Sebastien Roch (Dedalus European Classics)

by Octave Mirbeau

  He felt an urgent desire to confide his happiness to someone, that is, to express it for himself, to render it in some way visible and tangible by material representation. He wrote to his father: a long letter full of feverish, incoherent enthusiasm, marvellous projects and childish foolishness. For the first time, he did not think to write an affectionate word, a message for his friends at home, now forgotten, for Madame Lecautel, Marguerite or anyone else.

  In the days that followed, Sébastien was totally happy. Most important of all, he was no longer alone and he knew himself to be protected from any possible return to unhappiness. He started playing again as he used to at home, taken by Jean de Kerral to play real tennis and other games, in groups where, thanks to Jean, the others put up with him almost affectionately. He found in himself ways to embellish his hours of rest and sleep. With this more intimate, rather than purely physical contact with his schoolmates, with their very different personalities, their dissimilar passions, his mind was constantly enriched with new discoveries, a thousand little insights into other people’s thought processes, which constantly fed his appetite for knowledge and occasionally offered an explanation of his own feelings. His thoughts were now more active, more identifiable with his ego, and became his faithful, infinitely dear companions, vanquishing boredom. Often they carried him off beyond the brutalities of external appearances, into dazzling worlds, to the frontier between the real and the invisible where, by rendering shapes, sounds, scents and movement supernatural, they developed into a kind of unformed, precocious and initially unconscious awareness of the beauty of art and the essence of love. Initiated by his friend into the secret details of what was currently thought to be important, ignorance of which in the past had so distressed and trammelled him, he also became bolder in his relations with other people, and his self-confidence increased. However, he still did not dare to approach Le Toulic because of his over-serious manner and his overly pedantic ways. Le Toulic, an inveterate swot of slow intelligence, reluctant memory and obstinate Breton will, pretended to be interested only in his homework and even spent part of his break with his nose in a book. When he was not studying, he could always be seen clinging to the soutanes of the teachers and supervisors, whom he monopolised as soon as they made an appearance in the playground. Sébastien did not love him any the less, delighting in following his activities from afar, discerning in his serious, grumpy manner some trace of the attractive charm of his two pretty sisters, who had aroused his young man’s instincts when he saw them that evening.

  However, as his intelligence broadened and pale glimmers of light pierced the vast field of his day-to-day observations, as the desire to learn developed in him, he grew ever more disgusted with schoolwork and this disgust grew to the point where the mere sight of his books caused him pain and irritation and almost made him ill. He had to force himself to open them and study them. Corporal punishment: dry bread, detentions, being banned from the walks, and moral punishment: the public shame of low positions in class, actually strengthened this frame of mind instead of reforming it. His reputation as an idle dunce was soon established and it hurt him, but it was something he could not help.

  In children, who, by nature, are keen, passionate and curious, what is referred to as laziness is often merely an awakening of sensitivity, a psychological inability to submit to certain absurd duties, and a natural result of the distorted, unbalanced education given to them. This laziness, which leads to an insuperable reluctance to learn, is, contrary to appearances, sometimes proof of intellectual superiority and a condemnation of the teacher. Such was the case with Sébastien, thought he did not realise it. What he was forced to learn bore no relation to any of his latent aspirations or the germ of understanding that was within him and awaited only a ray of sunshine to draw it out, as winged butterflies from their chrysalids. Once his homework was hurriedly despatched, his lessons recited, none of what remained in his memory made him think, interested him or seemed to concern him; consequently nothing, neither forms, ideas or rules, took root in his brain; and he was happy just to forget it all. He had the impression that his brains was just a succession of paralysing thuds, a cacophony of barbarous words, a senseless montage of Latin words, which he found repellent and whose uselessness oppressed him. There was never anything harmonious or pleasing which might tie in with his dreams, no clear explanation of the things that so tormented him. In the real world there were things which beguiled him, astonished him; there was secret communication between his untutored soul and the things around him; he divined something of the inherent mystery in the world about him, delicious to unveil, of teeming, deliciously diverse life, but they were determined to shroud it all with the thickest and grimiest of shadows. He was torn away from nature, blazing with light, to be transported into an abominable darkness where his spontaneous dreams, his childish discoveries, his enthusiasms were taken and returned to him debased, subjected to ugly deformations, welded on to repellent lies. He was stuffed with distant dates, dead names, vulgar legends whose monotony and horror crushed him. He was escorted through the gloomy cemeteries of the past and obliged to bang his head against empty tombs. They were always talking about battles, savage hordes on the march towards destruction, blood and ruin; they showed him the fearful faces of drunken heroes, undaunted brutes, terrible conquerors, odious and bloody puppets, garbed in animal skins or armour-clad, who symbolised Duty, Honour, Glory, Country, Religion. And over this whole abject, mad hurlyburly of brutal assassins and homicidal gods, above these shadowy horizons, filled with the carnival red of massacres, there was always the image of the true God, an inexorable, colourless God, with a bristling beard, ever furious and thundering, a kind of maniacal, all-powerful bandit, whose greatest pleasure was to kill, and who, garbed in storms and crowned with lightning, travelled howling across space or else lay in ambush behind a planet brandishing his thunderbolt in one hand and his sword in the other. Sébastien refused to admit this bloodthirsty demon as his God and continued to love his own God, a charming God, a pale, blond Jesus, his arms full of flowers, his mouth wreathed in smiles, blessing children, his gaze constant in its boundless goodness and inexhaustible compassion.

  However, he was not completely reassured by this consoling vision. Doubts plagued him and he was haunted by the image of the Jesuits’ extravagant and sombre God. He would then go over all his sins, examine minutely his smallest mis-demeanours, suddenly terrified that this pitiless God might grab him by the throat and plunge him into hell, as he had done, so they said, to many badly behaved children who had not worked hard enough. In class and study periods and when expected to speak in lessons, his brain became heavy, his faculties dimmed, even his voice froze when it was his turn to say something. He tortured his little brain in vain: he could make nothing come out. Neither could he force into it the bizarre ideas contained in this teaching, which perpetuated a more serious version of whimsical stories about ogres and fairies, officially endorsed by the schoolmasters. Sometimes, on Saturdays, to amuse the pupils, the teacher would read out stories about the French Revolution, dramatised tales of the wars in Brittany and the Vendée. Sébastien recognised in them the same monstrous figures as appeared in the text books, the same band of sinister lunatics, the same clamorous warmongering and savage hatred. But this time the names of kings and conquerors were replaced by the terrifying names of Marat and Robespierre; the guillotine played a major role in these tales and was as red with blood as great men’s spears and God’s sword. He did not understand why he was obliged to hate one lot whilst being urged to venerate the others. He listened hard, hoping one day to hear references to Jean Roch, Pervenchères, the church and the donkey, but doubtless this was too small a massacre for it to have any chance of awakening children’s imaginations, accustomed to hearing about so many human hecatombs. As soon as he could escape from those wretched classes, which weighed on him and filled him with horror, he would wander around the yard again and the dreary thoughts soon flew away; he took even more
pleasure in his games, far more precious than all those talks. He even got used to being sent out of class and no longer felt any sense of boredom. Leaning against a tree, he enjoyed watching life humming and bustling around him and, occasionally, he threw pieces of bread for the birds, and the sparrows fought over them so prettily it filled him with delight. In this way he disassociated himself totally from work and soon, without any feelings of remorse, he gave up doing his homework and spent the long hours set aside for study dreaming of gentler, pleasanter things; he conjured up shapes, sounds, visions, now sad, now joyous, according to his mood; he created in his mind a great multitude of poems, through which, naive and unaware though he was, he reached out towards the mysterious life of the Abstract. He also tried, instinctively, to reproduce objects which had caught his eye; he covered exercise books and textbooks with drawings of leaves, branches, birds, boats and the pale face of the teacher who, seated high up, enthroned behind a lamp, enveloped the silent schoolboys with his cold, vigilant stare.

  At this time, of all the religious observances, confession was the one which upset him the most. Whenever he went to confession he felt very troubled, and his heart beat faster, as if he were about to commit a crime. The solemn, shadowy apparatus surrounding this obligatory act, the silence, the darkness out of which emerged a whispered voice terrified him. In that darkness he felt he was witness, accomplice to some unknown enormity, a murder perhaps. The feeling was so acute that he needed all his courage, all his common sense, not to shout out and call for help. Father Monsal was his confessor, a large priest with a red face, nodding head, thick lips and honeyed manner, who embarrassed him with his questions. He interrogated him on his family, his father’s habits, the entire physical and moral setting of his childhood, ripping aside with a brutal hand the veil of intimacy protecting his home, forcing the innocent little creature to inform him of possible vices and probable sources of shame, sifting with a hideous slowness the muddy deposits left in the cleanest of homes, as in the most honest of hearts. Sébastien felt a strained, tense feeling of revulsion towards this man sitting there near him, such as one feels at the sight of certain soft, creeping creatures. He felt that the slow, moist words coming out of that invisible mouth condensed and stuck to his body like slime.

  ‘And do you speak familiarly to your father, my child?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Ah, that’s very bad. One should never do that, it shows a lack of respect. You will cease to do so from now on. And have you a sister, my child?’

  ‘No, father.’

  ‘No. Ah. A cousin, a girl?’

  ‘No, father.’

  ‘No cousin either. Good, good. That is very good my child. But you must be friendly with some little girl at home, hm?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Ah! Good! That’s very dangerous. What is she called?’

  ‘Marguerite Lecautel.’

  He was astonished to have uttered that name in the dismal darkness. It felt like a betrayal, a slander, something horribly vile and low. And Father Monsal’s voice started again, muffled, escaping in little wheezes and gasps, mingling almost imperceptibly with the sound of his rustling surplice and the creaking wood:

  ‘Marguerite? Ah! Now then, tell me my child, have you and she ever touched one another impurely? Tell me, when you are alone, do you sometimes kiss her? Does she sometimes, often, kiss you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘On the mouth? Ah, that’s very serious, that is a very serious sin. Tell me also, do you not go a little further with her, for example, yes, you don’t feel a desire to…Well, I don’t suppose you go a little further together to satisfy a certain need, eh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well now, that’s very good.’

  He mumbled some Latin words; his hand crossed back and forth behind the grille, bestowing vague blessings. Then, very red, close to tears, his skin crawling with shame, Sébastien came out of the confessional, feeling that something of Marguerite’s modesty and virginity had been left trapped between the violating hands of that man.

  At this juncture, he experienced a great disappointment. On the very same day, he had received from his father a letter which was both angry and delighted. Monsieur Roch suffered a great deal to see his son’s bad marks and low position in class; he had hoped for better: ‘I do understand, of course,’ he wrote, ‘that you cannot get a higher position than that, and I do not reproach you for that. It would not be natural that you should be placed ahead of so many wealthy, young people of noble birth. Hierarchy in society is essential and the sooner one inculcates that into children the better. If all Frenchmen were brought up by the Jesuits, we would never have to fear revolution again. The parish priest shares my opinion and says that hierarchy is essential. However, I am saddened, nay, mortified to learn from a letter I received from the Prefect of Studies – admirable, by the way, full of lofty ideas – that you are an idler, that you do nothing, that your teachers cannot get any serious work out of you. I do not ask that you should be top of the class, that cannot be; but I do demand that you work, for I am making huge sacrifices for you, I am being bled dry and I am denying myself everything in order to ensure a superior education for you. And yet look what is about to happen to you …’

  Here Monsieur Roch’s tone became exultant.

  ‘Was I mistaken when I said that you were destined for a brilliant future? You see, you are about to enter an illustrious family. The Kerral family is very famous. The priest and I have searched for it in the annals of our glorious history. It is an historic family. It is mentioned by name everywhere in accounts of the revolution. There is a Count de Kerral who emigrated, was captured in Quiberon and shot in Vannes … in Vannes itself, my dear child! I am very proud of this connection for you. When you visit this great family, above all, behave properly, be very polite and respectful; watch your manners and your language; your clothes should be well-brushed so that I do not have to blush for you. You will offer this noble family my gratitude and sincere respects. So, let this be an encouragement for you.’

  He added:

  ‘Father Monsal is right. As far as paternal authority is concerned, and the development of the idea of family in present and future generations, it is best if children do not speak familiarly to their parents. That is how it is in aristocratic homes. Furthermore, my child, remember this: everything that the Jesuits tell you is founded on reason, feeling and on a very proper desire to protect society. If they are masterly politicians it is because they are also masterly teachers.’

  Monsieur Roch continued in this vein for two long pages of closely-written script, embellished with curlicues and flourishes. Sébastien was reading this letter when Jean de Kerral emerged from the parlour and came over to him.

  ‘Now, you mustn’t get cross with me, because I do still like you, but Papa has told me I can’t take you to Kerral.’

  Sébastien felt a sudden, terrible chill to the heart and, turning very pale, he dropped his letter.

  ‘Just this moment …’ he stammered, ‘my father wrote … because …’

  ‘Yes, well, you see,’ interrupted Jean. ‘Papa pulled my ears and said, “If we listened to this little rascal here, we would have the whole school round.” So anyway, he didn’t want me to, nor did Mama. They asked me who you were. I explained you were an ironmonger and that you get teased because of it, but that you’re very nice all the same and that I had promised to show you my hussar’s uniform. Well, then they forbade me to speak to you at all. They said that you’re not the right sort of company for me, that I will learn bad habits off you, you know, and they started going on at me that I’ve got this mania for attaching myself to tramps. I replied that you’re not a tramp, that you’re not scruffy like Bolorec, but anyway, there you are!’

  Jean looked worried, fidgeting and glancing nervously about him. He started again, jabbering: