Germinal

by Emile Zola

  ‘What is it?’ she said softly, as she came and put her arms round his waist. ‘Don’t you like me, then?’

  She had said this so appealingly that he, too, couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘But I do like you,’ he replied.

  ‘No, you don’t, not the way I mean…You know how much I want to. Please? It would make me so happy!’

  She meant it all right; she’d been asking him for the past six months. He gazed at her as she clung to him tightly with trembling arms, her face raised towards him in such amorous entreaty that he was deeply affected. There was nothing pretty about her big round face, with its yellowish, coal-stained complexion; but a flame glowed in her eyes, and a magical quivering of desire turned her skin as pink as a child’s. And so, being presented with such a humble, eager offer of her person, he simply could not refuse any longer.

  ‘Yes! You do want to!’ she stammered in delight, ‘You really do!’

  And she gave herself clumsily, in a kind of virginal swoon, as though this were her first time and she had never known any other man. Later, when he was leaving, she was the one who was full of gratitude, and she kept thanking him and kissing his hands.

  Étienne was a little ashamed of this piece of good fortune. Men did not brag about having La Mouquette. As he made his way home he promised himself that there would be no repeat. And yet he remembered her fondly, she was a fine girl.

  In any case, when he reached the village, news of a serious kind soon drove all thought of the episode from his head. It was rumoured that the Company would perhaps agree to a further concession if the members of the deputation would make a new approach to the manager. At least this was the word from the deputies. The truth was that the mines were suffering even more than the miners as a result of the stand-off. The stubbornness of both parties was wreaking increasing damage: while labour was dying of hunger, capital was bleeding to death. Each day’s stoppage meant the loss of hundreds of thousands of francs. The machine that lies idle is a machine that is dying. The plant and equipment were deteriorating, and the money invested in them was draining away like water into the sand. Since the meagre stockpiles of coal had started disappearing from the pit-yards, customers had been talking of obtaining their supplies from Belgium; and that posed a threat for the future. But what worried the Company most, and what it was most careful to conceal, was the growing damage to the roadways and coal-faces. There weren’t enough deputies to keep up with the repairs; timbering was giving way all over the place, and there were rock-falls almost by the hour. The damage was soon so extensive that it would require long months of repair work before they could start hewing coal again. Stories were already going round: at Crèvecœur three hundred metres of road had subsided in one piece, blocking access to the Cinq-Paumes seam; at Madeleine, the Maugrétout seam was breaking up and filling with water. Management was refusing to confirm the stories when two disasters happened in quick succession which forced them to come clean. One morning, near La Piolaine, they found that a crevasse had opened above Mirou’s northern roadway, where there had been a rock-fall the day before. The next day part of Le Voreux subsided and sent such a tremor under one whole corner of the neighbourhood that two houses had nearly vanished completely.

  Étienne and the delegates were reluctant to make a move without knowing the intentions of the Board of Directors. When they tried to find out from Dansaert, he ducked their questions: certainly the Board deplored the misunderstandings that had arisen, and it would do everything in its power to resolve the issues: but he would not be more specific. Eventually the men decided that they would go and see M. Hennebeau so as not to find themselves in the wrong later on and be accused of having refused to allow the Company a chance to admit the error of its ways. But they promised themselves that they would make no concessions and that they would still continue to insist on the conditions they had set, which were the only fair ones.

  The meeting took place on Tuesday morning, the day when the village finally found itself staring into the abyss. The encounter was less cordial than the first. Once more it was Maheu who spoke, explaining that his comrades had sent them to inquire if the gentlemen had anything new to say to them. At first M. Hennebeau pretended to be surprised: he had not received any new instructions, and there could be no change in the position as long as the miners persisted in this detestable protest of theirs. This unbending and authoritarian attitude had the worst possible effect, to the extent that even if the delegates had come to the meeting in the most conciliatory frame of mind the manner of their reception would have been enough to stiffen their resistance. Then the manager indicated his willingness to explore a possible basis for compromise: for example, the workers might accept to be paid separately for the timbering and the Company would increase payment by the two centimes which they were alleged to be gaining from the new system. Of course this offer was being made on his own initiative, nothing had been decided, though he flattered himself that he would succeed in getting Paris to agree to this concession. But the delegates refused and restated their terms: the old system to remain, and an increase of five centimes per tub. Then M. Hennebeau admitted that he did have the power to negotiate directly, and he urged them to accept for the sake of their starving wives and children. But the men stared resolutely at the floor and said no, still no, fiercely shaking their heads. The meeting ended abruptly. M. Hennebeau slammed the doors, while Étienne, Maheu and the others made their way home, their heavy boots thudding over the cobbles with the silent rage of defeated men who have been pushed as far as they will go.

  About two o’clock it was the women’s turn to try one last approach to Maigrat. Their only remaining hope was to talk the man round and extract another week’s credit from him. The idea came from La Maheude, who tended to rely too often on people’s goodness. She persuaded La Brûlé and La Levaque to go with her; La Pierronne excused herself on the grounds that she had to stay and look after Pierron, who was still not well. Other women joined the group, which numbered about twenty. When the bourgeois of Montsou saw them arriving, a line of sombre, wretched-looking women taking up the whole width of the road, they shook their heads with misgiving. Doors were shut, and one lady hid her silver. It was the first time they had been seen like this, and it was a very grave sign indeed: things usually went from bad to worse once the women took to the highways. There was a terrible scene at Maigrat’s. At first he had ushered them in with with a sneering laugh, affecting to believe that they had come to pay their debts; how kind of them to have arranged to come all together like this, and just so they could return all his money at once! Then, when La Maheude began to speak, he pretended to fly into a rage. What kind of a joke was this? More credit? Did they want him to end up sleeping in the gutter? No, not a single potato, not so much as a single crumb of bread! He suggested they try Verdonck the grocer or Carouble and Smelten the bakers, for wasn’t that where they took their custom now? The women listened to him with an air of frightened humility, apologizing to him and watching his eyes for any sign that he might relent. Instead he started on his usual banter, offering La Brûlé his whole shop if she would have him. They were all so cowed that they laughed; and La Levaque went one better by declaring that she personally was ready and willing. But he became rough with them again and herded them towards the door. When they went on begging him, he shoved one of them aside. Outside in the street the other women were accusing him of being a Company stooge, and La Maheude raised her arms to the sky in vengeful outrage, calling death down upon him and screaming that such a man did not deserve to eat.

  The journey back to the village was a sorry affair. When the women returned home empty-handed, the men looked at them and then lowered their eyes. That was that: the day would end without so much as a spoonful of soup, and thereafter the days stretched into icy darkness without a single glimmer of hope. They had chosen this path themselves, and no one spoke of surrender. Such an extreme of poverty simply hardened their resistance, like cornered animals sile
ntly resolved to die at the bottom of their lairs rather than come out. Who would have dared be the first to talk of giving in? They had all promised their comrades to stick together, and stick together they would, just like they did down the pit when somebody was trapped under a rock-fall. It was what you did, and there was nowhere better than the pit for learning how to put up with things: you could manage without food for a week if you’d been swallowing fire and water since the age of twelve. And in this way their commitment to each other was accompanied by a sense of military pride, the self-respect of men who were proud of their job and who vied for the honour of self-sacrifice in their daily struggle to stay alive.

  In the Maheu household that evening was a terrible one. They sat in silence round the dying fire, a smoking heap of their last remaining cinders. Having emptied the mattresses handful by handful, they had finally decided two days ago to sell the cuckoo clock for three francs; and the room seemed bare and dead without its familiar ticking. The only superfluous item left was the pink cardboard box in the middle of the dresser, a present from Maheu which La Maheude treasured as though it were a jewel. The two good chairs had already gone, and old Bonnemort and the children squeezed together on a mouldy old bench which they had brought in from the garden. The pale twilight seemed to add to the cold.

  ‘What’s to be done?’ La Maheude kept saying, squatting beside the stove.

  Étienne, standing, was looking at the pictures of the Emperor and Empress stuck to the wall. He would have torn them down long ago if the family had not wanted to keep them for decoration. And so he muttered between clenched teeth:

  ‘It’s odd to think that we wouldn’t get a penny out of those two useless individuals, but here they are watching us as we die.’

  ‘Why don’t I pawn the box?’ La Maheude continued after some hesitation, looking pale as she said it.

  Maheu, perched on the edge of the table, legs dangling and head bowed, immediately sat up:

  ‘No, I won’t have it.’

  La Maheude struggled to her feet and began to walk round the room. How in God’s name had it come to this? Not a crumb of bread in the dresser, nothing left to sell, and not the semblance of a notion how they could lay their hands on a loaf of bread! And a fire that was about to go out! She vented her anger on Alzire, whom she had that morning sent to look for cinders on the spoil-heap and who had returned empty-handed, saying that the Company had forbidden any further scavenging. What the hell did they care what the Company said? As if it were robbing anyone if they picked up tiny, forgotten pieces of coal. The little girl tearfully explained that a man had threatened to hit her, and then she promised to go back the next day even if she did get beaten.

  ‘And what about that brat Jeanlin?’ cried his mother. ‘Where the hell is he, I’d like to know? He was supposed to be bringing us back some leaves. At least we could have grazed like the rest of the animals! You wait, I bet he doesn’t come home. He didn’t last night either. I don’t know what he’s up to, but that little devil always seems to be well enough fed.’

  ‘Perhaps he collects money on the road.’

  She at once started shaking her fists, beside herself with rage.

  ‘If I thought that!…My children begging! I’d rather kill them, and myself afterwards.’

  Maheu had resumed his slumped posture on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, astonished that they weren’t eating, began to moan; while old Bonnemort sat in silence, resignedly rolling his tongue round his mouth trying to stave off the pangs of hunger. Nobody spoke now, numbed by this further deterioration in their fortunes, with Grandpa coughing up black phlegm and troubled once more by his old rheumatic pains, which were turning into dropsy; with Father asthmatic, and his knees swollen with fluid retention; and with Mother and the little ones afflicted by congenital scrofula and anaemia. No doubt it was the fault of their jobs, and they only complained about it when lack of food actually started killing people (and they were beginning to drop like flies in the village). But they really did have to find something for supper. The question was: how? and, God help them, where?

  Then, as the room filled with the gathering gloom of twilight, Étienne reluctantly made up his mind and said with a heavy heart:

  ‘Wait here. There’s somewhere I can try.’

  And out he went. He had remembered La Mouquette. She was sure to have a spare loaf, and she would be only too glad to give it to him. It annoyed him to have go back to Réquillart: she would start kissing his hands again, like some lovesick servant-girl. But a man didn’t leave his friends in the lurch, he’d be nice to her again if he had to be.

  ‘Me too, I’m going to see what I can find,’ said La Maheude in turn. ‘This is just ridiculous!’

  She opened the door again after Étienne had left and then slammed it behind her, leaving the rest of them sitting silent and motionless in the meagre light of a candle-end which Alzire had just lit. Outside La Maheude paused to consider for a moment and then went into the Levaques’ house.

  ‘You know that loaf I lent you the other day. How about letting me have it back?’

  But she stopped, for the sight that met her eyes was not encouraging; and the house reeked of poverty even more than her own did.

  La Levaque was staring at her fire, which had gone out, and Levaque was slumped across the table, having gone to sleep there on an empty stomach after some nailers had got him drunk. Bouteloup was leaning against the wall, absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulders against it and with the bewildered look of a decent fellow who has let other people squander his savings and now finds himself having to tighten his belt.

  ‘A loaf of bread? Oh, my dear,’ La Levaque replied. ‘And there was I about to ask you if I could borrow another one!’

  At that moment her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, and she crushed his face into the table.

  ‘Quiet, you pig! Serves you right if it rots your guts!…Couldn’t you have asked a friend for twenty sous instead of getting everyone to buy you a drink?’

  And on she went, swearing and cursing and getting things off her chest, surrounded by a filthy home which had been let go for so long that an unbearable stench now rose from its floor. What did she care if the whole world was going to rack and ruin! That vagabond of a son, Bébert, had been gone since morning, and good riddance it would be too, she shouted, if he never came back. Then she said that she was going to bed. At least she’d be warm there. She gave Bouteloup a shove.

  ‘Come on, look sharp! We’re going upstairs!…The fire’s gone out, and there’s no point lighting the candle just to stare at empty plates…Did you hear me, Louis? I said we’re going to bed. We can cuddle up close, which’ll be a relief from this cold at any rate…And that drunken bastard can catch his death all on his own down here!’

  Once more outside, La Maheude took a short cut directly across the gardens to go and see the Pierrons. The sound of laughter could be heard coming from inside. She knocked on the door, and everything went suddenly quiet. It was at least a minute before anyone came.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ exclaimed La Pierronne, pretending to be very surprised. ‘I thought it was the doctor.’

  Without letting La Maheude get a word in, she motioned towards Pierron, who was sitting in front of a big coal fire, and added:

  ‘He’s not well, I’m afraid, still not well. He looks all right in the face, but it’s his stomach that’s plaguing him. He has to keep warm, so we’re burning everything we’ve got.’

  Pierron did indeed seem to be in fine form; he had a good colour, and there was plenty of flesh on him. He pretended without success to wheeze like a sick man. In any case La Maheude had noticed a strong smell of rabbit as she came in: but of course they had cleared everything away! There were still crumbs on the table, and right in the middle stood a bottle of wine they had forgotten to remove.

  ‘Mother has gone to Montsou to try and find some bread,’ La Pierronne continued. ‘There’s nothing we can do but wait for her to come home.�
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  But her voice died away as her eyes followed La Maheude’s and lit on the bottle. She recovered herself at once and proceeded to tell the story: yes, the people at La Piolaine had brought the wine for her husband, because the doctor had recommended that he drink claret. And she went on about how grateful she was, and what fine people they were, especially the young mistress, who wasn’t a bit proud, coming into working folks’ homes and distributing her charity in person!

  ‘Yes,’ said La Maheude, ‘I know them.’

  It depressed her to think that unto those that have shall be given. It was always the same, and those people from La Piolaine would have given bread to a baker. How had she missed them in the village? Perhaps she might have got something out of them all the same?

  ‘I just called,’ La Maheude admitted finally, ‘to see if your cupboards were as bare as ours…You wouldn’t have any vermicelli, would you? I’d let you have it back.’

  La Pierronne voiced loud despair.

  ‘Not a thing, my dear. Not even a grain of semolina…And Mother’s not back yet, so that must mean she’s had no luck. We’ll be going to bed hungry tonight.’

  At that moment a sound of crying could be heard coming from the cellar, and La Pierronne banged on the door angrily with her fist. It was Lydie. The little trollop had been gallivanting about the place all day, and she’d locked her up to punish her for not coming home till five. There was nothing to be done with her now, she was always disappearing off like that.