Читать книгу The Torture Garden - Octave Mirbeau - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Before relating one of the most frightful episodes of my travels in the Far East, perhaps it will be interesting if I briefly explain under what conditions I was led to undertake them. It is contemporary history.

To those who will be tempted to wonder at the anonymity which I have insisted on jealously maintaining in what concerns me in the course of this authentic and distressing story, I will say: “My name matters little; it is the name of a man who has caused great suffering to others as well as to himself—even more to himself than to others—and who, after many shocks suffered in a descent to the very dregs of human desire, is trying to reconstruct a soul for himself in solitude and obscurity. Peace to the ashes of his sin.”

Twelve years ago, no longer knowing what to do, and condemned by a series of misfortunes to the cruel expedient of hanging myself or throwing myself into the Seine, I appeared before that court of last resort, the board of legislative elections, in a county in which, more over, I knew no one and had never set foot.

It is true that my candidacy was officially supported by the cabinet which, no longer knowing what to do with me, found an ingenious and polite means of relieving itself once and for all of my daily harassing importunities.

On this occasion I held a solemn and intimate interview with the Minister, who was my friend and old school−chum.

“You see how nice we are to you!” this powerful, this generous friend said to me; “Scarcely have we snatched you from the jaws of justice—and we had a hard time doing it—than we're making you a deputy.”

“I'm not nominated yet,” I said peevishly.

“True! but you have every chance. Intelligent, of attractive appearance, debonair, and a good fellow when you care to be, you possess the sovereign gift of pleasing. Ladies' men, my boy, are always men of the people. I'll vouch for you. It's a question of properly understanding the situation. The rest is very simple.” And he admonished me:

“Above all, rid politics! Don't commit yourself. Don't fly off the handle! In the district I have chosen for you there is one question that supersedes all others: the beet. The rest doesn't count, and is the prefect's business. You are a purely agricultural candidate—more than that, exclusively a beet−candidate. Don't forget it for a moment. Whatever may happen in die course of the campaign, stand resolutely upon this excellent platform. Do you know anything about beets?” “Good Lord no!” I said, “except, like everybody else, I know you get sugar from them—and alcohol.”

“Bravo! That's enough,” applauded the Minister, with friendly and reassuring emphasis. “proceed upon that data. Promise fabulous crops—extraordinary chemical fertilizers—free. Promise railroads, canals, routes for the transportation of this interesting and patriotic vegetable. Announce reductions in taxes, bonuses for the farmers, atrocious duties on competitive products—anything you like! You have carte blanche in this affair, and I'll help you. But don't get involved in personal or generalized polemics which might endanger you and, after your election, imperil the prestige of the Republic. For, between you and me, old man—I don't reproach you with any thing—I merely state facts—you have a rather awkward past.”

I was in no mood to laugh. Vexed by this after−thought, which seemed to me unnecessary and unkind, I replied sharply, looking my friend squarely in the face; and he could read the cold, sharp threats that lay in my eyes:

You might more truthfully have said, 'We have a past.' It seems to me, my friend, that mine has nothing on yours.”

“Oh, as for me!” said the Minister, with an air of superior detachment and smug nonchalance, “it's not the same thing... I, old man—France covers my tracks!” Then, returning to my election, he added:

“Now I'll continue. Beets—more beets—and still more beets! Such is your program. And see that you don't deviate from it.” Then he discreetly gave me some money and wished me good luck.

I faithfully followed this program which my powerful friend had laid out for me, and I was wrong. I was not elected. I attribute the overwhelming majority which my adversary received, aside from certain dishonest manipulations, to the fact that this wretch was even more ignorant than I, and a more notorious blackguard. Let us notice, in passing, that at the present time a well−displayed swinishness supersedes all valid qualifications, and the more infamous a man is, the more we are inclined to endow him with intellectual force and moral courage.

My adversary, who is today one of the indisputable glories of politics, had pilfered on many occasions. And his superiority may be attributed to the fact that instead of concealing his speculations, he boasted of them with the most revolting cynicism.

“I've stolen! I've stolen!” he shouted down village streets, in public squares, along the countryside and across the fields.

“I've stolen! I've stolen!” he proclaimed in his professions of faith, his bill−posters and confidential circulars. And in cabarets his agents, perched upon casks, spattered with wine and bloated with alcohol, reiterated and bellowed those magic words:

“He's stolen! He's stolen!”

The working classes in the cities, dazzled no less than the sturdy countrymen, acclaimed this bold man with a frenzy which swelled in direct proportion to die frenzy of his confessions.

How could I contend with such a rival, who possessed such qualifications—I, who still had on my conscience (and modestly concealed them), merely the paltry peccadilloes of youth: petty thefts, extortion of money from mistresses, cheating at games, blackmail, anonymous letters, informing and forgery? Oh, the candor of innocent youth!

One evening at a mass−meeting I even barely escaped being thrashed by some electors who were furious because, in view of my, opponent's scandalous statements, I had demanded—in addition to better beets—the right to be virtuous, moral and honest, and proclaimed the necessity of cleansing the Republic of the particular filth which dishonored it. They rushed upon me, grasped me by the throat, and my body was lifted and tossed from hand to hand, like a bundle. Luckily I escaped from the consequences of my excess of eloquence with only a swollen cheek, three bruised ribs and six broken teeth.

That is all I carried away from that disastrous adventure into which the protection of the Minister who claimed to be my friend had so unluckily led me. I was incensed.

I had all the more right to be incensed since, suddenly, in the thick of the battle, the government had abandoned me, leaving me without support, and with only my beet as an amulet by which to make myself understood and to parley with my adversary.

The prefect, at first quite humble, did not hesitate to become very insolent; then he refused me the data upon which my campaign rested, and finally he almost slammed his door in my face. The Minister himself no longer answered my letters, refused to grant me anything I asked him, and the partisan newspapers launched underhand attacks upon me and made derogatory allusions couched in polished and flowery prose, They never went so far as to attack me officially, but it was plain to everyone that I was being dismissed. Ah, I truly believe that no man has ever been so embittered as I!

I returned to Paris firmly resolved to raise an issue at the risk of losing everything, and demanded an explanation of the Minister, whom my belligerent attitude immediately reduced to compliance and amiability.

“Old man,” he said, “I regret what has happened to you. On my word of honor! You can see for yourself I'm miserable about it. But what could I do? I am not the only man in the cabinet, and—”

“You're the only one I know!” I interrupted violently, upsetting piles of papers which lay near me on his desk. “The others don't concern me. The others are none of my business. You're the only one. You've betrayed me—it's vile!”

“But damn it, listen a minute, will you!” begged the Minister, “and don't get angry like that before you know—”

“I only know one thing, and that's enough for me. You've made a fool of me. Well then—no, no, it won't pass off as easily as you think. It's my turn now.” I walked up and down the office, uttering threats and kicking the chairs.

“So! so! you've made a fool of me! Now we're going to have some fun! Then the country will know at last what a Minister is. At the risk of poisoning it, I'll show it—I'll expose the soul of a Minister to it. Idiot! So you didn't realize that you, your career, your secrets, and your portfolio, are at my mercy! So my past troubles you? It shocks your modesty, and Marianne's? Just wait! Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow, everything will be known—”

I was choking with rage. The Minister tried to calm me, grasped me by the arm and drew me gently, into the armchair I had just bounded out of in fury.

“Calm down!” he said to me, and his voice too on a pleading tone. “Listen to me, please! Come, sit down! Stubborn ass! You won't listen to anything! Here, this is what happened...”

He uttered swift, short sentences, choppy and trembling:

We reckoned without your opponent. In the campaign he revealed himself a powerful man—a real statesman! You know how restricted the eligible ministerial personnel is. Although the same candidates are always coming up, from time to time we have to show a new face to the Chamber and the country. Well, there is none. Do you know any? Well, we thought your opponent might be one of those faces. He has all the qualities suitable to a provisory Minister—an emergency Minister. Finally, since he was for sale and deliverable right then and there—you understand? It's hard on you, I admit... But the country's welfare, first of all—”

“Don't talk nonsense. We're not in the Chamber now, It's not a question of the country's interests, which You don't give a damn about, and neither do I. It's a question of me. Well, thanks to you, I'm on the street. Yesterday the cashier of my gambling−joint insolently refused me a hundred sous. My creditors, banking on my success and furious at my defeat, are hounding me like a hare. I'll be sold out! Today, I haven't even the price of a dinner. And you simply imagine that things can go on like this? Well, have you become senseless—as senseless as a member of the majority?”

The Minister smiled. He tapped me familiarly on the knee and said:

“I'm entirely willing—but you won't let me speak—I'm entirely willing to grant you a compensation—”

“A reparation!”

“A reparation, agreed!”

“Complete?”

“Complete! Come back in a few days... Doubtless I'll be in a position to offer it to you then. In the meantime here's a hundred louis. It's all I have left of the confidential funds.”

Sweetly, with merry cordiality, he added:

“A half−a−dozen more guys like you, and there'll be no budget!”

This generosity, which had exceeded my expectations, possessed the power instantly to calm my nerves. Still grumbling incessantly, for I did not wish to appear disarmed or satisfied, I pocketed the two bills my friend smilingly held out to me, and I retired with dignity.

I spent the following three days in the basest debauchery.