Boitelle
Old Antoine Boitelle’s speciality throughout the country was doing the dirty jobs. Whenever a cesspool had to be cleaned out, a manure heap removed, drains flushed, or any filthy old hole attended to, he was sent for.
He would come along with the necessary implements, his sabots soaked in filth, and start work, whining all the time about his job. Then when asked why he did such repulsive work, he would reply resignedly: “Well, for my children; they must be fed. It pays better than anything else.” He had fourteen children and when anyone asked what had become of them, he would say indifferently: “There are still eight at home. One is in service, and five are married.” When asked whether they were happily married, he replied vivaciously: “I did not oppose their wishes. I have never opposed them in any way. They married as they pleased. You must never oppose the choice of others; evil is sure to follow. If I am a scavenger, it is because my parents were opposed to my inclinations. Otherwise I would have been a workman like the others.”
This is how his parents had thwarted him:
He was a soldier then, serving his time at Havre, not more stupid than the others, not sharper either, but rather simple-minded.
In his free time his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay where the bird-dealers congregated. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend from his own part of the country: he would pass slowly in front of the cages containing parrots with green backs and yellow heads from the Amazon, parrots with grey backs and red heads from Senegal, enormous macaws that looked like birds bred in hothouses with their gorgeous feathers, their plumes, and their tufts, parakeets of all sizes that looked as if they had been painted with great care by a heavenly miniaturist, then the little tiny birds that hopped about, red, yellow, blue, variegated; all these mingled their cries with the noise of the quay, adding to the din of vessels unloading, of passersby and of vehicles, the wild murmur, shrill and deafening, of a distant, ghost-ridden forest.
Boitelle would stop with astonishment in his eyes and wide-open mouth, laughing and delighted, showing his teeth to the cockatoo prisoners who greeted the bright red of his breeches and the copper buckle of his belt with their white or yellow crests. When he found a bird that could talk he asked it questions, and if it happened to be a day when the bird felt disposed to enter into conversation with him or answer his questions, the amount of fun and amusement he carried away from the interview lasted till evening. He got any amount of pleasure from looking at the monkeys and could imagine no greater luxury for a wealthy man than to keep these animals as one keeps cats and dogs. He had the love of the exotic in his blood, as one might have that of hunting, medicine or the Church. He could not help going back to the quay every time the gates of the barracks were opened, drawn towards it by an irresistible longing.
On one occasion, in a state approaching ecstasy, he stopped in front of an enormous macaw that was putting out its feathers, bending forward and holding itself erect as if it were curtsying at the court of Parrotland, when he saw the door of a little café joining the bird shop open and a young Negress appear with a red kerchief on her head, sweeping the corks and sand from the floor into the street.
Boitelle’s attention was immediately divided between the bird and the woman, and he could not have said which of the two caused him the greater astonishment or pleasure.
The Negress swept the dirt from the café into the street, raised her eyes and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier’s uniform. There she stood facing him with her broom in her hands as if she were presenting arms, while the macaw went on bowing.
After a few seconds the soldier began to feel embarrassed at the notice he was attracting and went off slowly to avoid any appearance of retreat.
But he came back. He passed the Café des Colonies nearly every day and through the window often saw the little dark-skinned servant handing beer or brandy to the sailors of the port. She often came out when she caught sight of him; indeed, they were soon smiling at each other like acquaintances although they had never spoken to each other; and Boitelle felt his heart stirred when he saw the dazzling row of teeth suddenly glittering between the girl’s dusky lips. One day he went in and was surprised when he realised that she spoke French just as everyone else did. The bottle of lemonade, of which she accepted a glass, remained a delightful memory to the soldier, and it soon became his custom to frequent the little tavern and drink all the syrupy mixtures he could afford.
It was a treat for him—a perpetual joy—to watch the black hand of the little serving-maid pour something into his glass while a smile showed her teeth—that were even brighter than her eyes.
After seeing each other in this way for two months they became fast friends and Boitelle having recovered from his surprise at finding that the ideals of this Negress were the same as those of the girls of his country—that she had a respect for thrift, work, religion and good manners—he loved her the more for it and was so infatuated that he wanted to marry her.
This suggestion made her dance for joy. Moreover, she had money left to her by a woman oyster-dealer who had sheltered her when abandoned by an American captain on the quay at Havre. The captain had found her when she was about six years old, huddled against the bales of cotton in the ship’s hold a few hours after leaving New York. On reaching Havre he abandoned the little black creature hidden on board he knew not how or by whom to the care of the compassionate oyster-dealer. When the oyster woman died the young Negress went to the Café des Colonies as waitress. Antoine Boitelle added: “We shall be married if my parents make no objections. I will never do anything against their wishes, you understand that, never! I will mention it to them the first time I go back home.”
The next week, having got twenty-four hours’ leave, he went to see his people, who farmed a small holding at Tourteville, near Yvetot.
He waited till the meal was over, for the moment when coffee with a dash of brandy softens the heart, to tell his parents that he had found a girl so completely to his taste that no other so perfectly suited to him could possibly exist.
The old people, on hearing this, became very cautious and asked for particulars. However, he had concealed nothing from them except the colour of her skin.
She was a servant, without much money, but strong, thrifty, clean, well-conducted and sensible. These were things that were more valuable than money in the hands of a bad housewife. Besides, she had a few sous left her by the woman who had brought her up, quite a number of sous, almost a little dowry—fifteen hundred francs in the savings-bank. The old people, won over by his account and having confidence in his judgment, gradually gave way; then he reached the ticklish point of the explanation. Laughing in a forced way, he said: “There is only one thing that may upset you. There is not a scrap of white about her.” They could not understand what he meant and he was obliged to explain at length and with many precautions, so as to avoid shocking them, that she belonged to the dark race of which they had only seen samples in the coloured picture-books.
Then they became anxious, perplexed, alarmed as if he had proposed to marry the Devil.
The mother said: “Black? How much of her? Is she altogether black?”
He replied: “Surely: altogether, just as you are white all over!”
The father said: “Black? Is she as black as the kettle?”
The son answered: “Perhaps a little bit less! She is black but not black enough to be repulsive. The curé’s cassock is black enough but it is no uglier than a white surplice.”
The father said: “Are there any blacker than she is in her own country?”
The son, with an air of conviction, exclaimed: “Certainly!”
But the old man shook his head. “It can’t be pleasant?”
“It is not more unpleasant than anything else, you soon get accustomed to it.”
The mother asked: “They don’t soil their underwear more than others, those creatures?”
“No more than you do, considering it is the colour of her skin.”
After a great many more questions it was agreed that the old people should see the girl before taking any decision, and that the young fellow, whose military service would be finished in another month, should bring her to the house so that they might pass judgment upon her, then they could talk the matter over and decide whether she was too dark to be received into the Boitelle family.
Antoine accordingly announced that on Sunday, the 22nd of May, the day of his discharge, he would start for Tourteville with his sweetheart.
For the visit to her lover’s parents she had put on her most beautiful and most showy clothes, in which yellow, red and blue predominated, so that she looked as if decorated for a national fête.
At the Havre station everybody stared at her, and Boitelle was proud of being seen arm-in-arm with a person who attracted so much attention. Then, in the third-class carriage, seated beside him, she caused such surprise among the peasants that those in the adjoining compartments stood up on the seats to have a good look at her over the wooden partition that divided the carriage. One child, frightened at her appearance, began to cry, another hid its face in its mother’s apron.
However, all went well until they reached the station. As the train slowed down on the drawing near Yvetot, Antoine felt as uncomfortable as he felt at inspection when not sure of himself. Then, leaning out of the window, in the distance he recognised his father holding the bridle of the horse harnessed to the cart, and his mother standing at the barrier that held back the spectators.
He alighted first, took hold of his sweetheart’s hand and holding himself erect as if escorting a general, he went to meet his father and mother.
The mother, seeing the black lady in gaily coloured clothes with her son, was so amazed that she had not a word to say and the father found it difficult to hold the horse that kept rearing first at the engine, then at the Negress. But Antoine, suddenly filled with joy at seeing the old people, rushed forward with open arms, kissed his mother and his father too in spite of the nag’s fright, then turning to his companion, at whom the wonder-struck passersby stopped to stare, he explained:
“Here she is. I told you that a first glimpse was rather upsetting, but as soon as you know her, as sure as I am here, there is nothing better in the world. Say how-d’you-do to her to make her feel at home.”
Thereupon old Mother Boitelle, almost frightened out of her wits, made a sort of curtsy, while the father took off his cap and murmured: “My best wishes.” Then without further delay they clambered into the cart, the two women at the back on chairs that made them bounce up and down at every jolt and the two men in front on the seat.
Nobody said a word. Antoine, feeling anxious, was whistling a barrack-room song. The father whipped up the nag and the mother looked out of the corner of her eyes, casting sly glances at the Negress, whose brow and cheekbones shone in the sunlight like well-polished shoes.
Antoine, wanting to break the silence, turned round and said:
“Well, has no one anything to say?”
“Give us time,” replied the old woman.
He went on: “Come! tell us the story of your hen’s eight eggs.”
This was one of the family’s funny stories. But as his mother still kept silent, paralysed by her feelings, he started to tell the tale himself, laughing all the time, of the never forgotten adventure. The father, who knew it by heart, cheered up at the very first words; the mother soon followed his example, and the Negress herself at the funniest part burst into a fit of laughter, such a noisy, rolling torrent of laughter that the excited horse broke into a gallop.
This broke the ice and they started to talk.
They had scarcely reached the house and had all got down from the cart when, after taking his sweetheart to her room to change her dress, which might get stained while cooking an appetising dish that was to win the old people’s affections through their stomachs, he led his parents out of doors and, with beating heart, asked:
“Well, what do you think?”
The father was silent. The mother, more courageous, exclaimed:
“She is too black! No, really, it is beyond a joke. It makes my blood curdle.”
“You will get used to it,” said Antoine.
“Possibly, but not just at first.”
They went into the house, where the good woman was upset at seeing the Negress busy in the kitchen. Then, tucking up her skirts, she started to help her.
The meal was very good, very long and very enjoyable. When they were wandering round afterwards Antoine took his father aside.
“Well, father, what do you think of her?”
The peasant never committed himself.
“I have no opinion about her. Ask your mother.”
So Antoine joined his mother and, keeping behind the others, said: “Well, mother, what do you think of her?”
“My poor lad, really, she is too black. Only the least little bit less and I would say nothing, but it is too much. She might be Satan himself!”
He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman was, but he felt a tempest of grief rage within him. He racked his brains for a solution of the difficulty, surprised that she had not taken their fancy at once as she had taken his. So the four of them strolled through the cornfields in silence. When they passed a fence, farmers appeared at the gate and little boys climbed the hedges, everyone rushed out to see the “blackie” that young Boitelle had brought home. In the distance people could be seen scampering across the fields as they do when the village crier makes some public announcement. Old Boitelle and his wife, scared at the curiosity aroused by their approach, quickened their pace, walking side by side, leaving far behind their son, who was being asked by his companion what his parents thought of her.
Hesitatingly he replied that they had not yet made up their minds.
But in the village square there was an excited rush from all the cottages, and at sight of the gathering crowd the old Boitelles fled home, while Antoine, furious with anger, his sweetheart holding his arm, advanced majestically under the astonished gaze of the crowd.
He understood that it was all over, that there was no hope, that he could never marry his Negress; she understood it too; and they both began to cry as they drew near to the farm. As soon as they got back she took off her dress to help the old woman; she followed her everywhere, to the dairy, the stables, the poultry run, taking upon herself the hardest work, and always saying: “Let me do it, Madame Boitelle,” so that in the evening the old woman, her heart softening but still inexorable, said to her son:
“All the same she is a good girl. It is a pity she is so black, but there, she really is too black. I could never get used to it, she must go back again, she is too black!”
And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:
“She won’t have it, she says you are too black. You must go back again. I will take you to the station. Never mind, don’t be miserable about it. I will talk to them when you are gone.”
He took her to the station, bidding her hope, and after embracing her, put her into the train, which he watched out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.
He appealed in vain to his parents, they would never give their consent.
When he had told this story, well known throughout the countryside, Antoine Boitelle always added:
“From that time, I have had no heart for anything, for anything whatever. I took no interest in any trade, and so I became what I am, a scavenger.”
People would say to him: “Yet you have married.”
“Yes, and I can’t say that my wife was objectionable, considering that I have had fourteen children, but she was not the other one, oh, no—certainly not! The other one, you see, my Negress, if she only looked at me, I felt I was in the seventh heaven …”