The Passion Trilogy – The Calvary, The Torture Garden & The Diary of a Chambermaid. Octave Mirbeau
faces which sniggered; one of these projectiles suddenly spread out wide wings, flame-colored, which swung around me and enveloped me. … I cried out. … My God, am I going crazy? I felt my breast, my chest, my back, my legs. … I must have been as pale as a corpse, and I felt a shiver passing through me from heart to brain, like a steel bore. …
"Let's see now," I said aloud to myself to make sure that I was awake, that I was alive. … In two gulps I swallowed the remainder of the whiskey in my flask, and I started to walk very fast, tramping with rage upon the clods under my feet, whistling the air of a soldier song which we used to sing in chorus to relieve the tedium of the march. Somewhat calmed, I came back to the oak tree and kicked its trunk with the sole of my boots; for I was in need of this noise and this physical motion. … And now I thought of my father so lonely at the Priory. It was more than three weeks since I had received a letter from him. Oh! How sad and heart-rending his last letter was! … It did not complain of anything, but one felt in it a deep despair, a wearisomeness of being alone in that large empty house, and anxiety about me who, he knew, was wandering, knapsack on back, amidst the dangers of battle. … Poor father! He had not been happy with my mother—who was ill, always fretful, who did not love him and could not stand his presence. … And never a sign of reproach, not even when meeting with the most painful rebuff and unkindness! … He used to bend his back like a dog, and walk out. …
Ah! how I repented of the fact that I did not love him enough. Perhaps he had not brought me up in the manner he should have done. But what difference did it make? He did everything he could! … He was himself without experience in life, defenseless against evil, of a kindly but timid nature. And in the measure that the features of my father stood out clearly before me even to their smallest details, the face of my mother was obliterating itself, and I was no longer able to recall its endearing outline. At this moment all the affection that I had for my mother I transferred to my father. I recalled with tenderness how on the day my mother died he took me on his lap and said, "Perhaps it's for the best." And now I understood how much sorrow accumulated in the past and terror in facing the future there was summed up in that phrase. It was for her sake that he said that, and also for the sake of one who resembled my mother so much, and not for his own consolation, unhappy man that he was, who had resigned himself to suffering all. … During the last three years he had aged very much; his tall frame was worn out, his face, formerly so red with the color of health, grew yellow and wrinkled, his hair became almost white. He no longer lay in wait for the birds in the park, he let the cats rove among the lianas and lick the water from the basin; he took little interest in his practice, the direction of which he left to his chief clerk, a trusted man who was stealing from him; he no longer occupied himself with the small but honorable affairs of his locality. He never went out, he would not even stir from his rocking-chair with small pillows which he ordered moved into the kitchen, not wishing to stay alone—without Marie who would bring him his cane and his hat.
"Well, Monsieur, you must take a little walk. You are getting all 'rusty' in your corner there. … "
"All right, Marie. I am going to take the air. … I'll walk along the bank of the river, if you want me to."
"No, Monsieur, you must take a walk in the woods. … The air there will do you good."
"All right, Marie, I am going to take a walk in the woods."
At times, seeing him inactive, slumbering, she would tap him on the shoulder:
"Why don't you get your rifle, Monsieur? There are a lot of finches in the park."
And looking at her with an air of reproach, my father would mutter:
"Finches? … The poor things! … "
Why did my father not write to me? Did my letters reach him at all? I reproached myself with having been too dry in my letters until now, and I promised myself to write to him the next day—the first opportunity I got—a long affectionate letter, in which I was going to pour out my heart to him.
The sky was gradually clearing way yonder on the horizon whose outline stood out clear against a darker blue. It was still night, the fields remained dark, but one could feel the approaching dawn. The cold was more piercing than ever, the earth cracked harder under the feet, moisture crystallized into drops on the branches of the trees. And little by little the sky was brightened by a faint glimmer of pale-gold color which was growing in distinctness. Gradually, outlines emerged from the shadow, indefinite and confused as yet, the opaque blackness of the plain changed into a dull violet, here and there rent by light. … Suddenly I heard a noise, weak at first, like the distant roll of a drum. … I listened, my heart beating violently. Presently the noise stopped and the cocks crowed. … About ten minutes later the noise started again, more distinct, coming nearer! … Pa-ta-ra! Pa-ta-ra! It was the gallop of a horse on the Chartres road. … Instinctively I buckled up my knapsack on my back and made sure that my rifle was loaded. … I was very excited, the veins in my temples dilated. … Pa-ta-ra! Pa-ta-ra! …
Hardly had I time enough to squat down behind the oak tree, when on the road, at a distance of twenty paces in front of me, there suddenly appeared a large shadow, surprisingly immobile, like an equestrian statue of bronze, and this enormous shadow which obtruded itself almost entirely upon the brightness of the eastern sky was terrible to behold. … The man appeared to me superhuman, inordinately large against the sky! … He wore the flat cap of the Prussians, a long black cloak, under which the chest was bulging out greatly. Was he an officer or a plain soldier? I did not know, for I could not distinguish any insignia of rank on the dark uniform. … His features, at first indistinct, became more accentuated. He had clear eyes, very limpid, a broad beard, his bearing bespoke youthful strength; his face breathed power and kindness along with something noble, audacious and sad which struck me. Holding his hand flat on his thigh, he studied the country before him, and his horse scraped the ground with its hoofs and puffed long streams of vapor in the air through its quivering nostrils. … Evidently this Prussian was reconnoitering, he came to observe our position, the nature of the ground; undoubtedly a whole army was swarming behind him, waiting for a signal from this man to throw themselves on the plain! …
Well hidden in my woods, with rifle ready, I was watching him. … He was handsome indeed, life flowed abundantly in this robust body. … What a pity! He kept on studying the country, and it seemed to me as though he were studying it more like a poet than a soldier. … I detected a sort of emotion in his eyes. … Perhaps he forgot why he had come here and allowed himself to be fascinated by the beauty of this virginal and triumphant dawn. The sky became all red, it blazed up gloriously, the awakened fields unrolled themselves in the distance, emerging one after another from their veil of mist, rose-colored and blue, which floated like long scarves ruffled by invisible hands. The trees were dripping dew, the hovels separated themselves from the pink and blue background, the dove-cot of a large farm whose new tile roofs began to glitter, projected its whitish cone into the purple glare of the east. … Yes, this Prussian who started out with the notion to kill, was arrested, dazzled and reverently stirred by the splendor of a new-born day, and his soul for a few minutes was the captive of love.
"Perhaps it's a poet," I said to myself, "an artist; he must be kind, since he is capable of tenderness."
And upon his face I could see all the emotion of a brave man which agitated him, all the tremors, all the delicate and flitting reactions of his heart, moved and fascinated. … I feared him no longer. On the contrary, a sort of infatuation drew me towards him, and I had to hold on to the tree to keep myself from going to this man. I would have liked to speak to him, to tell him that it was well that he contemplated the heaven thus, and that I liked him because of his receptiveness to beauty. … But his face grew sombre, a sadness stole into his eyes. … Ah, the horizon over which they swept was so far, so far away! And beyond that horizon there was another and further on, still another! One had to conquer all that! … When was he to be relieved of his duty ever to spur his horse on through this nostalgic territory, always to cut a way through ruins and through death, always to kill, always to be cursed! …
And then, undoubtedly, he was thinking of the things he had left behind; of his home resounding with the laughter of his children, of his wife, who was waiting for him and praying to God while doing so. … Will he ever see