Octave Mirbeau Archive
Written: 1886.
Source: Text from RevoltLib.com.
Transcription/Markup: Andy Carloff
Online Source: RevoltLib.com; 2021
I wish I did not have to continue this story. I wish I could stop here.... Ah, how I wish I could do that! At the thought that I am about to disclose so much ignominy, my courage fails me, I blush for shame, a feeling of cowardice instantly seizes me and agitates the pen in my hand.... And I sue for mercy from myself.... Alas! I must clamber to the top of this ascending, sorrowful Golgotha, even though my flesh be torn to bleeding pieces, even though my living body be broken against the rocks and stones! Sins like mine, which I am not trying to justify by hereditary defects or by the pernicious effects of an education so contrary to my nature, call for terrible atonement, and the atonement which I have chosen is a public confession of my life.
I say to myself that merciful and noble hearts will think kindly of my self-imposed humiliation and I also say to myself that my example will perhaps serve as a lesson to others.... Even if there were only one young man who, on the verge of falling, should happen to read these pages and feel so horrified and so disgusted as to be forever saved from evil, it seems to me that the salvation of his soul would signify the beginning of the redemption of my own. And then again, I hope, although I no longer believe in God, I hope that in the depth of those sanctuaries of peace where in the silence of soul-redeeming nights there rises to heaven the sad and soothing chant of those who pray for the dead, I hope that there, too, I may be granted my share of compassion and of Christian forgiveness.
I had an income of twenty-two thousand francs; furthermore, I was certain that by doing literary work I could earn an equal sum, at least. Nothing seemed difficult to me, the path lay straight before me without a single obstacle, I had but to march on.... My shyness, my fears, my doubts, exhaustingly painful efforts, spiritual agonies oh, those things no longer mattered! A novel, two novels a year, a few plays for the theater.... What did that amount to for a young man in love as I was?... Weren’t people talking about X.... and Z.... two hopeless and notorious idiots who in a few years amassed a large fortune?... Ideas for a novel, a comedy, a dramatic play came to me in droves ... and I indicated their arrival by a broad and haughty gesture....
I saw myself already monopolizing all the libraries, all the theaters, all the magazines, the attention of the whole world.... In the hours when inspiration should prove slow and painful, all I would need to do would be to look at Juliette and masterpieces would come forth from her eyes as in a fairy-tale. I did not hesitate to demand Malterre’s departure and complete charge of Juliette’s affairs. Malterre wrote heart-rending letters, begged, threatened and finally departed. Later on Jesselin, displaying his usual vaunted tact, told us that Malterre, grief-stricken, had taken a trip to Italy.
“I accompanied him as far as Marseilles,” he told us. “He wanted to kill himself and was crying all the time. You know I am not a gullible sort of a chap ... but he actually made me feel sorry for him. Now really!”
And he added:
“You know. He was ready to fight you.... It was his friend, Monsieur Lirat, who kept him from doing that.... I, too, dissuaded him from it because I believe only in a duel to death.”
Juliette listened to all these details silently and with apparent indifference. From time to time she drew her tongue across her lips, and in her eyes there was something resembling a reflection of inner joy. Was she thinking of Malterre? Was she happy to learn that someone was suffering on account of her? Alas! I was no longer in a position to ask myself such questions.
A new life began.
I did riot like the apartment where Juliette lived; there were in her house neighbors whom I did not like, and above all the apartment concealed memories which I thought it more convenient to forget. For fear that my plans might not be agreeable to Juliette I did not dare to reveal them too abruptly, but at the very first words I said about the matter she grew enthusiastic.
“Yes! yes!” she cried out with joy. “I have been thinking of it myself, deary. And do you know of what else I have been thinking? Guess, guess quickly, what your little wifie has been thinking of?”
She placed both hands on my shoulders, and smiling:
“Don’t you know?... Really you don’t?... Well! she has been thinking of having you come and live with her.... Oh! It’ll be so nice to have a pretty little apartment where we shall be alone, just the two of us, to love each other, isn’t that right, my Jean?... You’ll work and I’ll sit right next to you and do some needle work without making a stir, and from time to time, I’ll embrace you to inspire you with great ideas.... You shall see, my dear, whether I am a good housekeeper or not, whether I can take care of all your little matters.... In the first place, I’ll arrange your things in the bureau. Every morning you will find a fresh flower on it.... Then Spy will also have a nice little niche, all new, with red top-knots.... And then we shall hardly go out at all.... And we’ll sleep as late as we wish.... And then ... and then.... Oh, how wonderful it will be!...”
Then getting serious again, she said in a grave voice:
“Not to mention the fact that it will be a good deal cheaper. Just about half!”
We rented an apartment on the Rue de Balzac and we busily fixed it up. That was an important task. We were shopping the whole day, examining rugs, choosing hangings, discussing arrangements and estimating things. Juliette would have liked to buy everything she saw, but she professed a preference for elaborate furniture, for loud-colored draperies and heavy embroidery. The glitter of new gold, the dazzling effect of harsh colors attracted, fascinated her. Whenever I ventured to remark something to her, she would say at once:
“How do men come to know about these things?... Women know better.”
She was obdurate in her desire to buy a kind of Arabian chest, frightfully daubed up, set with mother-of-pearl, ivory imitation stones, and of immense size.
“You can see for yourself that it’s too large, that it won’t get into our house at all,” I said to her.
“Do you really think so? Well how about sawing off the legs, deary?”
And more than twenty times during the day she stopped in the middle of her conversation to ask me:
“Well, do you really think it is too large?... That beautiful chest I mean.”
In the carriage, as soon as she got in, Juliette nestled close to me, offered me her lips, smothered me with caresses, happy, radiant.
“Oh! you naughty boy, who never said a word to me, and who stood just looking at me, with his sad eyes ... yes, your beautiful sad eyes that I love ... you naughty!... I had to start it all myself! ... hadn’t I? ... otherwise you would have never dared, would you?... Were you afraid of me, tell me? Do you remember when you took me in your arms, that evening? I did not know where I was, I could no longer see anything.... My throat, my chest felt as though I had swallowed something very hot.... isn’t that funny.... I thought I was going to die ... burned by you.... It was so sweet, so sweet!... Why, I have loved you since the first day we met.... No, I was in love with you before.... Ah, you are laughing!... You don’t believe then that you can love someone without knowing or seeing him?... Well I do!... I am sure of it!...”
My heart was beating so fast, these words were so new to me, that I could not find anything to say in reply; I was choking with happiness. All I could do was to clasp Juliette in my arms, mutter some inarticulate words and weep with joy. Suddenly she became thoughtful, the furrow on her forehead deepened, she withdrew her hand from mine. I was afraid I had offended her:
“What’s the matter, my Juliette?” I asked her. “Why do you look so?... Have I hurt you?”
And Juliette, disconsolate, said with a sigh:
“The corner-buffet, my dear!... The corner-buffet for the parlor which we have entirely forgotten.”
She quickly passed from laughter, from kisses to sudden gravity, mingled words of endearment with ceiling measurements, confused love with tapestry.... It was delightful.
In our room, in the evening, all this pretty childishness disappeared. Love stamped upon the face of Juliette something austere, deliberate and ferocious which I could not explain; it changed her entirely. She was not depraved; on the contrary, her passion showed itself to be strong and normal, and in her caresses there was awe-inspiring nobility and courage. Her body trembled as if in terrible labor.
My happiness lasted but a short time.... My happiness!... It is really remarkable that never, never have I been permitted to enjoy anything fully, and that invariably anxiety came to disturb the brief periods of my happiness. Defenseless and powerless against suffering, not sure of myself and timid in the hours of happiness—such I have been all my life. Is it a tendency peculiar to my nature? A strange perversion of my sensibilities?... Or is it rather that happiness in my own case as well as in the case of everybody else is really deceptive, and that it is nothing but a more tormenting and more refined form of universal suffering?...
Now this for example.... The faint glimmer of the night-lamp flickers feebly upon the curtains and the furniture; Juliette is asleep, early in the morning, the morning after our first night. One of her arms, bare, rests upon the sheet; the other, also bare, is gracefully coiled up under her nape. All around her face—which reflects the pallid light of the bed, a face which looks like that of a murdered person, with eyes encircled by dark rings—her loose black hair is scattered, sinuous and flowing like waves! I contemplate her eagerly.... She is sleeping close to me, with a deep calm sleep, like a child. And for the first time possession occasions no regret, no disgust in me; for the first time I am able to look at a woman who has just given herself to me. I cannot express my feelings at this moment. What I feel is something indefinable, something exceedingly sweet and at the same time very grave and holy, a sort of religious ecstasy similar to the one which I experienced at the time of my first communion.... I recognize the same mystic transport, the same great and sacred awe; it is like another revelation of God taking place in the transplendent light of my soul.... It seems to me that God has come down to me for the second time.... She sleeps, in the silence of the room, with her mouth half-open, her nostrils motionless; she sleeps with a sleep so gentle that I cannot even hear her breathing.... A flower on the mantelpiece is there, withering, and a whiff of its dying fragrance reaches me. I can’t hear Juliette at all, she is only asleep, she is breathing, she is alive and yet I can’t hear her. I move nearer to her and gently bend over her, almost touching her with my lips, and in an almost inaudible voice I call her.
“Juliette!”
Juliette does not stir. But I feel her breath, fainter than that of the flower, her breath always so fresh, with which at this moment there is mingled, like a waft of warmth, her fragrant breath which blends with an imperceptible odor of decay.
“Juliette!”
Juliette does not stir. But the sheet which follows the curves of her body, showing the shape of her limbs, loosens itself into a rigid crease, and the sheet looks to me like a shroud. And the thought of death suddenly comes to my mind and lingers there. I begin to be afraid that Juliette is dead.
“Juliette!”
Juliette does not stir. My whole being is now plunged into a frenzy of fear, and while in my ears the distant knell resounds, around the bed I see the light of a thousand funeral tapers trembling under the vibrations of a de profundis prayer. My hair stands on end, my teeth chatter and I shout, I shout:
“Juliette! Juliette!”
At last Juliette moves her head, heaves a sigh and murmurs, as if in a dream:
“Jean!... My Jean!”
Forcefully I grasp her into my arms as if to defend her against some one; I draw her toward me and trembling, with my blood running cold, I beg her:
“Juliette!... My own Juliette ... don’t sleep.... Oh, please don’t sleep!... You frighten me!... Let me see your eyes; talk to me, talk to me!... And pinch me, pinch yourself, too, pinch me hard.... But don’t sleep any more, please....”
She cuddles into my arms, whispers some unintelligible words and falls asleep again, her head hanging on my shoulder.... But the apparition of death, stronger than the awakening of love, persists, and although I feel the regular beating of Juliette’s heart against my own, it does not vanish until day.
How often since that time, when with her, I have felt the frigid touch of death in her fiery kisses!... And how often in the midst of rapture there appeared to me the sudden and capering image of the singer at the Bouffes!... How many times did his lustful laugh drown the ardent words of Juliette!... How often I have heard him say to me, while his image kept leaping above me: “Go ahead, glut yourself upon this imbecile body, upon this unclean body which I defiled!... Go on!... Go on! ... wherever you touch your lips you will breathe the impure odor of my own; wherever your caresses may wander upon this body of a prostitute they will encounter the filthy marks of my own manhandling.... Go ahead, wash her, your Juliette, wash her in the lustral water of your love, cleanse her with the acid of your mouth.... Strip off her skin with your teeth, if you will; you will efface nothing, never, because the mark of infamy with which I have branded her is ineffaceable.”
And I often had a passionate desire to question Juliette about this singer whose vision haunted me so much. But I had not the courage. I contented myself with trying to get at the truth in an ingenious, roundabout way: often, in the midst of conversation I would mention a name unexpectedly, hoping, yes hoping that Juliette would be a little put out by it, that she would blush, would feel embarrassed and would say: “Yes, that’s the one.” I thus exhausted the list of names of all the singers in all the theaters, without gaining the least evidence of perturbation in Juliette’s impenetrable attitude.
It took us almost three months to install ourselves completely. The upholsterers could never get through with their work and Juliette’s caprices often called for changes that took a long time to accomplish. Every day she would come back from her shopping with new ideas about the decoration of the parlor, or the dressing room. The hangings in the bedroom had to be entirely changed three times because she did not like them.
Finally one nice morning we took possession of our apartment on the Rue de Balzac.... It was high time we did.... All this unsettled existence, this continuous hurry, these open trunks yawning like coffins, this brutal scattering of dear and intimate things, these heaps of linen, these pyramids of boxes turned upside down, these cut-up pieces of string which dragged all over, all this disorder, this chaos, this trampling underfoot of things with which are associated the dearest memories or most tender regrets, and above all this feeling of uncertainty, of terror, and the sad reflections which the act of leaving a place occasions—all this made me uneasy, dejected and, must I say it, remorseful.
While Juliette was moving about, bustling amid bundles, I was asking myself whether I had not committed some irreparable folly. Of course, I loved her.... Ah! I loved her with all the power of my soul. So far, nothing except this passion which obsessed me more and more every day, interested me at all. Still, I regretted that I had yielded so easily and quickly to an infatuation that was perhaps fraught with the gravest consequences for her and myself. I was dissatisfied with myself for not having been able to resist Juliette’s wish, expressed in such delicious fashion, that I live together with her.... Could we not love each other just as well if each of us lived separately and avoid the possible clashes over such sordid things as wall-paper, for example.
And while the splendor of all this plush and the insolence of all these gilt objects in the midst of which we were now going to live frightened me, I felt a sorrowful attachment for my own scanty furniture placed without order, for my little apartment, austere yet tranquil, and now empty—an attachment one has for beloved things that are dead. But Juliette would pass by, busy, agile and charming, would embrace and kiss me on her way, and there was such a life-giving joy in her whole being, a joy so easily mingled with astonishment and childish despair at anything lost, that my morose thoughts vanished as do the night owls at sunrise.
Ah! the happy days that followed our moving from the Rue Saint Petersbourg!... First we had to test every piece of furniture down to the smallest details. Juliette sat on every divan, lounge and sofa, causing the springs to creak.
“You try it also, my dear,” she would say to me. She examined every piece of furniture, scrutinized the hangings, tried the strings of the door curtain, moved a chair to a different place, smoothed a crease in the draperies. And every instant cries of admiration, of ecstasy were heard!
Then she wanted to start the inspection of the apartment all over again with the windows closed and the lights burning, in order to see the effect produced at night, never tiring of examining a thing more than once, running from one room to another, marking down every defect on a piece of paper. Then it was the wardrobe where she put her linen and mine with meticulous care and elaborate nicety and the consummate skill of a stall keeper. I chided her for assigning to me the better scentbags.
“No! no! no! I want to have a little husband who uses perfume!”
Of her old furniture and old knick-knacks, Juliette had kept only the terra cotta statue of Love which again took its place of honor on the mantelpiece in the parlor. I, on the other hand, had brought over only my books and two very beautiful sketches by Lirat which I thought it a duty to hang up in my study. Scandalized, Juliette cried with indignation:
“What are you doing there, my dear?... Such horrible things in our new apartment!... Please put these horrible things away somewhere! Oh, put them away!”
“My dear Juliette,” I answered somewhat provoked. “You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?”
“Certainly I have.... But what has that to do with this?... My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there ... why really!... And then it’s improper!... Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach.”
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere.... Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
“Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!”
And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured:
“Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it!... How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest!...”
The next morning Juliette said to me:
“It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don’t want him to think that I keep you from visiting him.”
It was true, nevertheless. It really seemed as if for the last five months, I had forgotten all about poor Lirat. But had I really forgotten him? Alas no!... Shame kept me from going to him.... Shame alone estranged me from him.... I assure you that I would have never hesitated to announce to the whole world: “I am Juliette’s lover!”; but I had not the courage to utter these words in Lirat’s presence.
At first I had a notion to confess all to him, no matter what happened to our friendship.... I would say to myself: “all right, tomorrow I am going to see Lirat” ... I would make up my mind firmly.... And the next day: “Not now ... there is nothing pressing.... tomorrow!...” Tomorrow, always tomorrow!... And days, weeks, months passed.... Tomorrow!
Now that he had been told all about these things by Malterre, who even before my departure used to come and make his sofa groan, how could I broach the subject to him?... What could I say to him?... How endure his look, his contempt, his anger.... His anger, perhaps!... But his contempt, his terrible silence, the disconcerting sneer which I already saw taking shape at the corner of his mouth.... No, no, really I did not dare!... To try to mollify him, to take his hand, to ask his forgiveness for my lack of confidence in him, to appeal to the generosity of his heart!... No! It would ill become me to assume such a part, and then Lirat with just one word could throw a damper on me and stop my effusion.... What’s the use!... Each day that passed separated us further, estranged us from each other more and more ... a few more months and there would no longer be any Lirat to reckon with in my life!... I should prefer that rather than cross his threshold and face him in person.... I replied to Juliette:
“Lirat?... Oh yes.... I think I’ll do that some of these days!”
“No, no!” insisted Juliette.... “Today! You know him, you know how mean he is. God knows how many ugly things he must have said about us!”
I had to make up my mind to see him. From the Rue de Balzac to Rodrigue Place is but a short distance. To postpone as long as possible the moment of this painful interview I made a long detour on my way, walking as far as the shop district of the Saint Honoré suburb. And I was thinking to myself: “Suppose I don’t go to see Lirat at all. I can tell her, when I come back, that we have quarreled, and I can invent some sort of a story that will forever relieve me of the necessity of this visit.” I felt ashamed of this boyish thought.... Then I hoped that Lirat was not at home! With what joy could I then roll up my card into a tube and slip it through the keyhole! Comforted by this thought I at last turned in the direction of Rodrigue Place and stopped in front of the door of the studio—and this door seemed to fill me with fear. Still I rapped at it and presently a voice, Lirat’s voice, called:
“Come in!”
My heart beat furiously, a bar of fire stopped my throat—I wanted to flee....
“Come in!” the voice repeated.
I turned the door knob.
“Ah! Is that you, Mintié,” Lirat exclaimed. “Come on in.”
Lirat was seated at his table, writing a letter.
“May I finish this?” he said to me. “Just two more minutes and I’ll be through.”
He resumed writing. It was a relief not to feel upon myself the chill of his look. I took advantage of the fact that his back was turned to unburden my soul to him.
“I have not seen you for such a long time, my good Lirat.”
“Why, yes, my dear Mintié!”
“I have moved.”
“Ah, is that so!”
“I live on the Rue de Balzac.”
“Nice place!”
I was suffocating.... I made a supreme effort to gather all my strength ... but by a strange aberration I thought I would succeed better by adopting a flippant method of approach. Upon my word of honor! I railed, yes, railed at myself.
“I have come to tell you some news which will amuse you.... Ha!... Ha! ... which will amuse you ... I am sure ... I ... I ... live with Juliette.... Ha! ... Ha! ... with Juliette Roux ... Juliette, you know.... Ha! Ha!”
“Congratulations!” He uttered this word “congratulations” in a perfectly calm, indifferent voice.... Was it possible! No hiss, no anger, no jumping at me!... Just “Congratulations!....” As one might say: “how do you expect that to interest me?” And his back bent over the table remained motionless without straightening up, without stirring!... His pen did not slip from his hand; he continued to write! What I told him just now he had known long ago.... But to hear it out of my own mouth!... I was stupefied—and shall I confess it?—I was wounded by the fact that the matter did not seem to affect him at all!... Lirat rose and rubbing his hands:
“Well! what’s new?” he asked.
I could not stand it any longer. I rushed toward him with tears in my eyes.
“Listen to me,” I shouted sobbing. “Lirat, for God’s sake, listen to me.... I did not act fairly toward you.... I know it ... and I ask your forgiveness.... I should have told you all.... But I did not have the courage to.... You frighten me.... And then ... you remember Juliette, the one you told me about, right here ... you remember ... she is the one who kept me from doing that.... Do you understand?”
“My dear Mintié,” interrupted Lirat, “I did not want you to tell me anything. I am neither your father nor your confessor. Do what you please, that does not concern me in the least.”
I became excited.
“You are not my father, that is true ... but you are my friend ... and I owe you all the confidence in the world.... Forgive me!... Yes, I live with Juliette, and I love her and she loves me!... Is it a crime to seek a little happiness?... Juliette is not the kind of a woman you thought she was ... she has been calumniated most odiously, Lirat.... She is kind and honest.... Oh, don’t smile ... she is honest!... She has some childish ways about her that would touch even you, Lirat. You don’t like her because you don’t know her.... If you only knew how kind and considerate she is to me! Juliette wants me to work.... She ardently believes in me, in my ability to create.... Why it was she who sent me here to see you. I was ashamed and afraid.... Yes she made me do that! Have a little consideration for her, Lirat. Love her a little, I beg of you!”
Lirat became grave. He put his hand on my shoulder and, looking at me wistfully:
“My dear child!” he said to me in a trembling voice, “why do you tell me all that?”
“Because it is the truth, my dear Lirat! ... because I love you and I want to remain your friend.... Show me that you are my friend no matter what happens... Here now, come to have dinner with us this evening, as we used to in the past, in my own house. Oh, please come!”
“No,” he said.
And this “no” was relentless, final, curt, like a gunshot.
Lirat added:
“But you come often!... And whenever you feel like crying ... the sofa is there ... you know.... The tears of poor devils are quite known to it.”
When the door was shut behind me, it seemed that something huge and heavy had closed itself upon my past, that walls higher than the sky and darker than the night had separated me forever from my decent life, from my dreams of art. There was anguish in my whole being.... For a minute I stood there, stupefied, with swinging arms, with eyes inordinately distended, staring at that prophetic door behind which something had just come to a close, something had just died.