Part 14

And the family would go on from there, each saying his piece, while the lamp oil fouled the air of the room, already stinking of fried onion. No, surely, life was no laughing matter. They worked like real brutes at a task that had been the punishment of galley slaves in former times, they left their skins there more often than not, all that just to have no meat on the table even in the evening. No doubt they got their feed all the same, they ate, but so little, just enough to suffer without dying, crushed by debt, hounded as if they were stealing their bread. When Sunday came, they slept from exhaustion. The only pleasures were getting drunk or making a child on one's wife; still, the beer swelled your belly too much, and the child, later, didn't give a damn about you. No, no, it was nothing to laugh at.

Then la Maheude would put in her word.

—The annoying thing, you see, is when you tell yourself it can't change... When you're young, you imagine happiness will come, you hope for things; and then, misery always starts again, you stay locked up in it... Me, I wish nobody harm, but there are times when such injustice revolts me.

A silence fell, all of them sighing for an instant, in the vague discomfort of that closed horizon. Only old Bonnemort, if he was there, opened surprised eyes, for in his day they didn't worry themselves like that: you were born in the coal, you hammered at the seam, asking no more; whereas now, an air was passing that gave ambition to the colliers.

—Got to spit at nothing, he muttered. A good mug is a good mug... The bosses, they're often scum; but there'll always be bosses, right? no use cracking your head thinking about it.

Thereupon Étienne grew animated. What! reflection forbidden to the worker! Why, just so, things would soon change, because the worker was reflecting now. In the old man's time, the miner lived in the mine like a brute, like a machine for extracting coal, always underground, ears and eyes stopped to outside events. So the rich who govern had an easy game of agreeing, of selling and buying him, to eat his flesh: he didn't even suspect it. But now, the miner was waking down there, germinating in the earth like a true seed; and one would see one morning what he would sprout in the middle of the fields: yes, he would sprout men, an army of men who would re-establish justice. Weren't all citizens equal since the Revolution? since they voted together, was the worker to remain the slave of the master who paid him? The big Companies, with their machines, crushed everything, and one no longer even had against them the guarantees of old times, when men of the same trade, united in a body, knew how to defend themselves. It was for that, goddamn it! and for other things, that everything would blow up one day, thanks to education. You only had to see in the coron itself: the grandfathers couldn't have signed their names, the fathers already signed them, and as for the sons, they read and wrote like professors. Ah! it was growing, growing little by little, a harsh harvest of men, ripening in the sun! From the moment one was no longer glued each to his place for his whole existence, and one could have the ambition to take the neighbor's place, why then shouldn't one have used his fists, trying to be the strongest?

Maheu, shaken, remained full of distrust however.

—As soon as you stir, they hand you your book back, he said. The old man's right, it'll always be the miner who takes the pain, without the hope of a leg of lamb now and then, in reward.

Silent for a moment, la Maheude came out as from a dream.

—If only what the priests tell were true, if the poor folk of this world were the rich in the other!

A burst of laughter interrupted her, the children themselves shrugged their shoulders, all become incredulous in the wind from outside, keeping the secret fear of the ghosts of the pit, but making merry at the empty sky.

—Ah! like hell, the priests! cried Maheu. If they believed that, they'd eat less and work more, to reserve themselves a good place up there... No, when you're dead, you're dead.

La Maheude heaved great sighs.

—Ah! my God! ah! my God!

Then, hands fallen on her knees, with an air of immense dejection:

—So it's really true, we're done for, us.

All looked at one another. Old Bonnemort spat in his handkerchief, while Maheu, his pipe out, forgot it at his mouth. Alzire listened, between Lénore and Henri, asleep at the edge of the table. But Catherine especially, chin in hand, never left Étienne with her big clear eyes, when he cried out, telling his faith, opening the enchanted future of his social dream. Around them, the coron was going to bed, nothing was heard but the lost cries of a child or the quarrel of a lagging drunkard. In the room, the cuckoo clock beat slowly, a damp coolness rose from the sanded flagstones, despite the stuffiness of the air.

—There he goes with his ideas again! said the young man. Do you need a good God and his paradise to be happy? can't you make happiness for yourselves here on earth?

In an ardent voice, he talked endlessly. It was, suddenly, the closed horizon bursting, a gap of light opened in the dark life of these poor people. The eternal recommencement of misery, the brute's work, that beast's destiny which gives its wool and is slaughtered, all the unhappiness disappeared, as swept away by a great gust of sun; and, in a dazzlement of fairyland, justice descended from heaven. Since the good God was dead, justice was going to assure the happiness of men, by making equality and fraternity reign. A new society sprang up in a day, as in dreams, an immense city, of a splendor of mirage, where each citizen lived by his task and took his share of common joys. The old rotten world had fallen to dust, a young humanity, purged of its crimes, formed but a single people of workers, which had for motto: to each according to his merit, and to each merit according to his works. And, continually, this dream widened, grew beautiful, all the more seductive, as it rose higher into the impossible.

At first, la Maheude refused to listen, seized with a dull fright. No, no, it was too fine, one shouldn't embark on these ideas, for they made life abominable afterward, and then you'd have massacred everything, to be happy. When she saw Maheu's eyes shine, troubled, conquered, she worried, she cried, interrupting Étienne:

—Don't listen, man! You can see he's telling us tales... Will the bourgeois ever consent to work like us?

But, little by little, the charm acted on her too. She ended by smiling, the imagination awakened, entering this marvelous world of hope. It was so sweet to forget for an hour the sad reality! When you live like beasts, nose to the ground, you must have a corner of lying, where you amuse yourself feasting on things you'll never possess. And what passionate her, what brought her to agreement with the young man, was the idea of justice.

—That, you're right! she cried. Me, when a thing is just, I'd be hacked to pieces... And, true! it would be just, to enjoy in our turn.

Maheu, then, dared to flame up.

—Thunder of God! I'm not rich, but I'd gladly give a hundred sous not to die before seeing all that... What a shake-up! Huh? will it be soon, and how will you go about it?

Étienne began to talk again. The old society was cracking, it couldn't last beyond a few months, he flatly affirmed. On the means of execution, he showed himself more vague, mixing his readings, not fearing, before ignoramuses, to launch into explanations where he lost himself. All the systems passed by, softened by a certainty of easy triumph, of a universal kiss which would end the misunderstanding of classes; without taking account however of the bad heads, among the masters and bourgeois, whom one might perhaps be forced to bring to reason. And the Maheus seemed to understand, approved, accepted the miraculous solutions, with the blind faith of new believers, like those Christians of the first times of the Church, who awaited the coming of a perfect society, on the dung of the ancient world. Little Alzire caught words, imagined happiness under the image of a very warm house, where the children played and ate as much as they wanted. Catherine, without moving, chin still in hand, kept her eyes fixed on Étienne, and when he fell silent, she had a slight shiver, all pale, as taken with cold.

But la Maheude looked at the cuckoo.

—Past nine, is it allowed! Never will anyone get up tomorrow.

And the Maheus left the table, hearts ill at ease, in despair. It seemed to them they had just been rich, and that they fell back at a blow into their muck. Old Bonnemort, who left for the pit, grumbled that such stories didn't make the soup better; while the others went up in file, noticing the dampness of the walls and the pestiferous stuffiness of the air. Upstairs, in the heavy sleep of the coron, Étienne, when Catherine had gone to bed last and blown out the candle, heard her turn feverishly, before falling asleep.

Often, at these talks, neighbors pressed in, Levaque who exalted at the ideas of sharing, Pierron whom prudence made go to bed, as soon as they attacked the Company. Now and then, Zacharie came in for an instant; but politics bored him to death, he preferred to go down to the Avantage, to drink a mug. As for Chaval, he outdid them, wanted blood. Almost every evening, he spent an hour at the Maheus'; and, in this assiduity, there was an unavowed jealousy, the fear that someone would steal Catherine from him. This girl, whom he was already tiring of, had become dear to him, since a man slept near her and could take her, at night.

Étienne's influence widened, he was little by little revolutionizing the coron. It was a muffled propaganda, all the surer, as he grew in the esteem of all. La Maheude, despite her distrust as a prudent housekeeper, treated him with consideration, as a young man who paid her exactly, who neither drank nor gambled, nose always in a book; and she made him, among the neighbors, a reputation of a learned fellow, which they abused, asking him to write their letters. He was a sort of man of business, charged with correspondences, consulted by households on delicate cases. Also, as early as September, he had finally created his famous provident fund, still very precarious, counting only the inhabitants of the coron; but he hoped well to obtain the adherence of the colliers of all the pits, especially if the Company, stayed passive, didn't hinder him further. He had just been named secretary of the association, and he even drew small wages, for his writing. That made him almost rich. If a married miner can't make ends meet, a sober bachelor, having no charges, can realize savings.

Thenceforth, a slow transformation operated in Étienne. Instincts of coquetry and well-being, asleep in his poverty, revealed themselves, made him buy cloth clothes. He treated himself to a pair of fine boots, and thereupon he passed chief, all the coron grouped around him. These were delicious satisfactions of self-love, he got drunk on these first enjoyments of popularity: to be at the head of others, to command, he so young and who the day before was still a laborer, filled him with pride, enlarged his dream of a coming revolution, where he would play a role. His face changed, he became grave, he listened to himself talk; while his nascent ambition feverish his theories and pushed him to ideas of battle.

However, autumn advanced, the colds of October had rusted the little gardens of the coron. Behind the thin lilacs, the galibots no longer upset the herscheuses on the carin; and there remained only the winter vegetables, the cabbages pearled with white frost, the leeks and the keeping lettuces. Again, the showers beat the red tiles, ran into the barrels, under the gutters, with torrent noises. In each house, the stove didn't cool, loaded with coal, poisoning the closed room. It was again a season of great misery that began.

In October, in one of those first glacial nights, Étienne, feverish from having talked, below, couldn't fall asleep. He had watched Catherine slip under the cover, then blow out the candle. She seemed all shaken, she too, tormented by one of those shames which still made her sometimes hurry, so awkwardly, that she uncovered herself more. In the darkness, she stayed as dead; but he heard that she too didn't sleep; and, he felt it, she was thinking of him, as he was thinking of her: never had this mute exchange of their being filled them with such trouble. Minutes passed, neither he nor she moved, their breath only entangled, despite their effort to hold it. Twice, he was on the point of getting up and taking her. It was imbecile, to have such a big desire for each other, without ever satisfying it. Why then sulk against their wish? The children slept, she wanted it right away, he was certain that she waited for him stifling, that she would close her arms around him, mute, teeth clenched. Nearly an hour passed. He didn't go take her, she didn't turn, for fear of calling him. The more they lived side by side, the more a barrier rose, shames, repugnances, delicacies of friendship, which they couldn't have explained themselves.

IV

—Listen, said la Maheude to her man, since you're going to Montsou for the pay, bring me a pound of coffee and a kilo of sugar.

He was resewing one of his shoes, to spare the mending.

—Sure! he murmured, without letting go his work.

—I'd like to charge you to stop by the butcher's too... A piece of veal, huh? it's been so long since we've seen any.

This time, he lifted his head.

—You think I'm drawing thousands and hundreds then... The fortnight is too thin, with their damned idea of constantly stopping work.

Both were silent. It was after breakfast, a Saturday of late October. The Company, under pretext of the disturbance caused by the pay, had again, that day, suspended extraction, in all its pits. Seized with panic before the industrial crisis which worsened, not wanting to increase its already heavy stock, it profited by the slightest pretexts to force its ten thousand workers into unemployment.

—You know Étienne is waiting for you at Rasseneur's, resumed la Maheude. Take him along, he'll be smarter than you to sort things out, if they didn't count your hours.

Maheu nodded.

—And talk to those gentlemen about your father's affair. The doctor is in with the Management... Isn't that so, old man, that the doctor is wrong, that you can still work?

For ten days, old Bonnemort, his paws numbed as he said, stayed nailed to a chair. She had to repeat her question, and he grumbled:

—Sure I'll work. You're not finished because your legs hurt. All that, it's tales they invent to not give me the pension of a hundred eighty francs.

La Maheude was thinking of the old man's forty sous, which he might never bring her again, and she gave a cry of anguish.

—My God! we'll soon all be dead, if this continues.

—When you're dead, said Maheu, you're no longer hungry.

He added nails to his shoes and decided to leave. The coron of the Two-Hundred-Forty was only to be paid toward four o'clock. Also the men weren't hurrying, lingering, slipping off one by one, pursued by the women who begged them to come right back. Many gave them commissions, to keep them from forgetting themselves in the taverns.

At Rasseneur's, Étienne had come for news. Worrying rumors were circulating, they said the Company more and more dissatisfied with the timbering. It was overwhelming the workers with fines, a conflict seemed fatal. Besides, that was only the avowed quarrel, underneath there was a whole complication, secret and grave causes.

Just so, when Étienne arrived, a comrade who was drinking a mug, back from Montsou, was telling that a poster was glued at the cashier's; but he didn't know well what one read on that poster. A second came in, then a third; and each brought a different story. It seemed certain, however, that the Company had taken a resolution.

—What do you say to that, you? asked Étienne, sitting near Souvarine, at a table where, for sole consumption, was a packet of tobacco.

The engine-man didn't hurry, finished rolling a cigarette.

—I say it was easy to foresee. They're going to push you to the limit.

He alone had wit enough unravelled to analyze the situation. He explained it in his tranquil air. The Company, hit by the crisis, was well forced to reduce its costs, if it didn't want to succumb; and, naturally, it would be the workers who would have to tighten their belts, it would trim their wages, inventing some pretext. For two months, the coal stayed on the yard of its pits, almost all the factories idle. As it didn't dare idle too, frightened before the ruinous inactivity of the equipment, it dreamed a middle way, perhaps a strike, from which its people of miners would come out tamed and less paid. Finally, the new provident fund worried it, became a threat for the future, while a strike would rid it of it, emptying it, when it was still poorly furnished.

Rasseneur had sat near Étienne, and both listened with a consternated air. One could talk loud, there was no longer there but madame Rasseneur, seated at the counter.

—What an idea! murmured the tavern-keeper. Why all that? The Company has no interest in a strike, and the workers neither. Best is to come to terms.

It was very wise. He always showed himself for reasonable claims. Even, since the rapid popularity of his former lodger, he outdid this system of possible progress, saying one obtained nothing, when one wanted to have all at once. In his good-nature of a fat man, fed on beer, rose a secret jealousy, aggravated by the desertion of his shop, where the workers of the Voreux entered less to drink and listen to him; and he thus came at times to defend the Company, forgetting his grudge as a former miner discharged.

—So, you're against the strike? cried madame Rasseneur, without leaving the counter.

And, as he answered yes, energetically, she silenced him.

—Come now! you've no heart, let these gentlemen speak!

Étienne was thinking, eyes on the mug she had served him. Finally, he lifted his head.

—It's quite possible, all the comrade tells, and we'll have to resolve to this strike, if they force us to it... Pluchart, just so, wrote me on this things very just. He too is against the strike, for the worker suffers as much as the master, without arriving at anything decisive. Only, he sees there an excellent occasion to determine our men to enter his great machine... Besides, here's his letter.

Indeed, Pluchart, desolated by the suspicions the International met among the miners of Montsou, hoped to see them adhere en masse, if a conflict forced them to struggle against the Company. Despite his efforts, Étienne hadn't been able to place a single member card, giving moreover the best of his influence to his relief fund, much better received. But this fund was still so poor, that it must soon be exhausted, as Souvarine said; and, fatally, the strikers would then throw themselves into the Workers' Association, so that their brothers of all countries might come to their aid.

—How much have you in the fund? asked Rasseneur.

—Barely three thousand francs, answered Étienne. And you know the Management had me called day before yesterday. Oh! they're very polite, they repeated they don't prevent their workers from creating a reserve fund. But I well understood they want control of it... In any case, we'll have a battle on that side.

The tavern-keeper had begun to walk, whistling with a disdainful air. Three thousand francs! what do you want to do with that? There wouldn't be six days of bread, and if you counted on strangers, people who lived in England, you could right away lie down and swallow your tongue. No, it was too stupid, this strike!

Then, for the first time, bitter words were exchanged between these two men, who, usually, ended by agreeing, in their common hatred of capital.

—Come now, and you, what do you say to it? repeated Étienne, turning toward Souvarine.

That one answered with his habitual word of contempt.

—Strikes? stupidities!

Then, in the midst of the annoyed silence that had fallen, he added softly:

—In sum, I don't say no, if it amuses you: it ruins some, it kills others, and it's always so much cleared away... Only, at that rate, you'd take a good thousand years to renew the world. Begin by making me blow up that jail where you're all rotting!

With his fine hand, he pointed to the Voreux, whose buildings were visible through the door left open. But an unforeseen drama interrupted him: Pologne, the big familiar rabbit, who had ventured outside, came back in a bound, fleeing under the stones of a band of galibots; and, in her fright, ears flattened, tail curled, she came to take refuge against his legs, imploring him, scratching him, for him to take her. When he had laid her on his knees, he sheltered her with both hands, he fell into that sort of dreamy doze, where the caress of that soft and warm fur plunged him.

Almost at once, Maheu entered. He wouldn't drink anything, despite the polite insistence of madame Rasseneur, who sold her beer as if she offered it. Étienne had risen, and both left for Montsou.

On pay days at the Company Yards, Montsou seemed in fete, as on the fine Sundays of the patron saint. From all the corons arrived a crush of miners. The cashier's office being very small, they preferred to wait at the door, they stood in groups on the pavement, barred the road with a tail of people renewed without cease. Peddlers profited by the occasion, installed with their rolling bazaars, spread even crockery and charcuterie. But it was especially the taverns and shops which made a good take, for the miners, before being paid, went take patience before the counters, then returned to water their pay, as soon as they had it in pocket. Still they showed very wise, when they didn't finish it at the Volcano.

As Maheu and Étienne advanced amid the groups, they felt, that day, rise a muffled exasperation. It wasn't the ordinary unconcern of money touched and chipped in the cabarets. Fists clenched, violent words ran from mouth to mouth.

—It's true, then? asked Maheu of Chaval, whom he met in front of the Piquette tavern, they did the dirty deed?

But Chaval contented himself with answering by a furious grumble, throwing an oblique glance at Étienne. Since the renewal of the bargaining, he had hired on with others, little by little bitten by envy against the comrade, this last arrival who posed as master, and whose whole coron, he said, licked the boots. This complicated with a lovers' quarrel, he no longer took Catherine to Réquillart or behind the terri, without accusing her, in abominable terms, of sleeping with his mother's lodger; then, he killed her with caresses, taken again for her with a savage desire.

Maheu addressed him another question.

—Is the Voreux going through?

“Stories of the world, in your language.”