Pot Luck

by Emile Zola

  The priest and Doctor Juillerat were slowly descending the stairs. They had heard all this too. Then came a great calm; the courtyard was empty, the staircase deserted. The doors seemed hermetically sealed; not a window-blind stirred, each apartment was shrouded in majestic silence.

  In the doorway the priest stopped, as if exhausted.

  ‘What miseries!’ he murmured sadly.

  The doctor, nodding, answered:

  ‘Such is life!’

  They were wont to make remarks of this sort as they came away together from the chamber of birth or of death. Despite their opposed beliefs, they occasionally agreed upon the subject of human frailty. Both shared the same secrets; if the priest heard the ladies’ confessions, the doctor, for the last thirty years, had attended the mothers in their confinements while prescribing for the daughters.

  ‘God has forsaken them,’ said the priest.

  ‘No,’ replied the doctor; ‘don’t drag God into it. It’s a question of bad health or bad upbringing, that’s all.’

  Then, going off at a tangent, he began violently to abuse the Empire; under a republic things would surely be better. And amid all this rambling talk, the vague generalizations of a man of mediocre intelligence, there came a few acute remarks of the experienced physician thoroughly familiar with all his patients’ foibles. He did not spare the women, some of whom were brought up as dolls and were made either corrupt or crazy thereby, while others had their feelings and passions perverted by hereditary neurosis; if they sinned, they sinned vulgarly, foolishly, without desire as without pleasure. Nor was he more merciful to the men—fellows who merely ruined their constitutions while hypocritically pretending to lead virtuous and godly lives. And in all this Jacobin frenzy one heard, as it were, the inexorable death-knell of a whole class, the collapse and putrefaction of the bourgeoisie, whose rotten props were cracking beneath them. Then, getting out of his depth again, he spoke of the barbarous age, and foretold an era of univeral bliss.

  ‘I’m really far more religious than you are,’ he declared in conclusion.

  The priest seemed to have been listening silently. But he had heard nothing, being completely absorbed in his own mournful meditations. After a pause, he murmured:

  ‘If they are unconscious of their sin, may Heaven have mercy upon them!’

  Then, leaving the house, they walked slowly along the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. Fear that they had said too much kept them silent, for they both needed to be discreet in their positions. At the end of the street they spotted Madame Hédouin, who smiled at them from the door of the Ladies’ Paradise. Octave stood close behind her and smiled too. That very morning, after a serious discussion, they had decided to get married. They were going to wait until the autumn. And they were both very glad that the matter had at last been settled.

  ‘Good day, Father,’ said Madame Hédouin gaily. ‘Always on the go, eh, doctor?’

  And as he told her how well she was looking, she added:

  ‘Ah, if you only had me as a patient, you wouldn’t do much business!’

  They stood chatting for a moment. When the doctor mentioned Marie’s confinement, Octave seemed glad to know that his former neighbour had got over it safely. And when he heard that number three was a girl too, he exclaimed:

  ‘So her husband can’t manage a boy, can he? She was hoping to get Monsieur and Madame Vuillaume to put up with a boy; but they’ll never stand another girl.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said the doctor. ‘They’ve both taken to their bed; the news upset them so much. And they’ve sent for a solicitor, so that their son-in-law won’t inherit a stick of their furniture even.’

  Then there was more joking. But the priest remained silent and kept his eyes on the pavement. Madame Hédouin asked if he was unwell. Yes, he was very tired; he was going to rest for a little while. Then, after a cordial exchange of good wishes, he walked down the Rue Saint-Roch, still accompanied by the doctor. At the church-door the latter abruptly said: ‘Bad sort of patient, that, eh?’

  ‘Who?’ asked the priest in some surprise.

  ‘The lady who sells the calico. She doesn’t care a damn for either of us. No religion wanted there, nor medicine either. There’s not much to be got out of folk like that, who are always well!’

  With that he went off, while the priest entered the church.

  A bright light fell through the broad windows, their white panes edged with yellow and pale blue. There was no sound, no movement in the deserted nave; marble facings, crystal chandeliers, and gilded pulpit, all slumbered in the peaceful light. In its drowsy tranquillity it might have been some bourgeois drawing-room, with the furniture covers removed for a grand evening party. A solitary woman, in front of the chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Dolours, stood watching the guttering tapers, which emitted a smell of melted wax.

  The priest thought of going straight up to his room. Yet, so great was his agitation that he felt impelled to enter the church and remain there. It was as if God was calling to him, vaguely and in a far-off voice, so that he could not clearly hear the summons. He slowly crossed the church, striving to read the thoughts that arose within him and allay his fears, when suddenly, as he passed behind the choir, an unearthly sight made his whole being tremble.

  Behind the lily-white marble of the Lady chapel and the chapel of the Adoration, with its seven golden lamps, golden candelabra, and golden altar glittering in the aureate light from some gold-stained windows, there in this mystic gloom, beyond this tabernacle, he saw a tragic apparition, the enactment of a drama, harrowing yet simple. It was Christ nailed to the cross between the Virgin and Mary Magdalene, who wept at His feet. The white statues, lighted from above and set in sharp relief against the bare wall, seemed to be moving forward and growing larger, making this human tragedy in its blood and tears the divine symbol of eternal sorrow.

  The priest, utterly overcome, fell to his knees. It was he who had whitened that plaster, contrived that method of lighting, and prepared so appalling a scene. Now that the hoarding was removed and the architect and workmen gone, it was he who was the first to be thunderstruck at the sight. From that austere, terrible Calvary there came an overpowering breath. It seemed as if God was passing over him, and he bowed beneath the breath of His nostrils, tortured by doubts, by the terrible thought that perhaps he was a bad priest.

  Oh, Lord! Had the hour come when the sores of this festering world would no longer be hidden by the mantle of religion? Was he no longer to help the hypocrisy of his flock, nor always be there, like some master of ceremonies, to regulate its vices and follies? Should he let it all collapse, even at the risk of burying the Church itself in the ruins? Yes, such was his command, no doubt, for the strength to probe human misery yet deeper was forsaking him, and he felt consumed by utter impotence and disgust. All the abominations he had witnessed during the day seemed to choke him, and with outstretched hands he craved forgiveness—forgiveness for his lies, his base complacency and time-serving. Dread of God’s wrath seized hold of him; he seemed to see God disowning him, forbidding him to take His name in vain, a jealous God bent on the destruction of the guilty. All his worldly airs of tolerance vanished before such searing stabs of conscience. All that remained to him was the faith of the believer—a faith shaken, terror-struck, struggling in the uncertainty of salvation. Oh, Lord God! what road should he take? What should he do amid this festering society, which brought infection even to its priests?

  Then Father Mauduit, as he gazed up at the Calvary, burst into tears. He wept, just as the Virgin and Mary Magdalene wept; he wept for truth which was dead, for Heaven which was void. Beyond the marble walls and gleaming jewelled altars, the huge plaster Christ had no longer a single drop of blood in its veins.

  XVIII

  It was in December, after she had been in mourning for eight months, that Madame Josserand consented for the first time to dine out. The Duveyriers had invited her, so it was almost a family dinner, to celebrate the resumption of Cloti
lde’s Saturday receptions. The day before Adèle had been told that she would have to go down and help Julie with the washing-up. When giving parties these good ladies were in the habit of lending each other their servants in this way.

  ‘And above all, try and put some go into it,’ was Madame Josserand’s advice to her maid. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you lately. You’re as limp as a rag. Yet you’re plump enough.’

  The fact was, Adèle was nine months pregnant. For a long time she had thought she was getting fat, and this had surprised her somewhat. Famished as she always was, it enraged her when madame triumphantly pointed to her in front of all her guests, saying that if anyone accused her of rationing her servant’s food they could come and see what a great glutton she was; her belly hadn’t got as round as that by licking the walls, had it? When the dull-witted girl finally became aware of her misfortune, she was often within an ace of telling her mistress the truth, for the latter took every advantage of her condition to make all the neighbours think that at last she was feeding her up.

  From that moment, however, she became mad with fear. Within her dull brain surged up all the crude fancies of her native village. She believed herself lost, that the gendarmes would come and carry her off, if she confessed that she was pregnant. Then all her low cunning was employed to hide her condition. She concealed her feelings of sickness, her intolerable headaches, and her terrible constipation, though more than once, when mixing sauces by the kitchen fire, she thought she was about to drop down dead. Fortunately it was her hips that grew big, and her belly, though widening, did not stick out too much, so that madame never suspected anything when exultant at her astounding plumpness. Moreover, the wretched wench squeezed in her waist until she could scarcely breathe. Her belly seemed to her fairly well-proportioned, though it felt awfully heavy when she was scrubbing the kitchen. The last two months had been months of dreadful pain, borne in stubborn and heroic silence.

  That night Adèle went up to bed at about eleven o’clock. The thought of the reception terrified her. More slavery and more bullying from Julie! And she could hardly stand; her limbs were like jelly! Yet her confinement seemed to her vague and remote as yet; she preferred not to think about it, hoping that, somehow, it would all go away. She had therefore not made the slightest preparation, being ignorant of any symptoms, incapable of recollecting or calculating a date, devoid of any idea, any plan. She was only comfortable when she was in bed, lying on her back. As it had been freezing since the previous day, she kept her stockings on, blew out her candle, and waited until she could get warm. At length she fell asleep, but almost immediately slight pains caused her to open her eyes—faint twinges, as if a gnat were biting her close to her navel. Then the pricking pains ceased and she quickly forgot them, used as she was to all the strange, unaccountable things that went on inside her. Yet suddenly, after half-an-hour’s uneasy sleep, a dull throb woke her again. This time she grew quite angry. Was she going to have a stomach-ache? How fresh she would feel the next day if she kept running to the potty all night long! She had been thinking that evening that what she needed was a good clear-out; her stomach was so tense and heavy. Yet she attempted to stave it off by rubbing her belly, and believed that she had soothed the pains. But within a quarter of an hour they returned with greater violence.

  ‘Blast it all!’ she muttered under her breath, deciding to get up this time.

  Groping about in the darkness for the pot, she squatted down, and exhausted herself in fruitless effort. The room was icy cold; her teeth chattered. After ten minutes the pains ceased and she got back into bed. But soon they returned. Again she rose, and again she tried, without success, going back to bed chilled through. She enjoyed a few moments’ rest. Then so violent was the pain that she stifled a cry. How dreadful! Did she want to do something or did she not? Now the pains became persistent, almost continuous, and more excruciating—as if some hand had roughly gripped her belly from within. Then she understood; and shivering beneath the coverlet, she muttered:

  ‘Good God! Good God! That’s what it is!’

  Birth-pangs tortured her; she felt a need to get up and walk about in her agony. She could no longer stay in bed; so she lighted a candle and began to pace up and down the room. Her mouth became dry, a burning thirst overcame her, while her cheeks grew red as fire. When a sudden spasm bent her double she leant against the wall and caught hold of the back of a chair. Hours passed in this pitiless shuffling up and down. She dared not put on her boots for fear of making a noise. Her only protection from the cold was an old shawl, which she wrapped round her shoulders. Two o’clock struck, then three o’clock.

  ‘There’s no such thing as God!’ she muttered, as if impelled to talk to herself in order to hear the sound of her own voice. ‘It’s too long; it’ll never be over!’

  The process of parturition continued, however; the weight lay now in her hips and thighs. And, when her belly gave her a moment’s respite, she felt there a perpetual gnawing pain. In order to get relief she grasped her hips with both hands, and supported them thus while she swayed about barelegged, with only coarse stockings on up to her knees. No, there was no such thing as God! Religion disgusted her; her patience, her brute submission, which hitherto had made her bear her pregnancy as merely one more misery, forsook her. So it wasn’t enough to be starved to death, and the dirty drudge whom everyone bullied: her masters had to get her pregnant as well! Filthy brutes! She could not say if it was the young one or the old one that had done it. In any case, neither of them cared a damn; they had had their pleasure, while she had to suffer for it! If she went and had her baby on their doormat, that would make them take notice! Then her old fears came back; she would be put in prison; it was best to say nothing. And between two spasms she kept repeating in a choked voice:

  ‘Dirty beasts! How could they do this to me! Oh, my God! I’m going to die!’

  And, with hands clenched, she pressed her hips with greater vigour, her poor aching hips, stifling her cries of pain as she rocked from side to side. Next door no one stirred; everybody was snoring; she could hear Julie’s sonorous organ sound, while Lisa’s breathing sounded shrill and sibilant as a fife.

  Four o’clock struck, when suddenly she thought that her belly had burst. During one of the spasms there had been a rupture of some kind, followed by a flow of liquid, which trickled down, soaking her stockings. For a moment she remained motionless, terror-struck, stupefied, thinking that perhaps in this way she would get rid of her burden. Perhaps she had never been pregnant after all. Then, fearing that she had some other malady, she looked at herself to see if all the blood in her body were not running away. Feeling somewhat relieved, she sat down for a few moments on her trunk. The mess on the floor worried her; and the flickering candle was on the point of going out. Then, unable to walk, and aware that the crisis was near, she had just enough strength left to spread out on the bed an old piece of oilcloth that Madame Josserand had given her as a toilet-cover. Hardly had she lain down than the process of expulsion began.

  For nearly an hour and a half the pains assailed her continually and with increasing violence. The internal spasms had ceased; with all the muscular force of her loins and belly, she kept straining to free her frame from this intolerable weight. Twice more, she thought she should use the potty and her hand stretched out for it feverishly; the second time she could hardly stand up again. Each fresh effort was accompanied by shivering, her face grew burning hot, perspiration broke out on her neck, while she bit the bedclothes to stifle her groaning, which sounded like the grim, involuntary gasp of a woodcutter felling an oak. After each effort to expel, she murmured, as if addressing someone:

  ‘It’s not possible! It won’t come out. It’s too big.’

  With tumbled breasts and legs wide apart, she clutched hold of the iron bedstead, which shook with every spasm. Fortunately it was a splendid birth, a cranial presentation of the normal sort. The head as it emerged kept slipping back again, sucked in by the elastici
ty of the surrounding tissues that were stretched to breaking point while, as her labour continued, excruciating cramps held her in a grip of iron. Her bones cracked; everything seemed to be breaking. An awful feeling came over her that her bottom and belly had burst, forming one hole through which her life was ebbing away; and then between her thighs the child rolled out on to the bed in a pool of viscous bloody evacuations.

  She uttered a loud cry, the wild triumphant cry of a mother. At once the maidservants in the adjoining rooms began to stir, while drowsy voices asked: ‘Hullo?—What’s the matter?—Someone being murdered or raped?—Don’t shout out in your sleep like that!’ Alarmed, she bit the bedclothes again, squeezed her thighs together, and pulled the coverlet over the baby, which cried plaintively like a little kitten. Soon she could hear Julie snoring again after turning over in bed; Lisa was asleep once more; her high-pitched breathing had ceased. Then for about a quarter of an hour she felt indescribable relief, a sense of infinite calm and repose. She lay there as one dead, as one glad to give up life.

  All at once colic seized her again. She woke up in a panic. Was she going to have another? On opening her eyes she found herself in pitch darkness. Not even a tiny bit of candle! There she lay, all by herself, in a pool, with something slimy between her legs that she did not know what to do with. There were doctors for dogs, but not for such as she. She and her brat might die, for all anyone cared. She remembered having lent a hand when Madame Pichon, the lady opposite, was confined. How carefully she was looked after! The child was not crying now. She stretched out her hand and caught hold of a cord that hung out of her belly. She vaguely remembered having seen this cut and tied in a knot. Her eyes had got used to the gloom; the garret was now dimly lighted by the rising moon. Then, groping about blindly, acting by instinct, without rising, she performed a tedious and painful operation. Pulling down an apron from a hook behind her, she tore off one of its strings, tied the cord in a knot, and cut it with a pair of scissors she had in the pocket of her skirt. The effort exhausted her and she lay down again. Poor little thing! She didn’t want to kill it, of course!