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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
Not far from the church we called upon a family of large and wealthy farmers, owners of the soil they
cultivate, millionaires by comparison with our neighbours at Bourron.
We arrived in the midst of a busy time, a steam corn thresher plying in the vast farm-yard. The interior of
the big, straggling farm-house we did not see, but two aged women dressed like poor peasants received
us in the kitchen, a dingy, unswept, uninviting place, as are most farm-house kitchens in France. These
old ladies were respectively mother-in-law and aunt of the farmer, whose wife, the real mistress of the
house, soon came in. This tall, stout, florid, brawny-armed woman was evidently what French folks
call une maitresse femme, a first-rate housewife and manager; a somewhat awe-inspiring person
she looked as she stood before us, arms akimbo, her short coarse serge skirt showing shoes well
acquainted with stable and neat-house, one dirty blue cotton apron worn over another equally dirty. Now,
my hostess, as I have said, wanted to purchase some poultry for the table, and here comes in the moral of
my story. Vainly the lady begged and begged again for a couple of chickens. "But we want them for our
Parisians," the three farming women reiterated, one echoing the other. "Our Parisians, our Parisians," the
words were repeated a dozen times. And as was explained to me afterwards, "our Parisians," for whom
the pick of the poultry yard was being reserved, were the two sons of the rather forbidding-looking
matron before us, young gentlemen being educated in a Paris Lycee, and both of them destined for the
learned professions!
This side of rural life, this ambition, akin to what we see taking quite another form among ourselves,
Zola does not sufficiently realize. Shocking indeed were the miserliness and materialism of such
existences but for the element of self-denial, this looking ahead for those to follow after. How differently,
for instance, the farm-house and its group must have appeared, but for the evident pride and hopes
centred in nos Parisiens, who knows? - perhaps youths destined to attain the first rank in official
or political callings!
The farther door of the smoke-dried kitchen opened on to the farm-yard, around which were stables and
neat-houses. In the latter the mistress of the house proudly drew our attention to a beautiful blue cow,
grey in our ignorance we had called it, one of a score or more of superb kine all now reclining on their
haunches before being turned out to pasture. In front, cocks and hens disported themselves on a dunghill,
whilst beyond, the steam corn thresher was at work, every hand being called into requisition. No need
here for particulars and figures. The superabundant wealth, so carefully husbanded for the two youths in
Paris, was self-evident.
The tornado, with threatening showers and the sight of a huge tree just uprooted by the road side,
necessitated the shortest possible cut home. In fair weather a prolongation of our drive would have given
us a sight of some famous rocks of this rocky forest. But we carried home memories enough for one day.
CHAPTER VII. RECLOSES.
This ancient village, reached by the forest, is one of the most picturesque of the many picturesque places
hereabouts. Quitting a stretch of pinewood we traverse flat cultivated land, gradually winding up towards
a long straggling village surmounted by a lofty church tower of grey stone. On either side of this street
are enclosed farm-houses, the interiors being as pictorial as can be imagined. Untidy as are most French
homesteads, for peasant farmers pay little court to the Graces, there is always a bit of flower garden.
Sometimes this flower garden is aerial, a bower of roses on the roof sometimes amid the incongruous
surroundings of pig styes or manure heaps. This region is a petunia land; wherever we go we find a
veritable blaze of petunia blossoms, pale mauve, deepest rose, purple and white massed together without
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