Germinal - Emile Zola [141]
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what would you do if you were in my position? Aren’t I right to want to make things happen?…And joining the International is the best thing for us, isn’t it?’
Souvarine slowly exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and then replied with his favourite word:
‘Nonsense. All nonsense. But for the moment it’s better than nothing. What’s more, that International of theirs will soon be on the move. He’s taking a hand in it now.’
He had spoken the word in a hushed voice and with an expression of religious fervour on his face as he glanced towards the east. He was talking about the Master, about Bakunin, the exterminator.2
‘He’s the only one who can deliver the real hammer-blow,’ Souvarine continued, ‘whereas these intellectuals of yours with all their talk of gradual change are just cowards…Under his leadership the International will have crushed the old order within three years.’
Étienne was listening with rapt attention. He was longing to learn more, to understand this cult of destruction that Souvarine only rarely and darkly referred to, as though he wanted to keep its mysteries for himself.
‘So, come on then…What exactly is your objective?’
‘To destroy everything…No more nations, no more governments, no more property, no more God or religion.’
‘I see. But where does that lead?’
‘To community in its basic, unstructured form, to a new world order, to a new beginning in everything.’
‘And how is it to be done? How are you planning to go about it?’
‘By fire, sword and poison. The criminal is the real hero, the avenger of the people, the revolutionary in action, and not just someone who trots out phrases he’s learned from books. What we need is a whole succession of horrific attacks that will terrify those in power and rouse the people from their slumber.’
While he spoke, Souvarine presented an awesome sight. As though in the grip of an ecstatic vision, he almost levitated from his chair; a mystic flame shone from his pale eyes, and his delicate hands clenched the edge of the table as though they would crush it. Étienne watched him, afraid, remembering some of the things Souvarine had semi-confided in him about the Tsar’s palaces being mined, and police chiefs being hunted to their deaths like wild boar, and how a mistress of his, the only woman he had ever loved, had been hanged one rainy morning in Moscow while he stood in the crowd and kissed her goodbye with his eyes.
‘No, no,’ said Étienne under his breath, waving his hand as though to banish these appalling scenes. ‘We aren’t that desperate here yet. Murder? Arson? Never. It’s monstrous and unjust. The comrades would soon get their hands on whoever did it and strangle them!’
In any case he still didn’t understand. There was something in his blood that made him reject this dark prospect of global destruction, of a world where everything was scythed down like a field of rye. What would happen afterwards? How would the peoples of the earth rise again? He wanted to know.
‘Explain to me what you have in mind. The rest of us want to know where we’re headed.’
Then, with that dreamy, distant look in his eye again, Souvarine quietly concluded:
‘Any rational analysis of the future is criminal, because it prevents things from being simply destroyed. It impedes the Revolution.’
That made Étienne laugh, despite the fact that it also sent shivers down his spine. For the rest he readily acknowledged the good sense in some of these ideas, which attracted him by their terrifying simplicity. But it would hand the advantage to Rasseneur if they were to tell the comrades this sort of thing. They had to be practical.
Widow Desire came in to offer them some lunch. They accepted and went through to the bar area, which was closed off from the hall during the week by a sliding partition.
When they had finished their omelette and cheese, Souvarine wanted to leave; and when Étienne tried to make him stay, he said:
‘What’s the point? To listen to you all talking nonsense?…I’ve heard enough for one day,