Chapter Chapter 36 · 第36章

On Sunday Étienne escaped from the settlement at nightfall. A very

clear sky, sprinkled with stars, lit up the earth with the blue haze

of twilight. He went down towards the canal, and followed the bank

slowly, in the direction of Marchiennes. It was his favourite walk,

a grass-covered path two leagues long, passing straight beside this

geometrical water-way, which unrolled itself like an endless ingot

of molten silver. He never met any one there. But on this day he was

vexed to see a man come up to him. Beneath the pale starlight, the two

solitary walkers only recognized each other when they were face to face.

"What! is it you?" said Étienne.

Souvarine nodded his head without replying. For a moment they remained

motionless, then side by side they set out towards Marchiennes. Each of

them seemed to be continuing his own reflections, as though they were

far away from each other.

"Have you seen in the paper about Pluchart's success at Paris?" asked

Étienne, at length. "After that meeting at Belleville, they waited for

him on the pavement, and gave him an ovation. Oh! he's afloat now, in

spite of his sore throat. He can do what he likes in the future."

The engine-man shrugged his shoulders. He felt contempt for fine

talkers, fellows who go into politics as one goes to the bar, to get an

income out of phrases.

Étienne was now studying Darwin. He had read fragments, summarized

and popularized in a five-sou volume; and out of this ill-understood

reading he had gained for himself a revolutionary idea of the struggle

for existence, the lean eating the fat, the strong people devouring the

pallid middle class. But Souvarine furiously attacked the stupidity

of the Socialists who accept Darwin, that apostle of scientific

inequality, whose famous selection was only good for aristocratic

philosophers. His mate persisted, however, wishing to reason out the

matter, and expressing his doubts by an hypothesis: supposing the old

society were no longer to exist, swept away to the crumbs; well, was

it not to be feared that the new world would grow up again, slowly

spoilt by the same injustices, some sick and others flourishing, some

more skilful and intelligent, fattening on everything, and others

imbecile and lazy, becoming slaves again? But before this vision of

eternal wretchedness, the engine-man shouted out fiercely that if

justice was not possible with man, then man must disappear. For every

rotten society there must be a massacre, until the last creature was

exterminated. And there was silence again.

For a long time, with sunken head, Souvarine walked over the short

grass, so absorbed that he kept to the extreme edge, by the water, with

the quiet certainty of a sleep-walker on a roof. Then he shuddered

causelessly, as though he had stumbled against a shadow. His eyes

lifted and his face was very pale; he said softly to his companion:

"Did I ever tell you how she died?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"My wife, over there, in Russia."

Étienne made a vague gesture, astonished at the tremor in his voice and

at the sudden desire for confidence in this lad, who was usually so

impassive in his stoical detachment from others and from himself. He

only knew that the woman was his mistress, and that she had been hanged

at Moscow.

"The affair hadn't gone off," Souvarine said, with eyes still vacantly

following the white stream of the canal between the bluish colonnades

of tall trees. "We had been a fortnight at the bottom of a hole

undermining the railway, and it was not the imperial train that was

blown up, it was a passenger train. Then they arrested Annutchka. She

brought us bread every evening, disguised as a peasant woman. She lit

the fuse, too, because a man might have attracted attention. I followed

the trial, hidden in the crowd, for six days."

His voice became thick, and he coughed as though he were choking.

"Twice I wanted to cry out, and to rush over the people's heads to join

her. But what was the good? One man less would be one soldier less; and

I could see that she was telling me not to come, when her large eyes

met mine."

He coughed again.

"On the last day in the square I was there. It was raining; they

stupidly lost their heads, put out by the falling rain. It took twenty

minutes to hang the other four; the cord broke, they could not finish

the fourth. Annutchka was standing up waiting. She could not see me,

she was looking for me in the crowd. I got on to a post and she saw me,

and our eyes never turned from each other. When she was dead she was

still looking at me. I waved my hat; I came away."

There was silence again. The white road of the canal unrolled to the

far distance, and they both walked with the same quiet step as though

each had fallen back into his isolation. At the horizon, the pale water

seemed to open the sky with a little hole of light.

"It was our punishment," Souvarine went on roughly. "We were guilty to

love each other. Yes, it is well that she is dead; heroes will be born

from her blood, and I no longer have any cowardice at my heart. Ah!

nothing, neither parents, nor wife, nor friend! Nothing to make my hand

tremble on the day when I must take others' lives or give up my own."

Étienne had stopped, shuddering in the cool night. He discussed no

more, he simply said:

"We have gone far; shall we go back?"

They went back towards the Voreux slowly, and he added, after a few

paces:

"Have you seen the new placards?"

The Company had that morning put up some more large yellow posters.

They were clearer and more conciliatory, and the Company undertook

to take back the certificates of those miners who went down on the

following day. Everything would be forgotten, and pardon was offered

even to those who were most implicated.

"Yes, I've seen," replied the engine-man.

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think that it's all up. The flock will go down again. You are all

too cowardly."

Étienne feverishly excused his mates: a man may be brave, a mob which

is dying of hunger has no strength. Step by step they were returning to

the Voreux; and before the black mass of the pit he continued swearing

that he, at least, would never go down; but he could forgive those

who did. Then, as the rumour ran that the carpenters had not had time

to repair the tubbing, he asked for information. Was it true? Had the

weight of the soil against the timber which formed the internal skirt

of scaffolding to the shaft so pushed it in that the winding-cages

rubbed as they went down for a length of over fifty metres?

Souvarine, who once more became uncommunicative, replied briefly. He

had been working the day before, and the cage did, in fact, jar; the

engine-men had even had to double the speed to pass that spot. But all

the bosses received any observations with the same irritating remark:

it was coal they wanted; that could be repaired later on.

"You see that will smash up!" Étienne murmured. "It will be a fine

time!"

With eyes vaguely fixed on the pit in the shadow, Souvarine quietly

concluded:

"If it does smash up, the mates will know it, since you advise them to

go down again."

Nine o'clock struck at the Montsou steeple; and his companion having

said that he was going to bed, he added, without putting out his hand:

"Well, good-bye. I'm going away."

"What! you're going away?"

"Yes, I've asked for my certificate back. I'm going elsewhere."

Étienne, stupefied and affected, looked at him. After walking for two

hours he said that to him! And in so calm a voice, while the mere

announcement of this sudden separation made his own heart ache. They

had got to know each other, they had toiled together; that always makes

one sad, the idea of not seeing a person again.

"You're going away! And where do you go?"

"Over there--I don't know at all."

"But I shall see you again?"

"No, I think not."

They were silent and remained for a moment facing each other without

finding anything to say.

"Then good-bye."

"Good-bye."

While Étienne ascended toward the settlement, Souvarine turned and

again went along the canal bank; and there, now alone, he continued to

walk, with sunken head, so lost in the darkness that he seemed merely

a moving shadow of the night. Now and then he stopped, he counted the

hours that struck afar. When he heard midnight strike he left the bank

and turned towards the Voreux.

At that time the pit was empty, and he only met a sleepy-eyed captain.

It was not until two o'clock that they would begin to get up steam to

resume work. First he went to take from a cupboard a jacket which he

pretended to have forgotten. Various tools--a drill armed with its

screw, a small but very strong saw, a hammer, and a chisel--were rolled

up in this jacket. Then he left. But instead of going out through the

shed he passed through the narrow corridor which led to the ladder

passage. With his jacket under his arm he quietly went down without a

lamp, measuring the depth by counting the ladders. He knew that the

cage jarred at three hundred and seventy-four metres against the fifth

row of the lower tubbing. When he had counted fifty-four ladders he

put out his hand and was able to feel the swelling of the planking.

It was there. Then, with the skill and coolness of a good workman who

has been reflecting over his task for a long time, he set to work. He

began by sawing a panel in the brattice so as to communicate with the

winding-shaft. With the help of matches, quickly lighted and blown out,

he was then able to ascertain the condition of the tubbing and of the

recent repairs.

Between Calais and Valenciennes the sinking of mine shafts was

surrounded by immense difficulties on account of the masses of

subterranean water in great sheets at the level of the lowest valleys.

Only the construction of tubbings, frameworks jointed like the stays

of a barrel, could keep out the springs which flow in and isolate the

shafts in the midst of the lakes, which with deep obscure waves beat

against the walls. It had been necessary in sinking the Voreux to

establish two tubbings: that of the upper level, in the shifting sands

and white clays bordering the chalky stratum, and fissured in every

part, swollen with water like a sponge; then that of the lower level,

immediately above the coal stratum, in a yellow sand as fine as flour,

flowing with liquid fluidity; it was here that the Torrent was to be

found, that subterranean sea so dreaded in the coal pits of the Nord,

a sea with its storms and its shipwrecks, an unknown and unfathomable

sea, rolling its dark floods more than three hundred metres beneath the

daylight. Usually the tubbings resisted the enormous pressure; the only

thing to be dreaded was the piling up of the neighbouring soil, shaken

by the constant movement of the old galleries which were filling up.

In this descent of the rocks lines of fracture were sometimes produced

which slowly extended as far as the scaffolding, at last perforating

it and pushing it into the shaft; and there was the great danger of a

landslip and a flood filling the pit with an avalanche of earth and a

deluge of springs.

Souvarine, sitting astride in the opening he had made, discovered a

very serious defect in the fifth row of tubbing. The wood was bellied

out from the framework; several planks had even come out of their

shoulder-pieces. Abundant filtrations, _pichoux_ the miners call

them, were jetting out of the joints through the tarred oakum with

which they were caulked. The carpenters, pressed for time, had been

content to place iron squares at the angles, so carelessly that not all

the screws were put in. A considerable movement was evidently going on

behind in the sand of the Torrent.

Then with his wimble he unscrewed the squares so that another push

would tear them all off. It was a foolhardy task, during which he

frequently only just escaped from falling headlong down the hundred and

eighty metres which separated him from the bottom. He had been obliged

to seize the oak guides, the joists along which the cages slid; and

suspended over the void he traversed the length of the cross-beams with

which they were joined from point to point, slipping along, sitting

down, turning over, simply buttressing himself on an elbow or a knee,

with tranquil contempt of death. A breath would have sent him over,

and three times he caught himself up without a shudder. First he felt

with his hand and then worked, only lighting a match when he lost

himself in the midst of these slimy beams. After loosening the screws

he attacked the wood itself, and the peril became still greater. He

had sought for the key, the piece which held the others; he attacked

it furiously, making holes in it, sawing it, thinning it so that it

lost its resistance; while through the holes and the cracks the water

which escaped in small jets blinded him and soaked him in icy rain.

Two matches were extinguished. They all became damp and then there was

night, the bottomless depth of darkness.

From this moment he was seized by rage. The breath of the invisible

intoxicated him, the black horror of this rain-beaten hole urged him

to mad destruction. He wreaked his fury at random against the tubbing,

striking where he could with his wimble, with his saw, seized by the

desire to bring the whole thing at once down on his head. He brought

as much ferocity to the task as though he had been digging a knife

into the skin of some execrated living creature. He would kill the

Voreux at last, that evil beast with ever-open jaws which had swallowed

so much human flesh! The bite of his tools could be heard, his spine

lengthened, he crawled, climbed down, then up again, holding on by a

miracle, in continual movement, the flight of a nocturnal bird amid the

scaffolding of a belfry.

But he grew calm, dissatisfied with himself. Why could not things be

done coolly? Without haste he took breath, and then went back into

the ladder passage, stopping up the hole by replacing the panel which

he had sawn. That was enough; he did not wish to raise the alarm by

excessive damage which would have been repaired immediately. The beast

was wounded in the belly; we should see if it was still alive at night.

And he had left his mark; the frightened world would know that the

beast had not died a natural death. He took his time in methodically

rolling up his tools in his jacket, and slowly climbed up the ladders.

Then, when he had emerged from the pit without being seen, it did not

even occur to him to go and change his clothes. Three o'clock struck.

He remained standing on the road waiting.

At the same hour Étienne, who was not asleep, was disturbed by a slight

sound in the thick night of the room. He distinguished the low breath

of the children, and the snoring of Bonnemort and Maheude; while

Jeanlin near him was breathing with a prolonged flute-like whistle.

No doubt he had dreamed, and he was turning back when the noise began

again. It was the creaking of a palliasse, the stifled effort of

someone who is getting up. Then he imagined that Catherine must be ill.

"I say, is it you? What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice.

No one replied, and the snoring of the others continued. For five

minutes nothing stirred. Then there was fresh creaking. Feeling certain

this time that he was not mistaken, he crossed the room, putting his

hands out into the darkness to feel the opposite bed. He was surprised

to find the young girl sitting up, holding in her breath, awake and on

the watch.

"Well! why don't you reply? What are you doing, then?"

At last she said:

"I'm getting up."

"Getting up at this hour?"

"Yes, I'm going back to work at the pit."

Étienne felt deeply moved, and sat down on the edge of the palliasse,

while Catherine explained her reasons to him. She suffered too much by

living thus in idleness, feeling continual looks of reproach weighing

on her; she would rather run the risk of being knocked about down there

by Chaval. And if her mother refused to take her money when she brought

it, well! she was big enough to act for herself and make her own soup.

"Go away; I want to dress. And don't say anything, will you, if you

want to be kind?"

But he remained near her; he had put his arms round her waist in a

caress of grief and pity. Pressed one against the other in their

shirts, they could feel the warmth of each other's naked flesh, at

the edge of this bed, still moist with the night's sleep. She had at

first tried to free herself; then she began to cry quietly, in her

turn taking him by the neck to press him against her in a despairing

clasp. And they remained, without any further desires, with the past of

their unfortunate love, which they had not been able to satisfy. Was

it, then, done with for ever? Would they never dare to love each other

some day, now that they were free? It only needed a little happiness

to dissipate their shame--that awkwardness which prevented them from

coming together because of all sorts of ideas which they themselves

could not read clearly.

"Go to bed again," she whispered. "I don't want to light up, it would

wake mother. It is time; leave me."

He could not hear; he was pressing her wildly, with a heart drowned

in immense sadness. The need for peace, an irresistible need for

happiness, was carrying him away; and he saw himself married, in a neat

little house, with no other ambition than to live and to die there,

both of them together. He would be satisfied with bread; and if there

were only enough for one, she should have it. What was the good of

anything else? Was there anything in life worth more?

But she was unfolding her naked arms.

"Please, leave me."

Then, in a sudden impulse, he said in her ear:

"Wait, I'm coming with you."

And he was himself surprised at what he had said. He had sworn never

to go down again; whence then came this sudden decision, arising from

his lips without thought of his, without even a moment's discussion?

There was now such calm within him, so complete a cure of his doubts,

that he persisted like a man saved by chance, who has at last found the

only harbour from his torment. So he refused to listen to her when she

became alarmed, understanding that he was devoting himself for her and

fearing the ill words which would greet him at the pit. He laughed at

everything; the placards promised pardon and that was enough.

"I want to work; that's my idea. Let us dress and make no noise."

They dressed themselves in the darkness, with a thousand precautions.

She had secretly prepared her miner's clothes the evening before; he

took a jacket and breeches from the cupboard; and they did not wash

themselves for fear of knocking the bowl. All were asleep, but they had

to cross the narrow passage where the mother slept. When they started,

as ill luck would have it, they stumbled against a chair. She woke and

asked drowsily:

"Eh! what is it?"

Catherine had stopped, trembling, and violently pressing Étienne's hand.

"It's me; don't trouble yourself," he said. "I feel stifled and am

going outside to breathe a bit."

"Very well."

And Maheude fell asleep again. Catherine dared not stir. At last she

went down into the parlour and divided a slice of bread-and-butter

which she had reserved from a loaf given by a Montsou lady. Then they

softly closed the door and went away.

Souvarine had remained standing near the Avantage, at the corner of the

road. For half an hour he had been looking at the colliers who were

returning to work in the darkness, passing by with the dull tramp of

a herd. He was counting them, as a butcher counts his beasts at the

entrance to the slaughter-house, and he was surprised at their number;

even his pessimism had not foreseen that the number of cowards would

have been so great. The stream continued to pass by, and he grew stiff,

very cold, with clenched teeth and bright eyes.

But he started. Among the men passing by, whose faces he could not

distinguish, he had just recognized one by his walk. He came forward

and stopped him.

"Where are you going to?"

Étienne, in surprise, instead of replying, stammered:

"What! you've not set out yet!"

Then he confessed he was going back to the pit. No doubt he had sworn;

only it could not be called life to wait with folded arms for things

which would perhaps happen in a hundred years; and, besides, reasons of

his own had decided him.

Souvarine had listened to him, shuddering. He seized him by the

shoulder, and pushed him towards the settlement.

"Go home again; I want you to. Do you understand?"

But Catherine having approached, he recognized her also. Étienne

protested, declaring that he allowed no one to judge his conduct. And

the engine-man's eyes went from the young girl to her companion, while

he stepped back with a sudden, relinquishing movement. When there was a

woman in a man's heart, that man was done for; he might die. Perhaps he

saw again in a rapid vision his mistress hanging over there at Moscow,

that last link cut from his flesh, which had rendered him free of the

lives of others and of his own life. He said simply:

"Go."

Étienne, feeling awkward, was delaying, and trying to find some

friendly word, so as not to separate in this manner.

"Then you're still going?"

"Yes."

"Well, give me your hand, old chap. A pleasant journey, and no ill

feeling."

The other stretched out an icy hand. Neither friend nor wife.

"Good-bye for good this time."

"Yes, good-bye."

And Souvarine, standing motionless in the darkness, watched Étienne and

Catherine entering the Voreux.