The Diary of a Chambermaid

by Octave Mirbeau

  ‘I accept, ma’am,’ I replied, deeply moved, ‘and you can be quite sure that I shall do everything possible to look after your grandson.’

  It was agreed that I should enter upon my duties immediately, and that we should set off next day for Houlgate, where the old lady had rented a fine villa on the seashore.

  His grandmother had not exaggerated, Monsieur George was really a charming lad … His beardless face had all the charm of a handsome woman’s; and womanly, too, were his indolent gestures, and the slim hands, so white and supple, with the veins clearly visible. And what eyes! Eyes that burned with a sombre fire, beneath eyelids ringed with blue shadows as though the flame of his glance had singed them. And what thought and passion they expressed, what sensibility and intelligence, what a profound inner life, despite the red flowers of death that already bloomed in his cheeks … It seemed that it was not the illness he was dying of, but the excess of vitality, the passion for life, that was eating into his vital organs and withering up his flesh. Oh, how charming he was to look at, and how sad! When his grandmother took me to see him he was lying stretched out on a sofa, holding in his long white hand a scentless rose. He welcomed me, not like a servant, but as though I were a friend for whom he had been waiting. And, from that first moment, I felt myself drawn to him by all the strength of my soul.

  My arrival at Houlgate passed without incident. By the time we arrived everything was ready. All we had to do was to install ourselves in the villa, which was spacious and elegant, full of light and gaiety, and separated from the beach only by a broad terrace, with wicker chairs and gaily striped awnings. Leading to the sea was a stone staircase built in the sea wall, so that at high tide you could hear the sound of the waves breaking on the bottom steps. Monsieur George’s bedroom was on the ground floor, with large bay-windows looking out over a fine expanse of sea. Mine—one of the best rooms in the house, with bright cretonne hangings—was separated from Monsieur George’s by a passage that led into a small garden with a few bushes and straggling rose trees. But to express in words the joy and pride, the pure and novel delight that I experienced at being treated like this … spoilt, invited like a lady to partake of all this luxury, to share, as I had so often vainly longed, the life of the family … all this is quite beyond me. Nor is it possible for me to explain how, by a wave of this marvellous fairy’s wand, happiness had suddenly come to me so that, forgetting all my past humiliations, I could think only of the duties imposed upon me by being at last accepted as a human being. What I can say, however, is that in this moment I was really transfigured. Not only could I see from the mirror that I had suddenly become more beautiful, but also I knew in my heart that I was really a better woman. I discovered within myself inexhaustible springs of devotion and self-sacrifice, of heroism even, and I was dominated by a single thought: by my care and faithful attention, by every kind of ingenuity, to save Monsieur George from death.

  I felt so strong a faith in my power to save that I would say to the poor old lady, always in despair and often spending the whole day weeping in the drawing-room:

  ‘There, there, don’t cry, ma’am. You’ll see, we are going to save him … I give you my word, we shall.’

  And indeed, at the end of a fortnight, Monsieur George was already feeling much better. There was a noticeable change in his condition. He had fewer attacks of coughing, and at longer intervals; his sleep and appetite were becoming normal. He was no longer having those terrible night sweats that used to leave him, next day, breathless and exhausted. Indeed, he had so far regained his strength that we were able to take long carriage drives, even to go for little walks, without tiring him too much. In a way, it was like a kind of resurrection. Since the weather was fine and the air, though tempered by a breeze from the sea, very warm, when we did not go out we would spend most of the day beneath the awning on the terrace, waiting until it was time to bathe … ‘to have my dip’, as Monsieur George used to call it. And he was gay, always gay, never referring to his illness, never speaking about death … I really believe that, during the whole of this period, he never once uttered the terrible word. On the other hand, he delighted in my chatter, often urging me on; while I, gaining confidence from the gentle look in his eyes and his kindly indulgence, talked to him about anything that came into my head, however silly or crazy. I told him about my childhood, my longings, my unhappiness, my dreams, my revolts, the various situations I’d been in and the cranky and squalid people I had worked for. And I made little attempt to hide the truth from him for, young as he was and though he had never been able to mix with people, with that insight, that marvellous intuition that sick people often have, he seemed to understand all about life. A genuine friendship had sprung up between us, partly as a result of his character, of his loneliness, but above all as a result of all the intimate little attentions with which I sought to bring comfort to his dying body. It made me happier than I can say, it helped to refine my mind through the continual contact with his.

  Monsieur George adored poetry. For hours on end, lying on the terrace listening to the sound of the sea, or in the evening in his room, he would get me to read aloud to him poems by Hugo and Baudelaire, by Verlaine and Maeterlinck. Often he would close his eyes and lie without moving, his hands folded on his chest, so that, thinking he had fallen asleep, I would stop reading. But then he would smile, and say: ‘Go on, little one, I am not asleep. I can listen to poetry like this and hear your voice better … You have a charming voice.’

  At other times he would interrupt me. Then, after a moment’s thought, he himself would begin to recite, slowly and drawing out the rhythms, the poems that he specially liked, and he would try—oh, how I liked that!—to make me understand them and to feel their beauty.

  One day he said to me, and I have cherished his words like a relic:

  ‘What is so sublime about poetry, you see, is that in order to understand and enjoy it there is no need at all to be highly educated. On the contrary, there are plenty of scholars who just can’t understand it, and often they despise it out of vanity. All one needs to enjoy poetry is a soul … a little naked soul like a flower’s. The poets speak directly to the souls of simple people, of the sad and the sick, and that’s why their words are immortal. Do you realise that anyone with any sensibility already has something of the poet in him? Why, you, my little Célestine, often say things that are as lovely as poetry.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur George, don’t make fun of me.’

  ‘But I am not. And what is so wonderful is that you yourself are quite unaware that you’re saying such beautiful things.’

  For me those hours were unique. Whatever fate may have in store for me, as long as I live, they will sing in my heart. I experienced the sensation, unspeakably sweet, of becoming a new person, of sharing, so to speak, in the revelation of something new, of something hitherto unknown to me which was nevertheless me. And today, despite all my backsliding, despite the fact that the bad and angry side of me has once more gained the upper hand, if I still take a passionate delight in reading, if sometimes I feel an aspiration to things superior to myself and to the world in which I move, if in an attempt to recapture the spontaneity of my nature I have dared, despite my ignorance, to write this diary—all these are things that I owe to Monsieur George.

  Yes, I was happy … happy above all to see this gentle invalid gradually reviving … putting on flesh and getting a better colour as he felt the new sap rising in his veins … happy for the joy and hope that the speed of his recovery was bringing back to the whole household, who began to look upon me as their fairy queen. For this miracle they attributed to me … to the way I looked after him, to my devoted vigilance, and still more, perhaps, to my constant gaiety, to my charming youthfulness and the surprising influence that I exerted over Monsieur George. His poor grandmother was always thanking me, overwhelming me with her gratitude and blessing—like a wet nurse to whom a dying baby has been entrusted, and whose pure and healthy milk has restored it to health, t
o health and laughter. Sometimes, forgetting her position, she would take my hands, stroking and kissing them, and with tears of happiness in her eyes, would say:

  ‘I knew … As soon as I saw you, I was quite certain!’

  And already the air was full of projects, of journeys in search of the sun, of rose-filled landscapes!

  ‘You must never leave us, never, my child.’

  The warmth of her feeling often embarrassed me, but in the end I came to believe that I deserved it. To have abused her generosity, as others might have done in my place, would have been infamous.

  And what was bound to happen, happened.

  On that particular day it was very warm, heavy and stormy. Above the smooth, leaden-coloured sea, the sky was full of huge stifling clouds, in which the storm crouched, ready to spring. Monsieur George did not want to go out, not even as far as the terrace, so we stayed in his room. More nervous than usual, owing to the electricity in the atmosphere, he did not even want me to read poetry to him.

  ‘It would tire me,’ he said. ‘Besides, today I feel that you would read very badly.’

  He went into the drawing-room and began doodling on the piano, but before long he returned to the bedroom and, in an attempt to distract himself, picked up a pencil and started to sketch me. But soon he gave this up, too, grumbling impatiently: ‘It’s no use, I can’t. I’m not in the mood, and my hand is trembling. I don’t know what’s the matter with me, nor with you. You don’t seem to be able to sit still.’

  In the end he lay down on the sofa, by the huge window that looked out over an immense stretch of sea. In the distance, fishing boats, running before the threatening storm, were making for harbour at Trouville. With a listless expression, he stared out at their grey sails manoeuvring in the wind. It was true what he had said—I just could not stay still, but kept fidgeting about trying to think of something to occupy his mind. But I could find nothing, and my restlessness communicated itself to him.

  ‘Why are you so restless, so on edge? Come and sit by me.’

  I asked him whether he would like to be on one of those little boats.

  ‘Don’t talk just for the sake of talking … What’s the good of asking such pointless questions? Come and sit here by me.’

  No sooner had I done so than he complained that the sight of the sea was unbearable, and asked me to pull down the blind.

  ‘This half-light exasperates me. The sea is horrible. I don’t want to look at it any more. Everything is horrible today. I don’t want to look at anything at all except you.’

  I gently scolded him: ‘Now, Monsieur George, you’re being very naughty. It’s not right. If your grandmother were to see you in this state it would make her cry again.’

  Raising himself a little on the cushions, he said:

  ‘In the first place why do you keep calling me “Monsieur” George? You know I don’t like it.’

  ‘Well, I can scarcely call you Monsieur Gaston, can I?’

  ‘You know quite well what I mean, you little wretch. Just call me plain George.’

  ‘But I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t.’

  And he sighed: ‘Isn’t it curious. Do you really want to be a poor little slave for ever?’

  Then he fell silent. And we spent the rest of the day either in a state of nervous irritation or, which was even worse, in silence.

  In the evening, after dinner, at last the storm broke. The wind rose to a gale, and the sea broke against the sea wall with a loud, lifeless thud. Monsieur George did not want to go to bed, because he felt it would be impossible to sleep, and he was afraid of the long night stretching before him. Lying on the sofa, with me sitting at a little table and a shaded lamp shedding its soft pink light around us, neither of us spoke. Though his eyes were brighter than usual, Monsieur George seemed to have become calmer, and the light from the lamp heightened the colour in his cheeks and threw into relief the charming outlines of his face. I was busy with some sewing.

  Suddenly he said to me: ‘Stop working for a bit, Célestine, and come and sit closer to me.’

  I always fell in with his wishes, his caprices … He used to have these sudden outbursts of friendship sometimes, and I attributed them to his feeling of gratitude. Now, as usual, I did what he asked me.

  ‘Closer, come closer to me,’ he said. Then, ‘Now, give me your hand.’

  Without the least hesitation I let him take it, and he began stroking it.

  ‘What lovely hands you’ve got! And your eyes too! Everything about you is lovely, everything.’

  He had often spoken of my kindness, but never before had he told me I was pretty, at least, not in this way. Taken aback, but nevertheless delighted by his words, which he uttered in a serious, slightly breathless voice, I instinctively drew back.

  ‘No, no, don’t go away. Stay close to me, very close. You’ve no idea how much good it does me to have you near me … how it warms me. You see? I’m not nervous or upset any more. I’m not ill now … just content and happy … very, very happy.’

  He put his arm round my waist, and gently pulled me down to sit beside him on the sofa. Then he asked:

  ‘Do you mind being like this?’

  I felt some misgiving, for his eyes were burning and his voice had begun to tremble … the trembling that I know … My God, how well I know it! … the trembling that always comes into men’s voices when they feel the stirring of desire. I was deeply moved, and felt quite weak. My head was beginning to swim. But I was determined to defend myself against him, and above all, to defend him against himself, and I replied with a roguish smile:

  ‘Yes, Monsieur George, I mind it very much … Let me get up.’

  But without taking his arm away, he went on: ‘No, no, please be nice to me.’

  And in a voice that was unbelievably gentle and caressing he added:

  ‘But you’re frightened … What is there to be afraid of?’

  At the same time he brought his face close to mine, and I could feel the warmth of his breath, which had a stale kind of smell like the incense of death. Seized by unspeakable anguish I cried out:

  ‘Monsieur George, oh, Monsieur George, let me go! You will make yourself ill. I beg you, please let me go.’

  Because of his weakness, the frailty of his limbs, I dared not struggle. I simply tried, with infinite care, to push away the hand with which, awkwardly, trembling with shyness, he was trying to undo my blouse and feel my breasts. And again I said:

  ‘Let me go! What you are doing is very wicked, Monsieur George. Let me go!’

  The effort of holding me so close had tired him. The pressure of his arms grew weaker, and for a few seconds he had difficulty in breathing … Then his body was shaken by a dry cough.

  ‘Now, you see, Monsieur George,’ I said, as gently as a mother scolding her child. ‘You wouldn’t listen to me; now you’ve made yourself ill and we shall have to start all over again. A lot of good you’ve done yourself. Do, please, be sensible … please. If you were really good do you know what you’d do? You’d go to bed straight away.’

  He took his hand from my waist, stretched out on the sofa and, while I was putting back the cushions which had fallen, murmured sadly:

  ‘Yes, I know. You were quite right. You must forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing for me to forgive, Monsieur George. You must just keep calm.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, staring at a point on the ceiling where the lamp made a circle of moving light. ‘It was crazy of me to have dreamt for a moment that you could love me … me, who have never known what love is … me, who have never had anything but suffering. Why should you love me? This ought to cure me of loving you … But when you are here, close to me, and I desire you … when you are here in all the freshness of your youth … with your eyes, your hands, those soft little hands, that seem to be caressing me when they are caring for me … Since I am continually dreaming of you, feeling within myself, in my whole soul and body, fresh strength welling up, a vitality I’ve ne
ver known before … that is to say, when I used to feel this … Anyway, what does it matter to you? I was crazy! And you? You? … No, you were right …’

  I was very embarrassed. I did not know either what to say, or what to do. Powerful and conflicting feelings were tugging me in every direction, one impulse urging me towards him, but a sense of duty holding me back. And because I was not sincere, because I could not be sincere, torn as I was in the struggle between desire and duty, all I could do was to stammer:

  ‘You must be sensible, Monsieur George. You mustn’t think of such terrible things. It will only do you harm. Look, Monsieur George, you must try to be good …’

  But he repeated: ‘It’s true. Why should you love me? You are quite right not to. You think I am a sick man. You’re afraid that the poison of my mouth will poison you … that you will catch my disease—the disease I am dying of—from my kisses. You are quite right …’

  The cruel injustice of his words pierced me to the heart.

  ‘You mustn’t say such things, Monsieur George,’ I cried. ‘It’s horrible, it’s wicked, what you’re saying. I can’t bear what you are doing to me. I can’t bear it.’

  I seized hold of his hands … they were moist, and burning hot. I stooped over him and his breath was like a furnace:

  ‘It’s horrible, horrible!’ he continued. ‘A kiss from you, that’s what would restore me to life … would really mean my resurrection. Did you seriously believe in your sea-bathing and port wine and horsehair gloves? Poor little thing! It’s your love I have been bathing in, the wine of your love I have been drinking, the irritant of your love that has caused new blood to course through my veins. If I have a new hold on life, if I have become strong again, it is because I have been looking forward to your kisses, longing for them, waiting for them … But I don’t blame you for refusing. You are right to do so. I understand, I understand. You are a timid little creature, without courage … a bird singing first on this branch, then on that … and then, at the slightest noise, off you go!’