Fruits of the Earth

by Frederick Philip Grove

  Next Abe spoke to the Topp brothers who nodded to all he said. Henry assured him almost too readily that he was opposed to the scheme. “I’m not going to pay a cent for all this tomfoolery. I’m a bachelor and intend to remain one, no matter what Wheeldon says.”

  Stanley and Nicoll were the two who, in the immediate present, had most to gain from the scheme; they had children, the majority girls, of high-school age. Abe modified his arguments. Granting that consolidation was desirable, was it wise to enter upon it now? “You may think hard times are over. I tell you hard times are only beginning. The war has to be paid for. Prices will rise not fall, except for the products of the farm. It would have been wiser to build during the war.”

  “Even so,” Nicoll replied, “it was a matter of duty not to take people away from essential industries. How long should we wait?”

  “Hard to tell. Four, five years.”

  Nicoll and Stanley laughed. “Till it’s too late to do us any good.”…

  John Elliot listened, but while doing so he kept shifting his sombrero; he was standing sideways, hand on hip, looking up askance at Abe’s face as at the stars. He exaggerated most of his motions.

  “Tell you frankly,” he said when Abe had finished, “I consider my own advantage only. I want my kids to attend high school and college. I’ve never gone to school much myself though I had the chance. I’ve come to see that I’m under a disadvantage.”

  “Let them consolidate without us. We can come in any time.”

  “Naw,” Elliot replied. “Can’t tell what we’ll do later. If my vote counts for anything, I’m going to make sure that we’re in it.”…

  Abe did not give up. Having exhausted his economic arguments, he began to hint at those underlying his opposition.

  One day late in February Nicoll met Abe at the corner. “I’m sorry, Abe,” he said, “but you’re backing the wrong horse. Consolidation is bound to carry. You are going to lose prestige by your defeat.”

  “I don’t care,” Abe replied with such a power of emphasis as almost to shake Nicoll’s convictions. “I am right; you are wrong. I can’t explain my real objections; but that makes them no less valid. I’ve been right before. If we hadn’t had Blaine, there wouldn’t be a child ready for high school now; we’d have had change after change; the kids would have stuck in grade five.”

  “I know, Abe, I know. This is different.”

  “In what way? You think one thing; I think another. If this district goes in, every settler will be sorry one day. That’s why I fight the thing.”

  Nicoll hesitated. “They attribute personal motives to you.”

  “What personal motives could there be?”

  “They say you want the distinction of being the only one who can send his children to high school.”

  “Nicoll! If consolidation carries, my children will attend the local school. If I had my will, they’d be kept at home. But I leave that sort of thing to my wife.”…

  Early in March Schweigel came to Abe’s yard.

  “Oh, Mis-ter Spalding,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands in front of his face, “what a place!” And he looked at house, barns, and wind-breaks. “The abode of kings!” He alighted from his wagon, grotesque in his long horse-hide coat which flapped about him like a tent. His face, hairless except for a furry little beard below the chin, beamed like the moon. “This is farming indeed!” And his voice trailed off in a treble of admiration.

  Abe stood towering at a distance. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Oh, mister, if you would! A little hay. Just a little. My poor horses have nothing to eat. I’ll pay. I have brought my goods. A piece of print for your lady. Curtains for the house. Needles and thread. Whatever you wish. A pair of rubbers for yourself.”

  “Never mind,” said Abe. “You needn’t pay for a bit of feed.”

  “Mister!” the Jew exclaimed; and it was hard to say whether he implored Abe to accept a trifle or adored him for refusing to do so.

  “Help yourself!” Abe said with a sweep of his arm towards the haystack in the yard; and he made as if to turn away.

  “You are like a king who commands,” the Jew cried rapturously; “and the rabble runs. You shall have my vote.”

  Abe frowned. “As for your vote, you will do as you think best, I am not asking for support.”

  “You don’t need to ask, mister. Your wishes are known.”

  “My wishes,” Abe said sharply, “have nothing to do with it. When I argue, I do so to give facts which the people may not know.”

  “Who would dare to go against you, mister?”

  “Help yourself,” Abe repeated and strode away.

  When the Jew left the yard, his lame little horse could hardly draw the load, though the man lent all the help he could by pushing from behind….

  During the next two weeks five of the seven districts concerned held their meetings to decide the question. Even into this matter of assigning the dates calculation entered. Next to Morley, Britannia District was most enthusiastically in favour of the measure; and therefore it was the first to hold its meeting; the vote was unanimous. Morley held back. The promoters of the scheme knew that any movement gathers momentum by its own progress. The final stage of the campaign must be opened by a favourable vote; but had it been the vote of Morley itself, the example might have worked the wrong way. Followed three districts south of the Line. In all three the measure was carried. Then came Morley; and Spalding was next. Five districts, therefore, were pledged; a sixth one was sure to follow: Bays. Spalding was the only really doubtful one; and that only on account of Abe’s influence. Whenever probabilities were weighed, the result seemed uncertain. But Wheeldon was confident. “Wait and see!” he said.

  The night of the meeting came.

  From half-past seven on the ratepayers and their women began to assemble at the school where a gasoline lamp was suspended from a hook in the ceiling: that lamp had once lighted Abe’s old house.

  Shortly before eight came a mild surprise. McCrae appeared accompanied by a young lady who presumably was his wife. He was little known in the district, and people looked curiously at the pair. The lady was young, pretty, bashful; smilingly she looked about from under a lowered brow. McCrae had just moved out; as a returned man he had received clear title to his land, in addition to financial help for the purchase of equipment. They sat next to the Schweigels who had so far drawn the lion’s share of attention. Mrs. Schweigel was more than pretty; she was a beauty; and she was surprisingly well dressed.

  Apart from these two all the women were middle-aged or elderly; in their apparel, fashion was strikingly disregarded. The Ukrainian women were sitting together, separated from their men who lined the wall opposite the windows. One of these women looked jaundiced, in contrast to Shilloe, her husband, who was handsome in his Slavic way.

  Then the two Elliots entered; and Mrs. Elliot was scanned with curiosity; she was delicate and carried herself in a haughty way. Her presence put a stop to the last whisper of conversation. A dead silence fell, broken only by a cough here and there.

  Nicoll was sitting gravely alongside the teacher’s desk.

  Then, following each other in rapid succession, the protagonists of the occasion arrived. First Wheeldon, small, erect, filled with the sense of his own importance, accompanied by his wife, still smaller; in spite of the enormously high hat by which she sought to correct this deficiency of nature. Then Abe, huge, towering, reaching up, as he passed along the aisle, into the shadows above the cone of light shed by the lamp. Ruth waddled to the first seat from the door.

  Abe went straight to the front where he nodded to Nicoll and, bending down, asked him a question. As he straightened, his glance swept over the assembly. Not a ratepayer was missing. To his surprise he saw Nicoll’s two eldest daughters. Had they the vote?

  The meeting was opened by the usual formula; Abe asked Nicoll to read the minutes of the last public meeting. While this was done, he sat down, his face expressive of
the utmost indifference. Yet, as his eye alighted on Wheeldon, his lips straightened. The point at issue was not so much consolidation as the question who should, in future, determine the policy of the district. The discussion to follow was mere pretence; the vote would go as Abe or his opponent was favoured.

  Nicoll finished. Abe called for a motion to adopt or amend the minutes. Mover and seconder rose so promptly that Abe felt at once he was merely taking part in a prearranged play. Yet, the formalities having been gone through, he rose and stated the purpose of the meeting, known to all. “The question is open for discussion.”

  There was a minute’s profound silence. A tension spread through the room, as though people knew what was to follow. All eyes were on Abe; through them the tension flowed into him.

  Then the chief surprise was sprung. Wheeldon rose and, from a paper in his hand, read a motion to decide the question at issue by a poll. Elliot promptly rose and seconded the motion.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Abe said, “it has been moved and seconded that the question be decided by poll. We are assembled here to discuss that question. I have no objection to a poll, but–”

  Wheeldon had risen and stood waiting. Abe looked at him without completing his sentence.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Wheeldon said pugnaciously, “there is a motion before the meeting. It is customary to put such a motion to the vote.”

  Abe frowned. Was the intention to muzzle him? “Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the motion. All in favour–Against–”

  But the show of hands left a doubt. “The secretary will count hands.”

  Nicoll rose and went through the aisles. There were nine votes against the motion. “In favour–” Eleven in favour. Which meant that eleven had withheld their votes.

  “Carried,” Abe said. “There will be a poll. I repeat, it seems to me we came here to discuss the question at issue–”

  Again Wheeldon was on his feet. “I move we adjourn.”

  Henry Topp seconded this motion; and it was carried.

  Abe rose. “Just a moment.” He bent down to Nicoll. As he straightened, nobody could have told that the course the meeting had taken affected him in the least. “The poll will, according to law, be held in this school, on April the second, one week from to-day, between the hours of nine in the morning and five in the afternoon. Mr. Nicoll will act as returning officer; Mr. Blaine as clerk. The meeting is adjourned.” And, without stopping to speak to any one, he went out, backed his cutter away from the fence, behind the long rows of vehicles slanting into the ditch. There he sat, waiting for Ruth who was speaking to one or two of the women. Their roles had been exchanged.

  THE POLL

  During the week, Abe left his farm only twice, on Friday and Sunday, to fetch Marion and Jim from Somerville and to take them back. Apart from that, he prepared for the spring work.

  Most people felt that the meeting had been used to settle the old score of envy. Spalding had gained by what appeared to be a defeat. To the new settlers, the old score meant nothing. Abe was a picturesque figure personifying such as was possible in the west.

  Abe was ready to sink his personal wish in the general will. So far, democracy was a reality to him. Nor was he going to weaken what he felt to have been a moral victory; he would look on in silence. He was now convinced that his side would carry the day; Wheeldon had miscalculated. He had always claimed that Abe carried things with a high hand; if it was true, which Abe would not have admitted, Wheeldon had shown himself an apt pupil: what could have been more high-handed than the way in which he had imposed his will on the meeting? What drove Wheeldon to this revenge? That he had been unsuccessful in his attempt to bribe him; and that he was so small of stature!

  If Abe did nothing, Wheeldon did a great deal. From his gate Abe saw the old car on the road to town, travelling at a furious rate, dangerous while there was snow on the ground; or it was standing in front of one of the farmsteads, outlined against the windy, white sky.

  The poll opened on Tuesday at nine o’clock. Nicoll was at the desk, ballot-box and all the paraphernalia of a formal election before him. Beside him sat Blaine, his bearded head trembling over his papers. Not a person appeared before one in the afternoon; then, as is usual in rural elections, the whole vote was polled in an hour.

  Wheeldon was the first to enter. He presented a certificate signed by the secretary of the municipality stating that he was entitled to be present in the polling room and to scrutinize such electors as might appear. A similar certificate, he said, had been mailed to Mr. Spalding.

  Nicoll was puzzled. Every person entitled to vote was known to him. There could be no reason for challenging votes. His own honesty, he thought, was unquestioned. Such things were done in provincial or federal, perhaps even municipal elections where unknown people might appear. But in a school vote? However, it was perfectly legal; all rules applying to municipal elections also applied to a poll taken in a school district. If the machinery of the law was to be set in motion to no purpose, he, Nicoll, could not object.

  To no purpose? A purpose there was. Nicoll felt vaguely disturbed.

  Outside, there was a confused noise of voices. The electors were gathering in the school yard. It was a mild day; the road to town was soft though snow still remained in the ditches. For another ten minutes nobody entered. Wheeldon was sitting in one of the school seats.

  Then Stanley opened the door. Nicoll looked up and saw that at least a majority of the ratepayers and their wives were assembled. They were improving the occasion by turning it into a social affair. Perhaps only Abe was not yet present; him Nicoll would have seen on his way, through the window. He handed Stanley a ballot paper and pointed to the cloakroom in which he was to mark it.

  Nicoll’s musing proceeded. Abe had never fraternized; neither had he ever canvassed before. “Elect me or not; you know your interests.” This time, however, Abe had condescended to argue.

  Nicoll did not understand why Abe opposed the new order. There was that irrationality of all human decisions which arise from our nature and which, ex post facto, we prop and strengthen by arguments and reasons from which they do not spring. Even material interests count for little where something deeper is at stake. Abe was maintaining two children in town; yet he opposed a scheme designed to throw a not inconsiderable fraction of the expense on the public purse. Nicoll had known Abe too long to believe that he took his stand for selfish reasons. No matter what Wheeldon and others said, he had never decided a question involving others on the basis of private considerations.

  As the voting proceeded, Nicoll looked from time to time at Wheeldon. Did Wheeldon act from purely interested motives? Not one of his children was of high-school age. But Wheeldon, though naturalized in Canada, remained at heart a citizen of the United States, and considering the ways of the country of his birth the best in the world, felt it incumbent upon him to keep alive the tradition or fiction that the Yankee is more progressive than any one else on earth. Change seemed progress to him. Wheeldon opposed Abe on principle. To outsiders, Abe looked like an imperturbable mass in repose; he had begun to move slowly and deliberately; when he spoke and acted, it seemed as though words and actions were based on things deeper than the impulses which caused others to speak or act. This gave him that appearance of an assumed superiority antagonizing those who themselves laid claim to a measure of superiority over others. Abe had a way of looking at Wheeldon as if he were lowering down on one whom it was scarcely worth his while to annihilate; though Nicoll knew that such was largely unintentional.

  Wheeldon’s presence in the polling room had a purpose; and it was directed against Abe. Though Abe and Nicoll were, for the first time, irreconcilably aligned on opposite sides, Nicoll trembled at the thought that Abe might go down to defeat.

  The voting proceeded briskly. Whenever one elector left the building another entered. All smiled or frowned at Wheeldon’s presence.

  Blaine, his glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose, his leonine he
ad quivering over the poll book, searched for the name of the voter and, with a trembling hand, checked it off. During these intervals, such a drowsy silence fell over the room that it was almost possible to understand what was being said outside.

  By two o’clock, four-fifths of the votes were polled. Nobody had left the school yard; everybody seemed to be waiting for a climax to come. Outside the yard, half a score of sleighs and cutters stood aligned; the horses, with blankets under the harness or robes thrown over it, stood motionless in the snow, their heads hanging low.

  Nicoll sat, looking out through the windows. Across the corner lay his own yard, surrounded by a wind-break of poplars, bare of leaves. Black boughs and twigs traced an irregular lattice-work against the ever whitish sky. Here and there a branch was strung with swollen, bulbous knots. Fifteen years ago Abe had warned him against cottonwoods, the popular tree for planting on the prairie. “Quick to grow; but they don’t last.” He had been right, of course. Down to the nature of the wind-breaks, the district bore the imprint of Abe’s mind.

  Yet, Nicoll and Abe were aligned on opposite sides!

  Suddenly the room was stirred by the touch of drama. Looking out through the windows, Nicoll felt his muscles tightening. Blaine raised his trembling head. Wheeldon twisted himself around in his seat.

  At the corner, Abe was swinging up on the culvert, its timbers resounding under the hoofs of his horses. In his long, low cutter he was sitting by the side of his wife. He was driving briskly, touching his black hackneys with the whip as they slowed on the culvert which was bare of snow. He sat motionless, impressive, in an old raccoon coat and a wedge-shaped cap of muskrat. Both were bare of fur in places; but on Abe they looked like royal attire. His smooth-shaven face, deeply lined, stern and inexorable, was like a red, weathered mask.