The Diary of a Chambermaid

by Octave Mirbeau

  Here, at last, was the chance of an easy life, with not too much work and plenty of perks. Delighted at the prospect I made up my mind to keep my wild impulses in check, to restrain my high-spirited outbursts of frankness, so that I might stay here for a long, long time. In the twinkling of an eye all my gloomy thoughts disappeared, and my hatred of the bourgeoisie melted away as though by magic. I was filled with a crazy, vibrant gaiety, my old love of life was restored and I was even prepared to believe that maybe, after all, there was such a thing as a good employer … The staff was not large but it was first-class: a cook, a footman, a butler and myself … There was no coachman, because they had recently given up their own carriage, and hired one as required from a livery stables … They were all very friendly, and on the very first evening, welcomed me by opening a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Crikey,’ I exclaimed, clapping my hands. ‘They do you proud here.’

  The footman smiled, and rattled a bunch of keys before my eyes. It was he who kept them all, including that of the cellar. They trusted him completely.

  ‘You’ll have to lend them to me, sometimes,’ I said jokingly.

  ‘Well, one day I might,’ he replied, with a tender glance in my direction, ‘as long as you keep the right side of Bibi … You’ll have to be nice to Bibi, though …’

  Oh, he was a treat of a man, and knew just how to talk to a woman. He was called William … a nice name!

  Throughout the meal, which lasted a long time, the old butler ate and drank steadily, but without saying a word. Nobody took any notice of him, and he seemed to be almost senile. But William behaved charmingly, treating me with the utmost gallantry and gently pressing my foot under the table. When the coffee came, he gave me a Russian cigarette … his pockets were full of them. Then, pulling me towards him—I was feeling a bit giddy from the tobacco smoke and rather tight, and my hair was all over the place —he sat me on his knee and began telling me dirty stories in a whisper … Oh, but he was a cheeky devil!

  Eugenie, the cook, did not appear to be at all shocked by all these goings-on. Anxious and dreamy-eyed, she kept turning towards the door, cocking her head at the slightest sound as though she were waiting for someone, and downing glass after glass of wine with an absent-minded look on her face … She was a woman of about forty-five, with a fine bust, wide mouth, full, sensual lips, sleepy, passionate eyes and an air of great good nature. Presently there was a discreet knock at the back door. Eugenie’s face lit up, and, springing to her feet, she hurried to open it. Unfamiliar as yet with the habits of the household, I tried to adopt a more seemly position, but, instead of letting me go, William simply clasped me tightly in his powerful arms.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s only the youngster.’

  As he was speaking, a young man came into the room, little more than a boy. Slim and fair, with a very white skin, he was the prettiest creature you could imagine, and not yet eighteen years old. He was wearing a smart new suit, which admirably set off his slender, graceful figure, with a pink tie … He was the son of the hall porter from next door, and apparently used to come in every evening. Eugenie adored him, she was simply crazy about him. Every day she used to make up a large hamper of food for the lad to take to his parents: soup, a nice cut of meat, bottles of wine, and all sorts of fruit and cakes.

  ‘Why are you so late this evening?’ Eugenie asked him.

  ‘I had to keep an eye on the door,’ the boy replied in a drawling voice. ‘You see, mum had to go out somewhere.’

  ‘Your mother? … your mother? … Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, you bad boy?’

  She sighed, and, gazing into his eyes, her hands resting on his shoulders, said dolefully: ‘Whenever you’re late, I’m always afraid something has happened. I don’t like you being late, love … You just tell your mother, if this goes on, she won’t get anything more out of me.’

  Her nostrils quivering, beginning to tremble all over, she went on: ‘Oh, but he’s my pretty little love, isn’t he? That sweet little phiz belongs to me. No one else is going to have it … But why didn’t you put on your nice brown shoes? I like you to look smart when you come to see me … Oh, those eyes, those great wicked eyes, you little rascal! I wouldn’t mind betting they’ve already started looking at other women! And what’s that mouth of yours been up to, I’d like to know.’

  Smiling, swaying slightly from the waist, he said reassuringly:

  ‘God, no! … I promise you Nini … it’s the truth. Mum had to go somewhere, honest.’

  ‘Oh you bad boy, you! Oh, you wicked boy,’ Eugenie went on. ‘I won’t have you looking at other women … Your face and mouth belong to me, and those great eyes of yours! Tell me, do you really love me?’

  ‘You know I do. Of course I do.’

  ‘Say it again, then.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  She flung her arms round his neck, and murmuring words of endearment led him off to the next room.

  William said: ‘She’s absolutely gone on him! … And he doesn’t half cost her a lot, the little devil. Why, only last week she bought him a brand new suit. You’ll never love me like that.’

  I had been very touched by this scene and felt immediately friendly towards poor Eugenie … The lad was like Monsieur Xavier … They both had the same kind of moral rottenness … and the resemblance made me feel sad, terribly, terribly sad. I could see myself in Monsieur Xavier’s room, the evening when I gave him the ninety francs. ‘Oh, your little phiz, your darling mouth, your great big eyes!’ Yes, they had the same cold, cruel eyes, the same way of swaying their bodies, and the same vicious gleam in their eyes that made their kisses like a drug.

  Pushing away William’s hands, which were becoming rather too insistent, I said rather primly: ‘No, not this evening.’

  ‘But you promised to be nice with Bibi…’

  ‘Not this evening.’

  And, freeing myself from his arms, I began tidying my hair and pulling down my skirts.

  ‘You don’t waste much time,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

  Naturally, I made no attempt to alter the way the house was run. William did the cleaning, if you could call it that —just a flick with the brush or a feather duster, and that was that—and the rest of the time he spent gossiping with me, going through their drawers and cupboards and reading their letters which they left lying about all over the place. I took my cue from him, sweeping the dust under the furniture and making no attempt to tidy up after the master and mistress. If it had been me, I should have been ashamed to live in such a filthily kept house. But they simply had no idea of how to give orders; they were so timid, so afraid of us, that they hardly dared say a word. Occasionally, after some particularly blatant lapse on our part, they might nerve themselves to stammer, ‘I think you must have overlooked this.’ But we would simply reply firmly, not to say impertinently, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but you are mistaken … Of course if Madam isn’t satisfied …’, and that would be the end of it. They never dared press the matter … In all my life, I have never come across anyone with such a complete lack of authority over their servants, or so simple minded! Honestly, they were absolute mugs!

  In fairness to William, it must be admitted that it was he who had managed to fix everything up so nicely. Like many domestic servants, he had one passion, racing. He knew all the jockeys, all the trainers and bookmakers, as well as one or two society people, barons, viscounts and such, who liked to keep in with him because they knew he sometimes got marvellous tips … Since the indulgence of this passion demands a good deal of running about, as well as jaunts to the race meetings, it is not particularly well adapted to a restricted, sedentary job like a footman’s. But William had managed to arrange things so that, as soon as lunch was over, he was free to get changed and go out. And he didn’t half look smart, with his check trousers and patent leather boots, a mackintosh over his arm and a silk hat on the back of his head! … Oh, those hats of his! They us
ed to gleam like the water of a pool, in which sky, trees, streets, crowds and racecourses were brilliantly reflected … He used to get back only just in time to help the master dress for dinner, and then, later in the evening, he would often go out again to keep some important appointment with one of the many Englishmen connected with racing. On such occasions, I should not see him again till very late at night, by which time he was always a bit tight from drinking too many cocktails … Once a week, he used to invite his friends to dinner, coachmen, footmen and jockeys—the latter, the most comical, macabre creatures, with bandy legs and mean, cynical faces. They did nothing but talk about horses, racing and women, and tell the most gruesome tales about their employers, who, according to them, must all have been homosexuals. Then, when the drink had gone to their heads a bit, they would start on politics … William used to be completely uncompromising and was violently reactionary.

  ‘Cassagnac’s the man for me,’ he used to shout. ‘There’s a real man … plenty of guts! They’re all scared of him, because when he says a thing, he means it … If they’re going to start arguing the toss with him, they’d better look out for themselves, the swine.’

  Then, when the noise was at its height, Eugenie would suddenly get up, eyes shining in her pale face, and rush towards the door. It would be the lad from next door, surprised to find all these unknown people, seated around the ravaged table, surrounded by empty bottles. But Eugenie would have kept a plateful of titbits for him, and a glass of champagne, and presently the two of them would disappear into another room … On such evenings, the baskets for his parents would be sure to contain even bigger and better portions than usual. After all, it was only fair that the good hones souls should benefit from our junketing …

  One day, when the lad happened to be late, one of the coachmen, a cynical, dishonest sort of lout, who was always invited to these parties, seeing that Eugenie was getting anxious, said to her:

  ‘You don’t want to worry yourself … He’s sure to be here presently, your little pansy.’

  Eugenie stood up, trembling, and shouted at him:

  ‘What’s that you said? That little angel a pansy? Just you dare to say that again … In any case, if that’s what the kid likes, he’s certainly pretty enough for it, or for anything else.’

  ‘Of course he’s a pansy,’ the coachman insisted, with a coarse laugh. ‘If you don’t believe me, go ask Count Hurot … He only lives just round the corner, in Mar …’

  But, before he could conclude his sentence, he was silenced by a swinging blow from Eugenie. At that moment the lad appeared at the door, and hurrying over to him, she said:

  ‘Are there you are, love … Come with me, my little lamb! Hurry up, you don’t want to stay with these crooks.’

  All the same I think the coachman was right.

  William was always talking to me about Edgar, Baron de Borgsheim’s famous stud groom. He was proud of knowing him, and admired him almost as much as he did Cassagnac. Indeed, Edgar and Cassagnac were his two great heroes. It would have been risky to pull his leg about them, or even to argue about them. If he came in late at night, William would apologise by saying that he had been with Edgar. Anybody would think that being with Edgar was a duty, not merely an excuse.

  ‘Then why don’t you bring this famous Edgar of yours along to dinner one night, and let me have a look at him?’ I asked one day.

  William was utterly taken aback at the idea. He haughtily rebuked me:

  ‘What? Do you really imagine Edgar would be prepared to dine with ordinary servants like us?’

  It was from Edgar that William had acquired the art of giving his hats their incomparable sheen … On one occasion, at the Auteuil races, Edgar had been approached by the young Marquis de Plérin.

  ‘Tell me, my dear fellow,’ said the Marquis, ‘How do you manage to keep your hat so splendidly?’

  ‘My hats, my lord?’ replied Edgar, flattered by this attention, for at that time young Plérin, thanks to swindling the bookmakers and cheating at cards, was one of the most distinguished figures in Parisian society. ‘Why, once you’ve got the hang of it, it’s as easy as picking winners … What I do is this. Every morning I send my valet for a quarter of an hour’s run, to make him sweat … Sweat contains oil, you see … Then he mops up his sweat with a silk handkerchief rubs it into my hats, and finishes them off with the iron. Of course, you need a healthy, clean sort of chap … auburn haired for preference—if they are too fair they tend to smell a bit. Some kinds of sweat are better than others .. . As a matter of fact, only last year the Prince of Wales asked me the same question.’

  And as the young nobleman was thanking him, Edgar surreptitiously shook hands with him, and whispered confidentially:

  ‘You want to back Baladeur for the next race, your lordship … seven to one … He’s a cert …’

  In the end—honestly, it’s quite ridiculous when I come to think of it—I myself even began to feel flattered that William should have such an acquaintance … For me, as well, Edgar was becoming as marvellous and inaccessible as the Kaiser Wilhelm, Victor Hugo or Paul Bourget … Perhaps that is why I feel it is worth while giving a brief sketch of this illustrious … no, this historic, figure.

  Edgar was born in London, in a terrible slum, between two belches of whisky. While still a lad, he was running wild, begging and thieving, and being sent to prison. Later on, when he had acquired the necessary moral deformaties and sufficiently depraved instincts, someone picked him up and gave him a job as groom. Promoted to the stables, it was not long before he had picked up all the greedy cunning, all the vices, that are to be learnt by serving in the ‘best houses’; and he became a stable lad at the Eaton stud. There he used to swank about, wearing a Scotch bonnet on the side of his head, a plaid waistcoat and a pair of white breeches. Almost before he was fully grown, he was already a little old man with skinny limbs, a wrinkled face, red in the cheeks but yellow at the temples, a tired, grimacing mouth, and thinning hair, brushed over one ear in a greasy curl. In a society which delights in the smell of horse-dung, Edgar soon ceased to be an anonymous workman or peasant, and almost passed for a gentleman.

  At Eaton he was taught his job thoroughly. He learnt how to groom a well-bred horse, how to look after it when it was sick, and all the minute and complicated spongings and subtle polishings, all the arts of pedicure and make-up which are used to beautify both racehorses and mistresses, and to increase their value … In the bars he was soon on familiar terms with all the well-known jockeys, famous trainers, paunchy baronets and good-for-nothing dukes, who constitute the flower of this dunghill society. He would like to have been a jockey himself, for he knew all about pulling a horse and was up to all the deals that could be arranged with the bookmakers. But he put on too much weight … despite his skinny, bandy legs, he developed a pot belly. Thus prevented from sporting racing colours, he found consolation in a head-coachman’s livery …

  Today, at forty-three, Edgar is one of the five or six stud grooms in England, Italy and France who is admired throughout the fashionable world. His name is continually mentioned in the sporting press, and is even to be found in the gossip columns of fashionable papers. His present master, Baron de Borgsheim, takes more pride in being his employer than in any of the financial transactions by which he succeeds in ruining thousands of little shopkeepers. He boasts of ‘my stud groom’ with the same flatulant air of superiority that an art collector might congratulate himself on ‘my Rubens’. And, indeed, the lucky baron has reason to be proud, for the fact that Edgar works for him has vastly increased the esteem and respect in which he himself is held. It is to Edgar that he owes his invitations to those exclusive drawing-rooms from which he had previously been excluded. It is Edgar who has enabled him to overcome the last strongholds of anti-Semitism, and in the clubs they do nothing but talk about the baron’s ‘famous victory over England’. The English may have succeeded in depriving us of Egypt, but at least the baron has won Edgar from the English, and
thus restored the balance of power. If he had conquered India, he could scarcely have been more highly proclaimed. But all this admiration has resulted in considerable jealousy. Many people would be only too happy to seduce Edgar from his master, and this gives rise to every kind of intrigue and corrupt machination as though Edgar were some infinitely desirable woman. As to the papers, their respectful adulation has reached such a pitch, that they are no longer quite sure which of the two is the distinguished stud groom and which the internationally famous financier … The two of them have become confused in a mutual apotheosis.

  If you have ever had the curiosity to mingle with the aristocratic crowd, you will certainly have met Edgar, for he has come to be regarded as one of the brightest ornaments of society. A man of average height, and very ugly, with that comical ugliness peculiar to Englishmen, he has an unconscionably long nose, with the doubly royal curve that distinguishes both Jews and Bourbons. A short upper lip reveals a number of decayed teeth, interspersed with ugly gaps. His complexion comprises every tone of yellow, but is relieved by scarlet splotches on the cheeks. Without being as enormous as the majestic coachman of the past, he nevertheless has a comfortable, evenly disposed layer of fat that fills out all the normal hollows of the human frame. He walks with a hopping movement, the upper part of his body slightly inclined forwards and his elbows projecting from his sides at the regulation angle. Disdaining to follow the fashion, he attempts to create it by wearing very expensive, but quite fantastic, clothes. His blue overcoats, always too new-looking, are lined with silk and cut much too tight. His trousers, in the English style, are too light, his ties too white, his jewels too big, his handkerchiefs too scented, his boots too polished, his hats too shining … For a long time now, the unusual and striking brilliance of Edgar’s headgear has been the envy of every young toff!