Calvary. Octave Mirbeau

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      Marie found her mistress half naked, stretched out on the bed.

      "My God! My God!" she moaned, "that's the end of it. … My poor little Jean! … You, too, they will take away from me! … Oh, God, have pity on him! … Could that be possible! … So little, so weak! … "

      And while Marie was putting back her clothes which slipped to the ground, trying to quiet her:

      "My good Marie," she stammered, "listen to me. Promise me, yes promise me to do as I tell you. … You have seen it just now, you have seen it, haven't you? … Well, take Jean, and bring him up because I—you see … he must not. … I'll kill him. … Here, you'll stay in this room with him, right near me. … You shall take good care of him and tell me all about him. … I'll feel his presence there, I'll hear him. … But you understand, he must not see me. … It is I who make him that way! … "

      Marie held me in her arms.

      "Madame, there is no sense in that at all," she said, "and you really deserve a good scolding as a lesson. … Why just look at your little Jean! … He is just like a little quail. Now tell her, tell her, my little Jean, that you are well and brave! … Look, look at him laughing, the little creature. … Put your arms around him, Madame."

      "No, no!" my mother cried out wildly. "I must not. … Later. … Take him away! … "

      It was impossible to make her abandon this idea. Marie well understood that if her mistress had any chance at all to come back to normal life, to cure herself of her "black moods," it was not in being separated from her child. In the sad state in which my mother found herself, she had but one means of recovery and now she rejected it, impelled to do so by some new and unknown fit of madness. All that a little baby brings of joy, uneasiness, activity, anxiety, forgetfulness of self to the heart of a mother was exactly what she needed and yet she said:

      "No, no. … I must not. … Later. … Take him away! … "

      In her own language, familiar and rude, to which her long devotions entitled her, the old servant maid brought forward all the reasoning and arguments dictated by her common sense and by her simple peasant heart. She even reproached my mother for neglecting her duties, she spoke of her selfishness and declared that a good mother who had any religion at all or even a savage beast wouldn't act as she did.

      "Yes," she ended, "that is bad! … you have already been so unkind to your husband, poor fellow. Must you now make your child unhappy?"

      But mother, always sobbing, could but repeat:

      "No, no. … I must not. … Later. … Take him away! … "

      What was my childhood? A long torpor. Separated from my mother whom I saw but rarely, avoiding my father whom I did not love at all, living almost in seclusion, a miserable orphan between old Marie and Felix in this grand lugubrious house, the silence and neglect of which weighed down upon me like a night of death—I was bored. Yes, I was that rare and wretched specimen of a child who is bored. Always sad and grave, hardly speaking at all, I had none of the inquisitiveness and mischievousness of my age, one might have said that my intellect had been slumbering forever in the numbness of maternal gestation. I am trying to recall, I am trying to bring to life again my feelings of childhood; verily I believe I had none. I was dragging on, all wasted and stultified, without knowing what to do with my legs, my arms, my eyes, my poor little body which annoyed me like a tiresome companion whom one wishes to get rid of. There is not one recollection, not one single impression that has been retained by me even in part. I always wished to be where I was not, and the toys exhaling the wholesome odor of fir trees were lying in heaps around me, without inducing me even to think of touching them. Never did I dream about a knife or wooden horse or picture book. Today, when I see little children running, jumping, chasing one another on the garden lawns, the sandy beaches, I recall with sadness the first mournful years of my life, and while listening to the clear laughter which sounds like the ringing of the angelus of human dawn, I say to myself that all my misfortunes have come from this childhood, lonely and lifeless, unbroken by a single bright event.

      I was not quite twelve years old when my mother died. The day on which this misfortune happened the good curé Blanchetière, who liked us very much, pressed me to his breast, then he looked at me for some time and with eyes full of tears murmured several times: "Poor little devil!" I burst into uncontrollable tears when I saw the good curé cry, for I did not want to reconcile myself to the thought that my mother was dead and never again would come back. During her illness I was forbidden to go into her room, and now she was gone without having let me embrace her! … Could she have really deserted me that way? … When I was about seven years old and was well she had agreed to re-admit me into her life. It was from this time on that I understood that I had a mother and that I adored her. My sorrowing mother was represented to me by her two eyes, her two large round eyes, fixed, with rings of red around them, which always shed tears without moving the eyelids, which shed tears as does a rain cloud or a fountain. All at once I felt a keen sorrow at the grief of my mother, and it is through this grief that I awoke to life. I did not know what she suffered from, but I knew that her malady must have been horrible; I knew that from the way she used to embrace me. She had fits of tenderness which used to frighten me and which inspire me with fear even now. As she clasped my head, squeezed my neck and moved her lips over my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth, her frenzied kisses often passed into bites, similar to the caresses of a beast; into her embraces she put all the true passion of a lover, as if I had been the adored chimerical being of her dreams, the being that never came, the being whom her soul and her body so ardently desired. Was it possible then that she was dead?

      Every evening, before going to bed, I fervently entreated the beautiful image of the Virgin to whom I addressed my prayers: "Holy Virgin, please grant my dear mother good health and a long life." But one morning my father, silent and pale, accompanied the physician to the gate, and the countenances of both were so grave that it was easy to surmise that something irreparable had happened. Then the servants were crying. What else could they have cried about, if not the loss of their mistress? … And then did not the curé come up to me and say "poor little devil!" in a tone of irremediable pity? I remember the smallest details of that frightful day as if it were yesterday. From the room where I was shut in with old Marie I could hear the coming and going of people and other strange noises, and with my forehead pressed against the window pane, I could see through the window blinds women beggars squatted on the lawn, waxpaper in hand, muttering prayers. I saw people enter the courtyard, the men in black, the women with long black veils. "Ah! here is Monsieur Bacoup! … " "Why, that's Madame Provost!" I noticed that all of them looked sad, while at the gate which was wide open the children of the choir, the choristers uncomfortable in their black vestments, the Brothers of Charity with their red tunics, one of whom carried a banner and another a heavy silver cross, were laughing aloud and amusing themselves by pushing and jostling one another. The beadle, tinkling his bell, was driving back inquisitive mendicants, and a wagon loaded with hay which had come up on the road was compelled to stop and wait. In vain did I look for the eyes of little Sorieul, a crippled child of my age whom I used to give a small loaf of bread every Saturday; I could not find him anywhere, and that made me feel uneasy. Then suddenly the bells on the church СКАЧАТЬ