Fruitfulness: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

XII

FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne had
two more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a son at
the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thus
increased, the estate at Chantebled was increased also--on the first
occasion by fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshes of
the plateau, and the second time by an extensive expanse of wood and
moorland which the springs were beginning to fertilize. It was the
resistless conquest of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the
sunlight, it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation
amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each
succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the
veins of the world.

On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood and
moorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrable
humor. The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients had
lately passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorious
surgeon to whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked as
to a theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, old
Moineaud's eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, and
already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed her usual
avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as often happens
in working-class families where the mother is unable to remain idle. At
all events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finally been
removed to the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her young
sister Cecile, now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled,
but she was of poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiously
enough, she also entered Doctor Gaude's clinic. And Boutan waxed
indignant at the methods which Gaude employed. The two sisters, the
married woman and the girl, had been discharged as cured, and so far,
this might seem to be the case; but time, in Boutan's opinion, would
bring round some terrible revenges.

One curious point of the affair was that Beauchene's dissolute sister,
Seraphine, having heard of these so-called cures, which the newspapers
had widely extolled, had actually sought out the Benards and the
Moineauds to interview Euphrasie and Cecile on the subject. And in the
result she likewise had placed herself in Gaude's hands. She certainly
was of little account, and, whatever might become of her, the world would
be none the poorer by her death. But Boutan pointed out that during the
fifteen years that Gaude's theories and practices had prevailed in
France, no fewer than half a million women had been treated accordingly,
and, in the vast majority of cases, without any such treatment being
really necessary. Moreover, Boutan spoke feelingly of the after results
of such treatment--comparative health for a few brief years, followed in
some cases by a total loss of muscular energy, and in others by insanity
of a most violent form; so that the padded cells of the madhouses were
filling year by year with the unhappy women who had passed through the
hands of Gaude and his colleagues. From a social point of view also the
effects were disastrous. They ran counter to all Boutan's own theories,
and blasted all his hopes of living to see France again holding a
foremost place among the nations of the earth.

"Ah!" said he to Mathieu, "if people were only like you and your good
wife!"

During those four years at Chantebled the Froments had been ever
founding, creating, increasing, and multiplying, again and again proving
victorious in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanks
to that continual increase both of offspring and of fertile land which
was like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire
passed like a gust of flame--desire divine and fruitful, since they
possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their energy did
the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the
labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that regulates the
earth. But during the first two years they had to struggle incessantly.
There were two disastrous winters with snow and ice, and March brought
hail-storms and hurricanes which left the crops lying low. Even as
Lepailleur had threateningly predicted with a laugh of impotent envy, it
seemed as if the earth meant to prove a bad mother, ungrateful to them
for their toil, indifferent to their losses. During those two years they
only extricated themselves from trouble thanks to the second fifty acres
that they purchased from Seguin, to the west of the plateau, a fresh
expanse of rich soil which they reclaimed amid the marshes, and which, in
spite of frost and hail, yielded a prodigious first harvest. As the
estate gradually expanded, it also grew stronger, better able to bear
ill-luck.

But Mathieu and Marianne also had great family worries. Their five elder
children gave them much anxiety, much fatigue. As with the soil, here
again there was a daily battle, endless cares and endless fears. Little
Gervais was stricken with fever and narrowly escaped death. Rose, too,
one day filled them with the direst alarm, for she fell from a tree in
their presence, but fortunately with no worse injury than a sprain. And,
on the other hand, they were happy in the three others, Blaise, Denis,
and Ambroise, who proved as healthy as young oak-trees. And when Marianne
gave birth to her sixth child, on whom they bestowed the gay name of
Claire, Mathieu celebrated the new pledge of their affection by further
acquisitions.

Then, during the two ensuing years, their battles and sadness and joy all
resulted in victory once more. Marianne gave birth, and Mathieu conquered
new lands. There was ever much labor, much life expended, and much life
realized and harvested. This time it was a question of enlarging the
estate on the side of the moorlands, the sandy, gravelly slopes where
nothing had grown for centuries. The captured sources of the tableland,
directed towards those uncultivated tracts, gradually fertilized them,
covered them with increasing vegetation. There were partial failures at
first, and defeat even seemed possible, so great was the patient
determination which the creative effort demanded. But here, too, the
crops at last overflowed, while the intelligent felling of a part of the
purchased woods resulted in a large profit, and gave Mathieu an idea of
cultivating some of the spacious clearings hitherto overgrown with
brambles.

And while the estate spread the children grew. It had been necessary to
send the three elder ones--Blaise, Denis, and Ambroise--to a school in
Paris, whither they gallantly repaired each day by the first train,
returning only in the evening. But the three others, little Gervais and
the girls Rose and Claire, were still allowed all freedom in the midst of
Nature. Marianne, however, gave birth to a seventh child, amid
circumstances which caused Mathieu keen anxiety. For a moment, indeed, he
feared that he might lose her. But her healthful temperament triumphed
over all, and the child--a boy, named Gregoire--soon drank life and
strength from her breast, as from the very source of existence. When
Mathieu saw his wife smiling again with that dear little one in her arms,
he embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow
and every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an
additional force born into the world, another field ready for to-morrow's
harvest.

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness
spreading, thanks to the earth and to woman, both victorious over
destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child
was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, and
ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.

* * * * * *

Then two more years rolled on. And during those two years Mathieu and
Marianne had yet another child, a girl. And again, at the same time as
the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also--on one
side by five-and-seventy acres of woodland stretching over the plateau as
far as the fields of Mareuil, and on the other by five-and-seventy acres
of sloping moorland, extending to the village of Monval, alongside the
railway line. But the principal change was that, as the old hunting-box,
the little dilapidated pavilion, no longer offered sufficient
accommodation, a whole farmstead had to be erected--stone buildings, and
barns, and sheds, and stables, and cowhouses--for farm hands and crops
and animals, whose number increased at each enlargement of the estate.

It was the resistless conquest of life; it was fruitfulness spreading in
the sunlight; it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation
amid obstacles and suffering, ever making good all losses, and at each
succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the
veins of the world.

But during those two years, while Chantebled grew, while labor and worry
and victory alternated, Mathieu suddenly found himself mixed up in a
terribly tragedy. He was obliged to come to Paris at times--more often
indeed than he cared--now through his business relations with Seguin, now
to sell, now to buy, now to order one thing or another. He often
purchased implements and appliances at the Beauchene works, and had thus
kept up intercourse with Morange, who once more seemed a changed man.
Time had largely healed the wound left by his wife's death, particularly
as she seemed to live again in Reine, to whom he was more attached than
ever. Reine was no longer a child; she had become a woman. Still her
father hoped to keep her with him some years yet, while working with all
diligence, saving and saving every penny that he could spare, in order to
increase her dowry.

But the inevitable was on the march, for the girl had become the constant
companion of Seraphine. The latter, however depraved she might be, had
certainly in the first instance entertained no idea of corrupting the
child whom she patronized. She had at first taken her solely to such
places of amusement as were fit for her years and understanding. But
little by little the descent had come. Reine, too, as she grew into a
woman, amid the hours of idleness when she was left alone by her
father--who, perforce, had to spend his days at the Beauchene
works--developed an ardent temperament and a thirst for every frivolous
pleasure. And by degrees the once simply petted child became a
participator in Seraphine's own reckless and dissolute life.

When the end came, and Reine found herself in dire trouble because of a
high State functionary, a married man, a friend of Seraphine's--both
women quite lost their heads. Such a blow might kill Morange. Everything
must be hidden from him; but how? Thereupon Seraphine devised a plan. She
obtained permission for Reine to accompany her on a visit into the
country; but while the fond father imagined that his daughter was
enjoying herself among society folk at a chateau in the Loiret, she was
really hiding in Paris. It was indeed a repetition of her mother's tragic
story, with this difference--that Seraphine addressed herself to no
vulgar Madame Rouche, but to an assistant of her own surgeon, Gaude, a
certain Sarraille, who had a dingy den of a clinic in the Passage Tivoli.

It was a bright day in August, and Mathieu, who had come to Paris to make
some purchases at the Beauchene works, was lunching alone with Morange at
the latter's flat, when Seraphine arrived there breathless and in
consternation. Reine, she said, had been taken ill in the country, and
she had brought her back to Paris to her own flat. But it was not
thither; it was to Sarraille's den that she drove Morange and Mathieu.
And there the frightful scene which had been enacted at La Rouche's at
the time of Valerie's death was repeated. Reine, too, was dead--dead like
her mother! And Morange, in a first outburst of fury threatened both
Seraphine and Sarraille with the scaffold. For half an hour there was no
mastering him, but all at once he broke down. To lose his daughter as he
had lost his wife, it was too appalling; the blow was too great; he had
strength left only to weep. Sarraille, moreover, defended himself; he
swore that he had known nothing of the truth, that the deceased had
simply come to him for legitimate treatment, and that both she and the
Baroness had deceived him. Then Seraphine on her side took hold of
Morange's hands, protesting her devotion, her frightful grief, her fear,
too, lest the reputation of the poor dear girl should be dragged through
the mire, if he (the father) did not keep the terrible secret. She
accepted her share of responsibility and blame, admitted that she had
been very culpable, and spoke of eternal remorse. But might the terrible
truth be buried in the dead girl's grave, might there be none but pure
flowers strewn upon that grave, might she who lay therein be regretted by
all who had known her, as one snatched away in all innocence of youth and
beauty!

And Morange yielded to his weakness of heart, stifling the while with
sobs, and scarce repeating that word "Murderers!" which had sprung from
his lips so impulsively a little while before. He thought, too, of the
scandal, an autopsy, a court of law, the newspapers recounting the crime,
his daughter's memory covered with mire, and--No! no! he could have none
of that. Whatever Seraphine might be, she had spoken rightly.

Then his powerlessness to avenge his daughter completed his prostration.
It was as if he had been beaten almost to the point of death; every one
of his limbs was bruised, his head seemed empty, his heart cold and
scarce able to beat. And he sank into a sort of second childhood,
clasping his hands and stammering plaintively, terrified, and beseeching
compassion, like one whose sufferings are too hard to bear.

And when Mathieu sought to console him he muttered: "Oh, it is all over.
They have both gone, one after the other, and I alone am guilty. The
first time it was I who lied to Reine, telling her that her mother was
travelling; and then she in her turn lied to me the other day with that
story of an invitation to a chateau in the country. Ah! if eight years
ago I had only opposed my poor Valerie's madness, my poor Reine would
still be alive to-day. . . . Yes, it is all my fault; I alone killed them
by my weakness. I am their murderer."

Shivering, deathly cold, he went on amid his sobs: "And, wretched fool
that I have been, I have killed them through loving them too much. They
were so beautiful, and it was so excusable for them to be rich and gay
and happy. One after the other they took my heart from me, and I lived
only in them and by them and for them. When one had left me, the other
became my all in all, and for her, my daughter, I again indulged in the
dream of ambition which had originated with her mother. And yet I killed
them both, and my mad desire to rise and conquer fortune led me to that
twofold crime. Ah! when I think that even this morning I still dared to
esteem myself happy at having but that one child, that daughter to
cherish! What foolish blasphemy against love and life! She is dead now,
dead like her mother, and I am alone, with nobody to love and nobody to
love me--neither wife nor daughter, neither desire nor will, but
alone--ah! all alone, forever!"

It was the cry of supreme abandonment that he raised, while sinking to
the floor strengthless, with a great void within him; and all he could do
was to press Mathieu's hands and stammer: "Leave me--tell me nothing. You
alone were right. I refused the offers of life, and life has now taken
everything from me."

Mathieu, in tears himself, kissed him and lingered yet a few moments
longer in that tragic den, feeling more moved than he had ever felt
before. And when he went off he left the unhappy Morange in the charge of
Seraphine, who now treated him like a little ailing child whose
will-power was entirely gone.

And at Chantebled, as time went on, Mathieu and Marianne founded,
created, increased, and multiplied. During the two years which elapsed,
they again proved victorious in the eternal battle which life wages
against death, thanks to that continual increase both of offspring and of
fertile land which was like their very existence, their joy, and their
strength. Desire passed like a gust of flame--desire divine and fruitful,
since they possessed the power of love, kindliness, and health. And their
energy did the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the
presence of the labor that is necessary, the labor that has made and that
regulates the world. They were, however, still in the hard, trying,
earlier stage of their work of conquest, and they often wept with grief
and anxiety. Many were their cares, too, in transforming the old pavilion
into a farm. The outlay was considerable, and at times it seemed as if
the crops would never pay the building accounts. Moreover, as the
enterprise grew in magnitude, and there came more and more cattle, more
and more horses, a larger staff of both men and girls became necessary,
to say nothing of additional implements and appliances, and the increase
of supervision which left the Froments little rest. Mathieu controlled
the agricultural part of the enterprise, ever seeking improved methods
for drawing from the earth all the life that slumbered within it. And
Marianne watched over the farmyard, the dairy, the poultry, and showed
herself a first-class accountant, keeping the books, and receiving and
paying money. And thus, in spite of recurring worries, strokes of bad
luck and inevitable mistakes, fortune smiled on them athwart all worries
and losses, so brave and sensible did they prove in their incessant daily
struggle.

Apart, too, from the new buildings, the estate was increased by
five-and-seventy acres of woodland, and five-and-seventy acres of sandy
sloping soil. Mathieu's battle with those sandy slopes became yet keener,
more and more heroic as his field of action expanded; but he ended by
conquering, by fertilizing them yet more each season, thanks to the
fructifying springs which he directed through them upon every side. And
in the same way he cut broad roads through the new woods which he
purchased on the plateau, in order to increase the means of communication
and carry into effect his idea of using the clearings as pasture for his
cattle, pending the time when he might largely devote himself to
stock-raising. In this wise, then, the battle went on, and spread
incessantly in all directions; and the chances of decisive victory
likewise increased, compensation for possible loss on one side being
found on another where the harvest proved prodigious.

And, like the estate, the children also grew. Blaise and Denis, the
twins, now already fourteen years of age, reaped prize after prize at
school, putting their younger brother, Ambroise, slightly to shame, for
his quick and ingenious mind was often busy with other matters than his
lessons. Gervais, the girls Rose and Claire, as well as the last-born
boy, little Gregoire, were yet too young to be trusted alone in Paris,
and so they continued growing in the open air of the country, without any
great mishap befalling them. And at the end of those two years Marianne
gave birth to her eighth child, this time a girl, named Louise; and when
Mathieu saw her smiling with the dear little babe in her arms, he
embraced her passionately, and triumphed once again over every sorrow and
every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an
additional force born into the world, another field ready for to-morrow's
harvest.

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness
spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over
destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child
was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling, even amid suffering,
and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.

* * * * * *

Then two more years rolled on, and during those two years Mathieu and
Marianne had yet another child, another daughter, whom they called
Madeleine. And once again the estate of Chantebled was increased; this
time by all the marshland whose ponds and whose springs remained to be
drained and captured on the west of the plateau. The whole of this part
of the property was now acquired by the Froments--two hundred acres of
land where, hitherto, only water plants had grown, but which now was
given over to cultivation, and yielded abundant crops. And the new
springs, turned into canals on every side, again carried beneficent life
to the sandy slopes, and fertilized them. It was life's resistless
conquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was labor
ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and
suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting
more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world.

This time it was Seguin himself who asked Mathieu to purchase a fresh
part of the estate, pressing him even to take all that was left of it,
woods and moorland--extending over some five hundred acres. Nowadays
Seguin was often in need of money, and in order to do business he offered
Mathieu lower terms and all sorts of advantages; but the other prudently
declined the proposals, keeping steadfastly to his original intentions,
which were that he would proceed with his work of creation step by step,
in accordance with his exact means and requirements. Moreover, a certain
difficulty arose with regard to the purchase of the remaining moors, for
enclosed by this land, eastward, near the railway line, were a few acres
belonging to Lepailleur, the miller, who had never done anything with
them. And so Mathieu preferred to select what remained of the marshy
plateau, adding, however, that he would enter into negotiations
respecting the moorland later on, when the miller should have consented
to sell his enclosure. He knew that, ever since his property had been
increasing, Lepailleur had regarded him with the greatest jealousy and
hatred, and he did not think it advisable to apply to him personally,
certain as he felt that he would fail in his endeavor. Seguin, however,
pretended that if he took up the matter he would know how to bring the
miller to reason, and even secure the enclosure for next to nothing. And
indeed, thinking that he might yet induce Mathieu to purchase all the
remaining property, he determined to see Lepailleur and negotiate with
him before even signing the deed which was to convey to Mathieu the
selected marshland on the plateau.

But the outcome proved as Mathieu had foreseen. Lepailleur asked such a
monstrous price for his few acres enclosed within the estate that nothing
could be done. When he was approached on the subject by Seguin, he made
little secret of the rage he felt at Mathieu's triumph. He had told the
young man that he would never succeed in reaping an ear of wheat from
that uncultivated expanse, given over to brambles for centuries past; and
yet now it was covered with abundant crops! And this had increased the
miller's rancor against the soil; he hated it yet more than ever for its
harshness to him, a peasant's son, and its kindliness towards that
bourgeois, who seemed to have fallen from heaven expressly to
revolutionize the region. Thus, in answer to Seguin, he declared with a
sneer that since sorcerers had sprung up who were able to make wheat
sprout from stones, his patch of ground was now worth its weight in gold.
Several years previously, no doubt, he had offered Seguin the enclosure
for a trifle; but times had changed, and he now crowed loudly over the
other's folly in not entertaining his previous offer.

On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of his turning the
enclosure to account himself, for he was more disgusted than ever with
the tilling of the soil. His disposition had been further embittered by
the birth of a daughter, whom he would willingly have dispensed with,
anxious as he was with respect to his son Antonin, now a lad of twelve,
who proved so sharp and quick at school that he was regarded by the folks
of Janville as a little prodigy. Mathieu had mortally offended the father
and mother by suggesting that Antonin should be sent to an agricultural
college--a very sensible suggestion, but one which exasperated them,
determined as they were to make him a gentleman.

As Lepailleur would not part with his enclosure on any reasonable terms,
Seguin had to content himself for the time with selling Mathieu the
selected marshland on the plateau. A deed of conveyance having been
prepared, they exchanged signatures. And then, on Seguin's hands, there
still remained nearly two hundred and fifty acres of woods in the
direction of Lillebonne, together with the moorlands stretching to
Vieux-Bourg, in which Lepailleur's few acres were enclosed.

It was on the occasion of the visits which he paid Seguin in reference to
these matters that Mathieu became acquainted with the terrible break-up
of the other's home. The very rooms of the house in the Avenue d'Antin,
particularly the once sumptuous "cabinet," spoke of neglect and
abandonment. The desire to cut a figure in society, and to carry the
"fad" of the moment to extremes, ever possessed Seguin; and thus he had
for a while renounced his pretended artistic tastes for certain new forms
of sport--the motor-car craze, and so forth. But his only real passion
was horseflesh, and to this he at last returned. A racing stable which he
set up quickly helped on his ruin. Women and gaming had been responsible
for the loss of part of his large fortune, and now horses were devouring
the remainder. It was said, too, that he gambled at the bourse, in the
hope of recouping himself for his losses on the turf, and by way, too, of
affecting an air of power and influence, for he allowed it to be supposed
that he obtained information direct from members of the Government. And
as his losses increased and downfall threatened him, all that remained of
the _bel esprit_ and moralist, once so prone to discuss literature and
social philosophy with Santerre, was an embittered, impotent
individual--one who had proclaimed himself a pessimist for fashion's
sake, and was now caught in his own trap; having so spoilt his existence
that he was now but an artisan of corruption and death.

All was disaster in his home. Celeste the maid had long since been
dismissed, and the children were now in the charge of a certain German
governess called Nora, who virtually ruled the house. Her position with
respect to Seguin was evident to one and all; but then, what of Seguin's
wife and Santerre? The worst was, that this horrible life, which seemed
to be accepted on either side, was known to the children, or, at all
events, to the elder daughter Lucie, yet scarcely in her teens. There had
been terrible scenes with this child, who evinced a mystical disposition,
and was ever talking of becoming a nun when she grew up. Gaston, her
brother, resembled his father; he was brutal in his ways, narrow-minded,
supremely egotistical. Very different was the little girl Andree, whom La
Catiche had suckled. She had become a pretty child--so affectionate,
docile, and gay, that she scarcely complained even of her brother's
teasing, almost bullying ways. "What a pity," thought Mathieu, "that so
lovable a child should have to grow up amid such surroundings!"

And then his thoughts turned to his own home--to Chantebled. The debts
contracted at the outset of his enterprise had at last been paid, and he
alone was now the master there, resolved to have no other partners than
his wife and children. It was for each of his children that he conquered
a fresh expanse of land. That estate would remain their home, their
source of nourishment, the tie linking them together, even if they became
dispersed through the world in a variety of social positions. And thus
how decisive was that growth of the property, the acquisition of that
last lot of marshland which allowed the whole plateau to be cultivated!
There might now come yet another child, for there would be food for him;
wheat would grow to provide him with daily bread. And when the work was
finished, when the last springs were captured, and the land had been
drained and cleared, how prodigious was the scene at springtide!--with
the whole expanse, as far as eye could see, one mass of greenery, full of
the promise of harvest. Therein was compensation for every tear, every
worry and anxiety of the earlier days of labor.

Meantime Mathieu, amid his creative work, received Marianne's gay and
courageous assistance. And she was not merely a skilful helpmate, taking
a share in the general management, keeping the accounts, and watching
over the home. She remained both a loving and well-loved spouse, and a
mother who nursed, reared, and educated her little ones in order to give
them some of her own sense and heart. As Boutan remarked, it is not
enough for a woman to have a child; she should also possess healthy moral
gifts in order that she may bring it up in creditable fashion. Marianne,
for her part, made it her pride to obtain everything from her children by
dint of gentleness and grace. She was listened to, obeyed, and worshipped
by them, because she was so beautiful, so kind, and so greatly beloved.
Her task was scarcely easy, since she had eight children already; but in
all things she proceeded in a very orderly fashion, utilizing the elder
to watch over the younger ones, giving each a little share of loving
authority, and extricating herself from every embarrassment by setting
truth and justice above one and all. Blaise and Denis, the twins, who
were now sixteen, and Ambroise, who was nearly fourteen, did in a measure
escape her authority, being largely in their father's hands. But around
her she had the five others--from Rose, who was eleven, to Louise, who
was two years old; between them, at intervals of a couple of years,
coming Gervais, Claire, and Gregoire. And each time that one flew away,
as it were, feeling his wings strong enough for flight, there appeared
another to nestle beside her. And it was again a daughter, Madeleine, who
came at the expiration of those two years. And when Mathieu saw his wife
erect and smiling again, with the dear little girl at her breast, he
embraced her passionately and triumphed once again over every sorrow and
every pang. Yet another child, yet more wealth and power, yet an
additional force born into the world, another field ready for to-morrow's
harvest.

And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness
spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over
destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child
was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling even amid suffering, and
ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.

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