The Diary of a Chambermaid

by Octave Mirbeau

  ‘Oh, you never saw such a lot, my dear Countess,’ she would say with a simpering smile. ‘High-class maids they call themselves … that is to say, girls who just are not prepared to do a stroke of work, and whose morals I simply wouldn’t care to vouch for. When it comes to women who really know their job, who are prepared to get down on their hands and knees and have been taught to sew, I just don’t know where to find them any more … and nor does anyone else. That’s what things are coming to nowadays.’

  Nevertheless, she did a thriving business. Her clientele consisted mainly of people living near the Champs Élysées, mostly Jews and foreigners … Oh, the stories I could tell you.

  The door opened into a passage, which led to the room where Madame Paulhat-Durand sat in state, wearing her everlasting black silk dress. On the left of the passage was the waiting room, a great dark cavern of a place, with benches round the walls and, in the middle, a table covered with a faded serge cloth. Nothing else. The only light in this room came from a high window, that ran the whole length of the wall between it and Madame’s office, and the subdued, murky twilight was sadder than if we had been in complete darkness. Here we used to sit, through the long mornings and afternoons, a whole crowd of us, cooks and housemaids, gardeners and footmen, coachmen and butlers, passing the time away recounting our troubles, gossiping about our employers and dreaming about the wonderful situations we were going to obtain in some fairyland of freedom. Some of the women used to bring books or magazines with them, and devoured them passionately. Others wrote letters … And every now and then the murmur of conversation would be interrupted by the sudden appearance of Madame Durand, shouting angrily:

  ‘Will you be quiet … It’s impossible to hear ourselves speak in the office.’

  Or, perhaps, she would call out somebody’s name, and a girl would get up, smooth down her hair and follow her into the office, only to reappear a few minutes later with a disdainful expression on her face … either her references had been unsatisfactory, or they had been unable to come to terms about wages.

  ‘The miserable old cat! A wretched dump … and not a chance of any perks … she does the shopping herself! … And four kids to look after into the bargain!’

  All this punctuated with angry or obscene gestures …

  One after the other we would be summoned to the office by Madame Paulhat-Durand’s shrill voice, while her waxen skin turned greener and greener as she grew more and more angry … When it came to my turn I could tell at once the kind of woman it was, and that the situation wouldn’t suit me. And then, for a bit of fun, instead of submitting to their stupid interrogation, I would start asking the questions myself … Oh, I didn’t half pull their legs …

  ‘Are you married, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course …’

  ‘I see. Then I expect you have children, ma’am?’

  ‘Certainly …’

  ‘And dogs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you expect your maid to sit up at night?’

  ‘When I go out for the evening, naturally.’

  ‘And do you often go out in the evening, ma’am?’

  And then, before she could reply, coolly looking her up and down, I would say in a disdainful tone of voice:

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the place Madame has to offer would not suit me … I am not accustomed to working in households like Madame’s …’

  And I would triumphantly turn my back on her, and leave the room.

  One day, a small woman with outrageously dyed hair, her lips and cheeks plastered with make-up, insufferably overbearing and reeking of perfume, concluded a long series of questions by asking:

  ‘And now about your personal behaviour . .. Do you invite your lovers to the house?’

  ‘Do you, ma’am?’ I replied, without turning a hair.

  Some of the girls, not so hard to please as I am, or because they were too tired out and scared, would accept really lousy jobs, and when they came back to the waiting room the rest of us would jeer: ‘Happy days … See you again before long …’

  Sometimes, seeing us all slumped on the benches, sickly looking, round-shouldered, legs outstretched, pensive, stupid, chattering, waiting for our names to be called, Victoire, Irene, Zulma, it struck me that it was very like being in a brothel, waiting for a customer … Funny? … Sad? … I am not sure which. Though when I happened to express the idea aloud one day, there was a general burst of laughter, and immediately everybody began discussing the pros and cons of such establishments … A huge, fat-faced creature, who was peeling an orange, said:

  ‘Why of course you’d be better off … There’s always plenty of grub … And you get champagne to drink … and swanky underclothes to wear, without any beastly corsets!’

  Then a tall, dried-up woman, with very black hair and a bit of a moustache, and dirty-looking into the bargain, chipped in:

  ‘And another thing … it must be a lot less tiring … By the time I’ve slept with the boss, and his son, and the concierge, and the footman, and the butcher’s boy, and the blokes who come to see about the gas and electricity … not to mention all the others … why, by the end of the day, I’ve just about had it!’

  ‘Oh, the dirty bitch!’ voices proclaimed on all sides.

  ‘All right, then! And what about the rest of you, my little angels?’ retorted the tall dark girl, shrugging her skinny shoulders, and giving herself a resounding smack on the backside.

  I couldn’t help thinking of my sister Louise, who was probably still working in one of these brothels, and I tried to imagine the kind of life she would be leading. If she wasn’t happy at least she didn’t have to face poverty and hunger … And feeling more than ever disgusted with my own dreary, downtrodden, shiftless existence, always terrified by the thought of what tomorrow would bring, I couldn’t help thinking: ‘Yes, after all, perhaps we should be better off.’

  Then the evening would close in … the dingy room would grow even darker … and gradually we would all fall silent, exhausted by too much talking, too much waiting. Then someone would light the gas in the passage and, regularly at five o’clock, we would see through the glass door the stooping silhouette of Monsieur Louis as he hurried past and disappeared … It was the signal to go home.

  Outside, on the pavement, there would often be old women, hanging about touting for their private brothels. Beneath their highly respectable appearance, these miserable old bawds were all alike … butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They would follow you, keeping at a discreet distance until they came to some dark corner behind the massive buildings of the Champs Elysées, and, then, when there was no chance of police interference, they would accost you:

  ‘Why not come to my place, dear? … Instead of all this worry about finding a job … You’d like it with me … First-class conditions, and plenty of money … and you’d be free.’

  Dazzled by their marvellous promises, a good many of the girls used to accept the offers of these second-hand love merchants … It saddened me to see them go, and I often used to wonder what became of them …

  One evening, one of these jackals, a fat, greasy creature, whom I had already told to clear off, eventually persuaded me to go to a café with her for a drink. I can still see her—soberly dressed, looking like some middle-class widow, with plump, sweaty little hands, covered with rings, and extremely pressing, she launched into a long, persuasive rigmarole. And when all her nonsense failed to make any impression upon me, she exclaimed:

  ‘If only you’d give it a try, love … You don’t need to look at you twice to see that you’re a real little beauty … everywhere! Why, with a body like yours, it’s a wicked sin to waste it on nobodies. A lovely girl like you could make a fortune in no time. Especially with a first-class clientele like mine … elderly gentlemen, you know … in good positions, and plenty of money to spend … Of course, sometimes you’d have to work pretty hard … I’m not saying you wouldn’t. But just think of all the money you’d make … W
hy, all the very best people in Paris come to me … famous generals, distinguished lawyers, even foreign ambassadors.’

  She drew closer to me and, lowering her voice, added:

  ‘When I tell you that the President of the Republic himself … oh yes, love, on the level! That gives you an idea of the kind of house I run. There’s not another in the town to touch it … Robineau’s isn’t a patch on my place … Shall I tell you something? … Yesterday the President was so well pleased that he promised he’d get my son made a member of the Academy … he’s the chief solicitor for a religious educational establishment at Auteuil.’

  And, staring hard at me, as though she would have liked to strip me body and soul, she repeated: ‘Oh, if only you’d come to my place, what a success you could be.’

  Then, in a more confidential tone, she continued:

  ‘And there’s another thing … Now and again we get real society women … sometimes alone, sometimes with then-husbands or lovers, and all very hush-hush, of course … But there … in a place like ours, you have to be prepared for all sorts …’

  I raised every kind of objection … that I wasn’t sufficiently experienced, that I hadn’t got the right kind of underclothes or dresses or jewellery … but the old hag waved them all aside:

  ‘Oh, if that’s all,’ she said, ‘you’ve nothing to worry about … We don’t go in for fancy clothes, you see. All you need is a pair of decent stockings and your own natural beauty.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, but still …’

  ‘I assure you there’s nothing for you to worry about,’ she insisted amicably. ‘Of course some of my best clients, especially some of the ambassadors, have … well, have their little fancies … you know how it is, at their age and with all that money … And what most of them seem to prefer is for the girls to be dressed like ladies’ maids … tight black dress, white apron and a smart little lace cap … And, of course, pretty undies. That goes without saying … Look here, I’ll tell you what, if you’ll sign an agreement with me for three months, I’ll give you the loveliest trousseau you can imagine, everything of the very best, enough to make the girls at the Théâtre-Français green with envy … Is it a bargain?’

  I said I should have to think about it …

  ‘That’s right, you think about it,’ this dealer in human flesh agreed. ‘I am going to give you my address, and when you’ve made up your mind, all you have to do is to come along … I shall be only too delighted … And tomorrow, when I see the President of the Republic, I shall tell him all about you.’

  We had finished our drinks. The old woman settled with the waiter and, taking a card from a little black notecase, she surreptitiously pressed it into my hand. After she had gone, I looked at the card. It bore the words:

  Madame Rebecca Ranvet

  Dressmaker

  I saw some extraordinary scenes at Madame Paulhat-Durand’s. Unfortunately it is impossible to describe all of them, so I have chosen one, as a typical example of what used to go on there pretty well every day.

  I have already explained that there was a window with transparent curtains, running the whole length of the wall between Madame’s office and the waiting-room. Well, in the middle of this window, there was a fanlight, which was usually kept shut. But one day happening to notice that, by mistake, it had been left unfastened, I decided to take advantage of the fact … Climbing up onto the bench, I found that with the help of a hassock I was able to see through it … I gently pushed it open, and this is what I saw.

  A lady sitting in an armchair, with one of the girls standing in front of her, while, in a corner of the room, Madame Paulhat-Durand was sorting out some papers on her desk. The lady was from Fontainbleau, and she had come to find a maid. She must have been about fifty years old, and she looked like a well-to-do, middle-class woman, not easy to get on with, soberly dressed with a kind of provincial austerity … Puny and sickly-looking, and grey-faced from eating irregularly or not at all, the girl had a pleasant expression and, had she ever known a little happiness, might even have been pretty. Very neat and slim, she was dressed in a black skirt, and a tight-fitting black jersey showed off her small bosom. A pretty little white linen bonnet jauntily worn on the back of her head, displayed the fair curls clinging to her forehead.

  After a detailed examination which she carried out in the most slighting and offensive manner, the lady at last began to question her:

  ‘And how would you describe yourself? … A housemaid?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘One would hardly think so, to look at you … What’s your name?’

  ‘Jeanne Le Godec …’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Jeanne Le Godec, ma’am.’

  The lady shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Jeanne?’ said she. ‘That’s no name for a servant … If you came to work for me, I assume you would have no objection to changing it?’

  ‘As Madame wishes …’

  Jeanne lowered her head, clasping her two hands more tightly on the handle of her umbrella …

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Saint-Brieuc …’

  ‘Saint-Brieuc? …’ The lady’s normally disdainful expression became a hideous grimace. She screwed up her eyes and the corners of her mouth as though she had just swallowed a glass of vinegar … ‘From Saint-Brieuc? So you’re from Brittany? … I don’t like Bretons. They’re stubborn and dirty …’

  ‘But I’m quite clean, I assure you, ma’am,’ poor Jeanne protested.

  ‘That’s what you say … But we’ll come to that later … How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Twenty-six? … Not counting the months you were at the breast, I suppose. You certainly look much older than that … There’s no point in your lying …’

  ‘I am not lying, ma’am. I assure you, I’m only twenty-six … If I look older, it’s because for a long time I was ill …’

  ‘So you’ve been ill?’ replied the lady, with a harsh note of mockery in her voice. ‘For a long time, yes? … I must warn you, my girl, that though the work is not arduous the house is a pretty large one, and I need a woman in robust health …’

  In an attempt to remove the impression she had created, Jeanne declared: ‘Oh, but I have got over it … I’m completely cured now …’

  ‘That’s your business … Besides, we haven’t come to that yet … And what are you, a spinster? … married?’

  ‘I am a widow, ma’am.’

  ‘I see … But no children, I presume?’

  And, since Jeanne did not immediately reply, the lady insisted: ‘Well? I’m waiting … Have you any children, yes or no?’

  ‘One little girl,’ she admitted timidly.

  Whereupon, frowning and waving her arms as though she were driving off a swarm of flies, the lady exclaimed:

  ‘Oh but I certainly shan’t allow a child in the house … not on any account … Where is she, this daughter of yours?’

  ‘She’s with one of my husband’s aunts.’

  ‘And what does this aunt do for a living?’

  ‘She has a wine shop, at Rouen.’

  ‘A deplorable trade … Drunkenness and debauchery are certainly a fine example for your little girl … Still, that’s up to you. That’s your business … How old is the child?’

  ‘Eighteen months, ma’am.’

  Madame gave a start, twisting herself violently in her chair. So shocked was she, so outraged, that she almost growled:

  ‘Really … I ask you! … Fancy having children, when you can’t even bring them up and keep them at home with you … These people are quite incorrigible … no self-control at all.’

  She was looking so savagely aggressive that Jeanne began to tremble.

  ‘I warn you,’ she went on, almost spelling out each word, ‘I warn you, that if you do come to me, you will certainly not be allowed to bring your daughter into the house … And I’m not going to have a lot of comings and goings, either … That’
s something I won’t allow … Oh no, we can’t have a lot of strangers, tramps, people I know nothing about … We already have to put up with far too much of that sort of thing …’

  Despite this offensive harangue, Jeanne plucked up courage to ask:

  ‘In that case, perhaps Madame would allow me to go and see my daughter once a year … just once?’

  ‘No,’ Madame replied ruthlessly. ‘I never allow my maids to take holidays. That’s one of my principles, and I intend to stick to it. I certainly don’t pay servants so that they can always be going off on the spree, on the pretext of visiting their daughters. That would be much too easy. Oh, no … Have you brought any references?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Jeanne replied, taking from her pocket a dirty envelope containing some yellow, crumpled papers and handing them to Madame with a trembling hand …

  Taking one of the references gingerly as though she were afraid of dirtying her fingers, the lady unfolded it with an expression of disgust and began to read aloud:

  ‘I certify that the girl Jeanne …’

  But she broke off abruptly, and looking at Jeanne even more savagely, demanded:

  ‘What’s the meaning of this? … “Girl”, it says here … So you are not married after all? … You have a child, and yet you are not married? … What’s the meaning of this, if you please?’

  The maid explained:

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am … but you see I was married three years ago, and this reference was given to me six years ago … If you look at the date, ma’am …’