Clochemerle

by Gabriel Chevallier

  These blushing maidens, with their fresh bloom and figures already well developed, were an attractive sight at close quarters. Rose Bivaque, Lulu Montillet, Marie-Louise Richôme, and Toinette Maffigue were those most frequently hailed, or occasionally pushed about, by the Clochemerle youths who, moreover, blushed no less than they, and whose anxiety to be tender only made them coarse. But when there was a whole troop of them they were bold enough. On the other hand, the Children of Mary put on airs of excessive prudishness, though they knew perfectly well what they really wanted—not to stay for the rest of their lives wearing the blue ribbon of maidenhood, but for the youths to feel the same flutter of emotion as they did themselves—though the giggling little hussies had really few doubts on the matter. Grouped in a way which enabled them the better to face the young bloods, they passed them arm in arm, twisting themselves about with an air of seeming indifference, and laughing slyly as they became conscious of a fusillade of burning glances which all but set them on fire. Into the semi-darkness of the church they carried with them tender recollections of a face or the tones of a voice which became mingled with the sweet sounds of the hymns. These rude encounters, these clumsy overtures were paving the way for fresh blood, for new stock at Clochemerle.

  Two compartments are a meager allowance when there are three or four poor mortals in extremis at the same moment, and this happened frequently in a community numbering two thousand eight hundred souls, of whom nearly half were males, who alone are privileged to overflow on the public highway. In these cases of urgency, a return was made to the old expeditious methods, which will always retain their value. The men sought relief against the wall, at the side of the little edifice, in all tranquillity and innocence, seeing no harm or offense therein and no reason whatsoever why they should refrain. Indeed, there were some, of an independent disposition, who even preferred to remain outside.

  As for the boys of Clochemerle, they would not have been youths of from sixteen to eighteen years old, with the stupidity characteristic of that restless age, had they not found here an opportunity for certain strange pranks. They vied with each other in making records for height and distance. Applying the processes of elementary physics, they reduced the natural flow and, by thus increasing the pressure, obtained fountainlike effects of a most amusing kind, which compelled them to step backwards. However, these silly pastimes are to be found in every country and at all periods of history; and the men who criticized and blamed them were merely proving the shortness of their own memories. But the good women of Clochemerle, watching from a distance, looked with an indulgent eye at these diversions of a youth insufficiently established in virile functions.

  Thus, with simple merriment, life went forward at Clochemerle in the spring of 1923, without needless hypocrisy, but with a certain Gallic fondness for the licentious jest. Piéchut’s urinal was the great local attraction. From morning till night there was a moving queue of Clochemerle’s inhabitants in Monks’ Alley, each man behaving as age or temperament moved him: the young ones impatiently, with lack of watchfulness and care; the men of maturer age with due restraint in their bearing and procedure; the old men slowly, with sighs and great tremulous efforts which produced but a feeble flow, in intermittent showers. But each and all, youths, grown men, and the aged, as soon as they entered the alley made the same precise preparatory gesture directly designed for the beginning of the business; and the same gesture, which finished in the street, on its completion. This latter was deep and prolonged, accompanied by bendings of the knees, which were preliminary to certain rearrangements of a private nature.

  This gesture, which has remained the same for forty thousand years—or five hundred thousand—which brings Adam and the Ape Man into close relationship with the men of the twentieth century, this invariable, international, world-wide gesture, this essential, comminatory gesture, this, so to speak, powerfully synthetic gesture, was made by the inhabitants of Clochemerle without uncalled-for ostentation, but also without absurd dissimulation, artlessly and without self-consciousness, as they unreservedly made themselves at home in Monks’ Alley. For it would never have occurred to them that any but a strangely distorted mind could have used the alley for unseemly purposes. But this gesture had an element of provocation, when it was accomplished under the eyes of a personage who imagined that it was aimed at her as a kind of challenge, and who, concealed behind her curtain and rooted to the spot by this strange form of enticement, was held fast by its constant repetition. From her window Justine Putet watched these arrivals and departures in the alley. The old maid was spectator of these uninterrupted performances by men who, believing themselves to be alone, attended to their needs with a fine unconcern. It may well be that, reassured by this conviction of their own solitude, they did not observe every precaution that a scrupulous decency would have demanded.

  Enter Justine Putet, of whom it is now time to speak. Imagine a swarthy-looking, ill-tempered person, dried-up and of viperish disposition, with a bad complexion, an evil expression, a cruel tongue, defective internal economy, and (over all this) a layer of aggressive piety and loathsome suavity of speech. A paragon of virtue of a kind that filled you with dismay, for virtue in such a guise as this is detestable to behold, and in this instance it seemed to be inspired by a spirit of hatred and vengeance rather than by ordinary feelings of kindness. An energetic user of rosaries, a fervent petitioner at her prayers, but also an unbridled sower of calumny and clandestine panic.

  In a word, she was the scorpion of Clochemerle, but a scorpion disguised as a woman of genuine piety. The question of her age had never been considered, was never raised at all. She was probably a little over forty, but no one cared. She had lost all physical attraction since her childhood. After the death of her parents, from whom she inherited an income of eleven hundred francs, at the age of twenty-seven, she had begun her career as a solitary old maid, at the bottom of Monks’ Alley beneath the shadow of the church. From that spot she kept daily and nightly watch over the town, whose infamy and license she was constantly denouncing in the name of a virtue which the men of Clochemerle had left carefully on one side.

  For the space of two months Justine Putet observed all the comings and goings in the vicinity of the little edifice, and each day her fury increased. Everything of a virile nature filled her with hatred and resentment. She watched the boys clumsily enticing the girls, the girls’ hypocritical provocations of the boys, and the gradual understandings that grew up between demure little maidens and good honest clodhoppers. Such spectacles made her think that these youthful frolics were paving the way for frightful abominations. More than ever before, she felt that the urinal had become a source of the utmost peril for the morals of the town.

  After a long period of meditation and prayer, the old maid resolved to undertake a crusade, and to make her opening attack against the most shameless of the citadels of sin. Well armed with scapularies and other emblems of piety, and having diluted her poison with the honey of eloquent persuasiveness, she proceeded one morning to the home of the Devil’s minion, that infamous woman Judith Toumignon, her neighbor, to whom for six years she had not opened her mouth.

  The interview was a failure, and it was Justine Putet’s fault; for it was not long before her apostolic ardor completely spoiled every remark she made. It will be sufficient to report the concluding portion of this animated conversation. Having listened to the old maid’s grievances Judith Toumignon replied:

  “Indeed not, Mademoiselle. I see no necessity to do away with the urinal. It does not worry me in the least.”

  “And the odor, Madame, don’t you notice it?”

  “Not at all, Mademoiselle.”

  “Then you will allow me to remark that your sense of smell is an extremely poor one, Madame Toumignon!”

  “And of hearing too, Mademoiselle. So I am not troubled by what people may be saying about me. . . .”

  Justine Putet lowered her eyes.

  “And what goes on in the alley—t
hat does not make you uncomfortable?”

  “I am quite certain, Mademoiselle, that nothing improper goes on there. The men come there for the purpose you know. They’ve got to do it there or somewhere else. Where’s the harm?”

  “The harm, Madame? The harm is that there are disgusting men there, and I see shocking things!”

  Judith smiled.

  “Really, as shocking as all that? You’re exaggerating, Mademoiselle!”

  Justine Putet was in a state of mind which inclined her to believe that she was being continuously insulted. She replied sharply:

  “Oh, I know, Madame, there are some women who are quite undisturbed by these things. The more they see of them, the better they’re pleased!”

  Serenely confident in her own splendid beauty, and with the jealous woman now completely at her mercy, this lovely daughter of commerce said gently:

  “It seems, Mademoiselle, that you yourself look at these dreadful things, just occasionally.”

  “But I keep away from them, Madame, unlike certain ladies not far away whom I could mention!”

  “I should be the last person to compel you to do that. I don’t ask you how your nights are spent.”

  “Decently, Madame, decently! I will not allow you to say—”

  “But I am saying nothing, Mademoiselle. You can do as you feel inclined. Everyone can.”

  “I am a respectable woman, Madame!”

  “Who said you were not?”

  “I’m not one of those shameless hussies, one of those women who make up to every man who comes along. A woman who’s ready for two is just as ready for ten! I’ll say this to your face, Madame!”

  “Ready, you say? Well, one’s got to be asked first. And that’s not a thing you know much about, Mademoiselle.”

  “I have no wish to know, thank you. And I may tell you, Madame, that I am extremely glad not to know, when I see the disgusting way other people degrade themselves!”

  “I quite believe, Mademoiselle, that you don’t wish to know. But it does not improve either your looks or your temper.”

  “I don’t need good temper, Madame, when I talk to creatures who are a shame and a disgrace. Oh, I know all about it, Madame! You can’t take me in, Madame! I could tell a tale or two! I know exactly who goes in and who goes out, and the time they do it. And I could mention the women who give their husbands the go-by. Yes, Madame, I could tell you!”

  “Spare yourself the trouble, Mademoiselle. It doesn’t interest me.”

  “And supposing I wanted to tell?”

  “Very well then, wait a moment, Mademoiselle. I know someone who might perhaps be interested.”

  Turning towards the room behind the shop, Judith called out: “François!” Toumignon appeared at once in the doorway.

  “What d’you want?” he asked.

  With a slight nod of her head, his wife pointed to Justine Putet.

  “Mademoiselle wishes to speak to you. She says I’m unfaithful to you—with your friend Foncimagne, I suppose, who’s always here. So that’s what has happened to you, my poor François. That’s how the matter stands.”

  Toumignon was one of those men who blanch very quickly, and whose pallor is of the feverish kind, of a horrid greenish tint. A dreadful sight to see. He went up threateningly to the old maid.

  “What the devil is she doing here, the old toad?”

  Standing erect, Justine Putet tried to protest. Toumignon would not let her speak.

  “That comes of interfering with what goes on in other people’s houses, you lousy old hag. Mind your own dirty business, and get out of here double-quick, you lump of carrion!”

  The old maid grew pale, in her own manner, a pallor tinged with yellow.

  “Now you’re insulting me! I shan’t let it pass! Don’t you touch me, you drunkard! The Archbishop shall hear of this!”

  “Out you go at once!” Toumignon cried, “or I’ll crush you like a cockroach! Get out, and quick about it! I’ll show you how to insult my wife, you bile-face, you filthy old eyesore!”

  He continued to hurl abuse at her as far as the entrance to Monks Alley. Then he returned, flushed with anger and very proud of himself.

  “I think I managed to shift her all right,” he said to his wife.

  Judith Toumignon had that quality of forbearance which is often met with in voluptuous women. She remarked:

  “Poor woman, she’s suffering from privation. It gets on her mind.”

  Then she added:

  “All this gossip’s your own fault, François. Always asking your Foncimagne here, it gets me talked about. You know how spiteful people are.”

  Toumignon’s anger had not entirely cooled. He gave vent to what remained of it by saying to her:

  “Hippolyte shall come here as often as I want him, by God he shall! I’m not going to have other people running my own house for me!”

  Judith sighed. She made a helpless gesture.

  “You always get your own way, don’t you, François!” she said.

  A woman of exemplary piety, Justine Putet identified herself with all that is most sacred in the Church. The abominable outrage which she had just endured appeared to her in the light of an odious attack on the good cause, with herself as the medium. It filled her with a cold hatred which she regarded as being beyond all manner of doubt an emanation of Heaven’s own wrath, and armed with a flaming sword, she made her way to the Curé Ponosse, bearing her tale of bitter complaints. She pointed out that the urinal was an object of scandal and corruption, a vile sentry box where Hell itself had posted insolent sentries who compelled the young girls of Clochemerle to stray from the path of duty. She told him that the construction of the little edifice was a godless maneuver on the part of a town council doomed to eternal punishment. She called upon him to urge a closer union between all the good Catholics with a view to the demolition of this vile haunt.

  But the curé of Clochemerle had a holy horror of these missions of violence, which could only sow the seeds of discord among his flock. This kindly priest, who had now left all past indiscretions far behind him, adhered to the old French ecclesiastical tradition; he took good care to avoid all confusion between the spiritual and the temporal. It was abundantly clear that the urinal came under the heading of the temporal, and that it was consequently under the jurisdiction of the town council. He could not believe that the useful little edifice had any of the detestable effects on people’s minds of which his uncompromising parishioner spoke. This he endeavored to explain to the old maid.

  “Nature has certain needs, my dear lady, which have been instituted by Providence. Heaven could not frown upon a structure which has been designed for their satisfaction.”

  “It is a method which may have far-reaching results, Monsieur le Curé,” she replied in an acid tone of voice. “The immoral behavior of certain persons could equally be explained by the necessities of Nature. When that Toumignon woman—”

  The Curé Ponosse kept the old maid within the bounds of charitable discretion.

  “Sh! my dear lady. You must not mention names. Errors should come to my knowledge in the confessional and nowhere else, and each person should speak only of his own.”

  “I have every right. Monsieur le Curé, to speak of what is public property. And all those men in the alley who neglect to hide—who show, Monsieur le Curé—who show—everything.”

  The Curé Ponosse, brushing these profane visions aside, restored to them the exact proportion assigned to them by the laws of natural phenomena.

  “My dear lady, whatever instances of immodest behavior you may have chanced to detect were undoubtedly due to the slovenly carelessness of our rural population, and no harm is meant by it. My belief is that these little occurrences—regrettable, I grant you, but rare—are not of a kind to contaminate our Children of Mary, who keep their eyes lowered, modestly lowered, my dear lady.”

  This piece of ingenuousness thoroughly startled the old maid.

  “The Children of Mary, Mons
ieur le Curé, let nothing escape them, I can assure you! I see them at it from my window. I hardly dare to think about them. I know some who would sell their innocence pretty cheaply, or for nothing at all, or for less than nothing, and say thank you for it!” Justine Putet concluded, with a sarcastic laugh. The tolerant mind of the curé of Clochemerle could not admit this supposed permanence of evil. After his own personal experience the good priest had come to the conclusion that the human tendency to stray from the right path is of brief duration, and that life, as it proceeds, disintegrates the passions and scatters them to the four winds of heaven. In his opinion, virtue was a matter of patience. He tried to calm the bigoted woman.

  “I do not believe that our pious young girls are making a premature acquaintance—ahem! even a visual one, my dear lady, with certain things. And even supposing they were—which I do not wish to suppose—the harm would not be irremediable, seeing that it could still be transformed into good by publishing the banns of marriage. Nor would it be without its usefulness—and why not say so!—when one considers that it would be gradually paving the way for our young girls to discoveries which they will inevitably—The mission in life of our dear Children of Mary is to become good mothers of families. If by ill chance one of them happened to anticipate matters somewhat, the sacrament of marriage would quickly put things right.”

  “A fine thing indeed!” Justine Putet exclaimed, unable to restrain her indignation. “So, Monsieur le Curé, you encourage sexual liberties being taken?”

  “Sexual liberties?” cried the curé of Clochemerle, with a gesture of terror, “sexual liberties? By the Holy Father’s slipper, I encourage nothing at all! All I mean is that certain human activities here on earth are carried out with God’s permission, and that women are destined to maternity. ‘In sorrow and travail shalt thou bring forth.’ In travail, Mademoiselle Putet—the question of sexual liberties is far removed from that! Maternity is a mission for which our young girls should prepare themselves in good time. That was what I meant.”