Torture Garden

by Octave Mirbeau

  “If you take something from someone and keep it for yourself, that’s theft. But if you take something from someone and pass it on to someone else for as much as you can get, that’s business … Theft is far more stupid, being confined to a single gain, which is often dangerous, while in business you can double your stake without risk.”

  This was the moral atmosphere in which I grew up and developed quite on my own, guided only by the everyday example given by my parents. Among the small business class children are generally left to their own devices. Their parents have no time to give them any education. They raise them as best they can, as their nature permits and in prey to the pernicious influences of a humiliating and restricted environment. Spontaneously and without compulsion, I contributed my share of imitation or imaginative additions to the family swindles. From the age of ten, my only conception of life was theft, convinced as I was – oh quite ingenuously, I assure you – that ‘getting people where you want them’ was the only foundation for all social relationships.

  College determined the odd and devious course my life was to follow, for it was there that I got to know the person who later became my best friend, the well-known minister Eugène Mortain.

  He was a wine merchant’s son who had been brought up by his father to be a politician as I had to be a businessman. His father being the region’s main electoral agent (the vice president of Gambettist committees who had founded several associations, opposition groups and professional unions), Eugène had, since infancy, harboured within him the soul of a ‘born statesman’.

  Although he had grant support, he immediately impressed us with his clear superiority in insolence and unscrupulousness as well as by a solemn and empty way of speaking, which stirred up our fervour. In addition, he inherited from his father a profitable and all-conquering passion for organisation. Within a few weeks he had transformed the college campus into all sorts of associations and sub-associations, committees and sub-committees, having himself elected simultaneously president, secretary and treasurer. There were associations for football, spinning-tops, leap frog and walking, the horizontal bar committee, the trapeze league, the union for the one-legged race, etc. Each member of these associations was obliged to contribute a monthly subscription of five sous to the general kitty – that is to our comrade’s pockets. This brought, among other benefits, a subscription to the quarterly magazine edited by Eugène Mortain to propagate the ideas and defend the interests of what he called ‘autonomous and inter-linked’ groups.

  We were immediately brought together by similarly evil instincts and appetites and made our close partnership a greedy and continuous exploitation of our comrades who were proud of being part of these organisations … I soon realised I was the junior partner in complicity, but this realisation just caused me to cling still more firmly to my ambitious companion’s career. If I did not obtain an equal share I would be assured of a few crumbs … That was enough for me then. Sadly I never had more than a few crumbs from the cake my friend devoured.

  I came across Eugène later, at a difficult and unhappy period of my life. My father’s policy of ‘getting people where you want them’ had rebounded, for finally he found himself suffering the same fate. A disastrous consignment that apparently poisoned an entire barracks occasioned this deplorable event and consummated the total ruin of our house, founded in 1794. My father might have survived the dishonour, for he knew how infinitely indulgent his age was. But he could not survive ruin. An apoplectic fit bore him away one fine evening. His death left my mother and I penniless.

  No longer able to rely on him, I had to get myself out of the mess and, tearing myself away from the maternal lamentations, raced to Paris, where Eugène Mortain welcomed me with open arms.

  He was becoming a high flyer. Thanks to parliamentary protection (which he cleverly exploited), the subtlety of his nature and his absolute lack of scruples, he was starting to be favourably spoken about in the press and in political and financial circles. He immediately employed me to do his dirty work, and it wasn’t long before, as I lived constantly in his shadow, I gained some of his notoriety without being able to take as much advantage from it as I should have. But I didn’t have the ability to persevere in evil. Not that I felt any belated pangs of conscience, remorse or fleeting desires for honesty. There’s a diabolical streak in me, a troublesome and inexplicable perversity which suddenly forced me for no apparent reason to neglect the most well thought-out arrangements, to loosen my grip on the most greedily clasped throats. With practical qualities of the first order, a very keen sense of life, and an audacity to think up even the impossible – even an exceptional readiness to realise it – I still do not have the necessary tenacity to be a man of action. Perhaps underneath the scoundrel that I am there lies a poet gone astray? Perhaps I am a practical joker who enjoys playing jokes on himself?

  Nevertheless, with the future in mind, and feeling that one day it would be inevitable that my friend Eugène would want to get rid of someone who continually reminded him of an embarrassing past, I was cunning enough to compromise him with tales that could have been awkward and the foresight to retain incontrovertible proof of them. If he wanted to avoid disgrace, Eugène was forced to drag me along all the time like a ball and chain.

  Let me enumerate the quality of his intrigues and the other things he chose to take an interest in (some of which were honourable), as he waited for the supreme honours towards which he was being borne by the muddy flow of politics.

  Officially Eugène had a mistress. At that time she called herself Countess Borska. Not particularly young, but still pretty and desirable, Polish, Russian or often Austrian as the mood took her, she was naturally considered to be a German spy. Her salon was consequently frequented by our illustrious statesmen. Amidst a great deal of flirtation, much political business was done there, and many notable and shady transactions were instigated. One of the more assiduous guests was a Levantine financier, Baron ? … He wasn’t talkative and had a pallid silvery face with dull eyes, but he had revolutionised the Stock Exchange by arranging some extraordinary deals. It was known, or at least said, that one of the most powerful European empires acted behind his impenetrable and silent mask. This was most likely pure romantic supposition for, in such a corrupt environment, you never knew whether to have a greater admiration for their corruption or their ‘credulity’. In any event, Countess Borska and my friend Eugène Mortain were keen to get into the mysterious baron’s good graces, all the more so as he resisted their discreet but unmistakable advances with an equally discreet and unmistakable distance. I even suspect that this distance went as far as slipping malicious advice to our friends that resulted in some disastrous consequences for them. They then had the idea of setting loose a very pretty young lady, an intimate friend of the house, on the recalcitrant banker, while simultaneously setting me loose on the very pretty young lady who, with their encouragement, was quite happy to bestow her favours on the banker for serious business and on myself for pleasure. Their calculation was simple and I recognised it right away. By introducing the two of us, they hoped to become masters of the Baron’s secrets, as he would let them slip to her at moments of tender forgetfulness, and she would then pass them on to me … It was what you might call ‘concentrated politics’.

  Unfortunately the imp of perversity which visits me whenever I should be acting decisively had other ideas and led to the inept miscarriage of this fine project. At the dinner at which I expected to seal this very Parisian union, I behaved so boorishly towards her, and gave her such offense that, ashamed and furious, she left the hall in tears.

  The little party having been cut considerably short, Eugène took me home in a cab. We went down the Champs-Elysées in tragic silence.

  “Where shall I drop you?” the great man asked as we turned the corner of rue Royale.

  “At the gambling den … on the boulevard …” I replied sneeringly. “I’m keen to breathe some fresh air, in company of decent folk.”
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  And then, with a disheartened gesture, my friend suddenly tapped my knees and – oh, I shall be haunted by the sinister expression on his mouth and his look of hatred for the rest of my life – sighed: “You know … You’ll end up as a nobody!”

  He was right. And on that occasion I couldn’t blame him.

  Eugène Mortain belonged to the school of politicians that Gambetta, memorably calling them ‘opportunists’, unleashed on France like a pack of starving carnivores. He desired power merely for the material pleasure it might bring and for the money shrewd operators like him could extract from out of the most murky of springs. I don’t know why I’m giving Gambetta alone the historical honour for gathering together and releasing this sad quarry which continues to endure despite so many scandals like that of the Panamas.3 Gambetta certainly had a taste for corruption. That thunderous democrat took sensual delight, a very particular sensual delight, in the stench of human decay. However, it has to be said in his defence, and in their honour, that those friends he gathered together, whom chance (rather than calculated choice) had associated with his short-lived success, were perfectly capable on their own of hurling themselves on the eternal Prey in which so many mouths had already hooked their furious beaks.

  Before reaching the Chamber, Eugène Mortain had tried his hand at every trade, even the lowest, right down to the darkest depths of journalism. We are never able to choose where we start, but take our opportunities where we find them. His initiation into Parisian life was passionate and swift, if premeditated. I realised that this was how life was, from editorial offices to Parliament by way of Police headquarters. Consumed by his immediate needs and destructive appetites, there was no important extortion or dishonest affair of which our gallant Eugène was not in some way the mysterious and guiding light. His master stroke was to syndicate the majority of the press to aid the success of his vast operations. Some of his schemes, among this disparaged genre, were pure masterpieces showing that this little provincial learned quickly, had astonishing psychological insight and was an admirable organiser with the worst instincts of the lower classes. But he had both the modesty not to boast about the beauty of his exploits and the valuable skill of knowing how to use others without ever exposing himself to danger. His constant craftiness and perfect understanding of his chosen domain meant he was always able to avoid, by circumvention, the fetid and muddy puddles of the petty sessional court where more clumsy colleagues got their deserts. It is true that my help – without false modesty – was far from being worthless to him.

  Besides, he was a charming person, yes, really a charming person. The only reproach one could make of him was about the awkwardness of his demeanour (a tenacious vestige of his provincial education) and vulgar details about his recent style which appeared out-of-place. Such appearances merely served to hide the subtle resources, keen perspicacity, cunning versatility and the whole sharp and terrible tenacity of his soul from casual observers. In order to perceive his soul, it would have been necessary to see (as I had, alas! so often) the two creases which occasionally gave a frightful expression to the shape of his mouth. Ah, yes, here we had a charming fellow!

  Through carefully arranged duels, he silenced the malevolent rumours that accompany recently established celebrities, and his natural gaiety, good natured cynicism (which was accepted as an attractive paradox), no less than his lucrative and sensational love affairs, brought him a questionable reputation, but one that was good enough for a future statesman who still had to pay his dues. He also had a marvellous faculty of being able to speak for hours on any subject without ever actually saying anything. His unfailing eloquence poured ceaselessly and indefatigably forth (that slow, monotonous and yawn-inducing torrent of political verbiage) equally well on maritime affairs as academic reform, on finance as on the fine arts, on agriculture as well as religion. Parliamentary reporters recognised their universal incompetence in him, and saw their written jargon reflected in his spoken gibberish. Obliging when it cost him nothing; generous (even extravagant) when it profited him; arrogant or servile according to circumstances and who was involved; inelegantly sceptical and blatantly corrupt; fervent without spontaneity; calculatedly spiritual, he was sympathetic to everyone. His rapid elevation neither surprised nor offended anyone. On the contrary, it was welcomed favourably by different political parties, for Eugène was not considered a rash sectarian and never discouraged hope or ambition. People were not unaware that, when necessary, it would be possible to come to an understanding with him. The only consideration being the price.

  Such was the man, that ‘charming fellow’, on whom my final hopes rested, and who literally held my life and death in his hands.

  You’ll notice that, in this roughly sketched outline of my friend, I have kept myself modestly in the background, although I made an important contribution, sometimes by unusual means, to his career. I could tell you plenty of tales that are not, as you can imagine, particularly inspiring. But a complete confession would be pointless, since all my depravities can be surmised without my going into the details. And again my role, next to that bold and discreet rogue, was always – while not insignificant, not at all! … nor worthy of merit (you’d laugh in my face) – more or less secret. Let me remain in that hardly discreet shadow in which I have been happy to shroud those years of sinister struggle and shady intrigues … Eugène has not ‘acknowledged’ me. And, as far as I am concerned, the remnants of a rather peculiar modesty mean that I sometimes felt an insurmountable repugnance at the idea of just being his ‘straw man’.

  Besides, I sometimes didn’t see him for months, becoming ‘unbound’, and finding the sustenance I was sick of pursuing in politics in gambling-halls, at the Stock Exchange and in the boudoirs of ladies of easy virtue – the quest of which suited my taste for indolence and the unexpected far more. At times, struck suddenly with a mood for poetry, I hid away in the depths of the country, aspiring to purity, silence and moral recovery in communion with nature. Sadly, that never lasted long. Come a difficult period and I was back with Eugène. He didn’t always welcome me with the cordiality I demanded. I could see he really wanted to get rid of me. A sharp reminder of the reality of our mutual situation would get him down from his high horse.

  One day I distinctly saw the flame of murder in his eyes. It didn’t worry me, and I placed my hand on his shoulder with an emphatic gesture, as a policeman does on a thief, saying mockingly: “And then what? Where will it get you? My dead body will indict you. Don’t be stupid … I’ve let you get where you wanted. I have never thwarted your ambitions … On the contrary, I’ve worked for you to the best of my ability and with loyalty, haven’t I? Do you think I enjoy seeing us – you high up there, basking in the limelight, while I wallow down there in the shit? And yet, it just takes a flip of the coin, and that marvellous career, laboriously set up by both of us …”

  “Really, by both of us …” intoned Eugène.

  “Yes, by both of us, you bastard!” I reiterated, exasperated by his inopportune adjustment. “Yes, a simple flip of the coin … a little puff of wind, as you know, I can fling your marvellous career down the pan. I just have to say the word, and you’ll be hurled down from power into prison, you rogue … the minister you are would be transformed into the galley slave you would become if justice still existed, if I didn’t represent the last word in cowardice … Well, I won’t take that action, I won’t blow the gaff … I’ll leave you with the admiration of people and the esteem of foreign courts because, you see … I find it incredibly amusing … The only thing is, I do want my share, understand? My share. And what do I ask? Something absurd … Nothing … Just crumbs … Although I could demand everything, yes everything! So don’t annoy me any more … don’t push me any further … don’t force me to enact ludicrous dramas … Because the day I’ve had enough of living, enough of that shit, your shit … the intolerable stink of which I continually smell around me. Well, that day, his Excellency Eugène Mortain won’t be laughing, old c
hap … That I swear!”

  Eugène then gave an embarrassed smile and the fold of his drooping lips gave his countenance an expression that mingled a vile fear with an ineffectual criminality, as he spoke to me: “You’re crazy to say that … And what for? Have I refused you anything, you crazy fool?”

  And gaily, in a multiplicity of gestures and affectations which startled me, he added comically: “Do you want a medal, then?”

  Yes, he really was quite a charmer!

  3 The Panama canal project was started in 1879 and ended in scandal, becoming a symbol for the corruption of the regime.

  III

  A few days after the violent scene following my lamentable failure, I saw Eugène at Madame G …’s house, a friend who had invited both of us to dinner. Our handshake was cordial. No one would have guessed there was any ill-feeling between us.

  “You haven’t been around to see me,” he reproached me in that tone of indifferent respect which was merely the politeness of enmity … “Have you been ill?”

  “No, not at all … Just travelling towards oblivion …”

  “By the way … Have you calmed down? I’d very much like to have a quick chat … how about after dinner?”

  “So there’s some news?” I asked with a venomous smile, just to make it clear I wasn’t going to be ‘filed away’ as an inconsequential topic.

  “For me?” he said … “No, nothing … Well, a possibility. We’ll see …”

  I had an impertinent reply on my lips when our conversation was interrupted by Madame G …, an enormous mass of swaying flowers, dancing feathers and billowing lace. “My dear minister, when will you rid us of those frightful socialists?” she sighed as she led Eugène off towards a group of young women who, from the way they stood in a corner of the salon, appeared to be ‘for hire’, like those nocturnal creatures at night clubs whose excessively low-cut and borrowed clothes provide an ostentatious trompel’oeil of decors.