The tide was at its lowest. Before us, for an acre or more, there lay a wide, wet, stretch of brown mud. Near the beach was a strip of yellow sand; here and there it had contracted into narrow ridges1, elsewhere it had expanded into scroll-like patterns. The bed of mud and slime ran out from this yellow sand strip—a surface diversified2 by puddles3 of muddy water, by pools, clear, ribbed with wavelets, and by little heaps of stones covered with lichens5. The surface of the bed, whether pools or puddles, or rock-heaps, or sea-weeds massed, was covered by thousands and thousands of black, lozenge-shaped bivalves. These bivalves were the mussels. Over this bed of shells and slime there moved and toiled7 a whole villageful of old women. Where the sea met the edges of the mud-flat the throng8 of women was thickest. The line of the ever-receding shore was marked by the shapes of countless9 bent10 figures. The heads of these stooping women were on a level with their feet, not one stood upright. All that the eye could seize for outline was the dome11 made by the bent hips12, and the backs that closed against the knees as a blade is clasped into a knife handle. The oblong masses that were lifted now and then, from the level of the sabots, resolved themselves into the outlines of women's heads and women's faces. These heads were tied up in cotton kerchiefs or in cotton nightcaps; these being white, together with the long, thick, aprons14 also white, were in startling contrast to the blue of the sky and to the changing sea-tones.
Between these women and the incoming tide, twice daily, was fought a persistent15, unrelenting duel16. It was a duel, on the part of the fish-wives, against time, against the fate of the tides, against the blind forces of nature. For this combat the women were armed to the teeth, clad as they were in their skeleton muscular leanness; helmeted with their heads of iron; visored in the bronze of their skin and in wrinkles that laughed at the wind. In these sinewy17, toughened bodies there was a grim strength that appeared to know neither ache nor fatigue18 nor satiety19.
High, clear, strong, came their voices. The tones were the tones that come from deep chests, and with a prolonged, sustained capacity for enduring the toil6 of men. But the high-pitched laughter proved them women, as did their loud and unceasing gossip. The battle of the voices rose above the swash of the waves, above, also, another sound, as incessant20 as the women's chatter21 and the swish of the water as it hissed22 along the mud-flat's edges.
[Illustration: A SALE OF MUSSELS—VILLERVILLE]
This was the swift, sharp, saw-like cutting among the stones and the slime, the scrape, scrape of the hundred of knives into the moist earth. This ceaseless scraping, lunging, digging, made a new world of sound—strange, sinister23, uncanny. It was neither of the sea nor yet of the land—it was a noise that seemed inseparable from this tongue of mud, that also appeared to be neither of the heavens above nor of the earth, from the bowels24 out of which it had sprung.
The mussels cling to their slime with extraordinary tenacity25; only an expert, who knows the exact point of attachment26 between the hard shell and its soil, can remove a mussel with dexterity27. These women, as they dipped their knives into the thick mud, swept the diminutive28 black bivalve with a trenchant29 movement, as a Moor30 might cleave31 a human head with one turn of his moon-shaped sword. Into the bronzed, wrinkled old hands the mussels then were slipped as if they had been so many dainty sweets.
New and pungent32 smells were abroad on this strip of slime. Sea smells, strong and salty; smells of the moist and damp soil, the bitter-sweet of wetted weeds, the aromatic33 flavor that shell-life yields, and the smells also of rotten and decaying fish—all these were inextricably blended in the air, that was of the keenness of a frost-blight for freshness, and yet was warm with the softness of a June sun.
Meanwhile the voices of the women were nearing. Some of the bent heads were lifted as we approached. Here and there a coif, or cotton cap, nodded, and the slit34 of a smile would gape35 between the nose and the meeting chin. A high good humor appeared to reign36 among the groups; a carnival37 of merriment laughed itself out in coarse, cracked laughter; loud was the play of the jests, hoarse38 and guttural the gibes39 that were abroad on the still air, from old mouths that uttered strong, deep notes.
"Why should they all be old?" we queried40. We were near enough to see the women face to face now, since we were far out along the outer edges of the bed; we were so near the sea that the tide was beginning to wash us back, along with the fringe of the diggers.
"They're not—they only look old," replied Renard, stopping a moment to sketch41 in a group directly in front. "This life makes old women of them in no time. How old, for instance, should you think that girl was, over there?"
The girl whom he designated was the only figure of youth we had seen on the bed. She was working alone and remote from the others. She wore no coif. Her masses of red, wavy42 hair shaded a face already deeply seamed with lines of premature43 age. A moment later she passed close to us. She was bent almost double beneath a huge, reeking44 basket, heaped with its pile of wet mussels. She was carrying it to a distant pool. Once beside the pool, with swift, dexterous45 movement the heavy basket was slipped from the bent back, the load of mussels falling in a shower into the miniature lake. The next instant she was stamping on the heap, to plunge46 them with her sabot still further into the pool. She was washing her load. Soon she shouldered the basket again, filling it with the cleansed47 mussels. A moment later she joined the long, toiling48 line of women that were perpetually forming and reforming on their way to the carts. These latter were drawn49 up near the beach, their contents guarded by boys and old men, who received the loads the women had dug, dragging the whole, later, up the hill.
"She has the Venus de Milo lines, that girl," Renard continued, critically, with his eyes on her, as she now repassed us. The figure was drawn up at its full height. It had in truth a noble dignity of outline. There was a Spartan50 vigor51 and severity in the lean, uncorseted shape, with the bust52 thrown out against the sky—the bust of a young warrior53 rather than a woman. There was a hardy54, masculine freedom in the pliable55 motion of her straight back, a ripple56 with muscles that played easily beneath the close bodice, in her arms, and her finely turned ankles and legs, that were bared below the knee. The very simplicity57 of her costume helped to mark the Greek severity of her figure. She wore a short skirt of some coarse hempen58 stuff, covered with a thick apron13 made of sail-cloth, her feet thrust into black sabots, while the upper part of her body was covered with an unbleached chemise, widely open at the throat.
She had the Phidian breadth and the modern charm—that charm which troubles and disturbs, haunting the mind with vague, unsatisfied suggestions of something finer than is seen, something nobler than the gross physical envelope reveals.
"I must have her—for my Salon59 picture," calmly remarked Renard, after a long moment of scrutiny60, his eyes following the lean, stately figure in its grave walk across the weeds and slime. "Yes, I must have her."
"Won't she be hard to get? How can she be made to sit, a stiffened61 image of clay, after this life of freedom, this athletic62 struggle out here—with these winds and tides?"
One of us, at least, was stirred at Renard's calm assumption—the assumption so common to artists, who, when they see a good thing at once count on its possessorship, as if the whole world, indeed, were eternally sitting, agape with impatience63, awaiting the advent64 of some painter to sketch in its portrait.
"Oh, it'll be easy enough. She makes two francs a day with her six basketfuls. I'll offer her three, and she'll drop like a shot."
"I'll make it a red picture," he continued, dipping his brushes into a little case of paints he held on his thumb; "the mussel-bed a reddish violet, the sky red in the horizon, and the girl in the foreground, with that torrent65 of hair as the high light. I've been hunting for that hair all over Europe." And he began sketching66 her in at once.
"Bonjour, mère, how goes it?" He nodded as he sketched67 at a wrinkled, bent figure, who was smiling out at him from beneath her load of mussels.
"Pas mal—e' vous, M'sieur Renard?"
"All right—and the mortgage, how goes that?"
"Pas si mal—it'll be paid off next year."
"Who is she? One of your models?"
"Yes, last year's: she was my belle68—the belle of the mussel-bed for me, a year ago. Now there's a lesson in patience for you. She's sixty-five, if she's a minute; she's been working here, on this mussel-bed, for five years, to pay the mortgage off her farm; when that is done, her daughter Augustine can marry; Augustine's dot is the farm."
"Augustine—at our inn?"
"The very same."
"And the blonde—the handsome man at the creamery, he is the future—?"
"I'm sorry to hear such things of Augustine," smiled Renard, as he worked; "she must be indulging in an entr'acte. No, the gentleman of Augustine's—well, perhaps not of her affections, but of her mother's choice, is a peasant who works the farm; the creamery is only an incidental diversion. Again, I'm sorry to hear such sad things of Augustine—"
"Horrors!"
"Exactly. That's the way it's done—over here. Will you join me—over there?" Renard blushed a little. "I mean I wish to follow that girl—she's going to dig out yonder. Will you come?"
Meanwhile the light was changing, and so was the tide. The women were coming inward, washed up to the shore along with the grasses and seaweeds. A band of diggers suddenly started, with full basket loads, toward a fishing boat that had dropped anchor close in to the shore; it was a Honfleur craft, come to buy mussels for the Paris market. The women trudged69 through the water, up to their waists; they clustered about the boats like so many laden70 beasts. But their shrill71 bargaining proved them women.
Meanwhile that gentle hissing72 along the level stretch of brown mud was the tide. It was pushing the women upward, as if it had been a hand—the hand of a relentless73 fate—instead of a little, liquid kiss.
The sun, as it dipped, made a glory of splendor74 out of this commonplace bank. It soaked the mud in gold; it was in a royal mood, throwing its largess with reckless abundance to this poor of earth—to the slime and the mud. The long, yellow, lichen4 leaves massed on the rocks were dyed as if lying in a yellow bath. The sands were richly colored; the ridges were brown in the shadows and burnished75 at the tops. In the distance the sea weeds were black, sable76 furs, covering the velvet77 robes of earth. The sea out beyond was as rosy78 as a babe, and the sails were dazzlingly white as they floated past, between the sky and the distant purple line of the horizon.
Meanwhile the tide is coming in.
The procession of the women toward the carts grows in numbers. The thick sabots plunge into the mud, the water squirts out of the wooden shoes as the strong heels press into them. The straw, the universal stocking of these women-diggers, is reeking with dirt. Volumes of slush are splashed on the bared skinny ankles, on the wet skirts, wet to the waists, and on the coarse sail-cloth aprons tied beneath the hanging bosoms79. The women are all drenched80 now in a bath of filth81. The baskets are reeking with filth also, they rain showers of dirt along the bent backs. A long line of the bent figures has formed on their way to the carts. There is, however, a thick fringe of diggers left who still dispute their rights with the sea.
But the tide is pushing them inward, upward. And all the while the light is getting more and more golden, shimmery82, radiant. Under this light, beneath this golden mantel of color, these creatures appear still more terrible. As they bend over, their faces tirelessly held downward on a level with their hands, they seem but gnomes83; surely they are huge, undeveloped embryos84 of women, with neither head nor trunk. For this light is pitiless. It makes them even more a part of this earth, out of which they seem to have sprung, a strange amorphous85 growth. The bronzed skins are dyed in the gold as if to match with the hue86 of the mud; the wet skirts are shreds87, gray and brown tatters, not so good in texture88 as the lichens, and the ragged89 jerseys90 seem only bits of the more distant weeds woven into tissues to hide mercifully the lean, sinewy backs.
The tide is almost in.
In the shallows the sunset is fading. Here and there are brilliant little pools, each pool a mirror, and each mirror reflects a different picture. Here is a second sky—faintly blue, with a trailing saffron scarf of cloud; there, the inverted91 silhouettes92 of two fish-wives are conical shapes, their coifs and wet skirts startlingly distinct in tones; beyond, sails a fantastic fleet, with polychrome sails, each spar, masthead, and wrinkled sail as sharply outlined as if chiselled93 in relief. Presently these miniature pictures fade as the light fades. Blacker grows the mud, and there is less and less of it; the silhouetted94 shapes of the diggers are seen no more; they are following the carts up the steep cliffs; even the sky loses its color and fades also. And the little pools that have been a burning orange, then a darkening violet, gay with pictured worlds, in turn pale to gray, and die into the universal blackness.
The tide is in.
It is flowing, rich and full, crested95 with foam96 beneath the osier hedges. We hear it break with a sudden dash and splutter against the cliff parapets. And the mud-bank is no more.
Half an hour later, from our chamber97 windows we looked forth98 through the dusk across at the mussel bed. The great mud-bank, all that black acreage of slime and sea-weed, the eager, struggling band of toiling fish wives, all was gone; it was all as if it had not been—would never be again. The water hissed along the beach; it broke in rhythmic99, sonorous100 measure against the parapet. Surely there had never been any beds, or any mussels, or any toiling fish-wives; or if there had, it was all a world that the sea had washed up, and then as quietly, as heedlessly, as pitilessly had obliterated101.
It was the very epitome102 of life itself.
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1
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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2
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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7
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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22
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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42
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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43
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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44
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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45
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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46
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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47
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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49
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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50
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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51
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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52
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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53
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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54
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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55
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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56
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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57
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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64
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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67
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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69
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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shimmery
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| adj.微微发亮的 | |
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gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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84
embryos
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| n.晶胚；胚，胚胎( embryo的名词复数 ) | |
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amorphous
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| adj.无定形的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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jerseys
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| n.运动衫( jersey的名词复数 ) | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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