The Drinking Den

by Emile Zola

  ‘He was right, that gentleman,’ Gervaise said in the omnibus taking them back to the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or.

  ‘He certainly was,’ Coupeau replied.

  Then, after a minute’s thought, he added:

  ‘But, you know, a little glass now and again won’t kill a man. It aids the digestion.’

  And the very same evening he drank a little glass of spirits for his digestion. But for a week, he did behave very moderately; underneath, he was easily scared and he had no wish to end up in Bicêtre.4 However, the mania carried him away: the first little glass, despite himself, led on to a second, a third and a fourth, so that by the end of the fortnight he was back on his usual daily ration, a pint of gut-rot a day. Gervaise was at the end of her tether; she could have thumped him. To think she had been stupid enough to dream about having a decent life when she saw him in his right mind at the asylum! There went another hour of happiness, the last, needless to say! Well, now that nothing, not even the fear of his imminent demise, could reform him, she swore that she would not bother any more. The house could go to the dogs, she didn’t give a damn. She even muttered that she, too, would start enjoying herself as best she could. And then the hell started again as they sank further and further into the mire, with no chink of light promising any improvement. Nana, when her father slapped her, angrily demanded why the swine hadn’t stayed in the hospital – adding that she was just waiting to start earning some money, so that she could buy the drink for him and kill him quicker. As for Gervaise, one day, when Coupeau was regretting having married her, she lost her temper. So, she’d given him other men’s cast-offs, had she? So, she’d tricked him, with her sweet, innocent air, had she, until he picked her up out of the gutter? By heaven! He had a nerve, that’s for sure! Every word of it was a lie. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, that was the truth. He had gone down on bended knee before she would agree and she’d warned him to think carefully. And if she had her time again, would she say yes? She’d rather lose an arm. Agreed, he wasn’t the first man in her life, but a woman who is hard-working, even if she has been with a man, is worth more than an excuse for a man who soils his own honour and that of his family in every drinking den. That day, for the first time, there was a real stand-up fight at the Coupeaus and the blows rained down so hard that the broom and an old umbrella were broken.

  Gervaise was as good as her word. She sank deeper, missing work more often and chattering away for whole days on end, until she was as limp as a rag when it came to doing anything. If something fell on the floor, it could stay there: she was not the one to bend down and pick it up. She was getting too lazy to draw breath; everything was too much effort. She took life as it came and gave a sweep with the broom only when the rubbish was so high she was falling over it. Nowadays, the Lorilleux would make a great show of holding their noses as they walked past the room: it was disgusting, they said. They themselves continued to live hidden away at the end of the corridor, safe from all the poverty lamenting its state in this part of the building, and shutting themselves in so that they would not have to lend anyone a twenty-sou piece. Oh, they were really generous, good neighbours! Pull the other one! You only had to knock and ask for a light, or a pinch of salt, or a jug of water, and you were sure to get the door slammed in your face. And, what’s more, they told tales. When it was a matter of helping the neighbours, they proclaimed that they never interfered with other people’s business; but they interfered from morning to night when it was a matter of getting their vipers’ teeth into them. Once the door was locked and a blanket had been hung up to block the keyhole and the holes, they would have a feast of gossip, without putting down their gold thread for an instant. Tip-Tap’s downfall kept them purring a whole day long, like stroked cats. How were the mighty fallen: flat on her face, my friends! They would keep watch until she went out shopping, then joke about the tiny piece of bread she brought back in her apron. They worked out which days she went hungry. They knew how thick the dust lay in her house, the number of dirty plates left lying on the table, all the little things that she increasingly left undone, through poverty and laziness. And what about her clothes: repulsive shreds that the rag-and-bone man would not touch! God Almighty! They looked pretty bedraggled now, on that fine blonde, the whore who once used to wiggle her bottom in her fine blue shop! That’s where it got you, a weakness for stuffing yourself, boozing and feasting. Gervaise, who guessed what was going on, would take off her shoes and glue her ear to the door; but the blanket prevented her from hearing. One day, however, she did catch them calling her ‘Big Boobs’, no doubt because she was quite well stacked in front, despite a diet so miserable that the flesh was melting off her. In any case, she didn’t give a damn for them, but went on speaking to them to prevent tongues from wagging, though all she could expect from those bastards were insults, to which she did not even have the strength to reply, turning her back on them instead, the pack of fools. And what the hell? She would do as she liked, stay quiet, twiddle her thumbs and get up when there was some enjoyment to be had from it, not otherwise.

  One Saturday, Coupeau had promised to take her to the circus. Now, seeing ladies galloping around on horseback and jumping through paper hoops: that, at any rate, was worth getting up for. And, as it happened, Coupeau had just done a fortnight’s work and could afford to spend forty sous; so the two of them could even have a meal out, since Nana had to stay late at work that evening for an urgent order. But at seven o’clock, Coupeau was nowhere to be seen; at eight, still nobody. Gervaise was furious. Needless to say, the drunken brute was frittering his fortnight’s pay away with his pals in every wine shop in the neighbourhood. She had washed a bonnet and, since that morning, had been working on the holes in an old dress to try and make herself presentable. Finally, at nine, starving hungry and white with anger, she decided to go out and look for Coupeau.

  ‘Are you after your husband?’ Mme Boche shouted to her, seeing the look on her face. ‘He’s at Old Colombe’s. Boche has just had a cherry brandy with him.’

  She said thank you and stepped out briskly along the pavement, quite prepared to wring Coupeau’s neck. A fine rain was falling, which made the walk even less pleasant. But when she came level with the drinking den, she was suddenly calmed by the fear of getting it in the neck herself if she told her man off, and this made her more cautious. The den was ablaze, the gaslights lit, the mirrors were white as suns, the coloured glass of the jars and phials reflected against the walls. She stayed there for a moment, craning her neck and pressing her face to the window, looking between two bottles on the display until she saw Coupeau at the back of the room; he was sitting with his friends, around a little zinc-topped table, all of them hazy in the blue pipe smoke. And, since their voices could not be heard shouting, it was an odd sight to see them gesticulating, thrusting their chins forward, their eyes bulging. Heavens! Could men really leave their wives and homes to suffocate in some hole like this? The rain was running down the back of her neck; she straightened up and went off along the outer boulevard, not daring to go inside. What? She would have got a fine welcome from Coupeau, who hated being pestered. Apart from which, it didn’t exactly seem to her proper for a respectable woman. But, standing under the rain-soaked trees, she felt a little shiver and, though she still held back, the thought occurred that she was surely catching a nasty cold. Twice she went back and stood in front of the window, pressing her face to it once more, irritated by the sight of those darned tipplers sitting out of the rain, still boozing and shouting. The bright light of the drinking den was reflected off the puddles where the falling rain spotted it with little bubbles. She would run away, paddling through all that, every time the door opened and closed, its brass strips clanging. Finally, she decided it was just too silly of her: she pushed open the door and walked straight to Coupeau’s table. After all, it was her husband she had come to look for, wasn’t it? She had every right, since he had promised to take her to the circus that evening. Too bad! She had no wi
sh to melt away there on the pavement like a bar of soap.

  ‘Hey! It’s you, old girl!’ the roofer cried, stifling with laughter. ‘Well, that’s a good one, I must say! Isn’t that a good one?’

  All of them laughed: Mes-Bottes, Bibi-la-Grillade and Bec Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst). Yes, they thought it was a fine joke, but didn’t bother to explain why. Gervaise stood there, a little stunned. Coupeau seemed in a very good mood, so she risked telling him: ‘You know, if we’re going, we’ll have to hurry. We might still get there in time to see something.’

  ‘Can’t get up. I’m stuck down. No kidding!’ Coupeau said, still laughing. ‘Try, if you want to see. Pull my arm as hard as you can. Now come on, for heaven’s sake, harder than that. Gee up, give it a pull! See? It’s that old rotter Colombe who’s screwed me to the bench.’

  Gervaise had gone along with this game and, when she let go of his arm, his friends thought this such a funny joke that they fell over one another, braying and slapping each other’s shoulders like asses having their hair combed. The roofer’s mouth was split by such a massive laugh that you could see the back of his throat.

  ‘Silly sod!’ he said eventually. ‘You could sit down for a minute. We’re better off here than getting soaked outside. Yes, yes, I didn’t come back, I had some business to finish. And it won’t do any good, making that face. Move over, you guys.’

  ‘If Madame would like to sit on my knee, that would be cosier,’ said Mes-Bottes.

  Trying not to draw attention to herself, Gervaise took a chair and sat down at a short distance from the table. She looked at what the men were drinking, hooch that shone like gold in the glasses. A little puddle of it had spilled on the table and Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) carried on talking as he dipped his finger in it and wrote a woman’s name, Eulalie, in large letters. Bibi-la-Grillade seemed to her dreadfully ravaged, scrawny as a bag of nails. Mes-Bottes’ nose was in full flower, a dahlia the colour of Burgundy. All four of them were very dirty, with their filthy beards yellowing and stiff as lavatory brushes, sporting tattered jackets and reaching with dirty hands and fingernails in mourning. But at least one could still associate with them; for, even though they had been soaking it up for six hours, they were still decent, poised on the brink of total inebriation. Gervaise could see a couple of others standing at the counter, drinking away and so tanked up that they were tossing their little glasses under their chins, drenching their shirts, under the impression that they were swallowing the stuff. Fat Old Colombe, reaching out with two huge arms, which were the law-keepers in his establishment, quietly went on pouring out round after round. It was very hot and the pipe smoke curled up against the dazzling brightness of the gaslights like a cloud of dust enveloping the drinkers in a gradually thickening mist; and out of this cloud rose a deafening, muddled din: broken voices, glasses clashing, explosions of oaths and blows. Gervaise had adopted an aloof expression, because such a scene is not agreeable for a woman, especially when she is not used to it. She felt as though she were stifling, her eyes stung and her head was already heavy with the fumes of alcohol that rose from every corner of the room. Then, suddenly, she had an even more disturbing sensation about what was going on behind her back. She looked round and saw the still, the intoxicator, working away behind the windows of the narrow courtyard in a deep rumbling of its hell’s kitchen. In the evening, the copper vats were duller, lit only by a large red star on their round flanks; and the shadow of the machinery against the back wall outlined abominable shapes, creatures with tails, monsters opening their jaws as though to swallow everyone up.

  ‘Come on, Goody-Two-Shoes, don’t make that face!’ Coupeau shouted. ‘Away with killjoys! What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Nothing, of course,’ the laundress answered. ‘I haven’t had dinner yet.’

  ‘All the more reason. A drop of something will keep you going.’

  She still hesitated, so Mes-Bottes put on a show of gallantry again. ‘I expect Madame likes something sweet,’ he said softly.

  ‘What I like are men who don’t get drunk,’ she retorted, getting cross. ‘Yes, I like someone who brings home his pay and keeps his word when he makes a promise.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what’s bugging you!’ the roofer said, still smirking. ‘You want your share. So why are you refusing the offer of a drink, you great ninny? Take it, you’ve nothing to lose.’

  She stared at him, very serious, wrinkling her forehead, a line crossing it like a dark bar. Then she replied slowly: ‘Well, now! You’re right, that’s a good idea. That way, we’ll drink the money together.’

  Bibi-la-Grillade got up to fetch her a glass of anisette. She drew her chair up to the table. As she was sipping her drink, she suddenly remembered something: she recalled the plum brandy she had taken, with Coupeau, sitting near the door, long ago, when he was courting her. In those days, she would eat the plum and leave the brandy; now, here she was, drinking liqueurs. Oh, she knew herself, she didn’t have an ounce of will-power! You would only have needed to slap her on the back to send her headlong into drink. She was even thinking that it tasted rather good, this anisette, a little too sweet perhaps, slightly sickly. And she sipped at her glass, listening to Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) talking about his affair with big Eulalie, the one who sold fish in the street, a really artful piece who could sniff him out in any wine shop even while she was wheeling her barrow along the pavement; it was all very well for his friends to warn him and hide him, she would often catch him even so, and only the day before she had given him a slap round the face to teach him not to skip work. Now that was funny. Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes, their ribs bursting with laughter, slapped Gervaise across the back until she finally began to laugh herself, reluctantly, as though someone was tickling her. And they advised her to follow the example of big Eulalie, to bring her flat-iron and run it over Coupeau’s ears on the bar-room table.

  ‘Well, thank you very much!’ said Coupeau as he turned the empty anisette glass upside-down. ‘You certainly made short work of that! Have a look, boys: she doesn’t hang around!’

  ‘Another one for Madame?’ said Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst).

  No, she had had enough. Even so, she hesitated. The anisette made her feel a little nauseous; she would like to have had something stiffer to settle her stomach. She glanced back at the intoxicator behind her. That darned cooking-pot, bulging like the belly of a plump boiler-maker’s wife, with its nose sticking out and twisted, sent shivers down her back, a sense of fear mingled with desire. Really, it was like the metal entrails of some old hag, a sorceress releasing the fire from her guts drop by drop. A fine well of poison, so dreadful and outrageous that its workings should have been hidden away in the bottom of a cellar. But, for all that, she would like to get close to it, sniff its odour and taste the filth from it, even if it burned her tongue until the skin peeled like an orange.

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ she asked the men, slyly, her eyes lit up by the lovely gold colour in their glasses.

  ‘That, my girl,’ Coupeau replied, ‘is Old Colombe’s fire-water. Don’t be daft, we’ll let you try some.’

  They brought her a glass of vitriol and at the first sip her mouth contracted; but the roofer slapped his thighs and exclaimed:

  ‘There you are! That strips your throat! Drink it down in one gulp. Each round takes six francs off the doctor’s fee.’

  At the second glass, Gervaise no longer felt the hunger that had been ravaging her. Now, she was reconciled to Coupeau and no longer resented his failure to keep his word. They could go to the circus another day; it wasn’t that amusing to see acrobats galloping around on horseback. It was not raining in Old Colombe’s and even if the money was melting away in fire-water, at least they were getting the benefit, drinking it clear and shining like liquid gold. Oh, the rest of them could go hang! There was not much to enjoy in life; in any case, she felt somewhat consoled at doing her
share of spending the money. Since she felt good, why not stay? They could bang away as much as they liked; she didn’t like to budge once she was settled. She was simmering in the warmth, her blouse sticking to her back, bathing in a sense of well-being that made her limbs go numb. She was laughing to herself, leaning on the table and staring into space, very entertained by two customers at a nearby table, a great hulk of a man and a midget, who were so drunk that they were embracing wildly. Yes, she laughed at the drinking den, at Old Colombe’s moon face, that huge sack of lard, at the customers smoking their pipes, yelling and spitting, and at the great gas flames shining on the mirrors and the bottles of drink. The smell no longer bothered her. On the contrary, it tickled her nose, she was enjoying it; her eyelids drooped and her breath grew shorter as she luxuriated in the drowsiness flowing over her. Then, after her third little glass, she let her chin rest on her hands, seeing nothing now except Coupeau and his friends. She was face to face with them, very close, her cheeks warmed by their breath, looking at their dirty beards as though counting the hairs on them. They were now very drunk. Mes-Bottes was dribbling, his pipe between his teeth, with the serious, silent look of a sleeping bull. Bibi-la-Grillade was telling a story about how he had emptied a litre bottle in a single gulp, bottoms up, without touching his lips.

  Meanwhile, Bec-Salé (also known as Drinks-Without-Thirst) had gone to get the Wheel of Fortune off the counter and was playing Coupeau for the drinks.

  ‘Two hundred! Lucky bastard! You get the high numbers every time!’

  The hand of the pointer grated and the picture of Fortune – a large red woman, under glass – whirled round until there was nothing in the middle except a round blur like a stain of spilled wine.

  ‘Three hundred and fifty! You put your foot on it, you rotter! That’s it! I’m not playing any more!’