Читать книгу The Complete Short Stories (All Unabridged) - Emile Zola - Страница 6

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I

Is she who loves me a grand lady, smothered in silk, lace and jewels, dreaming of our love on the sofa of a boudoir? Marchioness or duchess, graceful and light as a dream, languidly trailing a profusion of white petticoats across the carpets, and making a little pout sweeter than a smile?

Is she who loves me a smart grisette, tripping along, catching up her skirt to jump over the gutters, searching with her eyes for a compliment on her taper leg? Is she the goodnatured girl who drinks out of every one’s glass, clothed in satin to-day, in coarse calico tomorrow, and who finds a little love for each in her wealth of heart?

Is she who loves me the blond child kneeling down to say her prayers beside her mother? The foolish virgin calling on me at night in the darkness of the narrow streets? Is she the sunburnt country-girl who looks at me as I pass, and carries a remembrance of me away with her amongst the corn and ripe vines? Is she the poverty-stricken creature who thanks me for my charity? Is she the mate of another, lover or husband, whom I followed one day, and saw no more?

Is she who loves me a daughter of Europe, as white as dawn, a daughter of Asia yellow and gold like sunset, or a daughter of the desert as dark as a stormy night?

Is she who loves me separated from me by a thin partition? Is she beyond the seas? Is she beyond the stars?

Is she who loves me still to be born? Did she die a hundred years ago?

II

Yesterday I sought her at a fair. The faubourg was holiday-making, and the people, dressed in their Sunday clothes, were noisily ascending the streets.

The illumination lamps had just been lit. The avenue, from distance to distance, was decked with yellow and blue posts, affixed to which were small coloured cups, burning smoking wicks that were blowing about in the wind. Venetian lanterns were vacillating in the trees. The footways were bordered by canvas booths with the fringe of their red curtains dragging in the gutters. The gilded crockery, the freshly painted sweets, the tinsel of the wares mirrored in the raw light of the Argand lamps.

There was a smell of dust, of gingerbread and waffles made with fat, in the air. The organs resounded; the Merry-Andrews, smothered in flour, laughed and wept beneath a shower of cuffs and kicks. A warm wave weighed upon this joy.

Above this wave and noise expanded a summer sky of pure melancholy depths. An angel had just lit up the azure blue for some divine fête, a supremely calm festival of the infinite.

Lost in the crowd, I felt how solitary was my heart. I advanced, following with my eyes the young girls who smiled at me as I passed along, saying to myself that I would never see those smiles again. That thought of so many amorous lips, perceived for a moment and lost for ever, caused me anguish.

In this manner I reached a cross way, in the middle of the avenue. On the left, against an elm was an isolated booth. In the front, a few ill-joined planks served as a platform, and a couple of lanterns lighted the door which was nothing more than a strip of canvas caught up like a curtain. As I stopped, a man wearing the costume of a magician, a long black gown and pointed hat scattered over with stars, was addressing the crowd from the height of the planks.

“Walk-up,” he shouted, “walk-up, my fine gentlemen, walk-up, my beautiful young ladies! I have come in all haste from the interior of India to make young hearts rejoice. It was there that I conquered, at the peril of my life, the mirror of love, which was guarded by a horrible dragon. My fine gentlemen, my beautiful young ladies, I have brought you the realisation of your dreams. Walk-up, walk-up and see ‘She who loves you!’ For two sous ‘She who loves you!’” An old woman, attired as a bayadere, raised the piece of canvas. Her eyes wandered over the crowd with an idiotic expression: then, she cried in a husky voice:

“For two sous, for two sous ‘She who loves you!’ Walk-up and see ‘She who loves you!’”

III

The magician beat a captivating fanciful rumble on the big drum. The bayadere hung on to a bell and accompanied him.

The public hesitated. A learned ass playing at cards offers lively interest; a strong man raising 100-lb. weights is a sight one would never tire of; it is impossible to deny, moreover, that a half-naked female giant is a fit subject to give pleasant amusement to people of all ages. But to see “She who loves us,” is what one cares about the least, and a thing that does not foreshadow the slightest emotion.

I had listened to the appeal of the man with the long gown with rapture. His promises responded to my heart’s desire; I saw the hand of Providence in the hazard that had directed my footsteps. This worthless fellow rose singularly in my estimation, by reason of the astonishment I experienced in hearing him read my secret thoughts. It seemed to me that I saw him fixing flaming eyes on me, beating the big drum with diabolical fury, shouting out to me to walk-up in a voice louder than the sound of the bell.

I was placing my foot on the first step, when I felt myself stopped. Having turned round, I saw a man at the foot of the platform holding me by my coat. This man was tall and thin; he had large hands covered with cotton gloves that were still larger, and wore a hat that had become russety, a black coat white at the elbows, and dreadful-looking kerseymere trousers, all yellow with grease and mud. He bent himself double in a long and exquisite reverence, then, in a fluty voice, addressed me in the following language:

“I am sorry, sir, that a young man who has been well brought up should set a bad example to the crowd. It is showing great levity to encourage the impudence of this rascal, who is speculating on our bad instincts; for I consider those words shouted out in the open air, which call boys and girls to a debauchery of sight and mind, profoundly immoral. Ah! the people are weak, sir. We men, rendered strong by education, we have, bear it in mind, grave and imperious duties to perform. Let us not give way to guilty curiosity, let us be worthy in all things. The morality of society depends on us, sir.”

I listened to what he said. He had not let go of my coat, and could not make up his mind to complete his reverence. He discoursed hat in hand, with such courteous calmness, that I never dreamt of getting angry. When he had concluded, I was content to look him in the face without answering. He took this silence for an inquiry.

“Sir,” he said, with another bow, “sir, I am the People’s Friend, and my mission is the happiness of humanity.”

He pronounced these words with modest pride, suddenly drawing himself up erect. I turned my back on him and ascended to the platform. As I raised the piece of canvas before entering, I looked at him for the last time. He had delicately taken the fingers of his left hand with those of his right, and sought to efface the wrinkles of his gloves which he was threatened with losing.

Then, the People’s Friend, crossing his arms, tenderly surveyed the bayadere.

IV

I let the curtain fall and found myself in the temple. It was a sort of long narrow place devoid of seats, with canvas walls and lighted by a single Argand lamp. A few people, inquisitive girls and youths making a noise, were already assembled there. The arrangements had been made with every regard to decency: a cord stretched down the centre of the booth, separated men from women.

The Mirror of Love, to tell the truth, was nothing more than a couple of pieces of glass without tinfoil, one in each compartment, little round windows, in fact, looking into the inner part of the booth. The promised miracle was accomplished with admirable simplicity: it sufficed to apply the right eye to the glass, and, without its being a question of thunder or sulphur, the well-beloved appeared on the other side. How would it be possible to disbelieve so natural a vision!

I did not feel the strength to attempt the trial at the outset The bayadere had cast a look on me as I passed her, that froze my heart. How could I tell what awaited me beyond that piece of glass? Perhaps a horrible countenance with sparkless eyes and violet lips; a centenarian thirsting for young blood, one of those deformed creatures whom I see at night in my bad dreams. I thought no more of those blond creatures with whom I charitably people the void in my heart. I remembered all the ugly ones who showed me some affection, and I asked myself in terror if it were not one of these whom I was about to see appear.

I retired into a corner. To regain courage I watched those who, bolder than myself, consulted destiny without so much ado. It was not long before I took peculiar pleasure at the sight of these different faces, the right eye wide open, the left closed with two fingers, each having his particular smile, in conformity with the vision pleasing him more or less. The glass was rather low, and it was necessary to bend slightly forward. To my mind nothing could be more grotesque than these men following one another to see the sister soul of their own soul through a hole a few centimetres round.

First of all two soldiers advanced: a sergeant bronzed beneath Afric’s sun and a young conscript, a lad still savouring of the plough, whose arms were ill at ease in a greatcoat three times too large for him. The sergeant gave a sceptic laugh. The conscript remained a long time stooping, particularly flattered at having a sweetheart.

Then came a fat man in a white jacket, with a red, puffy face, who gazed quietly without making a grimace of either joy or displeasure, as if it were quite natural that he should be loved by some one. — .

He was followed by three schoolboys, bold-faced youths of fifteen or sixteen summers, pushing one another to make believe that they enjoyed the honour of being tipsy. All three vowed they recognised their aunts.

Thus the inquisitive came one after the other to the piece of glass, and it would not be possible for me to remember now, the different expressions of features that struck me then. O vision of the well-beloved! what severe truths you made those expanded eyes say! They were the real Mirrors of Love, mirrors in which the gracefulness of woman was reflected in a surreptitious glimmer, where lust and stupidity were blended together.

V

The girls, at the other piece of glass, were amusing themselves in a much more respectable way. I read nothing but a great deal of curiosity on their faces; not the least look of naughty desire, not the smallest wicked thought. They came each in turn to cast an astonished glance through the small aperture, and withdrew, some a trifle thoughtful, others laughing like madcaps.

To tell the truth, I hardly know what they were doing there. If I were a woman and only a trifle pretty, I would never have the silly idea of troubling to go and see the man who loved me. On days when my heart would be sad at being alone — those would be bright, sunny spring days — I would go off to a flowery lane and make all who passed adore me. In the evening, I would return with a wealth of love.

Of course, these curious creatures were not all equally pretty. The handsome ones laughed at the magician’s science; they had long since ceased to have need of him. The ugly ones, on the contrary, had never enjoyed such a treat. Amongst them came one with thin hair and a large mouth, who could not tear herself away from the magic mirror. She preserved on her lips the joyous and heartrending smile of an indigent person satisfying hunger after a prolonged fast.

I was wondering what were the beautiful ideas that had been awakened in those giddy heads. It was but a poor problem. All had assuredly dreamt of a prince casting himself at their feet; all wished to gain a better idea of the lover of whom they had but a confused recollection on awakening. There were, doubtless, many deceptions; princes are becoming rare, and the eyes of our souls which open at nighttime on a better world, are otherwise accommodating than those which we make use of in broad daylight. There was also great joy: the vision was realised, the lover had the silky moustache and the raven hair dreamt of.

Thus each of them, in a few seconds, lived a life of love. Simple romances, as swift as hope, which could be guessed in their high-coloured cheeks and the more amorous heaving of their bosoms.

After all, these girls were perhaps fools, and I am a fool myself for having seen so many things, when there was no doubt nothing to see. Anyhow, by studying them I recovered my pluck. I noticed that men and women in general appeared very satisfied with the apparition. The magician would assuredly never have had the unkindness to cause these honest folk, who gave him two sous, the least displeasure.

I approached and applied my eye to the glass without too great excitement. I perceived a woman leaning over the back of an armchair, between red curtains. She was brilliantly lit up by Argand lamps, which were invisible, and stood out in relief against a piece of painted canvas, stretched in the background. This canvas, which was torn in places, must formerly have represented a lover’s grove of blue trees.

“She who loves me” wore, as a well-bred vision should do, a long white gown, just caught in at the waist, and falling on the boards like a cloud. From her forehead hung a long veil, also white, fastened by a wreath of May blossoms. The dear angel, thus attired, was all white and all innocence.

She leant coquettishly forward, turning her eyes towards me — great caressing blue eyes. She looked bewitching under the veil: flaxen tresses disappearing amidst the muslin, the candid forehead of a virgin, delicate lips, dimples that were nests for kisses. At the first glance I took her for a saint; at the second, I found she had the air of a goodnatured girl, in no way prudish and very accommodating.

She carried her fingers to her lips and sent me a kiss, with a bow which had nothing of the abode of spirits about it. Noticing that she did not make up her mind to fly away, I fixed her features in my memory and withdrew.

As I left, I saw the People’s Friend enter. This grave moralist, who seemed to avoid me, was hastening to set the bad example of guilty curiosity. His long backbone, curved in a half-circle, was quivering with desire; then, not being able to go any lower, he kissed the magic glass.

VI

I went down the three stairs; I found myself again among the crowd decided on seeking “She who loves me,” now that I knew her by her smile.

The lamps smoked, the tumult increased, the throng of people threatened the safety of the booths. The fête had reached that ideal hour of joy, at which one runs the risk of enjoying the happiness of being stifled.

Standing on my toes, I had an horizon of cotton caps and silk hats. I advanced, jostling the men and turning with precaution round the ample petticoats of the ladies. Perhaps it was this pink hood; perhaps this tulle cap trimmed with mauve ribbons; perhaps this delicious straw toque with an ostrich feather. Alas! the hood was sixty years of age; the cap, abominably ugly, was leaning amorously on the shoulder of a sapper; the toque was shouting with laughter, enlarging the finest eyes in the world, and I did not recognise them in the least.

Hovering above crowds is a sort of anguish, a kind of immense sadness, as if a breath of pity and terror came from the multitude. I have never found myself in a great gathering of people without experiencing vague uneasiness. It seems to me that a terrible misfortune threatens these men assembled together, that a single flash will suffice in the exaltation of their movements and voices, to strike them with immobility and eternal silence.

Little by little I slackened my pace, contemplating this joy which lacerated my heart. An old beggar, with a stiffened body, horribly distorted by paralysis, was standing upright at the foot of a tree, in the yellow light of the lamps. He raised his pallid face towards the passersby, blinking his eyes in a most lamentable way, in order to excite more pity. He gave his limbs sudden fits of shivering, which shook him like a dead branch. The fresh and blushing young girls passed before this hideous sight laughing.

Further on, two workmen were fighting at the door of a wineshop. The glasses had been upset in the struggle, and the wine, streaming on the pavement, had the appearance of blood that had come from deep wounds.

The laughter seemed to change into sobs, the lights became an immense fire, the crowd turned about struck with horror. I moved along, feeling intensely sad, peering into the youthful faces and unable to find “She who loves me.”

VII

I saw a man standing before one of the posts to which the lamps were affixed, and contemplating it with the air of a person profoundly engrossed in thought. From his anxious look I imagined he was seeking the solution to some serious problem. That man was the People’s Friend Turning his head, he perceived me.

“Sir,” he said, “the oil used at these festivals costs twenty sous the litre. In a litre, there are twenty small glass cups like those you see there: that is to say a sou of oil for each cup. This post has sixteen rows of eight cups each: one hundred and twenty-eight cups in all. Moreover — follow my calculations carefully — I have counted sixty similar posts in the avenue, which makes seven thousand six hundred and eighty cups, consequently seven thousand six hundred and eighty sous, or rather three hundred and eighty-four francs.”

Whilst speaking thus, the People’s Friend gesticulated, accentuating the figures with his voice, curving his long body, as if to put himself within reach of my weak understanding. When he was silent he threw himself triumphantly backward; then, he crossed his arms, looking me in the face with deep concern.

“Three hundred and eighty-four francs worth of oil,” he exclaimed, scanning each syllable, “and the poor are in want of bread, sir! I ask you, and I ask you with tears in my eyes, would it not be more honourable for humanity, to distribute these three hundred and eighty-four francs to the three thousand indigent people in this faubourg. Such a charitable measure would give each of them about two sous and a half of bread. This thought is worthy of being pondered over by tenderhearted people, sir.”

Seeing that I contemplated him with curiosity, he continued in a low voice, assuring the safety of his gloves between his fingers:

“The poor should not make merry, sir. It is absolutely dishonest for them to forget their poverty for an hour. Who would weep over the people’s misfortunes if the government were often to treat them to such saturnalias.”

He wiped away a tear and left me. I saw him enter a wineshop where he drowned his emotion in five or six drams taken one after the other at the counter.

VIII

The last illumination lamp had just gone out. The crowd had dispersed. By the vacillating light of the gas, I saw only a few dark forms strolling beneath the trees, couples of belated lovers, drunkards, and policemen giving their melancholy thoughts an airing. The grey and silent booths stretched along on either side of the avenue, like tents in a deserted camp.

The morning wind, a wind damp with dew, made the leaves of the elms rustle. The sour emanations of the evening had given place to delicious freshness. Soft silence and the transparent shadow of the infinite, fell slowly from the depths of heaven, and the festival of the stars succeeded that of the illumination lamps. Respectable folk would at last be able to amuse themselves a little.

I felt quite a man again, the hour of my delight having arrived. I was going along at a smart pace, ascending and descending the walks, when I saw a grey shadow flitting along the houses. This shadow came towards me, rapidly, without seeming to see me; by the light step, by the cadenced rhythm of the clothing, I knew it was a woman.

She was about to knock up against me, when she instinctively raised her eyes. I saw her face by the light of a neighbouring lamp, and then I recognised “She who loves me:” not the immortal in the cloud of white muslin; but a poor girl of the earth, attired in washed-out calico. She still appeared charming in her misery, although pale and tired. There was no room for doubt: there were the great eyes, the fondling lips of the vision; and, moreover, gazing at her thus at close quarters, one could perceive that the gentle aspect of her features was the result of suffering.

As she stopped for a second, I grasped her hand, which I kissed. She raised her head and gave me a vague smile without seeking to withdraw her fingers. Seeing I remained silent, and that emotion was choking me, she shrugged her shoulders and resumed her rapid walk.

I ran after her, accompanied her, my arm round her waist. She laughed to herself; then shivered and said in a low voice:

“I’m cold: let us walk quick.”

Poor angel, she was cold! Her shoulders trembled beneath the thin black shawl in the fresh night wind. I kissed her on the forehead and inquired softly:

“Do you know me?”

She raised her eyes a third time and answered without hesitation:

“No.”

I know not what rapid reasoning passed through my mind. In my turn I shuddered.

“Where are we going to?” I asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders with an unconcerned little pout, and answered in her childlike voice:

“Wherever you like, to my place, to yours; what does it matter?”

IX

We were still walking, descending the avenue.

On a bench I perceived two soldiers, one of whom was gravely descanting, while the other listened respectfully. It was the sergeant and the conscript The sergeant, who seemed very much affected, made me a mocking bow, murmuring:

“The rich sometimes lend, sir.”

The conscript, who was a tender and simple soul, said to me in a doleful voice:

“I had but her, sir: you are stealing from me ‘She who loves me.’”

I crossed the road and took the other path.

Three boys advanced towards us, holding one another by the arm and singing at the pitch of their voices. I recognised the schoolboys. The unfortunate little fellows no longer needed to feign intoxication. They stopped, bursting with laughter, then followed me for a few paces, each of them shouting after me in an unsteady voice:

“Hi! sir, the lady is deceiving you; the lady is ‘She who loves me!’”

I felt a cold sweat moisten my temples. I hurried along, being anxious to fly, thinking no more of this woman whom I was bearing away in my arms. At the end of the avenue, just as I was stepping from the pavement, at last about to quit this inauspicious neighbourhood, I stumbled over a man lying comfortably in the gutter. With his head resting on the curbstone and his face turned towards heaven, he was engaged in a very complicated calculation on his fingers.

He moved his eyes, and, without quitting his pillow, spluttered out:

“Ah! It is you, sir. You ought to help me count the stars. I have already found several millions, but I’m afraid of forgetting one of them. The happiness of humanity, sir, depends solely on statistics.”

He was interrupted by a hiccup. Tearfully he continued:

“Do you know what a star costs? Providence must assuredly have made a great outlay up there, and the people are in want of bread, sir! What is the use of those lights? Are they eatable? To what practical purpose are they adaptable, if you please? What need had we of this eternal festival? Ah! Providence never had the least shadow of an idea of social economy.”

He had succeeded in sitting up; and cast a troubled glance around him, shaking his head indignantly. He then caught sight of my companion. He started, and with his countenance all purple, eagerly stretched out his arms towards her.

“Eh! Eh!” he continued, “it’s ‘She who loves me!’”

X

“This is how it is,” she said to me. “I am poor, I do what I can for a living. Last winter, I passed fifteen hours a day bent over an embroidery frame, and I hadn’t always bread. In the spring I threw my needle out of the window. I had found employment which caused me less fatigue and was more lucrative.

“I dress myself up every evening in white muslin. Alone in a sort of shed, leaning against the back of an armchair, all the work I have to do consists in smiling from six o’clock till midnight. From time to time I make a bow, I kiss my hand into space. For that I am paid three francs a sitting.

“Opposite me, behind a small glazed aperture in the partition, I see an eye staring at me ceaselessly. It’s sometimes black, sometimes blue. Without that eye I should be perfectly happy; but that spoils the whole thing. At times, seeing it always there, alone and fixed, I am seized with such frightful terror that I am tempted to scream and fly.

“But one must work to live. I smile, bow, kiss my hand. At midnight I wipe off my paint, and put on my calico gown again. Bah! how many women do the amiable before a wall without being compelled to!”