The Diary of a Chambermaid

by Octave Mirbeau

  On the wall of the saddle room he has stuck up pictures of the Pope and of Drumont, in his bedroom, Déroulède’s, and in the loft, Guérin’s and General Mercier’s … ‘Splendid fellows, patriots, real Frenchmen, what?’ He religiously collects anti-Jewish songs, all the coloured portraits of generals he can lay hands on, and every possible caricature of the ‘Yids’, for Joseph is violently anti-Semitic, and belongs to every religious, military and patriotic association in the Department. He’s a member of the anti-Semitic youth movement in Rouen and the old people’s anti-Jewish society in Louvriers, as well as an infinity of groups, branches, cells, and so on. Whenever he speaks of Jews a sinister gleam comes into his eyes, and he makes ferociously brutal gestures. If he has to go into town he carries a club with him: ‘As long as a single Jew remains in France we’ll never know where we are,’ and he adds: ‘My God, if only I was in Paris! I’d kill some of these bloody Yids and tear their guts out! There’s not much danger of any of the traitors trying to set up in Mesnil-Roy. Oh no! They know what they’re up to, the crooks!’

  His hatred extends to Protestants, freemasons and freethinkers, as well as to all the rascals who never go to church and whom he regards as Jews in disguise. Though he doesn’t belong to the clerical party, he is in favour of religion, and that’s that.

  As to the monster Dreyfus, he’d better not think of returning to France from Devil’s Island. Oh no, indeed! And if there’s any chance of that swine Zola coming to lecture at Louvriers, as has been rumoured, the sooner he changes his mind the better for him. They would soon settle his hash, Joseph would see to that. A miserable traitor who, for 600,000 francs, had betrayed the whole French army, as well as the Russian, to the Germans and the English! That’s not just a yarn invented by the gossipmongers. Oh no, Joseph’s quite sure of that. He has heard it from the verger, who heard it from the vicar, who heard it from the bishop, who heard it from the Pope, who had been told by Drumont … If any Jews care to visit The Priory, wherever they look they will see the words ‘Long Live the Army! Death to the Jews!’ inscribed by Joseph in the cellar, in the loft, in the stables, in the coach-house, on the lining of the harness, and even on the handles of the brooms.

  From time to time, by a silent gesture or nod of her head, Marianne would signify her approval of these violent opinions … doubtless she also had been ruined and dishonoured by the Republic. She, too, is on the side of the clergy in favour of putting all jews to the sword—though incidentally she knows nothing whatsoever about them except that something, some part of them, is missing.

  And I, too, of course, am all for the army, for the country, for religion—and against the Jews. For amongst us servants, where will you find one, from the highest to the lowest, who doesn’t profess this fashionable doctrine? You can say what you like about servants, they may have every defect under the sun, but one thing you have to admit, they are all patriots! And it’s the same with me. No, politics are just not my cup of tea, and bore me to tears—and yet, only a week before taking on this job, I had bluntly refused to work for Dreyfus’s lawyer, Labori, who wanted a housemaid. And all the other girls who happened to be in the registry office at the time also refused:

  ‘What? That swine? No, thank you. Not on your life!’

  But if I ask myself seriously why I am against the Jews, I simply don’t know. I’ve worked for them in the past, before it was looked upon as being humiliating. And the fact is I could never see that there was anything to choose between Jews and Catholics. They both have the same vices, the same beastly natures, the same nasty minds. They’re part of the same world, and the difference in religion counts for nothing. Perhaps the Jews put on a bit more swank, show off a bit more, like to make more fuss about all the money they spend. But despite all you hear about their gift for administration and their avarice, I maintain it’s not at all bad working for them, for they run their households on much more free and easy lines than the Catholics.

  But Joseph refused to listen to a word I tried to say. He just scolded me for being unpatriotic and not loving my country, and then, with a final prophecy of the massacres to come and a bloodthirsty description of skulls being smashed and guts strewn about the streets, he went off to bed.

  Directly he’d gone Marianne brought out the bottle of brandy. We needed something to pull ourselves together and we talked about other things. Marianne, who confides in me more and more, told me a bit about her childhood, the difficult times she’d had as a girl and how, when she was working as a skivvy for a woman who kept a tobacco shop at Caen, she was seduced by a medical student … a slim, young lad, small and fair, who had blue eyes and a short, pointed, silky beard—‘Oh, so wonderfully silky!’ She became pregnant, and her mistress, who used to sleep with anyone, all the non-commissioned officers in the garrison, threw her out of the house. A mere girl, down and out in a big city, and a kid coming! As her boy friend had no money she experienced terrible hardship, and indeed would certainly have died of hunger if the student had not eventually found her a funny kind of a job in the medical school.

  ‘Oh yes, goodness me,’ she said, ‘in the Boratory … I had to kill the rabbits and the poor little guinea pigs for them. It was really a nice enough job …’

  And the smile that the memory of it brought to her great coarse lips struck me as being extraordinarily sad. After a silence I asked her:

  ‘And the kid? What happened to that?’

  Marianne made a vague, remote gesture, a gesture that seemed to be drawing back the heavy veil from the limbo where her child slept. And in a voice grown hoarse from drinking, she replied:

  ‘Oh well … you know how it is. What else could I have done with it, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What? Like the little guinea pigs, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right,’ and she poured herself out another glass of brandy.

  By the time we went up to bed we were both a bit tight.

  6 OCTOBER

  Autumn has really come at last. The early frost has turned all the flowers in the garden brown. The dahlias, the same dahlias that witnessed the master’s timid attempt at making love, are all scorched, and so are the big sunflowers that used to stand guard outside the kitchen door. Nothing is left in the desolate flower beds save here and there a few wretched geraniums and five or six clumps of asters, and they, too, are hanging their heads, already touched with the colour of decay. In Captain Mauger’s garden, the borders which I saw just now over the hedge, are completely ruined, and everything is the colour of tobacco.

  Everywhere the trees are beginning to turn yellow and lose their leaves, and the sky is gloomy. For the last four days we have been living in a thick brown fog, that smelt of soot and still hung about, even in the afternoon. Now it is raining, an icy, stinging rain, blown in sudden squalls by a sharp wind from the north-west.

  For me, it is no joke. My bedroom is as cold as ice. The walls scarcely keep out the wind and the rain is coming in through cracks in the roof, especially above the sash windows that shed a meagre light into this gloomy attic and the rattle of loose slates, and the sudden gusts of wind, and the noise of straining beams and creaking hinges is deafening. Despite the urgent need for repairs, I have had the greatest difficulty in persuading Madame to call in the plumber tomorrow morning. And, so far, I haven’t dared to ask for a stove, although, being very susceptible to the cold, I’m sure that if I have to live in this wretched dump throughout the winter it will be the death of me. This evening, in an attempt to keep out the wind and the rain, I have stuffed up the cracks in the windows with old petticoats. But, up on the roof, I can hear the weathercock, forever turning on its rusty pivot, and every now and then letting out such a shrill screech that you could almost think it was Madame having one of her rows.

  Now that I’ve got over my first feeling of revolt, life here has become monotonous and stifling, but I’m gradually learning to put up with it without getting too miserable. No visitors ever come near the place—you’d imagine there was a curse o
n the house—and apart from the trivial incidents I have already mentioned nothing ever happens. Day after day it is just the same; the same jobs to be done and the same faces to look at. Death itself couldn’t be more boring. But I’m beginning to be so numbed by it all that I put up with the boredom as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Even having to do without sex doesn’t worry me too much, and I manage to bear the chastity to which I am condemned; or rather, to which I have condemned myself, for I have given up any designs upon Monsieur Lanlaire. I’ve definitely finished with him for good. He bores me, and I’m fed up with him for being such a coward as to talk about me in that preposterous way to Madame. Not that he’s resigned himself or given me up. On the contrary, he’s continually following me about, his mouth watering and his eyes starting out of his head more than ever. As I read in some book or other once, ‘I am still the trough at which he feeds the pigs of his desire.’

  Now that the days are drawing in, he stays in his study until dinner time, doing God knows what. He spends his time pointlessly going through old correspondence, marking up seed catalogues and chemist’s advertisements, or listlessly turning the pages of books about shooting. In the evening, when I go in to close the shutters or make up the fire, you ought to see him. He gets up, coughs, sneezes, snorts, knocks into the furniture, upsets things, and in the stupidest ways tries to attract my attention. I could burst! But I pay no attention to him, pretending not to understand what all these childish antics are about. Then I leave the room, as haughty as you like, without saying a word and paying no more attention to him than if he was not there.

  Yesterday evening, however, we did have the following brief exchange.

  ‘Célestine!’

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Célestine, you are being very nasty to me. What makes you so beastly?’

  ‘Since you know that I am nothing but a prostitute …’

  ‘Come, now …’

  ‘A filthy tart…’

  ‘Now really …’

  ‘That I’ve got all sorts of foul diseases .. .’

  ‘But for Christ’s sake, Célestine, you’ve got to listen to me …’

  ‘Shit!’

  Yes, it is true. I let him have it just like that, straight in the face … I’ve had about as much as I can stand. It doesn’t even amuse me any more to keep him on tenterhooks by flirting with him.

  Nothing here amuses me—and what’s worse, nothing really annoys me, either. Whether it’s the air, or the country silence, or the coarse, heavy food, I don’t know, but I’m sunk in a kind of lethargy, that has a certain charm all the same. At least it takes the edge off my feelings, deadens my dreams, helps me to put up with Madame’s impertinence and her everlasting nagging. And for the same reason I am beginning to find some satisfaction in gossiping away the evenings with Marianne and Joseph. This strange creature no longer goes out as soon as we have finished supper; he definitely seems to prefer staying at home with us … What if he has begun to fall for me? Well, I should feel flattered. Yes, for God’s sake, I’ve come to that! And then I read a lot, novel after novel. I have been reading Paul Bourget again, but I’m not as keen on his books as I used to be. They actually bore me, and I think he’s a fake. They are inspired by a state of mind that I know all too well, having experienced it when I first came into contact with wealth and luxury, and was still dazzled and fascinated by them. But now I’ve got over that, and no longer find them so marvellous—though Bourget still does. I should never again be so daft as to ask him to explain anything psychologically, for now I know a good deal better than he does what goes on behind drawing-room doors and beneath lace petticoats.

  What I cannot get used to is never getting a letter from Paris. Every morning when I hear the postman, I feel a little pang in my heart at the thought of how completely forgotten I am by everyone. That’s how I measure the depth of my loneliness. In vain I have written to my old companions, especially to Monsieur Jean … urgent, heartbroken letters. In vain I beg them to think of me, to do something to get me away from this hole, to find me some kind of a job in Paris, however humble. But not one of them has replied. I could never have believed people would be so heartless, so lacking in gratitude.

  And this is what makes me cling all the more tightly to what I have left: my memories, and the past. Memories in which, despite everything, the happiness outweighs the suffering … a past that restores my faith that I am not yet done for, that it is just not true that one false step can prove to be irremediable. And this is why, when the sound of Marianne snoring on the other side of the partition seems to typify everything I loathe about this place, I try to drown the ridiculous noise with the echo of my past happiness, passionately harking back to that past in order to create out of its scattered fragments the illusion that some future still awaits me.

  As a matter of fact, today, 6 October, happens to be a date that is full of memories for me. Though it is five years now since the drama I am about to describe took place, I remember every detail of it vividly. It was a tragedy that ended in death, the death of a poor, tender, charming creature, whom I killed by giving him too much pleasure, too much life. And in all the five years since his death—a death for which I was responsible—this will be the first time that, on 6 October, I have not put flowers on his grave. Instead, I shall try to make him a more lasting wreath, one that will be better than decorating the wretched patch of earth where he sleeps in the cemetery, because it will cherish and keep alive his beloved memory. For the flowers of which this wreath is made I shall gather one by one from the garden of my heart—a garden that is filled not only with the wilting blossoms of debauch, but where the tall, white lilies of love also have a place.

  It was a Saturday, I remember. At the registry office in the rue Colisée, where, for the past week, I had been coming regularly every morning in the hope of finding a situation, I was introduced to an old lady in mourning. Never in my life had I encountered such a prepossessing face, such a gentle expression and simple manners. Never had I heard such encouraging words, and the politeness with which she greeted me warmed my heart.

  ‘My child,’ she said, ‘Madame Paulhat-Durand (the woman who ran the registry office) has recommended you highly to me. From your appearance, I am inclined to agree with her—your frank, intelligent and cheerful demeanour pleases me. I need someone I can trust, and whose devotion I can count upon. Oh, I know that is asking a great deal—since you don’t yet know me, there is no reason why you should feel devotion for me. I am going to explain to you exactly what the position is … But don’t stand there, child … Come and sit down beside me.’

  If anyone speaks kindly to me, if they do not regard me as a creature belonging to another world, something between a dog and a parrot, I am immediately touched … I immediately feel as though I were once again a child. All my bitterness and hatred, all my rebelliousness miraculously disappears, and I feel nothing but unselfish affection towards those who speak to me with humanity. I know from experience that only those who have themselves suffered can appreciate the suffering of others, even if they are socially inferior to them … There is always an element of insolence and remoteness in the kindness of those who have known nothing but happiness.

  By the time I had seated myself beside her I already loved, really loved, this impressive old lady in her widow’s weeds.

  ‘The situation I’m offering you, my child, is not a very cheerful one …’

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am,’ I interrupted, with an enthusiastic sincerity that did not escape her. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me.’

  And it was true—I was ready for anything. She thanked me with a look of tenderness, and continued: ‘Well, this is the position. Life has not treated me at all kindly. The only one of my family still left to me is a grandson, and his life is already threatened by the terrible illness that killed the others.’

  As though fearing to utter the name of this terrible disease, she indicated what it was by p
lacing her old, black-gloved hand on her chest and, with an even sadder expression, added: ‘Poor child … he is a charming lad, really adorable, and I have set my last hopes on him, for if he were to die, I should be left quite alone in the world. And then what should I do with my life, dear God?’

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she dabbed them with her handkerchief:

  ‘The doctors assure me that he can be saved, that the infection is not yet serious; and they have prescribed a cure for him from which they expect great things. Every afternoon George has to bathe in the sea, though only a quick dip … then he has to be rubbed all over with a horse-hair glove to restore the circulation … then drink a glass of port wine, and finally lie down in a nice, warm bed for at least an hour. The first thing I should want from you, my dear, would be to see to all this. But what you must also understand is that the most important thing of all for him is youth, kindness, gaiety, life. Living with me, these are the things that he misses most. I have two very devoted servants, but they’re old and sad, and a bit crotchety. George cannot stand them. As for me, with my white hair and always in mourning, I realize that I only distress him … and, what’s worse, I know all too well that I often cannot hide my apprehension. Oh, I realize that this is perhaps scarcely the kind of role that a young girl like you ought to be expected to play towards a lad of George’s age—after all, he’s only nineteen, and it is bound to set tongues wagging. But I am not concerned with what other people think. I am only concerned with this poor, sick lad. And I have confidence in you … I am assuming that you are a good woman.’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am,’ I cried, already convinced that I could be the kind of saint that this broken-hearted grandmother was hoping to find.

  ‘As for him, poor child … In the state he is in, dear God! … Don’t you see, that what he needs most of all, more than the seabathing and all the rest of it, is not to be left alone, always to have someone with him, with a pretty face and fresh, young laughter—someone who can rid his mind of the idea of death, who can give him confidence in life .. . Well, what do you think?’