The Passion Trilogy – The Calvary, The Torture Garden & The Diary of a Chambermaid. Octave Mirbeau
differences of education which are betrayed only in his gestures, in his manner of greeting, in his more or less graceful bearing, pretty much the same no matter where he is? … What! were these the high-spirited artists, the much admired writers whose glory is sung, whose genius is acclaimed … these petty, vulgar, frightfully pedantic beings, slavishly aping the manners of the society they rail at, ludicrously vain, fiercely jealous, lying prostrate before wealth, and kneeling in the dust, worshipping publicity—that old blackguard, which they carry about on velvet cushions. … Oh, how much better I love the herdsmen and their oxen, the pig drivers and their pigs, yes the pigs, round and pink, digging the earth with their snouts and whose fat smooth backs reflect the clouds that float above!
I read excessively, without discrimination, without system, and from this faulty reading there was left in my mind nothing but a chaos of disjointed facts and incomplete ideas, from the tangle of which I did not know how to extricate myself. … I tried to acquire knowledge in every way, but I realized that I was just as ignorant today as I had been in the past. … I had had mistresses whom I loved for a week, sentimental and romantic blondes, fierce brunettes, impatient to be caressed, and love showed me only the frightful emptiness of the human heart, the deceptiveness of affection, the lie of the ideal, the nothingness of pleasure. …
Believing myself converted to the formulæ of descriptive art by means of which I was going to harness my ambition and fix my shifting and thrilling dreams upon the pinion of words, I had published a book which was praised and which proved to be "a best seller." Of course, I was flattered by this little success; I, too, spoke of myself with pride as of a rare talent; I, too, gave myself superior airs in order to deceive others all the better. And wishing to deceive myself as well, I often looked upon myself in the mirror with the complacency of a comedian, in order that I might discover certain marks of genius in my eyes, on my forehead, in the majestic bearing of my head.
Alas! Success rendered yet more painful the inner knowledge of my impotence. My book did not amount to much; its style was forced, its conception infantile: a passionate harangue, an absurd phraseology took the place of ideas in it. At times I would read over the passages praised by the critics, and in those passages discover something of everybody: Herbert Spencer and Scribe, Jean Jacques Rousseau and Commerson, Victor Hugo, Poe and Eugene Chavette. Of my own contribution, I, whose name was displayed on the title page, on the yellow cover of the volume, found nothing. Following the caprices of my memories, aroused by the intermittent light of my recollections, I expressed the thoughts of one and used the style of another; none of the ideas or style belonged to me. And important looking persons whose tastes are infallible and whose judgment is law praised my personality, my originality, the unexpected nature and subtleness of my impressions! …
How sad it was! … Whither was I going? I knew no more about it today than I did yesterday. I had the conviction that I could not be a writer, because all the effort of which I was capable had been spent in writing that miserable and incoherent book. Had I had a more humble and compromising ambition, were I only prompted by desires less noble, by those which never cause remorse—such as love of money, official titles, dissoluteness! … But, no! Only one thing which I could never attain lured me, and that was talent. … To be able to say to myself, yes … to say to myself: "This book, this sonnet, this phrase is yours, you wrung it from your brains swollen with passion; it is your thought that quivers here; it is pieces of your flesh and drops of your blood, that it scatters over the sorrowful pages; it is your nerves that vibrate in it like the strings of a violin under the bow of a divine musician. What you have accomplished here is beautiful and grand!" For this moment of supreme joy I would be willing to sacrifice my future, my wealth, my life; I would be willing even to kill! …
And never, never will I be able to say that to myself! … Ah how I envied the eternal self-contentment of the mediocre! … Now I again felt a passionate desire to return to Saint-Michel. I wished I could drive the plough in the brown furrow, roll in the fields of yellow clover, smell the wholesome odor of the stables, and, above all, lose myself in the thick of the coppice wood, penetrating into it farther and farther. …
The light went out and my lamp was smoking. A cold like a gentle caress filled my legs and sent a current of pleasurable chills through my back. Outside not a sound was heard; the street grew silent. It had been long since I heard the dull trundle of the omnibus rolling on the causeway. The clock struck six. But a sort of laziness kept me glued to my sofa: while thus stretched out I felt a physical pleasure amidst a great mental depression. I had to make a strenuous effort to free myself from this languor and to go into my bedroom. I found it impossible to fall asleep. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed to me that I had been thrown into a black and very deep pit, and suddenly I awoke, panting and perspiring. I again lit my lamp, tried to read. … I could not concentrate my mind on the lines of the text which seemed to swerve, to cross one another, to abandon themselves to a fantastic dance under my very eyes.
What a stupid life mine is! … Why am I so different, preyed upon by obnoxious chimeras? Who has poured into my soul this deadly poison of weariness and discouragement? Before others there stretches a vast horizon illumined by the sun! But I am walking in the darkness, stopped on every side by walls which obstruct my way and against which I vainly beat my head and knees. … Perhaps it is because they possess love! Love, ah yes! If I could only love!
And again I saw the beautiful virgin of Saint-Michel, the radiant virgin of plaster of paris with its robe adorned with stars and its golden nimbus descending from heaven. All around her suns were revolving, inclining themselves like celestial flowers, and doves in the exaltation of prayers were flying about, brushing her with their wings. … I recalled the ecstasies, the fits of mystic adoration which she evoked in me; all the sweet joys which I had experienced came back to me at the mere contemplation of her. Did she not also speak to me, then, at the chapel? And those unuttered words which poured into my childish soul such ineffable tenderness, this language more harmonious than angels' voices and the music of golden harps, this language more fragrant than the perfume of roses—was it not the divine language of love?
As I listened with all my senses to this language which was music to me, I was lifted into a world unknown and wondrous; a new enchanted life sprouted, burst into bud and flourished all around me. The horizon receded into mysterious infinity: space shone bright like the interior of the sun, and I felt myself growing so tall and strong that in one embrace I was pressing to my breast all the beings, all the flowers, all the swarms of creatures born of the glance of love exchanged between the Holy Virgin of plaster and a little child.
"Holy Virgin, kindly Virgin!" I cried. "Speak to me, speak to me again—as you used to in the past, in the chapel. … And give me love once more, for love is life and I am dying because I am no longer able to love."
But the Virgin was not listening to me any longer. She glided into the chamber and curtsying, mounted the chairs, pried into the furniture pieces, singing strange airs all the time. A drawn bonnet of otter skin now replaced her nimbus of gold, her eyes became like those of Juliette Roux, very large, very sweet, which smiled at me from a plaster face under a veil of very fine gauze. From time to time she approached my bed, waving above me her embroidered handkerchief which exhaled a violent perfume.
"Monsieur Mintié," she said, "I am at home every day from five to seven. And I shall be delighted to see you, delighted!"
"Virgin, kindly Virgin!" I implored again. "Speak to me, please. Speak to me as you did formerly in the chapel."
"Tu, tu, tu, tu!" hummed the Virgin who, causing her lilac robe to swell out and removing her cloak, adorned with golden stars with the tips of her long, thin fingers, began to turn around slowly as if dancing a waltz, her head swaying from one side to the other.
"Good Virgin!" I repeated in a rather irritated voice, "why don't you speak to me!"
She stopped, posted herself in front of me, stripped off her plaster garments one after another, and entirely nude, lustful and magnificent, her bosom shook with clear, sonorous, precipitous laughter:
"Monsieur Mintié," she said, "I am at home every day from five to seven. And I'll give you Charles' old trousers." And she threw her otter skin bonnet at me.
I sat up on my bed. … With a stupid