Complete Works of Emile Zola (1632 page)

He said to her, softly:

“Give me your hand, Josine, your poor, maimed hand.”

And she gave him the hand that lacked the index finger, the finger that had been destroyed in the running-gear of some machinery.

“It is so ugly,” she murmured.

“Ugly, Josine! oh no! It is so dear to me that I kiss it with more devotion than any other part of your body.”

He pressed his lips to the scar, and he covered the frail, mutilated-little hand with caresses.

“Oh, Luc,” she cried, “how you must love me, and how I love you!”

Without, Beauclair lay sunk in a heavy sleep, and the sound of its hammers, together with the echoes from the steel factories of La Crêcherie and the Pit, bore witness to a ceaseless nocturnal toil. The warfare was not yet ended; the terrible struggle had only gathered strength between yesterday and to-morrow. But in the midst of all its sufferings an episode of happiness had occurred; and whatever might be the burdens of the future, the immortal seed of mutual love and helpfulness had been sown, in the blessed hope of a future harvest.

CHAPTER III

FROM this time forward, whenever some new disaster befell La Crêcherie, whenever Luc’s efforts to establish a town founded upon labor, justice, and peace were impeded by the refusal of the men to support him, his cry was:

“It is because they do not love me! If they loved me everything would increase and prosper; everything would grow and expand like a plant in the sunshine.”

This marked and painful period was distinctly one of stagnation, when the work upon which his heart was set of necessity stood still. In all human progress occur such periods of contention and of forced delay. There is, then, no further advance; there is even a retrograde movement, when all that has been previously accomplished seems to crumble into ashes, and the end in view appears wholly unattainable. It is in hours such as these that the firmness of soul and the indomitable faith in a final victory which characterizes the true hero are manifested.

The next day Luc made an effort to detain Ragu, who wished to break off his connection with the association, and to leave La Crêcherie, in order to return to the Pit. But he had to deal with an obstinate and vicious nature, which enjoyed the opportunity for inflicting injury, afforded by the fact that at this moment the whole industry was likely to be ruined by the defection of its workmen. In addition to this, there was another and a deeper motive at work, namely, the yearning that the slave feels for his servitude, a feeling which is rooted in the depths of his nature, and causes him to return, like a dog to his vomit, to the bitter poverty and all the other associations of his revolting past. In the cheerful neatness of his little house, surrounded with verdure, and basking in the sunshine, Ragu pined for the filthy alleys of old Beauclair, and its pestilent hovels reeking in the disease-laden atmosphere. Whenever he spent an hour in the large, airy hall of the Communal House, where alcohol was forbidden, he was haunted by the remembrance of the penetrating odor of Caffiaux’s
cabaret
. The well-ordered arrangement of the co-operative shops was no less oppressive to him. It roused in him the desire to spend his money in his own way, among the shopkeepers of the Rue de Brias, whom he treated as extortioners, but with whom he took delight in quarrelling.

The more Luc persisted in showing him the foolishness of his departure, the more obstinate Ragu became, being possessed of the idea that if such anxiety was displayed about him, it was because his leaving would prove an injury.

“No, no, Monsieur Luc, the matter cannot be settled. Perhaps I am acting like a fool, but it does not seem so to me. You promised us wonderful things; we were all to become rich; but the fact is that we are earning no more than we did elsewhere, with annoyances to boot, according to my judgment.”

This was so far true, that the system of division of profits employed at La Crêcherie had not yet resulted in payments to the individual that were sensibly larger than the wages at the Pit.

“We are earning a living,” answered Luc, quickly, “and is not that all-sufficient when the future is secure? If I have asked any sacrifices of you, I have done so in the conviction that the happiness of all requires it. But we must have patience and courage and faith in the undertaking, and must do much work besides.”

Ragu was incapable of being moved by such language. One expression only appealed to him, and at this he laughed maliciously.

“Oh, the happiness of all is a very fine sentiment, but I prefer to begin with my own happiness.”

Luc then told him that he was free to do as he pleased; that the amount due him would be settled at once; and that he could go as soon as he chose. It was, indeed, not to his interest to keep an ill-disposed man whose presence would end by being a focus of contagion. But the departure of Josine rent his heart, and he felt a little ashamed when he discovered that he was displaying so much zeal to retain Ragu, only in order to retain her. The thought that she was returning into the sink of old Beauclair, into the hands of this man, who, under the influence of alcohol, would continue to abuse her, was insupportable to him. He pictured her to himself, again in the Rue des Trois Lunes, living in a filthy room, and once more the victim of a sordid, grinding poverty, while he himself no longer at hand to watch over her. And yet she was his own now, and he would have wished to be with her every minute, so as to assure her a happy life. The night following, she returned to visit him, and there was between them a heart-rending interview, made up of tears, vows, and impracticable projects. Wisdom prevailed, however; they must accept things as they stood, if they would avoid compromising the enterprise which was dear to them in common. Josine must accompany Ragu, for she could not refuse to do so without creating an embarrassing scandal; while Luc, remaining at La Crêcherie, would continue his efforts for the happiness of all, with the conviction that victory would some day reunite them. They were strong by reason of the inextinguishable love that existed between them. She promised that she would return to see him. But, in spite of this, what anguish of heart was his when she said farewell to him, and when, on the next day, he saw her leaving La Crêcherie, behind Ragu, who, with the assistance of Bourron, was pushing a hand-cart containing their meagre possessions!

Three days later Bourron followed Ragu, whom he had met during the intervening evenings at Caffiaux’s. His comrade had jeered at him to such an extent in regard to the temperance drinks at the Communal House that he thought he was acting as a free man by returning to live in the Rue des Trois Lunes. His wife, Babette, after making one attempt to put him out of conceit with such an act of folly, made up her mind to resign herself to it, and accepted the situation with her customary gayety. Bah! everything would go on just as well as ever; her husband was a good man, in the main, and would see things straight sooner or later. So she laughed and jested while she dismantled her house, saying
au revoir
to her neighbors, instead of good-bye, for she could not believe that she would not return to that pretty garden where she had enjoyed herself so much. In particular she longed to bring back her daughter Marthe and her son Sébastian, who were making great progress at the school; and when Sœurette spoke of keeping them there she consented.

The worst part of the situation, however, was that other workmen succumbed to the contagion of bad example, and left, as Bourron and Ragu had done. Their defection was due to a lack of faith quite as much as to a want of love, and Luc now found himself called upon to face the cowardice, the faithlessness, and all the other evil tendencies of human nature with which those who labor for the happiness of others have to contend. Even in his intercourse with Bonnaire himself, who was always so loyal and so right-minded, he felt a certain tension. Bonnaire’s domestic affairs were clouded by the daily complaints of La Toupe, whose vanity was still unsatisfied, for she had not yet been able to buy herself the silk dress and the watch for which she had been wishing since her earliest youth. Besides this, her never-ceasing regret that she had not been born a princess rendered her wholly antagonistic to all ideas of equality and community. She raised a perpetual tempest in the house, put father Linot on still shorter rations of tobacco, and hustled the two children, Lucien and Antoinette, about. There were two others now, Zoé and Severin, and this she considered a misfortune, for which Bonnaire was responsible, reproaching him for it ceaselessly, as if they were the results of his subversive ideas, of which she claimed to be the victim. Bonnaire preserved an external tranquillity, for he was accustomed to such outbreaks, and they simply saddened him.

He never answered, even when she shrieked out that he was a poor blockhead and dupe, and that he would leave his bones at La Crêcherie.

Luc saw clearly, however, that Bonnaire was not with him heart and soul. He never gave occasion for faultfinding, but remained an active, accurate, conscientious workman, who set an example to his comrades. Yet, in spite of all this, there was in his attitude a disapprobation, together with a certain appearance of lassitude and discouragement. Luc suffered from this very much, and felt disheartened that such a man, for whom he entertained the utmost esteem, and whose heroism he knew, could become discouraged so quickly. If such a one as this lost faith, was it because the work was unworthy?

The two had an explanation one evening while sitting on a bench at the door of the works. They had met there by chance, just as the sun was setting in the peaceful sky, and sat down quietly to converse.

“It is perfectly true, monsieur,” said Bonnaire, frankly, in answer to a question; “I have grave doubts of your success. You will remember, moreover, that I have never accepted your ideas, and that your attempt has always seemed to me difficult, from the stand-point of concessions. If I have lent myself to it, it is only as an experiment. But the further we go, the more I see that I was not mistaken. The experiment has been made, and now something else must be tried, of a wholly different character.”

“What! the experiment already tried!” cried Luc; “we are only beginning it! It will require a long period, of several generations of men, perhaps, an effort extending over a hundred years of good-will and determination. And is it you, my friend, you who are so energetic and so brave, who lose heart so quickly?”

He looked at Bonnaire’s broad, tranquil face, and at his breadth of shoulders, all of which bespoke strength and honesty. But the workman gently shook his head.

“No, no,” he said, “good-will and determination will accomplish nothing here. The fault is in your method, which is too mild, and relies too much on man’s good qualities. Your plan for the association of capital, talent, and labor will never work successfully, for it is impossible to establish anything solid and definite upon it. The evil we contend with has reached such a degree of abomination that there is no remedy for it but the red-hot cautery.”

“What do you think should be done, then, my friend?”

“It is absolutely necessary that the people should take possession at once of the implements of labor, dispossess the middle class, and assume the disposition of capital themselves, in order to reorganize universal and obligatory labor.”

And Bonnaire proceeded once more to expound his ideas. He had remained wholly devoted to collectivism, and Luc listened to him sadly, astonished at having produced no effect upon this thoughtful but somewhat obtuse mind. All that he had heard Bonnaire say in the Rue des Trois Lunes, on the night when he left the Pit, Luc found confronting him again, without the creed of the former having been in the slightest degree modified by the five years of communistic experience passed at La Crêcherie. The process of evolution was too slow; progress by co-operation solely would require too many years, and he, therefore, lost patience, and believed in nothing but immediate and violent revolution.

“What we do not take will never be given us,” said he, in conclusion. “We must seize everything, in order to have anything.”

A silence ensued. The sun had sunk below the horizon, the night-shift had resumed labor, and the sounds of their toil resounded from the interior of the works. This incessant continuance of labor filled Luc with an overpowering sadness, perceiving, as he did, that his enterprise was going to be compromised by the overhaste of the finest spirits to realize their social ideal. Is it not, he reflected, this very fierceness of contests between theories that often impedes and retards the accomplishment of purpose?

“I do not wish to discuss the subject with you again, my friend,” said Luc, at length. “I do not believe that a decisive resolution would be possible, or, indeed, desirable, in the circumstances in which we find ourselves. I remain convinced that combination and co-operation, with the aid of syndicates, are the slow road which is to be preferred, and that it will conduct us in the end to the promised city. We have often talked of these things without convincing each other in the least. What good purpose would it serve to begin over again and sadden each other uselessly? All that I hope from you is that you will remain faithful to the house that we have founded together in the difficulties with which it is about to contend.” Bonnaire made an abrupt gesture of displeasure.

“Oh, Monsieur Luc, can you doubt me? You know very well that I am not a fair-weather friend, and when I remember that you once saved me from starvation, I am ready to eat my dry bread with you as long as it is needful to do so. Do not be afraid that I shall say to any one what I have just said to you. The matter is entirely between you and me. Besides, of course, I am not going to discourage our workmen by announcing to them our approaching ruin. Our interests are united, and will remain united until the walls tumble upon our heads.” Luc shook his hand with deep emotion, and the following week he was still more touched when he came unexpectedly upon a scene that took place in the large hall of the rolling-mills. He had been informed that two or three badly disposed workmen were trying to entice away as many of their comrades as possible in imitation of Ragu; and when he himself arrived, hoping to re-establish order, he saw Bonnaire, standing in the midst of the mutineers, and haranguing them with great vehemence. Luc stopped and listened. Bonnaire was bravely upholding the position; he was saying everything that ought to be said, was recalling the benefits bestowed by the house, and was quieting alarm by the promise of a better future, should all keep bravely at work. His appearance was so grand and imposing that the malcontents were pacified, their dissatisfaction being soothed by hearing such reasonable things from the mouth of one of their own number. There was no further talk of breaking up the association, and the defections were checked. Luc never forgot the spectacle of Bonnaire as he stood, a faithful giant, pacifying the disaffected by his easy, tranquil manner, and showing himself a real hero of labor, respectful of the needs of the business because he fully appreciated them. He would have considered himself a coward to desert his post during a struggle for the happiness of others, even if his own opinion was to the effect that the struggle should be carried on in another and a different manner.