Germinal

by Emile Zola

  Since their arrival in Montsou the Hennebeaus had relapsed into the state of irritable boredom that had characterized the earlier days of their marriage. At first Mme Hennebeau seemed to derive comfort from the immense tranquillity of the place, finding peace in the featureless monotony of its vast plain; and she buried herself away, as one whose life is over, affecting to be dead to all affection, and so detached from the world that she no longer cared about putting on weight. Then, amid this listless indifference, one last bout of fever declared itself, an urge to go on living, which she assuaged by spending six months rearranging and refurbishing the manager’s small residence to suit her taste. She said it was hideous and filled it with tapestries and ornaments and all manner of expensive art, news of which spread as far as Lille. Now the whole region exasperated her, with its stupid fields stretching away as far as the eye could see, and the interminable black roads with never a tree, and this crawling mass of ghastly people who disgusted and alarmed her. And so began the laments of exile, as she accused her husband of having sacrificed her happiness for a salary of forty thousand francs, a pittance on which it was barely possible to run a household. Ought he not to have done as others did, demand a partnership, or acquire shares in the company, anything, but at least make something of himself? She warmed to her theme with the cruelty of the heiress who has brought her own fortune to the marriage. He always remained civil, hiding his feelings behind the mask of the cool administrator while all the time eaten up with desire for this creature – and a desire of that violent kind which develops later in life and continues to grow with the years. He had never possessed her as a lover, and he was continually haunted by the thought of having her for himself, just once, the way another man would have had her. Each morning he would dream that by evening he would have won her; but then, when she looked at him with her cold eyes and he could feel how her whole body rejected him, he would avoid even the merest touch of her hand. His was a sickness without cure, disguised by his stiff manner, the sickness of a tender nature in secret agony at failing to find happiness in marriage. After six months, when the refurbishment was complete and no longer required her attention, Mme Hennebeau reverted to a state of languorous boredom, the self-proclaimed victim of an exile that would kill her but of which she would be glad to die.

  At this precise moment Paul Négrel turned up in Montsou. His mother, the widow of a Provençal captain, lived on a meagre income in Avignon and had gone without in order to get him into the École Polytechnique.4 He had graduated with a low rank, and M. Hennebeau, his uncle, had recently told him to resign and offered him a job as engineer at Le Voreux. Since then he had been treated as one of the family; he had his own room, and he ate and lived there, which enabled him to send his mother half his salary of three thousand francs. In order to disguise this largesse, M. Hennebeau talked about how difficult life was for a young man who had to set up house in one of the little wooden houses reserved for the mine’s engineers. Mme Hennebeau had immediately adopted the role of kindly aunt, calling him by his first name and making sure he had everything he wanted. During the first few months especially she was full of motherly advice about the merest trifle. But she was still a woman, and she began to share more intimate confidences with him. She found the boy amusing, so youthful and pragmatic, with an intelligence unfettered by scruple and a penchant for professing philosophical theories about love; and she liked the urgency of his pessimism, which seemed to make his thin face and pointed nose look more angular still. One evening, naturally, he ended up in her arms; and she seemed to yield out of kindness, telling him that she was dead to love and simply wanted to be his friend. And indeed she was not possessive: she teased him about the putters he claimed to find repellent, and almost sulked when he had no young man’s escapades to tell her about. Then she became obsessed with the idea of seeing him married, and dreamed of being the trusty go-between who would herself unite him with some wealthy girl. They continued to have relations, by way of amusing recreation, and she lavished on these the residual affectionateness of an idle and superannuated woman.

  Two years had elapsed. One night M. Hennebeau heard someone brush past his door, evidently barefoot, and he began to have suspicions. But the thought of this new romance disgusted him: here, in his own home, when they were virtually mother and son! However, the very next day his wife told him that she had chosen Cécile Grégoire as a suitable match for their nephew, and she had since been devoting herself to the prospect of this marriage with such zeal that he blushed to have imagined such a monstrous thing. Now he was simply grateful to the young man that since his arrival the house had become less gloomy.

  On coming down from his wife’s dressing-room, M. Hennebeau met Paul, who had just returned. He seemed to find the whole business of a strike hugely entertaining.

  ‘Well?’ his uncle inquired.

  ‘Well, I’ve been round the villages, and they all seem to be on their best behaviour…Only I think they’re sending a deputation to see you.’

  But at that moment Mme Hennebeau could be heard calling from the landing.

  ‘Is that you, Paul?…Come up and tell me the news! What silly people they are, being naughty like this when they’re all perfectly happy really!’

  Since his wife had now stolen his messenger, the manager was obliged to abandon hope of obtaining further information. He returned to his study and sat down at a desk piled high with a fresh batch of telegrams.

  When the Grégoires arrived at eleven, they were astonished to find the Hennebeaus’ servant, Hippolyte, mounting guard and glancing anxiously up and down the road before he bundled them inside. The drawing-room curtains were drawn and they were ushered directly into the study, where M. Hennebeau apologized for receiving them like this; but the drawing-room gave on to the road, and there was no point in appearing to provoke people.

  ‘What? Haven’t you heard?’ he continued, on seeing their surprise.

  When M. Grégoire learned that the strike had finally begun, he gave a placid shrug. Pah! It wouldn’t come to much, those miners were decent people. Mme Grégoire nodded approvingly at her husband’s confidence in the colliers’ traditional quiescence; while Cécile, who was in high spirits that day and looking a picture of health in her nasturtium-coloured dress, smiled at the mention of a strike, which brought back memories of visiting the villages and distributing alms.

  But then Mme Hennebeau appeared in the doorway, dressed entirely in black silk, and followed by Négrel.

  ‘It really is very tiresome, isn’t it?’ she said loudly. ‘I mean, they could at least have waited!…And now Paul is refusing to take us to see Saint-Thomas.’

  ‘Then we shall stay here,’ M. Grégoire said obligingly. ‘I’m sure everything will be just as delightful.’

  Paul had merely bowed to Cécile and her mother. Put out by his lack of enthusiasm, his aunt at once dispatched him to the girl’s side with a look; and when subsequently she heard them laughing together, she wrapped them in a maternal gaze.

  Meanwhile M. Hennebeau finished reading his telegrams and drafted some replies. The conversation continued around him as his wife explained how she had not concerned herself with redecorating the study: it retained the same faded red wallpaper as before, as well as its heavy mahogany furniture and its cardboard filing-boxes that were scuffed with use. Three quarters of an hour went by, and they were just about to sit down to lunch when Hippolyte announced M. Deneulin, who came in looking very agitated and bowed to Mme Hennebeau.

  ‘Oh goodness, it’s you,’ he said, catching sight of the Grégoires.

  And he turned animatedly towards M. Hennebeau:

  ‘So it’s begun, then? My engineer’s just told me…My men all went down as normal this morning. But the strike may spread…I’m worried…How are things with you?’

  He had just ridden over, and his anxiety was evident in his loud voice and brusque gestures, which gave him the air of a retired cavalry officer.

  M. Hennebeau was in the mid
dle of bringing him up to date when Hippolyte opened the dining-room door. So he broke off and said:

  ‘Why not have lunch with us? Then I can tell you the rest over dessert.’

  ‘Yes, if you like,’ Deneulin replied, so preoccupied that he forgot his manners.

  He realized his discourtesy, however, and turned to apologize to Mme Hennebeau. She, of course, was charming. Once she had ordered a seventh place to be laid, she seated her guests: Mme Grégoire and Cécile on either side of her husband, then M. Grégoire and Deneulin beside herself, which left Paul to sit between Cécile and her father. As they began the hors-d’œuvre, she resumed conversation with a smile:

  ‘Do forgive me, I had wanted to serve you oysters…On Mondays, as you know, Marchiennes has a delivery of Ostends, and I had intended to send cook in the carriage…But she was worried that people might throw stones at her – ’

  Everyone burst out laughing. They found this idea most amusing.

  ‘Shh!’ said M. Hennebeau rather crossly, looking towards the windows from where they could see out on to the road. ‘The whole world doesn’t need to know we’re having guests today.’

  ‘Well, here’s one slice of sausage they’re not going to get their hands on!’ declared M. Grégoire.

  They started laughing again, but more discreetly. The guests began to feel at ease in the room, with its Flemish tapestries and old oak cabinets. Silverware gleamed from glass-fronted sideboards, while above them hung a large brass chandelier with rounded sides that reflected the greenery of a palm tree and an aspidistra, which were growing in majolica pots. Outside it was a bitterly cold December day, with a keen north-east wind blowing. But not a draught was to be felt indoors; it was as warm as a greenhouse, and this brought out the delicate scent of the cut pineapple that was sitting in a crystal bowl.

  ‘Should we not close the curtains?’ suggested Négrel, who was enjoying the idea of terrifying the Grégoires.

  Mme Hennebeau’s maid, who was helping Hippolyte, took this as an order and went to draw one of the curtains. This was the cue for endless jokes as everyone affected extravagant care in setting down their glass or fork, and they all greeted each course as though it had been rescued from looters in a newly conquered city. But beneath the forced merriment lay an unspoken fear, evident from all the involuntary glances towards the road, as if a band of starving ne’er-do-wells were out there spying on their table.

  After the scrambled egg with truffles came the river trout. The conversation had now switched to the industrial crisis, which had been worsening for the past eighteen months.

  ‘It was inevitable,’ Deneulin said. ‘There’s been too much prosperity recently, so it was bound to come…Just think of the enormous capital sums that have been tied up in the railways and the docks and the canals, and all the money that’s been sunk into the most speculative schemes. Even round here they’ve built so many sugar-refineries you’d think the region was producing three beet harvests a year…And now money’s scarce, of course, and people have got to wait for a return on all the millions they’ve spent. Which is why there is this fatal gridlock in the system and why businesses are just not growing.’

  M. Hennebeau disputed this interpretation of events, but he did concede that the good years had spoiled the workers.

  ‘When I think,’ he cried, ‘that these fellows used to be able to make as much as six francs a day in our pits, double what they’re getting now. And they lived well on it, too, and started developing expensive tastes…Well, of course, today they find it hard to go back to their frugal ways.’

  ‘Please, Monsieur Grégoire,’ Mme Hennebeau cut in, ‘won’t you have a little more trout…Such a lovely, delicate flavour, don’t you think?’

  The manager continued:

  ‘But it’s not really our fault, is it? We’ve been just as badly hit as they have…Ever since factories started closing down one after another, we’ve had the devil of a time disposing of our stock. And with demand falling we’ve just had to cut our production costs…That’s what the workers refuse to understand.’

  There was silence. Hippolyte was serving roast partridge, while the maid began to pour some red burgundy for the guests.

  ‘There’s been a famine in India,’ Deneulin went on in a low voice, as though he were talking to himself. ‘America has stopped ordering iron and cast-iron from us, which has been a major setback for our blast-furnaces. Everything’s connected, one distant tremor can eventually shake the whole world…And to think how proud the Empire was of the white heat of its industry!’

  He attacked the wing of his partridge. Then, speaking more loudly:

  ‘The worst of it is that if you want to reduce your production costs, then logically you should try and increase the amount you produce. Otherwise the reduction has to come from wage costs, and then the worker’s quite right to say that he’s the one who ends up paying the piper.’

  This unexpectedly frank admission started an argument. The ladies were not amused. But everyone’s principal concern was the plate in front of them, which they addressed with an appetite as yet unblunted. When Hippolyte returned, he seemed to have something to say but hesitated:

  ‘What is it?’ asked M. Hennebeau. ‘If it’s more messages, leave them with me…I’m expecting some replies.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s Monsieur Dansaert, he’s waiting in the hall…But he doesn’t want to disturb you, sir.’

  M. Hennebeau apologized to the company and had the overman shown in. The latter came and stood a few feet away from the table, as everyone turned to look at this large man who was breathless with the news he brought. Things were still quiet in the villages, but there was no question now, they were sending a deputation. It might even arrive in the next few minutes.

  ‘That will be all, thank you,’ said M. Hennebeau. ‘And I want a report twice a day. Understood?’

  And as soon as Dansaert had gone, the joking began again, and they fell upon the Russian salad declaring that they had not a moment to lose if they hoped to finish it. But the hilarity reached fever pitch when the maid, having been asked by Négrel for some bread, said ‘yes, sir’ in such a low, terrified voice that there could have been a whole gang of men behind her bent on rape and pillage.

  ‘You may speak up,’ said Mme Hennebeau obligingly. ‘They’re not here yet.’

  M. Hennebeau was brought a pile of letters and telegrams and wanted to read one of the letters out. It was from Pierron, who wrote respectfully to inform him that he found himself under the obligation to come out on strike with his comrades, for fear he might be roughly treated; and he added that he had been similarly forced to be part of the deputation, much as he deplored this particular initiative.

  ‘So much for workers’ freedom!’ cried M. Hennebeau.

  So everyone started talking about the strike again, and they asked him for his opinion on the matter.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘we’ve had strikes before…It means a week’s idleness, two weeks’ at the most, like last time. They’ll do the rounds of the bars, and then when they get too hungry, they’ll go back to the pits.’

  Deneulin shook his head.

  ‘I’m not so sure…They seem better organized this time. In fact, they’ve got a provident fund, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s barely three thousand francs in it. How far’s that going to get them?…I suspect that a chap called Étienne Lantier is their leader. He’s a good worker, and I’d be sorry to have to sack him, like I had to with the famous Rasseneur, who’s still poisoning Le Voreux with his thoughts and his beer…Never mind, half of them will be back down the pit inside a week, and the whole ten thousand before the fortnight’s out.’

  He was in no doubt. His only concern was about the possible disgrace to himself if the Board of Directors held him responsible for the strike. For some time now he had been sensing that he was out of favour. And so he abandoned the helping of Russian salad he had just served himself and reread the telegrams from Paris, trying to
plumb the significance of each word in the replies. His behaviour was forgiven, for the lunch had now become something of a military event, taken on the field of battle before the action began.

  Then the ladies joined in the conversation. Mme Grégoire felt sorry for these poor people who were going to be left with nothing to eat, and already Cécile was making plans to distribute bread and meat coupons. But Mme Hennebeau was astonished to hear anyone talk about the miners of Montsou as being poor. Were they not perfectly fortunate? Men and women who were provided with housing, heating and medical care all at the Company’s expense! Given her indifference to the common herd, all she knew about them was what she had been told to tell others, and this was the version she used to pass on to her Parisian visitors, who were duly impressed. In the end she had come to believe it herself and so felt indignant at the people’s ingratitude.