The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  The look on her face was so dreadful that no one dared go near. With redoubled strength, she grasped Virginie round the waist and bent her double, her face pressed against the stone floor and her bottom in the air. And, despite the other’s struggles, she pulled her skirts right up. Underneath, she was wearing bloomers. Gervaise put her hand into the gap and tore them off, revealing everything: naked thighs, naked bottom. Then, raising her beetle, she started to beat her, as she used to beat the linen once in Plassans, by the River Viorne, when she was employed by a woman who did the washing for the troops. The wooden stick thumped into the flesh with a muffled sound. At each blow, a red stripe marbled the white skin.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Charles muttered, wide-eyed with astonishment.

  There was a fresh outburst of laughter, but soon the shout of: ‘Stop! Stop!’ was resumed. Gervaise, tireless, deaf to the cries, carried on with her work, bending over, examining what she was doing, determined not to leave a single spot dry. She wanted all this skin to be beaten and covered with confusion. And, feeling a savage kind of joy, she talked out loud, remembering an old washerwoman’s song:

  ‘Thump! Thump! Maggie does her washing…

  Thump! Thump! Gives the clothes a thrashing…

  Thump! Thump! And her heart is breaking…

  Thump! Thump! Feels all black and aching…’

  And in between:

  ‘This one’s for you, this one’s for your sister, this one’s for Lantier… When you see them next, pass it on… Hang on! I’m not done yet. This one’s for Lantier, this one’s for your sister, this one’s for you…

  ‘Thump! Thump! Maggie does her washing…

  Thump! Thump! Gives the clothes a thrashing…’

  They had to drag Virginie away from her. The tall dark-haired girl, tears streaming down her face, purple with shame, picked up her washing and ran. She was well and truly beaten. Meanwhile, Gervaise was putting her arm back in the sleeve of her shift and tying up her skirt. The arm was painful, so she asked Mme Boche to put her washing over her shoulder. The concierge kept on talking about the fight and how she felt, suggesting that she could have a look at Gervaise, to see that she was all right.

  ‘You may have something broken… I did hear a snap…’

  But the young woman wanted to leave. She made no answer to the expressions of sympathy or the garrulous congratulations of the women who pressed around her, standing upright in their aprons. When she had loaded all her washing up, she made for the door where her children were waiting.

  ‘That’s two hours: two sous,’ said the manageress, stopping her from behind the booth where she was already reinstalled.

  Why two sous? At first, Gervaise didn’t understand that she was being asked for the fee for her washing. Then she handed the money over and, limping badly under the weight of the wet clothes hanging from her shoulder, water dripping off her, with a bruise on her elbow and her cheek bleeding, she went off, leading Etienne and Claude by her bare arms. They trotted along beside her, still shaking and tear-stained.

  After she had gone, the wash-house reverted to its usual sound – like a vast lock on a canal. The women had eaten their bread and drunk their wine, so they beat all the harder, their faces lit up with merriment at the dust-up between Gervaise and Virginie. All along the tubs there was a renewed thrashing of arms, and the angular profiles of puppets bent double, with twisted shoulders, bending jerkily as though on hinges. The chatter went on the whole length of the aisles, voices, laughter and obscenities mingling with the great gargling sound of water. The taps sputtered, sheets of water slopped over the buckets and a river ran under the washboards. This was the hard part of the afternoon, when the washing was battered into submission. In the vast hall, the clouds of steam turned red, broken only by round beams of sunlight, golden shafts making their way through tears in the curtains. The air was filled with the warm, stifling, soapy scents. Suddenly, the shed was filled with a white cloud. The huge lid of the copper where the washing was boiled rose up, lifted up a central shaft by a ratchet mechanism, and the gaping hole of the copper, in its brick housing, breathed out clouds of smoke, laden with the sweet smell of potash. Meanwhile, to one side, the driers were operating: piles of clothing, in iron cylinders, were drained of water as the machine turned, panting, steaming, making the wash–house shake more violently with the unceasing work of its steel arms.

  When Gervaise stepped on the path leading to the Hôtel Boncoeur, she started to cry again. It was a narrow, dark alleyway, with a gutter running alongside the wall to carry off the slops; and the familiar stench made her think of the fortnight she had spent there with Lantier, a fortnight of need and angry scenes, which she now remembered with bitter regret. She seemed to be walking towards abandonment.

  Upstairs, the room was bare, filled with sunlight through the open window. This sun, this sheet of dancing, golden dust, showed up dreadfully the black ceiling and the peeling wallpaper. The only thing hanging by the mantelpiece now was a woman’s small scarf, twisted like a piece of string. The children’s bed had been pulled into the middle of the room, revealing the chest in which the drawers, all pulled out, exhibited their emptiness. Lantier had washed and finished off the pomade, two sous’ worth of it in a playing card. The bowl was still full of the soapy water in which he had washed his hands. And he had left nothing behind: the corner where the trunk had been seemed like a vast emptiness to Gervaise. She couldn’t even find the little round mirror that had hung on the window catch. At this, a suspicion occurred to her and she looked on the mantelpiece: Lantier had taken the pawn tickets; the pink packet was no longer there, between the ill–matched metal candlesticks.

  She hung her washing on the back of a chair and stood there, turning round, examining the furniture, and so bewildered that the tears no longer came. She still had one sou out of the four she had kept back for the washing. Then, hearing a laugh from the direction of the window (where Etienne and Claude had already got over their distress), she went across, put her arms round their necks and was lost in thought for a moment as she stared at the grey thoroughfare, on which that same morning she had watched the working people and the mighty machine of Paris as they came to life. Now, the road had been warmed up by the day’s labours and cast a burning haze over the city, behind the boundary wall. It was on to those stones, into that furnace, that she was being thrown, all alone except for her children. And she looked along the outer boulevards, first right, then left, pausing at either end, seized by an obscure sense of terror, as though her life, from now on, would be confined to this space, between an abattoir and a hospital.

  CHAPTER 2

  Three weeks later, at around half-past eleven on a bright, sunny day, Gervaise and Coupeau, the roof-worker, were taking a plum brandy together at Old Colombe’s drinking den.1 Coupeau had been smoking a cigarette on the pavement outside and insisted that she join him as she was crossing the street, on her way back from delivering some washing; and her large, square, washerwoman’s basket was on the floor next to her, behind the little zinc-topped table.

  Old Colombe’s drinking den was on the corner of the Rue des Poissonniers and the Boulevard de Rochechouart. The sign outside bore only one word, in long blue letters that extended from one end to the other: DISTILLERY. Beside the door, in two halves of a brandy cask, were some dusty oleanders. The huge counter, with its rows of glasses, its water fountain and its pewter measuring cups, lay to the left as one came in; and all around it, the vast drinking-hall was decorated with large casks, painted light yellow and glistening with varnish, their copper hoops and taps shining. Higher up, on shelves, bottles of liqueur, jars of fruit and all kinds of neatly ranged flasks hid the walls and reflected their bright splashes of apple green, pale gold and mauve back from the mirror behind the counter. But the most unusual feature of the establishment, in a yard at the back of the saloon, behind an oak fence and glass windows, was the still itself, which the customers could see at work: long-necked retorts and coils disappearing und
erground – a devil’s kitchen for workmen to come and gaze at in an alcoholic stupor.

  Now, around lunch-time, the saloon was empty. Old Colombe, a stocky forty-year-old in a sleeved waistcoat, was serving a little girl of about ten who wanted four sous’ worth of liquor in a cup. A wide beam of sunlight was pouring through the door, warming the wooden floor, which was always damp where smokers had spat on it. And, from the counter, from the barrels, from everywhere in the room, rose a haze of alcohol that seemed to bloat and intoxicate the motes of dust dancing in the sun.

  Meanwhile, Coupeau was rolling another cigarette. He was very clean, in a workman’s smock and a little blue linen cap, laughing and showing a set of white teeth. He had a prominent lower jaw, a slightly flattened nose and fine brown eyes, giving him the look of a contented, good-natured dog. His mop of curly hair stood up on end and his skin still had the softness of a 22-year-old. Gervaise was opposite him, in a black bombazine camisole, bareheaded, eating the last of her plum, holding it by the stalk with the tips of her fingers. They were near the street, at the first of the four tables lined up beside the barrels, in front of the counter.

  When the roofer had finished lighting his cigarette, he put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, looking at the young woman for a while without speaking; that day, the pretty blonde’s face had the milky transparency of fine porcelain. Then, referring to something that was known only to the pair of them, something that they had discussed earlier, he asked simply, in a hushed voice:

  ‘So, is it no? Are you telling me no?’

  ‘Of course I’m saying no, Monsieur Coupeau,’ Gervaise answered calmly, with a smile. ‘I hope you’re not going to talk about something like that here. You did promise me you’d behave… If I’d known, I wouldn’t have accepted your offer of a drink.’

  He made no answer to this, but went on staring at her, with a gaze of bold, pleading tenderness, enchanted particularly by the corners of her lips, pale pink in colour and slightly moist, through which, when she smiled, one might glimpse the bright red of her mouth. Even so, she did not shrink back but remained placidly affectionate towards him. After a pause, she went on:

  ‘You can’t be serious, anyhow. I’m an old woman. I’ve got a great lad of eight years old… What would we be doing together?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Coupeau muttered, with a wink. ‘And what do other people do?’

  She shrugged in irritation.

  ‘Oh, I suppose you think it’s all fun and games! One can easily see that you’ve never lived with anybody… No, Monsieur Coupeau, I’ve got serious things to consider. Nothing comes of just fooling around, believe me. I have two mouths at home to feed, and I tell you, they’re not easily satisfied! How do you expect me to bring up my family, if I spend my time frolicking about? And, in any case, my misfortune has taught me a proper lesson. I haven’t got a lot of use for men right now. It will be some time before another of you gets his claws into me.’

  She put all this very sensibly and coldly, without anger, as though she had been explaining a technical matter, such as the reason why she would not starch a scarf. Clearly, she had worked it all out in her head, after careful consideration.

  Coupeau answered feelingly: ‘What you say hurts me – hurts me very much.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it does,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sorry about that, Monsieur Coupeau… You mustn’t take it to heart. If I had any thought of amusing myself, why, I dare say it would be with you I’d do it, rather than anyone else. You look like a nice boy and you’re kind. We’d get together – why not – and see how things went. I’m not putting on airs, I’m not saying it might not have happened… But what’s the use, since I’m not interested? I’ve been at Madame Fauconnier’s for three days now. The kids are going to school, I’m working, I’m happy… So it’s best to stay as we are, isn’t it?’

  She bent down to pick up her basket.

  ‘You’re keeping me here talking, and the boss must be waiting for me. Come on, now, Monsieur Coupeau: you’ll find someone else, prettier than me, who doesn’t have a couple of kids in tow.’

  He looked at the clock, reflected in the mirror, and made her sit down again, exclaiming:

  ‘Hang on! It’s only twenty-five to twelve. I’ve got another twenty-five minutes yet… You don’t expect me to do anything silly, do you? We’ve got the table between us… Do you hate me so much that you won’t even stop for a little chat?’

  She put her basket down again, not wanting to seem rude, and they carried on talking like old friends. She had eaten before going out with her washing and he had wolfed down his soup and his piece of beef that day so that he could come out and wait for her. Gervaise talked to him amicably, while observing the bustle of the street through the window, between the jars of fruit in brandy: the lunch-hour had brought an exceptional crush of people out, so that on each pavement, compressed in the narrow space between the houses, there was a hurrying of feet, a swinging of arms, and endless elbowings. Latecomers, men who had been held up at work, their faces grim with hunger, crossed the road in great strides to get to the baker’s shop on the opposite side; and when they re-emerged, with a pound loaf of bread under their arms, it was to go three doors further down, to the Veau à Deux Têtes, to get the set meal for six sous. Next door to the baker’s there was also a greengrocer’s where they sold chips and mussels with parsley; a continuous line of women workers in long aprons came out with bags of chips and mussels in cups, while others, pretty girls, hatless, refined-looking, bought packets of radishes. When Gervaise craned her neck, she could also make out a pork butcher’s, full of people, from which children emerged holding a hot breaded cutlet, a sausage or a piece of black pudding on their open palms, wrapped in greasy paper. At the same time, all along the street, which was sticky even in fine weather with a film of black mud under the trampling feet of the crowd, some workmen were already coming out of the eating-houses and strolling along in groups, slapping their thighs, heavy with food, slow and placid amid the jostling of the throng.

  A small crowd had gathered round the door of the drinking den.

  ‘Hey, Bibi-la-Grillade,’2 croaked a hoarse voice. ‘Are you going to buy us a round of mother’s ruin?’

  Five workmen came and remained standing.

  ‘Oh, that old thief Colombe!’ said the same voice. ‘Listen here: we want the really old stuff – and not in thimbles. Give us proper glasses of it!’

  Old Colombe calmly served them. Another clutch of three workers came in. Gradually, the overalls gathered on the street corner, made a brief halt there and eventually jostled one another into the bar, between the two oleanders that were grey with dust.

  ‘You are silly!’ Gervaise was telling Coupeau. ‘You don’t think about anything except smut. Of course, I loved him, but after the lousy way he walked out on me…’

  They were speaking about Lantier. Gervaise had not seen him since, but thought he was living with Virginie’s sister, at La Glacière, in the house of the friend who was going to set up a workshop making hats. In any case, she had no intention of running after him. At first, it had upset her terribly – she had even considered jumping in the river – but now she had talked herself round and everything was for the best. Lantier used up money at such a rate that perhaps she could never have brought up the children at all with him. If he felt like coming to give Claude and Etienne a kiss, she wouldn’t slam the door in his face, but as far as she herself was concerned, she would rather be hacked to pieces than let him lay a finger on her. She said all this to herself as a woman whose mind was made up and had her life properly sorted out, while Coupeau, refusing to abandon his desire for her, joked, found suggestive double meanings in everything and asked her crude questions about her relations with Lantier, but so light-heartedly – with those white teeth of his – that she couldn’t be offended by it.

  ‘You were the one who used to beat him,’ he said, at last. ‘Oh, you’re a hard case! You’ve got the whip out for e
verybody!’

  She interrupted with a long laugh. It was true, too, that she had given that great brute Virginie a good whipping. She would happily have strangled somebody that day. And she started to laugh even more loudly when Coupeau told her that Virginie, mortified at having revealed everything she owned, had just left the neighbourhood. Yet Gervaise’s face still had the softness of a child’s, and she stretched out her chubby hands, saying two or three times that she wouldn’t hurt a fly: she knew about hard knocks only because she had had a few of them already in her life. This led her to speak about her younger days in Plassans. She hadn’t slept around at all. Men got on her nerves: when Lantier took her, she was fourteen and thought it was nice, because he called himself her husband and she thought they were playing mothers and fathers. Her only weakness, she assured him, was being too sensitive, liking everyone and falling for people who afterwards made life a misery for her. For example, when she loved a man, she didn’t think about fooling around, but only of their living together always and being very happy.

  And when Coupeau sniggered and mentioned her two children, which she definitely hadn’t hatched under the pillow, she gave him a little slap on the fingers and said that, naturally, she was made just like other women, but that it was wrong to think that women were always after that: they thought about the home, worked around the house until they dropped and were too tired, by the evening when they went to bed, to do anything except fall asleep straight away. As it happened, she herself was like her mother, a great worker who died in harness, after serving as a pack-animal for old Macquart for more than twenty years. She was still thin, while her mother had been built like a battering-ram, but all the same they had the same passion for devoting themselves to someone. Even if she did limp a little, she took after the poor woman in that too, because Macquart used to beat her mother up.3 A hundred times, her mother had told her about nights when her father had come back drunk and made love to her so violently that she felt bruised and battered all over; and it was surely on one of those nights that they had conceived Gervaise, with her crippled leg.