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- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
The Complete Works of Émile Zola is a comprehensive collection of the renowned French author's literary output, showcasing his naturalist style and thematic exploration of society, politics, and human nature. Zola's writing is known for its vivid realism and detailed depiction of the darker aspects of life, with a focus on class struggles and moral decay. This seminal collection includes his famous Rougon-Macquart series, which offers a panoramic view of 19th-century French society. Zola's works are essential reading for those interested in the naturalist movement and the evolution of the novel as a social and political tool. His powerful and provocative narratives continue to resonate with readers today, shedding light on timeless issues of power, corruption, and human behavior. Émile Zola, a leading figure in the naturalist literary movement, drew inspiration from his own experiences and observations of French society to create his groundbreaking works. His commitment to realism and social critique drove his writing, leading to controversies and debates during his time. Zola's bold and unflinching portrayal of society set him apart as a key figure in modern literature, influencing generations of writers and thinkers. His dedication to exposing the truth and holding a mirror to society's complexities is evident throughout his vast body of work, making him a celebrated and enduring literary figure. I highly recommend The Complete Works of Émile Zola to readers who appreciate thought-provoking and socially conscious literature. Zola's masterful storytelling and incisive analysis of human behavior make this collection a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the complexities of human nature and society. Dive into Zola's unparalleled world of realism and discover the timeless relevance of his works in today's ever-changing world.
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THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA
Table of Contents
The Early Novels
CLAUDE’S CONFESSION
Translated by John Sterling
DEDICATION.
To my Friends, P. Cézanne and J. B. Baille.
You knew, my friends, the wretched youth whose letters I now publish. That youth is no more. He wished to become a man amid the wreck and oblivion of his early days.
I have long hesitated about giving the following pages to the public. I doubted my right to lay bare a body and a heart; I questioned myself, asking if it was allowable to divulge the secret of a confession. Then, when I re-read the panting and feverish letters, hanging together by a mere thread, I was discouraged; I said to myself that readers would, doubtless, accord but a cold reception to such a delirious and excited publication. Grief has but one cry: the work is an incessant complaint. I hesitated as a man and as a writer.
At last, I thought, one day, that our age has need of lessons and that I had, perhaps, in my hands, the means of curing a few wounded hearts. People wish poets and novelists to moralize. I knew not how to mount the pulpit, but I possessed the work of blood and tears of a poor soul — I could, in my turn, instruct and console. Claude’s avowals had the supreme precept of sobs, the high and pure moral of the fall and the redemption.
I then saw that these letters were such as they should be. I have no idea how the public will accept them, but I have faith in their frankness, even in their fury. They are human.
Hence, my friends, I resolved to publish this book. I took my decision in the name of truth and the general good. Besides, looking above the masses, I thought of you: it would please me to relate to you again the terrible story, which has already filled your eyes with tears.
This story is bare and true even to crudity. The delicate may not like it, but it will teach them a lesson they cannot fail to profit by. I have not felt at liberty to cut out a single line, being certain that these pages are the complete expression of a heart in which there was more light than darkness. They were written by a nervous and loving youth, who gave himself entirely to them amid the quivering of his flesh and the bounds of his soul. They are the morbid manifestation of a special temperament, which had a bitter need of the real and the false but sweet hopes of a dream. The whole book is a struggle between illusion and reality. If Claude’s strange love-affair should make people judge him severely, they will pardon him at the dénouement, when he lifts himself up, younger and stronger, relying upon God.
There was an apostle in Claude. He tells us of his desolated youth, shows us his wounds and cries aloud what he has suffered that his brethren may avoid like sufferings. These are evil times for hearts which resemble his.
I can in a word characterize his work, accord him the highest praise that I desire as an artist, and, at the same time, reply to all the objections that may be made:
Claude’s aspirations were too lofty.
ÉMILE ZOLA.
CHAPTER I.
A MANSARDE IN THE LATIN QUARTER.
WINTER is here: the air in the morning becomes fresher, and Paris puts on her mantle of fog. This is the season of social soirées. Chilly lips search for kisses; lovers, driven from the country, take refuge beneath the mansardes, and, huddling together before the hearth, enjoy, amid the noise of the rain, their eternal spring.
As for me, I live in sadness: I have the winter without the spring, without a sweetheart. My garret, away up a damp staircase, is large and irregular; the corners lose themselves in the gloom, the bare and slanting walls make of the chamber a sort of corridor which stretches out in the form of a bier. The wretched furniture, the narrow planks, ill fitted and painted a horrible red color, crack funereally when they are touched. Shreds of faded damask hang from the canopy of the bed, and the curtainless window opens upon a huge black wall, never changing and always repulsive.
In the evening, when the wind shakes the door and the walls are dimly outlined by the flame of my lamp, I feel a sad and icy weariness press upon me. I pause before the expiring fire on the hearth, before the ugly brown roses on the wall paper, before the faïence vases in which the last flowers have faded, and I imagine I hear everything complain of solitude and poverty. This complaint is heartrending. The entire mansarde demands of me laughter, the riches of its sisters. The hearth exacts a huge, joyous blaze; the vases, forgetting the snow, sigh for fresh roses; the very air speaks to me of flaxen hair and white shoulders.
I listen and cannot help feeling sorrowful. I have no chandelier to suspend from the ceiling, no carpet to hide the irregular and broken planks. And, when my chamber refuses to smile save upon a beautiful white curtain, upon plain but shining furniture, I grow more sorrowful still because I cannot satisfy it. Then it seems to me more deserted and miserable than ever: the wind comes in in colder gusts, the gloom grows denser; the dust gathers in heaps on the floor, the wall paper tears showing the plaster. There is a general pause, and, in the silence, I hear the sobs of my heart.
Brothers, do you remember the days when life for us was a dream? We had friendship, we had visions of love and glory. Do you recall those cool evenings in Provence, when, as the stars came out, we sat down in the furrows still glowing with the heat of the sun? The crickets chirped; the harmonious breath of summer nights enveloped our chat. All three of us let our lips say what our hearts thought, and, in our simplicity, we adored queens, we crowned ourselves with laurels. You told me your dreams, I told you mine. Then, we deigned to come back to earth. I confided to you my plan of life, consecrated to toil and struggles. Feeling the wealth of my mind, I was pleased at the idea of poverty. You were ascending, like me, the stairway of the mansardes, you hoped to nourish yourselves on high thoughts; in your ignorance of the reality, you seemed to believe that the artist in his sleepless night gains the bread of the morrow.
At other times, when the flowers were sweeter, the stars more radiant, we caressed visions of loveliness. Each of us had his sweetheart. Yours — do you recollect? — brown and laughing girls, were queens of the harvest and vintage; they played about, decked with ears of grain and bunches of grapes, and ran along the paths, carried away in the whirl of their turbulent youth. Mine, pale and blonde, had the royalty of the lakes and clouds; she walked languidly, crowned with verbenas, seeming at each step about to quit the earth.
Do you remember, brothers, that last month we went thus to dream amid the fields and draw the courage of man from the holy faith of the child? I was weary of dreaming, I thought myself strong enough for reality. Five weeks have passed since I left our broad district, fertilized by the hot breath of the south. I grasped your hands, said adieu to our favorite field, and was the first to go in search of the crown and the sweetheart reserved by God for our twentieth year.
“Claude,” you said to me at the moment of departure, “you are about to begin the struggle. Tomorrow, we shall not be beside you as formerly, imparting to you hope and courage. You will find yourself alone and poor, having only recollections to people and gild your solitude. The way is rough, people tell us. Go, however, since you thirst for life. Remember your plans: be firm and loyal in action, as you were in your dreams; live in the garrets, eat your dry bread, smile at want. As a man, do not jeer at the ignorance of the child, but accept the hard labor of the grand and the beautiful. Suffering elevates a man, and tears are dried one day when one has greatly loved. Have courage and wait for us. We will console you and scold you from here. We cannot follow you now, for we do not possess your strength; our dream is yet too seductive for us to change it for reality.”
Scold me, brothers, and console me. I am only commencing to live, and I am already very sad. Ah! how joyous was the mansarde of our dreams! How the window sparkled in the sunshine, and how poverty and solitude rendered life there studious and peaceful! Want had for us the luxury of light and smiles. But do you know how ugly a real mansarde is? Do you know how cold one is when one is alone, without flowers, without white curtains upon which to rest the eyes? Light and gayety pass by without entering, fearing to venture amid the gloom and silence.
Where are my fields and my brooks? Where are my setting suns, which gilded the tops of the poplars and changed the rocks into sparkling palaces? Have I deceived myself, brothers? Am I only a lad who would be a man before his time? Have I had too great confidence in my strength, and should I still be dreaming beside you?
The day is breaking. I have passed the night before my extinguished fire, looking at my poor walls and relating to you my first sufferings. A wan light illuminates the roofs, a few flakes of snow fall slowly from the pale, sad sky. The awakening of great cities is tumultuous. I hear, coming up to me, those street murmurs which resemble sobs.
No; this window refuses me the sunlight, this floor is damp, this mansarde is deserted. I cannot love, I cannot work here.
CHAPTER II.
A POET’S LONGINGS.
YOU are irritated by my lack of courage, you accuse me of coveting velvet and bronze, of not accepting the holy poverty of the poet. Alas! I love broad curtains, candelabra, marble upon which the chisel has left the impress of its powerful caresses. I love everything that shines, everything that has beauty, grace and richness. I need princely dwellings, or, rather, the fields with their carpets of fresh and perfumed moss, their draperies of leaves, their wide horizons of light. I prefer the luxury of God to the luxury of men.
Pardon, brothers, for silk is so soft, lace so light; the sun laughs so gayly in gold and crystal!
Let me dream; have no fear for my pride. I wish to hear your strong and cheering words, to embellish my mansarde with gayety, to illuminate it with noble thoughts. If I feel too lonely, I will create for myself an ideal sweetheart who, responsive to my call, will run to kiss me on the forehead after the accomplishment of my task. If the floor be cold, if I have no bread, I will forget winter and hunger in feeling my heart warm. In one’s twentieth year it is easy to be the artisan of one’s joy.
The other night, the voice of the winds was melancholy, my lamp was dying, my fire was extinguished; sleeplessness had troubled my mind, pale phantoms were wandering about me in the gloom. I was afraid, brothers, I felt myself weak, I shed tears. The first ray of dawn drove off the nightmare. Now, the obstacle is no longer in me. I accept the struggle.
I wish to live in a desert, hearing only my heart, seeing only my dream. I desire to forget men, to question myself and reply. Like a young wife whose bosom quivers with a mother’s anxiety, the poet, when he thinks an idea awakening in him, should have an hour of ecstasy and reflection. He runs to shut himself up with his dear burden, fears to believe in his good fortune, interrogates his soul, hopes and doubts in turn. Then, when a sharper pain tells him that God has made his mind fruitful, for long months he shuns the crowd, giving himself entirely to the love of the masterpiece which Heaven has confided to him.
Let him hide himself, and enjoy like a miser the anguish of production; tomorrow, in his pride, ha will come forth to demand caresses for the fruit of his mind.
I am poor; I should live alone. My pride would suffer from commonplace consolations, my hand wishes to press only those of my equals. I am ignorant of the world, but I feel that Want is so cold she must freeze the hearts around her, and that, being the sister of Vice, she is timid and ashamed when she is noble. I carry my head aloft and do not mean to lower it.
Poverty and Solitude, be you then my guests. Be my guardian angels, my muses, my companions with harsh but encouraging voices. Make me strong, give me the science of living, tell me the cost of my daily bread. May your vigorous caresses, so sharp that they seem like wounds, force me towards the good and the just. I will relight my lamp during these winter nights, and I will feel you both beside me, icy and silent, bending over my table, dictating to me the hard truth. When, weary of gloom and silence, I put by my pen and curse you, your melancholy smiles will, perhaps, make me doubt my dreams. Then your serene and sad peace will render you so beautiful that I will take you for my sweethearts. Our loves shall be as serene and deep as you; the lovers of sixteen will envy the bitter pleasure of our fruitful kisses.
But, nevertheless, brothers, it would be delightful to me to feel the purple upon my shoulders, not to drape myself with it before the crowd, but to live more generously beneath the rich and superb tissue. It would be delightful to me to be king of Asia, to dream night and day upon a bed of roses in one of those fairylike dwelling-places, harems of flowers and sultanas. The marble baths with perfumed fountains, the galleries of honeysuckles supported by silver trellises, the immense halls with ceilings sown with stars, do not these constitute the palace which the angels should build for each young man of twenty? Youth wishes at its festival all that sings, all that shines. When the first kiss is given, the fiancée should be covered with lace and jewels, and the nuptial couch, borne by four golden and marble fairies, should have a canopy of precious stones and sheets of satin.
Brothers, brothers, do not scold me, for I wish to be wise. I shall love my garret and think no more of my palaces. Oh! how fresh and passionate life would be in them!
CHAPTER III.
THE YOUNG HARVEST-GIRL.
I TOIL and hope. I pass the days seated at my little table, putting aside my pen for long hours to caress some ideal blonde whom the ink would soil. Then, I resume my work, decking my heroines with the rays of my dreams. I forget the snow and the empty closet. I live I know not where, perhaps in a cloud, perhaps amid the down of an abandoned nest. When I write a phrase sprucely and coquettishly draped, I imagine I see angels and hawthorns in bloom.
I have the holy gayety of toil. Ah! how foolish I was to be sad, and how deceived I was in thinking myself poor and alone! Yesterday my chamber was hideous; now it smiles upon me. I feel around me friends whom I cannot see, but who are legion and who all put out their hands to me. So great is their number that they hide from me the walls of my den.
Poor little table, when Despair shall touch me with her wing, I will always seat myself before you and bend over the white paper on which my dream fixes itself only after having given me a smile.
Alas! I must have, nevertheless, a shade of reality. I surprise myself sometimes uneasy, wishing for a joy that I cannot shape. Then, I hear something like a complaint from my heart: it tells me that it is always cold, always famished, and that a mad dream can neither warm nor satisfy it. I wish to content it. I will go out tomorrow, no longer isolating myself in myself, but gazing at the windows, telling it to make its choice from among the beautiful ladies. Then, from time to time, I will take it back beneath the chosen balcony. It will carry away from it a glance to feed on, and, for a week, will no longer feel the winter. When again it shall cry famine, a new smile shall appease it.
Brothers, have you never imagined that, on a certain autumn evening, you met amid the grain fields a brunette of sixteen? She smiled upon you as she flitted by, then was lost among the wheat heads. That night you dreamed of her, and, on the morrow, at the same hour, took the path from the town. The dear vision passed, smiled again, leaving you a new dream for your next sleep. Months, years elapsed. Every day your famished heart was satisfied with a smile and never desired more. An entire lifetime would not be long enough for you to exhaust the glance of the young harvest-girl.
CHAPTER IV.
TEMPTATION.
LAST evening, I had a bright fire on the hearth. I was rich enough to have two candles, and had lighted them both, regardless of the morrow.
I surprised myself singing, as I prepared for a night of toil. The mansarde laughed to find itself warm and luminous.
As I sat down, I heard on the stairway the sound of voices and hurried steps. Doors opened and shut. Then, amid the silence that ensued, stifled cries came up to me. I sprang to my feet, vaguely disturbed, and listened. The noise ceased. I was about to resume my chair, when some one ran upstairs and called out to me that a woman, my neighbor, had a nervous attack. My help was asked. I held the door open, but saw only the dark and gloomy stairway.
I put on a warmer coat and went down, forgetting even to take one of my candles. On the floor below I stopped, not knowing what room to enter. I did not hear a sound; I was surrounded by thick darkness. At last I saw a thin thread of light through a half-open door. I gave the door a push.
The chamber was the sister of mine: large, irregular and out of repair. But, as I had left my mansarde in a flood of flame and brightness, the gloom and cold of this place filled my heart with pity and sadness. Damp air struck against my face; a miserable candle, burning on one corner of the mantelpiece, flickered in the blast from the stairway, without permitting me at first to see the objects before me.
I had paused upon the threshold. Finally I distinguished the bed: the sheets, thrown off and twisted, had slipped to the floor; scattered garments lay about on the coverlet.
In the midst of these rags was stretched out a vague, white form. I should have thought I saw a corpse, if the candle had not given me occasional glimpses of a hand hanging out of the bed and agitated by rapid convulsions.
By the pillow was an old woman. Her unfastened gray hair fell in stiff locks over her forehead, her hastily put on dress showed her yellow and wasted arms. She had her back towards me, was holding the head and hid from me the face of the woman on the bed.
The quivering body, watched over by this horrible old woman, gave me a sudden feeling of disgust and fright. The motionlessness of their countenances gave them fantastic dimensions, their silence made one almost doubt that they were alive. I thought for an instant that I was witnessing one of those terrible scenes of the witches’ Sabbath, when the sorceresses suck the blood of young girls, and, throwing them ghastly and wrinkled into the arms of Death, rob them of their youth and freshness.
The noise I made at the door caused the old woman to turn her head. She let the body she was supporting fall heavily; then, she advanced towards me.
“Ah! Monsieur,” she said, “I thank you for having come. Old people fear the winter nights, and this room is so cold that, perhaps, I would not have been able to leave it in the morning. I have been watching a long while, and when one eats but little, one needs more sleep. Besides, the crisis is over. You will have to wait only until this girl awakens. Good night, Monsieur.”
The old woman went away, and I was alone. I shut the door, and, taking up the candle, approached the bed. The girl extended upon it seemed about twenty-four. She was plunged in that deep stupor which follows nervous convulsions. Her feet were drawn up beneath her; her arms, still stiff and wide open, were thrown over the edges of the bed. I could not at first judge of her beauty: her head, thrown backward, was concealed by her flood of hair.
I took her in my arms, straightened out her limbs and placed her upon her back. Then I drew away the hair from her face. She was ugly: her closed eyes had no lashes, her temples were low and retiring, her mouth large and sunken. Premature old age had effaced the outlines of her features and left upon her whole countenance an imprint of lassitude and avidity.
She was sleeping. I heaped over her feet all the rags within my reach; then I raised her head by putting under it more old clothes which I had found and rolled into a bundle. My science being limited to these cares, I decided to wait until she awoke. I feared lest she might have another attack, fall and wound herself.
I examined the garret. On entering I had noticed a strong perfume of musk, which, mingling with the sharp odor of the dampness, struck strangely upon the sense of smell. Upon the mantelpiece was a row of vials and little pots, still greasy with aromatic oils. Above hung a cracked looking-glass, with the amalgam at the back gone in broad patches. In addition, the walls were bare. Many things lay about on the floor: satin shoes down at the heel, dirty linen, faded ribbons, rags of lace. As I went along, scattering the tatters with my foot to make a passage for myself, I came across a handsome dress of blue silk, ornamented with bows of velvet. It had been thrown into a corner among the other gewgaws, rolled up, rumpled, stained yet with the mud of the town. I raised it and hung it on a nail.
Weary and finding no chair, I sat down on the foot of the bed. I began to understand where I was. The girl still slept; she was now plainly visible. I thought I had made a mistake in declaring her ugly, and looked at her with greater attention. An easier sleep had brought to her lips a vague smile; her features were relaxed; her past suffering had given a sort of gentle and sad beauty to her ugliness. She reposed, sorrowful and resigned. Her soul seemed to have taken advantage of her rest to mount to her face.
I was amid unclean want, a strange assemblage of blue silk and filth. This garret was the infamous den of famished luxury selling its satiety; this girl was one of those old wretches of twenty, no longer having anything of the woman about them but the fatal stamp of their sex, vending that mortality which Heaven has left them in withdrawing their souls. How could so much slime be in a single being, so many stains on a single heart! God roughly smites His creature when He allows her to tear her robe of innocence and assume the wretched garments of vice! In our visions of love, we never dreamed that some night we should find a miserable bed in a garret full of gloom, and, upon that bed, a girl of the gutter, asleep and half clad!
The unfortunate creature was evidently under the caressing wing of a dream; gentle and regular breath escaped from her lips; over her languidly closed eyelids at times ran a faint quiver. I leaned upon the bed; my glance could not loosen itself from that pale face, beautiful with a strange beauty. I know not what fascination was exerted upon me by this peaceful sleep of vice, these faded features, stamped in their repose with an angelic mildness. I said to myself that this slumbering girl was receiving a visit from her sixteenth year, and that thus purity itself was before me. This thought filled my mind; if any other mingled with it I did not know it. I no longer felt the cold, but I trembled. My veins throbbed with an unknown fever. My reverie rambled on, more uneasy and more sorrowful.
The girl uttered a sigh, and turned over. She threw back the coverlet, exposing her bust.
My dreams had shown me only chaste statues, always veiled by dazzling brightness. I had seen but the arms of washerwomen, gayly beating their linen. Sometimes, perhaps, my glance had strayed over the white and delicate neck of a danseuse, when, getting the better of my heart, I had felt my thoughts troubled by the sweep of her flaxen tresses.
This roughly uncovered bust made me blush, and filled me with such anguish that I was on the point of weeping. I was ashamed for the young woman’s sake; I felt my purity departing as I gazed at her. Nevertheless, I could not turn away my eyes; I followed the gentle undulations of her breast, and was dazzled by its whiteness. My senses were still silent; my mind alone was intoxicated. My impressions had a charm so strange that I can now compare them only to the holy horror that shook me the day I beheld a corpse for the first time. My imagination had represented death to me. But when I saw that bluish face, that black and open mouth, when destruction showed itself in its energetic grandeur, I could not withdraw my glances from the dead, for I was quivering with a sorrowful delight, I was attracted by I know not what glimmer of reality.
Thus, the first bare throat held me palpitating with an emotion I am unable to define.
And it was a bust bruised by harsh caresses upon which my eyes rested! Ah! when I now think of it, of that frightened ecstasy which restrained my breath, when I again see myself bent over that infamous couch, uneasy and blushing, I ask myself with anguish who will restore to me that first glance that I may bend and blush over the couch of purity! I ask myself who will restore to me the instant when the veil falls from the shoulders of the bride, when the bridegroom comprehends that the choicest gift of Heaven is his and bows his head, dazzled by the knowledge! I have drunk to intoxication from a perilous cup; I shall never realize what splendor a bride has in the eyes of a young and innocent husband.
The girl awoke and smiled, without seeming astonished to find me near her. Her smile was vague, as if addressed to a crowd, as if weary of being upon her lips. She did not speak, but put out her arms towards me.
In the morning, when I returned to my garret, I found my candles entirely burned away and the fire on my hearth long dead. The chamber was cold and sombre: I no longer had either flame or brightness.
CHAPTER V.
PAQUERETTE.
BROTHERS, where is the sweetheart, queen of the lakes and clouds, or the harvest brunette whose glance is so deep as to suffice for a life of love?
Well, all is over: I have belied my youth; I am the fiancé of vice. The remembrance of my first hour of love is closely bound to that of an infamous den, of a couch over which strange kisses float. When, during the May nights, I shall evoke my fiancée, I shall see arise a half-clad, cynical girl, awaking and putting out her arms towards me. This pale and stained spectre will be a participant in all my love-affairs. It will stand between my mouth and that of my bride, claiming the kisses of my soiled lips. When I am asleep, it will visit me in a horrible dream. When my sweetheart shall whisper in my ear some delicious word, it will be there to tell me that it was the first to talk thus to me. When I shall lean my head upon the shoulder of my bride, it will present to me its shoulder on which I once reposed. Thus it will ever freeze my heart with the accursed remembrance of our betrothal.
Yes, that night has sufficed to deprive me of supreme peace. My first kiss has not awakened a soul. I have not felt the holy ignorance of pure caresses, my timid lips have not found lips as timid as themselves. I shall never experience that simple playfulness, that innocence of a couple who know not the ways of the world. They tremble, embrace, and weep for joy. But, as they kiss each other, hesitatingly, they realize that they are one, that their hearts beat in unison, and that God has joined them for the voyage of life.
Then, when this knowledge has come, when they have in a kiss divined the law of the Omnipotent, what must be their delight to owe to each other this revelation, this infinitude of joy! They have participated in a common blessing: they have put on their white robes and now are clad like the cherubim. Mingling their very breath, smiling with the same smile, they repose in their union. Holy hour, in which hearts beat more freely, finding a heaven to which they can ascend. Sainted hour, in which ignorant love suddenly learns the full measure of its strength, believes itself the master of the universe and is intoxicated with its first flight. Brothers, may God keep for you that hour, the remembrance of which perfumes one’s entire life. It will never be mine.
Such is fate. It is rare that two pure hearts meet; nearly always one heart of any twain can no longer give its ecstasy in its flower. To-day, most young men of twenty like ourselves, who are eager to love, lacking the power to force the bars and bolts of honest houses, hasten to the wide open doors of boudoirs easier of access. When we ask upon what shoulders we shall lean our heads, fathers hide their daughters and push us into the gloom of the lanes. They cry out to us to respect their children, who will some day be our wives; they prefer for them, instead of our first caresses, those learned elsewhere.
Hence how few keep their early love for their brides, how few, in the desert of their youth, refuse the companions into whose society they are driven by the singular behavior of parents! Some, foolish and wicked lads, glory in their shame; they drag their ignoble flirtations before the public eye. Others, when the soul awakes at the first summons of the sweetheart, are filled with overwhelming sorrow on vainly interrogating the horizon and at not knowing where to find the rightful claimant of the heart. They go straight ahead, staring at the balconies, leaning towards each youthful visage: the balconies are deserted, the youthful visages remain veiled. Some night an arm is slipped within their own, a voice makes them start. Already weary and despairing, unable to discover the angel of love, they follow the spectre.
Brothers, I do not wish to make an excuse for my fault, but let me say that it is strange to cloister purity and permit dissipation to walk in the glare of the sun with uplifted head. Let me deplore this distrust of love, which creates a solitude around the lover, and this guarding of virtue by vice, which causes a young man to encounter shame before reaching the door of innocence. He who yields to temptation may well say to his bride: “I am unworthy of you, but why did you not come to my rescue? Why did you not meet me in the flowery fields, before all those by-ways, each nook of which has its priestess? Why were you not the first to greet my eyes, thus sparing yourself in sparing me?”
On returning home this evening, I found upon the stairway the old woman of the other night. She was toilsomely ascending in front of me, aiding herself with the cord and placing both feet on each step. She turned around.
“Well, Monsieur, is your patient better?” she asked. “She no longer shivers, I imagine, and you yourself do not seem to have suffered from the cold. Ah! I well knew that a young man could take better care of a handsome girl than an old woman.”
She laughed, showing her empty mouth. The politeness of this aged wretch who had led a gay life made me blush.
“You need not color so!” she added. “I have seen others as proud as yourself enter without shame and depart singing. Youth loves to laugh, and girls who play the wise one are fools. Ah! if I were only fifteen again!”
I had reached my door. She caught me by the arm as I was about to go in, and continued:
“I had flaxen hair then, and my cheeks were so fresh that my admirers nicknamed me Pâquerette. If you had seen me, you would have been astonished. I lived on the ground floor, in a nest of silk and gold. Now, I lodge under the eaves. I have only to descend to go to the cemetery. Ah! your friend Laurence is happy: she is as yet but in the fourth story.”
So the girl was called Laurence. I had been ignorant even of her name.
CHAPTER VI.
DESPAIR.
I RESUMED my work, but with repugnance, and was weary from the commencement. Now that I had lifted a corner of the veil, I had neither the courage to let it fall again nor the boldness to draw it away altogether. When I seated myself at my table, I leaned sadly on my elbows, letting the pen slip from my fingers and muttering: “What is the good!” My intelligence seemed worn out; I dare not re-read the few phrases I had written; I no longer felt that joy of the poet, whom a happy rhyme fills with unreasoning and childish laughter. Scold me, brothers, for limping verses are shorn of their power to keep me awake.
My slim resources are diminishing. I can calculate the hour when everything will be gone. I eat my bread, being almost in haste to finish it that I may no longer see it melt away at each meal. I am surrendering to want like a coward; the struggle for food terrifies me.
Ah! how they lie who assert that poverty is the mother of talent! Let them count those whom despair has made illustrious and those whom it has slowly debased. When tears are caused by a heart wound, the wrinkles they dig are beautiful and noble; but when hunger makes them flow, when every night a baseness or a brutish task drys them, they furrow the face frightfully, without imparting to it the sad serenity of age.
No; since I am so poor that I may, perhaps, die tomorrow, I cannot work. When the closet was full I had great courage. I felt the strength to gain my bread. Now it is nearly empty and I am given over to lassitude. It would be easier for me to endure hunger than to make the smallest effort.
I well know that I am cowardly and false to my vows. I know that I have not the right already to take refuge in defeat. I am only twenty: I cannot be weary of a world of which I am ignorant. Yesterday, I dreamed of it as sweet and good. Is it a new dream which makes me form a bad opinion of it to-day?
Oh! brothers, my first step has been unfortunate: I am afraid to advance. I will exhaust my suffering, shed all my tears, and my smiles will return. I will work with a gayer heart tomorrow.
CHAPTER VII.
LAURENCE.
YESTERDAY afternoon, I went to bed at five o’clock, in broad day, forgetting the key in the lock.
About midnight, as I saw in a dream a young blonde stretch out her arms to me, a sound which I had heard in my sleep made me suddenly open my eyes. My lamp was lighted. A woman, standing at the foot of the bed, was looking at me. Her back was towards the light, and I thought, in the confusion of awaking, that God had taken pity on me and transformed one of my visions into reality.
The woman approached. I recognized Laurence — Laurence with bare head, wearing her handsome blue silk dress. Her uncovered shoulders were purple with cold. Laurence had come to me.
“My friend,” said she, “I owe the landlord forty francs. He has just refused me the key of my door and told me to seek shelter elsewhere. It was too late to go out, and I thought of you.”
She sat down to unlace her boots. I did not understand, I did not wish to understand. It seemed to me that this girl had stolen into my garret to destroy me. The lamp, lighted I knew not how, the scantily-clad woman in the middle of the icy chamber, terrified me. I was tempted to shout for help.
“We will live as you like,” continued Laurence. “I am not embarrassing.”
I sat up to awaken myself completely. I began to understand, and what I understood was horrible. I restrained a harsh word which had arisen to my lips: abuse is repugnant to me, and I suffer when I insult any one.
“Madame,” I simply said, “I am poor.”
Laurence burst into a torrent of laughter.
“You call me Madame!” she resumed. “Are you angry? What have I done to you? I know you are poor — you showed me too much respect to be rich. Well, we will be poor.”
“I can give you neither gewgaws nor enticing meals.”
“Do you think that they have often been given to me? People are not so kind to poor girls! We roll in carriages only in novels. For one who finds a dress ten die of hunger.”
“I eat but two very meagre meals a day; together, we could only have one, and that of bread dried that we might consume less of it, with simply water to drink.”
“You wish to frighten me. Have you not a father, in Paris or elsewhere, who sends you books and clothes which you afterwards sell? We will eat your hard bread and go to the ball to drink champagne.”
“No, I am alone in the world; I work for my living. I cannot associate you with my poverty.”
Laurence stopped unlacing her boots. She sat still and thought.
“Listen,” she said, suddenly: “I am without bread and without a shelter. You are young; you cannot conceive the extent of our perpetual distress, even amid luxury and gayety. The street is our sole domicile; elsewhere we are not at home. We are shown the door and we depart. Do you wish me to depart? You have the right to drive me away, and I the resource of going to sleep under some bridge.”
“I do not wish to drive you away. I tell you only that you have ill-chosen your refuge. You can never accustom yourself to my sadness and want.”
“Chosen! Ah! you think that we are permitted to choose! You may not believe it, but I came here because I knew not where else to go. I climbed the stairs furtively to pass the night upon a step. I leaned against your door, and then it was that I thought of you. You have only hard bread; I have not eaten anything since yesterday, and my smile is so faint that it will not bring me a meal tomorrow. You see that I can remain. I had just as well die here as in the street — besides, it is less cold.”
“No; look further; you will find some one richer and gayer than I. Later you will thank me for not having received you.”
Laurence arose. Her countenance had assumed an indescribable expression of bitterness and irony. Her look was not supplicating: it was insolent and cynical. She crossed her arms and stared me in the face.
“Come,” said she, “be frank: you do not want me. I am too ugly, too miserable. I displease you, and you wish to get rid of me. You have no money, and yet you want a pretty sweetheart. I was a fool not to think of that. I ought to have said to myself that I was not worth even the attention of poverty and that I must descend a round of the ladder. I am thirsty, but I can drink from the gutters; I am hungry, but theft, perhaps, will afford me nourishment. I thank you for your advice.”
She gathered her dress about her and walked towards the door.
“Do you know,” hissed she, “that we wretches are better than you honest folks?”
And she talked for a long while in a sharp voice. I cannot reproduce the brutal force of her language. She said that she was the slave of our caprices, that she laughed when we told her to laugh, and that we turned our backs upon her later when we met her. Who forced us to seek her, who pushed us into her company in the darkness, that we should show so much contempt for her in broad day? I had once paid her a visit — why did I not want to see her now? Had I forgotten that she was a woman and as such was entitled even to my protection? The weak should always be protected and sheltered by the strong. Now that she was famished, I took a cruel delight in telling her that I had nothing for her to eat. Now that she was houseless, I gloried in telling her that I refused to give her a refuge. Because she was miserable I deemed it incumbent upon me to make her more miserable still, for the truth was that I could do so with impunity. I was afraid of her. She recalled the past too vividly. I wished to deny her very existence. I was, indeed, a man to be admired, a man with a noble, generous heart.
She was silent for an instant. Then she resumed, with more energy:
“You came to me and I received you as my husband. Now you deny that I have any rights. You lie. I have all the rights of a wife. You gave them to me, and you cannot undo what is done. You are mine and I am yours. You repudiate me and you are a coward!”
Laurence had opened the door. She hurled insults at me as she stood upon the threshold, pale with anger. I leaped from the bed and caught her by the arm.
“You can remain,” I said. “You are like ice. Lie down, cover yourself up, and get warm.”
Will you believe, brothers, that I was weeping! It was not pity. The tears flowed of themselves down my cheeks, though I felt only an immense and vague sadness.
The girl’s words had made a deep impression on me. Her argument, the force of which, doubtless, escaped her, seemed to me just and true. I realized so perfectly that she had her rights, that I could not have driven her away without thinking myself the incarnation of injustice. She was a woman still, and I could not treat her like a lifeless object which contempt and abandonment cannot affect. Setting all else aside, humanity demanded that I should help her. The pure and the guilty are both liable to come to us, some winter night, to tell us that they are cold, that they are hungry, that they have need of us. Alas! we often receive the one and thrust the other into the gloomy and inhospitable street!
This is because we have the cowardice of our vices. It is because we would be terrified to have beside us a living remembrance and remorse. It pleases us to live honored, and when we blush at the call of some wretched creature, we deny her to explain our blushes by her impudence. And we do this without deeming ourselves culpable, without asking ourselves what justice this creature demands. Custom has made us consider her a disgrace, and we are astonished that this disgrace speaks and calls itself a woman.
My friends, I trembled before the truth. I understood and I wept. The question seemed to me simple, clear and self-evident. Laurence’s words had frightened without disgusting me. I had not dreamed of her coming; but she came and I received her. I cannot, brothers, explain to you what were my feelings. My mind of twenty years had accepted in their absolute sense those words which admitted of no hesitation: “You are mine and I am yours!”
The next morning, when I awoke and found Laurence in my room, I felt my heart ready to burst with anguish. The scene of the past night was effaced. I no longer heard the true and rude words which had made me receive the girl. The brutal fact alone remained.
I looked at her as she slept. I saw her for the first time by daylight, without her face having the strange beauty of suffering or despair. When she thus appeared to me, ugly and prematurely old, plunged into a heavy, brutish slumber, I trembled before that faded and common countenance which I did not recognize. I could not comprehend how it was that I had awakened in such company. I seemed as if I had come out of a dream, and the reality proved so horrible that I had forgotten what had made me accept it.
But what difference did it make whether it was pity, justice or mercy. The girl was there. Ah! brothers, can I shed enough tears, and will you have sufficient courage to dry them!
CHAPTER VIII.
A MISSION FROM ON HIGH.
YES, I think as you do; I wish still to hope, I wish to make this fatal union a source of noble aspirations.
Formerly, when our thoughts drifted, towards such unfortunate creatures as Laurence, we felt only mercy and pity for them. We discerned the holy task of redemption. We asked God to send us a dead soul, that we might, by kindly and gentle ways, restore it to youth and purity.
The faith of our sixteenth year, we thought, ought to make sinners believe and bow the head.
Then, we were Didier, pardoning Marion and acknowledging her as a wife at the foot of the scaffold. We lifted the sinner to the height of our tenderness.
Well, now I can be Didier. Marion, as sinful as the day he pardoned her, is here. She needs the white robe of purity, a hand to guide her wavering steps aright, to steady her in the narrow and difficult path which leads to the happiness of innocence. Her pale face requires a pure atmosphere to restore to it the glow of youthful health. What we wished for in our sainted hallucinations I have found without searching for it.
Since Laurence has come to me, I wish to erase all the evil instincts of her heart, to give it the healthful tone and freshness of mine. I will be a priest for this poor wretch: I will lift her up, console and pardon her.
Who knows, brothers, but that this is a supreme trial, an appointed task, that God has sent me! Perhaps, it is His wish, in charging me with a soul, to develop all the latent strength of mine. Perhaps, He has reserved for me the office of the strong, and does not fear to entrust me with the reformation of a human being. I will be worthy of His choice.
CHAPTER IX.
THE COURSE OF REFORMATION.
I DESIRE to make Laurence forget what she is, to deceive her in regard to herself by the genuine friendship I show her. I speak to her only with gentleness; my words are always grave and carefully chosen.
Whenever she utters any of the slang of the street, I feign not to hear her. I inculcate the lessons of innocence, and treat her as a sister who has need of instruction. I oppose a calm and thoughtful life to her noisy life of the past. I pretend to ignore that this existence is not hers; I endeavor to be so natural in the imposition that, in the end, she will doubt that she ever lived otherwise.
Yesterday, in the street, a man insulted her. She was about to return insult for insult. I did not give her time. I approached the man, who was intoxicated, and caught him by the wrist, commanding him to respect my wife.
“Your wife!” cried he, ironically. “I know all about such wives!”
Then, I shook him violently, repeating my order in a sterner tone. He stammered out something and slunk away, begging pardon. Laurence silently resumed my arm, apparently confused by the title of wife which I had bestowed upon her.
I well know that too much austerity is not advisable. I do not hope for a sudden return to good; I wish to manage a skilful and gradual transition, which shall prevent her poor, sick eyes from being wounded by the light. There lies the whole difficulty of the task.
I have noticed that such girls as Laurence, women before their time, long keep the thoughtlessness and childishness of the infant. They are wearied and would yet willingly play with the doll. A trifle amuses them, makes them burst out laughing; they find again, unconsciously, the astonishment and caressing babble of little girls of five. I have taken advantage of this observation. I give Laurence gewgaws which make us great friends for an hour.
You cannot imagine the deep emotion this strange education has awakened in me. When I think I have made Laurence’s dead heart beat, I am tempted to kneel and thank God. Without doubt, I exaggerate the sanctity of my mission. I say to myself that the love of a pure creature would sanctify me less than the devotion this poor girl will some day feel for me.
That day is yet afar off. My companion is embarrassed by my respect for her. She, whom insults do not affect, colors to the roots of her hair when I talk to her in a brotherly fashion, intent upon my good work. Sometimes, I see her hesitate before answering me, apparently doubting that it was to her I had spoken. She is amazed at not being reproached, and seems ill at ease because of my delicate attentions. The mask of innocence, which I have forced her to put on, worries her: she knows not how to bear esteem. Often I surprise a smile on her lips; she must think that I am mocking her, and this smile seems to ask me to kindly stop joking.
In the evening, at bedtime, she puts out the candle before undressing; she draws over her the corners of the coverings, and takes advantage of my sleep to leap from her couch in the morning. When she talks, she selects her words; following my example, she avoids being familiar with me.
I cannot tell why these precautions disturb me: I see in them more of constraint than true repentance. I feel that she acts and talks as she does out of fear of displeasing me, but that, so far as she herself is concerned, she is indifferent about her behavior and would as soon talk the language of the markets as not. She cannot have acquired so quickly a knowledge of her errors. I tell you, brothers, Laurence is afraid of me: such is the result of a week of respect.
As soon as she rises, she makes a grand toilet; she runs to the looking-glass and forgets herself there for an hour. She is in haste to repair the disorders of the night. Her thin locks are let fall, showing bare places on her head; her cheeks, from which the rouge has been rubbed, are pale and faded. She knows that she no longer has her borrowed youth, and is afraid that I will notice its absence should I turn my gaze upon her. The poor girl, who has lived beneath a coat of paint, fears lest I should drive her away when I see her without it. She combs her hair laboriously, puffing out her locks and skilfully concealing the vacant spots left by those which are gone; she blackens her eyelashes, whitens her shoulders and reddens her lips. Meanwhile I keep my back turned towards her, feigning to see nothing of all this. Then, when she has painted her face and thinks herself sufficiently young and beautiful, she comes to me smilingly. She is calmer, feeling certain that she is safe. She offers herself fearlessly to my eyes. She forgets that I cannot be deceived by the pretty colors she has put on, and seems to think that when I see them I am satisfied.
I told her in plain words that I preferred fresh water to pomades and cosmetics. I even went so far as to add that I liked her premature wrinkles better than the greasy and shining mask she put on her countenance every day. She did not understand. She blushed, thinking that I was reproaching her with her ugliness, and since then she has made increased efforts not to look like herself.
Thus combed and rouged, wrapped in her blue silk dress, she drags herself from chair to chair, careless and wearied. Not daring to stir for fear of deranging a fold of her skirt, she generally remains seated the rest of the day. She crosses her hands, and, with her eyes open, falls into a sort of waking sleep. Sometimes, she rises and walks to the window; there she leans her forehead against the icy panes and resumes her doze.
She was active enough before she became my companion. The agitated life she then led gave her a feverish ardor; her idleness was noisy and joyfully accepted the rude tasks set for it. Now, sharing my calm and studious existence, she has all the laziness of peace without its gentle and regular work.
I must, before everything else, cure her of carelessness and weariness. I plainly see that she regrets the strife, confusion and excitement of her early days, but she is by nature so devoid of energy that she is afraid to regret them openly. I have told you, brothers, that she fears me. She does not fear my anger, but she stands in terror of the unknown being whom she cannot comprehend. She vaguely seizes my wishes and bows before them, ignorant of their true meaning. Hence she is circumspect in her conduct without being repentant, and remains serious and tranquil without ceasing to be idle and lazy. Hence also she thinks that she cannot refuse my esteem, and, though she is sometimes amazed at it, she never seeks to be worthy of it.
CHAPTER X.
THE EMBROIDERY STRIP.
I SUFFERED to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought that toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at the accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While the needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers gives to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her work has I know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and makes haste. Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the workwoman of to-day has found again the active serenity of the innocent. Speak to her heart, it will answer you.
Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed to me that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or other and she mingling her dream with the thread of her embroidery, would unite us in a gentler and deeper friendship. She accepted this idea of work as she accepts each one of my wishes, with a passive obedience, a singular mixture of indifference and resignation.
After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing to trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning. I watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad expression had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and regularly, told me that her body alone was working, her mind taking no part in the task.
