Thérèse Raquin: Morality in the Animal Kingdom
Topic: The role of animal behavior in developing a theme of amorality in Emile Zola’s Thérèse Raquin.
We wage war against what is evil and go to the gallows for the conviction that our cause is good. But ultimately, does morality exist? Emile Zola addresses this question in his novel, Thérèse Raquin, within which he traces the fate of two murderers as they seek peace from the ghost of their victim, Camille. Zola uses Thérèse, Laurent, Camille, the absence of guilt, and the lack of free will in the text to suggest that humans are nothing more than animals, and therefore morality does not apply to them.
Zola’s first contention is that humans are animals, and he develops several characters with this belief in mind. For example, Thérèse’s sexual appetite reveals the beast within. A mere few days after she meets Laurent, “[s]he g[ives] herself to him without reserve” (Zola 36). Indeed, she cannot restrain those “violent urges” (43) when the two of them are alone. Even before the young girl met her lover, she would give into “violent fits of passion” (17). By reiterating the volatile nature of Thérèse’s fits, Zola seems to imply that her emotions and desires have a will of their own, and when Laurent arrives, she is powerless against the pull of her flesh - much like a lioness who, when mating time arrives, cannot resist. This comparison is apt in light of the fact that Thérèse, cooped up for years with Camille in his tiny room, moved “with a feline suppleness” (15). Zola uses this phrase to suggest that behind Thérèse’s “appearance of calm” (17) lies a “mass of energy and passion” (16) that comes to fruition in the life of a stalking, seductive feline. Her person and character may therefore be summarized as a woman lying “flat on her stomach like an animal...ready to pounce” (16) on Camille, on Madame Raquin, and eventually, on Laurent himself.
Much like his partner, Laurent’s lust underscores his animal nature. When Thérèse first unveils herself, “the physical pain” of desire that overtakes him “bec[omes] intolerable” (Zola 36). Zola’s point here is that for Laurent, resisting sexual temptation is ultimately futile; like an animal, the desires of the flesh overpower all else. Moreover, Laurent “wallows in a state of contentment at the satisfaction of his desires” (43), with no thought of anything more. For example, when Mme Raquin asks him what he plans to do with his life, he informs her that his “father’s sure to die one of these days”, and then he can live a carefree life (28). More than anything else, this passage reveals the bankruptcy of Laurent’s heart. Zola implicitly suggests that Laurent is void of emotion or concern for others, possessing a nature that is solely “lustful, like an animal” (43). Laurent cares for nothing, seeks nothing, and truly is nothing more than that fundamental drive for pleasure and relaxation. Nothing else matters to him, including his own father. In this way, he descends even lower than the animals.
In addition to lust, Laurent’s emotional response in the aftermath of Camille’s death hints at the beast within. As soon as Laurent believes that he will escape the eyes of the law, “an animal satisfaction” (68) fills him up. Zola draws an image of Laurent as the lion standing amidst the pride, his kill at his feet. The emotional response of either hunter is the same: a beast, satisfied.
Camille joins Laurent and Thérèse among the mammals. His mental capacity in particular points to his simplistic, primitive mind. When his mother would bore him, he would “throw himself with delight into a meaningless occupation” (Zola 140) as a cloth merchant’s clerk. He spends meaningless day after meaningless day working away at his “mindless task” (14). Not only does he live willingly with this life; he enjoys it. Thoughts of something more - the philosophical, the existential - fail to entertain him. His mind, it seems, is an animal’s mind. Moreover, in his death, Camille’s true nature shines through. “With the instinct of a struggling animal” (62), he grasps onto the last threads of his meager existence. Zola uses this particular phrase to emphasize that Camille has nothing more to his person than that fundamental instinct to survive. Such is what dragged him through his sickly childhood, and it is what keeps him clinging to his little life of ragdolls and falsehoods. The animal must survive.
The above exploration, however, is only half of Zola’s argument. His second contention is more presupposed than argued for: morality does not apply to animals. Nevertheless, two arguments for this thesis run throughout the text: (i) the absence of guilt, and (ii) the lack of free will.
With respect to (i), no character ever hints at feelings of remorse. Turning first to Laurent, when the house cat passes him one evening, “[h]e told himself that the cat...knew about the crime” (Zola 180) and would sell him out. So he picks it up and throws it against a brick wall. It is striking that while fear may torment Laurent, guilt is nowhere to be seen. Moreover, “[o]nly… [Laurent’s] tense nerves and his trembling flesh” (124) feel the effects of murder. In other words, his guilt is purely physical. Nothing affects his conscience simply because he is “oblivious of duty” (43). It is not that Laurent understands the dictates of morality but refuses to acknowledge them; rather, he has no concept of right and wrong altogether and therefore cannot repent of any wrongdoing.
Thérèse, like Laurent, has no genuine sense of moral obligation. When she finds herself in a particularly weak state, she “pretend[s] that she…[sees] a hint of mercy in the eyes of [Mme Raquin, the mother of Camille]” (Zola 168), and begs for forgiveness. However, she seeks Mme Raquin’s forgiveness, not because she wants to be forgiven, but because she wants the ghost of Camille to stop haunting her waking life. Thérèse believes that if the old woman forgives her, she might have peace. Morality and repentance have nothing to do with it. By crafting his characters with a near total lack of conscience, Zola suggests that moral duty is foreign to the world Laurent and Thérèse inhabit: the animal kingdom.
Regarding (ii), animals do not have free will, and therefore cannot commit immoral acts. A bear may take the fish of another, but it does not steal the fish. Even when a lion kills a man, it is not guilty of murder. In either case, the animals in question can only follow their instincts, and one cannot hold them morally accountable. These thought-experiments and implications are implicit in the text as well. Every main character is a slave to instinct: Therese, a slave to lust; Laurent, a slave to lethargy; Camille, a slave to stupidity; Mme Raquin, a slave to motherly affection. If they are all bound in slavery, then they lack free will and cannot be held accountable for their actions. Doing so would be like holding a tree accountable for falling on a man. Zola himself states as much when he writes that “[n]ature and circumstance seemed to have...driven [Laurent and Thérèse] towards one another” (Zola 43). They do not actually choose to commit adultery; nature determines that it be so, and one cannot blame them for the lives they lived. In short, without free will, the characters throughout Zola’s novel are beyond the scope of virtue and vice, much like the bear who hunts for fish or the hawk who flies away with a rat in its claws.
In summary, Zola develops a two-pronged argument. First, every main character is a beast among beasts: Camille, the pathetic, small-minded creature; Laurent, at the mercy of his passions; Thérèse, driven by lust and hiding a devious lioness. Second, morality has no bearing on the behavior of animals: (i) guilt and remorse do not haunt an animal’s conscious, just as they do not haunt Camille’s murderers, and (ii) animals do not have free will, and neither do Thérèse, Laurent, or any other character. The conclusion here is obvious: morality, as an arbiter of life and conduct, is irrelevant to Emile Zola’s Thérèse Raquin, just as it is in the animal kingdom.
We wage war against what is evil and go to the gallows for the conviction that our cause is good. But ultimately, does morality exist? Emile Zola addresses this question in his novel, Thérèse Raquin, within which he traces the fate of two murderers as they seek peace from the ghost of their victim, Camille. Zola uses Thérèse, Laurent, Camille, the absence of guilt, and the lack of free will in the text to suggest that humans are nothing more than animals, and therefore morality does not apply to them.
Zola’s first contention is that humans are animals, and he develops several characters with this belief in mind. For example, Thérèse’s sexual appetite reveals the beast within. A mere few days after she meets Laurent, “[s]he g[ives] herself to him without reserve” (Zola 36). Indeed, she cannot restrain those “violent urges” (43) when the two of them are alone. Even before the young girl met her lover, she would give into “violent fits of passion” (17). By reiterating the volatile nature of Thérèse’s fits, Zola seems to imply that her emotions and desires have a will of their own, and when Laurent arrives, she is powerless against the pull of her flesh - much like a lioness who, when mating time arrives, cannot resist. This comparison is apt in light of the fact that Thérèse, cooped up for years with Camille in his tiny room, moved “with a feline suppleness” (15). Zola uses this phrase to suggest that behind Thérèse’s “appearance of calm” (17) lies a “mass of energy and passion” (16) that comes to fruition in the life of a stalking, seductive feline. Her person and character may therefore be summarized as a woman lying “flat on her stomach like an animal...ready to pounce” (16) on Camille, on Madame Raquin, and eventually, on Laurent himself.
Much like his partner, Laurent’s lust underscores his animal nature. When Thérèse first unveils herself, “the physical pain” of desire that overtakes him “bec[omes] intolerable” (Zola 36). Zola’s point here is that for Laurent, resisting sexual temptation is ultimately futile; like an animal, the desires of the flesh overpower all else. Moreover, Laurent “wallows in a state of contentment at the satisfaction of his desires” (43), with no thought of anything more. For example, when Mme Raquin asks him what he plans to do with his life, he informs her that his “father’s sure to die one of these days”, and then he can live a carefree life (28). More than anything else, this passage reveals the bankruptcy of Laurent’s heart. Zola implicitly suggests that Laurent is void of emotion or concern for others, possessing a nature that is solely “lustful, like an animal” (43). Laurent cares for nothing, seeks nothing, and truly is nothing more than that fundamental drive for pleasure and relaxation. Nothing else matters to him, including his own father. In this way, he descends even lower than the animals.
In addition to lust, Laurent’s emotional response in the aftermath of Camille’s death hints at the beast within. As soon as Laurent believes that he will escape the eyes of the law, “an animal satisfaction” (68) fills him up. Zola draws an image of Laurent as the lion standing amidst the pride, his kill at his feet. The emotional response of either hunter is the same: a beast, satisfied.
Camille joins Laurent and Thérèse among the mammals. His mental capacity in particular points to his simplistic, primitive mind. When his mother would bore him, he would “throw himself with delight into a meaningless occupation” (Zola 140) as a cloth merchant’s clerk. He spends meaningless day after meaningless day working away at his “mindless task” (14). Not only does he live willingly with this life; he enjoys it. Thoughts of something more - the philosophical, the existential - fail to entertain him. His mind, it seems, is an animal’s mind. Moreover, in his death, Camille’s true nature shines through. “With the instinct of a struggling animal” (62), he grasps onto the last threads of his meager existence. Zola uses this particular phrase to emphasize that Camille has nothing more to his person than that fundamental instinct to survive. Such is what dragged him through his sickly childhood, and it is what keeps him clinging to his little life of ragdolls and falsehoods. The animal must survive.
The above exploration, however, is only half of Zola’s argument. His second contention is more presupposed than argued for: morality does not apply to animals. Nevertheless, two arguments for this thesis run throughout the text: (i) the absence of guilt, and (ii) the lack of free will.
With respect to (i), no character ever hints at feelings of remorse. Turning first to Laurent, when the house cat passes him one evening, “[h]e told himself that the cat...knew about the crime” (Zola 180) and would sell him out. So he picks it up and throws it against a brick wall. It is striking that while fear may torment Laurent, guilt is nowhere to be seen. Moreover, “[o]nly… [Laurent’s] tense nerves and his trembling flesh” (124) feel the effects of murder. In other words, his guilt is purely physical. Nothing affects his conscience simply because he is “oblivious of duty” (43). It is not that Laurent understands the dictates of morality but refuses to acknowledge them; rather, he has no concept of right and wrong altogether and therefore cannot repent of any wrongdoing.
Thérèse, like Laurent, has no genuine sense of moral obligation. When she finds herself in a particularly weak state, she “pretend[s] that she…[sees] a hint of mercy in the eyes of [Mme Raquin, the mother of Camille]” (Zola 168), and begs for forgiveness. However, she seeks Mme Raquin’s forgiveness, not because she wants to be forgiven, but because she wants the ghost of Camille to stop haunting her waking life. Thérèse believes that if the old woman forgives her, she might have peace. Morality and repentance have nothing to do with it. By crafting his characters with a near total lack of conscience, Zola suggests that moral duty is foreign to the world Laurent and Thérèse inhabit: the animal kingdom.
Regarding (ii), animals do not have free will, and therefore cannot commit immoral acts. A bear may take the fish of another, but it does not steal the fish. Even when a lion kills a man, it is not guilty of murder. In either case, the animals in question can only follow their instincts, and one cannot hold them morally accountable. These thought-experiments and implications are implicit in the text as well. Every main character is a slave to instinct: Therese, a slave to lust; Laurent, a slave to lethargy; Camille, a slave to stupidity; Mme Raquin, a slave to motherly affection. If they are all bound in slavery, then they lack free will and cannot be held accountable for their actions. Doing so would be like holding a tree accountable for falling on a man. Zola himself states as much when he writes that “[n]ature and circumstance seemed to have...driven [Laurent and Thérèse] towards one another” (Zola 43). They do not actually choose to commit adultery; nature determines that it be so, and one cannot blame them for the lives they lived. In short, without free will, the characters throughout Zola’s novel are beyond the scope of virtue and vice, much like the bear who hunts for fish or the hawk who flies away with a rat in its claws.
In summary, Zola develops a two-pronged argument. First, every main character is a beast among beasts: Camille, the pathetic, small-minded creature; Laurent, at the mercy of his passions; Thérèse, driven by lust and hiding a devious lioness. Second, morality has no bearing on the behavior of animals: (i) guilt and remorse do not haunt an animal’s conscious, just as they do not haunt Camille’s murderers, and (ii) animals do not have free will, and neither do Thérèse, Laurent, or any other character. The conclusion here is obvious: morality, as an arbiter of life and conduct, is irrelevant to Emile Zola’s Thérèse Raquin, just as it is in the animal kingdom.
Let it be understood, however, at what price this conclusion comes: we can do nothing to change our fate. Much like the ancient Greeks who believed that life was determined by the Fates, so too do we find ourselves in a similar position. No matter the drive in your muscles, the passion in your heart, and the vision of your soul, you can do nothing of your own accord. You have no power and no potential. You make no choices and you make no difference. You are a puppet in this cosmic, marionette performance, the impersonal universe pulling the strings. The tragedy of it all is that you are nothing “but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more” (Shakespeare 179), with all your words and deeds scripted ahead of time. When all is said and done, you are a phantom at the mercy of an uncaring universe. That, more than anything else, is the theme of amorality in Emile Zola’s Thérèse Raquin.
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