too bad. My goodness, what a scare. If I'd been on the path I'd have been cut to ribbons.’

  And examining the wrist which had been caught in the rope and had a red weal all round it, she moistened it with spittle and sucked it, adding with a sigh of relief and already on her way to recovery:

  ‘Coliche isn't really bad, only she's been giving us trouble all this morning because she's on heat. I'm taking her to the bull at La Borderie.’

  ‘At La Borderie?’ Jean repeated. ‘That's lucky, I'm going back there myself, I'll come along with you.’ He continued to speak to her familiarly, treating her like a little child, since for all her fourteen years she was very slight in build. Meanwhile, with her chin in the air, she was looking up at this sturdy young man with his regular, rounded features and close-cropped brown hair; at twenty-nine, he was already an old man to her.

  ‘Oh, I know who you are, you're the Corporal, the carpenter who's taken a job at Monsieur Hourdequin's.’

  Hearing this nickname which the locals had give
n him, the young man gave a smile; and he in turn looked at her more closely, intrigued by the signs which showed that she was already almost a young woman. Her firm little breasts were starting to fill out; and her deep dark eyes were set in a long face with pink fleshy lips like fresh ripening fruit. She was wearing a skirt and black woollen bodice, and had a round cap on her head; her skin was a dark golden brown, tanned by the sun.

  ‘You must be old Mouche's youngest daughter!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn't recognize you. Wasn't your sister going around with Buteau last spring when he was working with me at La Borderie?’

  She replied simply:

  ‘Yes, that's right, I'm Françoise. My sister Lise did go out with cousin Buteau and now she's six months pregnant. He cleared off to Orgères, to the Chamade farm.’

  ‘Yes, that's right,’ Jean agreed. ‘I saw them together.’

  And they stood facing each other for a moment in silence, he laughing because he'd caught the two love-birds together one evening behind a haystack, she still moistening her bruised wrist as if her wet lips would relieve the soreness. Meanwhile the cow was calmly tearing up tufts of lucerne in a neighbouring field. The driver had gone off with his harrow, taking a roundabout way to the road. You could hear two rooks cawing as they wheeled monotonously round the steeple. In the dead still air, the angelus bell tolled three times.

  ‘Good Lord! Twelve o'clock already,’ exclaimed Jean. ‘Let's get a move on.’

  Then, catching sight of Coliche in the field:

  ‘I say, your cow's trespassing. Suppose someone saw her. You wait, you stupid cow, I'll show you what's what.’

  ‘No, leave her alone,’ said Françoise, stopping him. ‘That piece of land belongs to us. She made me fall over on a bit of our own land, the silly cow! All that side belongs to the family as far as Rognes. We go from here over to there, then next to that comes Uncle Fouan's and after that it's my aunt's, La Grande!’

  While she was pointing out the various fields, she led the cow back onto the path. It was not until she was holding her by the rope again that she thought of thanking the young man.

  ‘Anyway, I'm terribly grateful to you. Thanks ever so.’

  They had started to go along the narrow path which ran beside the valley before branching off into the fields. The last peal of the angelus bell had just died away in the distance and only the rooks were left cawing. And as they followed behind the cow, who was tugging at her rope, neither of them could find anything more to say; they had fallen silent in the way of country people who can walk side by side for hours without exchanging a word. They glanced towards a mechanical seeder as its horses swung round beside them on their right, the driver called out ‘Good morning’ and they replied ‘Good morning’, in the same serious tone. Down below to their left, the carts were still going along the road to Cloyes, for the market did not start till one o'clock. They bumped along on their two wheels, like little jumping insects, looking so tiny in the distance that you could make out only the white dot of the women's caps.

  ‘That's Uncle Fouan over there with my Auntie Rose,’ said Françoise, catching sight of a carriage no larger than a walnut driving along the road a good mile and a half away.

  She had the sailor's or the plainsman's ability to see things and pick out details far away, recognizing a man or an animal when there was nothing to see but a little moving speck in the distance.

  ‘Oh yes, I heard about that,’ Jean replied. ‘So old Fouan's made up his mind at last, he's going to split up his land between his daughter and his two sons?’

  ‘Yes, he's finally made up his mind, they're all meeting at Monsieur Baillehache's today.’

  She was still watching the cart moving away down the road.

  ‘It's no skin off our nose, because it's not going to affect us one way or the other. But there is Buteau. My sister thinks that perhaps he'll marry her, when he's got his share.’

  Jean laughed. ‘Ah, Buteau's a lad! He and me were pals. He was always ready to lead the girls up the garden path. He can't do without them, though, and if they don't come quietly he's not above using a bit of force.’

  ‘He really is a pig!’ Françoise exclaimed forcefully. ‘No one plays a dirty trick like that on your cousin by leaving her in the lurch when she's six months pregnant!’

  Then with a sudden burst of temper:

  ‘You just wait, Coliche! I'm going to give you something you won't forget! She's at it again, there's no holding her when she's in this state.’

  She violently tugged at the cow. At this point the path left the edge of the plateau and the carts disappeared, while they both continued to follow the plain where all they could see was the interminable expanse of farmland stretching away in front of them. The path went along on the level between the arable and the artificial meadows, without a single bush, up to the farm which seemed almost close enough to reach out and touch but which continually retreated under the ashen sky. They had fallen silent again, as if weighed down by this pensive, solemn plain of Beauce, so melancholy and so fertile.

  When they reached the big square farmyard of La Borderie, enclosed on three sides by cowsheds; sheepfolds and barns, it was deserted. But a short, pretty, saucy-looking young woman quickly appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Well, Jean, aren't we getting anything to eat this morning?’

  ‘I'm on my way, Madame Jacqueline.’

  This was the daughter of the local roadmender Cognet and everybody used to call her Cognette at the time when she had been taken on as scullery maid at the age of twelve; but ever since she had been promoted to become not only the farmer's servant but his mistress, she had developed autocratic tendencies and insisted on being treated as a lady.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Françoise,’ she went on. ‘You've come for the bull… Well, you'll have to wait. The cowman's at Cloyes with Monsieur Hourdequin. But he'll be back soon, he should have been here already.’

  And as Jean, with some reluctance, was making his way into the kitchen, she put her hand on his waist and jokingly rubbed up against him, unconcerned whether anyone was watching, greedy for love and not satisfied with just her master.

  Left alone, Françoise sat waiting patiently on a stone bench in front of the dung-pit which took up a third of the farmyard. She stared blankly at a group of hens warming their feet as they pecked over the low, wide layer of manure which was emitting a slight blue haze in the cool air. Half an hour later when Jean reappeared, finishing off a slice of bread and butter, she was still there. He sat down beside her and as the cow was restless, flicking herself with her tail and lowing, he said at last:

  ‘It's annoying that the cowman hasn't come back yet.’

  The girl shrugged her shoulders. She was not in any hurry. Then, after a fresh silence:

  ‘Well, Corporal, everyone calls you just Jean. Is that your only name?’

  ‘No, of course not. I'm Jean Macquart.’

  ‘And you don't come from these parts?’

  ‘No, I'm from Provence, a town called Plassans.’

  She had looked up at him to examine him more closely, surprised that anyone could have come from such a faraway place.

  ‘Eighteen months ago, after Solferino,’ he went on, ‘I got my discharge and came back from Italy and a pal persuaded me to come up here. And then I got fed up with being a carpenter and, what with one thing and another, I stayed on at the farm.’

  ‘I see,’ she said without further comment, still watching him with her large dark eyes. But at that moment, Coliche, who was becoming frantic, gave an extra long despairing ‘moo’ and a hoarse panting could be heard behind the closed cowshed door.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Jean. ‘Old Caesar's heard her… Hark at him talking away in there. Oh, he knows what's what, you can't bring any cow into the yard without him smelling her and knowing what he's got to do!’

  He stopped short.

  ‘You know, the cowman must have stayed behind with Monsieur Hourdequin. If you like, I'll get the bul
l out for you. The two of us could manage together.’

  ‘Yes, that's an idea,’ said Françoise, standing up.

  As he was opening the door, he asked her:

  ‘How about Coliche? Do we need to tie her up?’

  ‘Tie her up? Goodness no, it's not worth it! She's ready and no mistake, she won't budge an inch!’

  When the door was opened, they saw two rows of cows each side of the central passageway, the whole thirty of them, some lying on their litters, others munching beetroot from their trough; and in his corner, one of the bulls, a black and white Friesian, stood straining his head forward, expectantly.

  As soon as he was untied, Caesar came slowly out. But suddenly he halted, as though surprised at finding himself in the open air and in broad daylight, and for a minute he stood stock-still, tense, nervously twitching his tail, his outstretched neck swelling as he sniffed the air. Lowing more gently, Coliche stood motionless, staring at him with her big eyes. Then he sidled up to her and abruptly pressed his head roughly against her rump; his tongue was hanging out and pushing her tail to one side, he licked her all the way down her thighs; her skin could be seen rippling and quivering although she kept quite still as she let him do it. Jean and Françoise watched intently, their arms dangling limply at their sides.

  And when he was ready, Caesar suddenly heaved himself up on to Coliche, so heavily and violently that the ground shook. She stood firm as he gripped her sides between his two legs. But she was a tall Cotentin cow, too broad and high for a bull of less powerful breed to reach. Caesar felt this and was helplessly trying to raise himself up.