The Passion Trilogy – The Calvary, The Torture Garden & The Diary of a Chambermaid. Octave MirbeauЧитать онлайн книгу.
does not stir. But I feel her breath, fainter than that of the flower, her breath always so fresh, with which at this moment there is mingled, like a waft of warmth, her fragrant breath which blends with an imperceptible odor of decay.
"Juliette!"
Juliette does not stir. But the sheet which follows the curves of her body, showing the shape of her limbs, loosens itself into a rigid crease, and the sheet looks to me like a shroud. And the thought of death suddenly comes to my mind and lingers there. I begin to be afraid that Juliette is dead.
"Juliette!"
Juliette does not stir. My whole being is now plunged into a frenzy of fear, and while in my ears the distant knell resounds, around the bed I see the light of a thousand funeral tapers trembling under the vibrations of a de profundis prayer. My hair stands on end, my teeth chatter and I shout, I shout:
"Juliette! Juliette!"
At last Juliette moves her head, heaves a sigh and murmurs, as if in a dream:
"Jean! … My Jean!"
Forcefully I grasp her into my arms as if to defend her against some one; I draw her toward me and trembling, with my blood running cold, I beg her:
"Juliette! … My own Juliette … don't sleep. … Oh, please don't sleep! … You frighten me! … Let me see your eyes; talk to me, talk to me! … And pinch me, pinch yourself, too, pinch me hard. … But don't sleep any more, please. … "
She cuddles into my arms, whispers some unintelligible words and falls asleep again, her head hanging on my shoulder. … But the apparition of death, stronger than the awakening of love, persists, and although I feel the regular beating of Juliette's heart against my own, it does not vanish until day.
How often since that time, when with her, I have felt the frigid touch of death in her fiery kisses! … And how often in the midst of rapture there appeared to me the sudden and capering image of the singer at the Bouffes! … How many times did his lustful laugh drown the ardent words of Juliette! … How often I have heard him say to me, while his image kept leaping above me: "Go ahead, glut yourself upon this imbecile body, upon this unclean body which I defiled! … Go on! … Go on! … wherever you touch your lips you will breathe the impure odor of my own; wherever your caresses may wander upon this body of a prostitute they will encounter the filthy marks of my own manhandling. … Go ahead, wash her, your Juliette, wash her in the lustral water of your love, cleanse her with the acid of your mouth. … Strip off her skin with your teeth, if you will; you will efface nothing, never, because the mark of infamy with which I have branded her is ineffaceable."
And I often had a passionate desire to question Juliette about this singer whose vision haunted me so much. But I had not the courage. I contented myself with trying to get at the truth in an ingenious, roundabout way: often, in the midst of conversation I would mention a name unexpectedly, hoping, yes hoping that Juliette would be a little put out by it, that she would blush, would feel embarrassed and would say: "Yes, that's the one." I thus exhausted the list of names of all the singers in all the theatres, without gaining the least evidence of perturbation in Juliette's impenetrable attitude.
It took us almost three months to install ourselves completely. The upholsterers could never get through with their work and Juliette's caprices often called for changes that took a long time to accomplish. Every day she would come back from her shopping with new ideas about the decoration of the parlor, or the dressing room. The hangings in the bedroom had to be entirely changed three times because she did not like them.
Finally one nice morning we took possession of our apartment on the Rue de Balzac. … It was high time we did. … All this unsettled existence, this continuous hurry, these open trunks yawning like coffins, this brutal scattering of dear and intimate things, these heaps of linen, these pyramids of boxes turned upside down, these cut-up pieces of string which dragged all over, all this disorder, this chaos, this trampling underfoot of things with which are associated the dearest memories or most tender regrets, and above all this feeling of uncertainty, of terror, and the sad reflections which the act of leaving a place occasions—all this made me uneasy, dejected and, must I say it, remorseful.
While Juliette was moving about, bustling amidst bundles, I was asking myself whether I had not committed some irreparable folly. Of course, I loved her. … Ah! I loved her with all the power of my soul. So far, nothing except this passion which obsessed me more and more every day, interested me at all. Still, I regretted that I had yielded so easily and quickly to an infatuation that was perhaps fraught with the gravest consequences for her and myself. I was dissatisfied with myself for not having been able to resist Juliette's wish, expressed in such delicious fashion, that I live together with her. … Could we not love each other just as well if each of us lived separately and avoid the possible clashes over such sordid things as wall-paper, for example.
And while the splendor of all this plush and the insolence of all these gilt objects in the midst of which we were now going to live frightened me, I felt a sorrowful attachment for my own scanty furniture placed without order, for my little apartment, austere yet tranquil, and now empty—an attachment one has for beloved things that are dead. But Juliette would pass by, busy, agile and charming, would embrace and kiss me on her way, and there was such a life-giving joy in her whole being, a joy so easily mingled with astonishment and childish despair at anything lost, that my morose thoughts vanished as do the night owls at sunrise.
Ah! the happy days that followed our moving from the Rue Saint Petersbourg! … First we had to test every piece of furniture down to the smallest details. Juliette sat on every divan, lounge and sofa, causing the springs to creak.
"You try it also, my dear," she would say to me. She examined every piece of furniture, scrutinized the hangings, tried the strings of the door curtain, moved a chair to a different place, smoothed a crease in the draperies. And every instant cries of admiration, of ecstasy were heard!
Then she wanted to start the inspection of the apartment all over again with the windows closed and the lights burning, in order to see the effect produced at night, never tiring of examining a thing more than once, running from one room to another, marking down every defect on a piece of paper. Then it was the wardrobe where she put her linen and mine with meticulous care and elaborate nicety and the consummate skill of a stall keeper. I chided her for assigning to me the better scentbags.
"No! no! no! I want to have a little husband who uses perfume!"
Of her old furniture and old knick-knacks, Juliette had kept only the terra cotta statue of Love which again took its place of honor on the mantlepiece in the parlor. I, on the other hand, had brought over only my books and two very beautiful sketches by Lirat which I thought it a duty to hang up in my study. Scandalized, Juliette cried with indignation:
"What are you doing there, my dear? … Such horrible things in our new apartment! … Please put these horrible things away somewhere! Oh, put them away!"
"My dear Juliette," I answered somewhat provoked. "You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?"
"Certainly I have. … But what has that to do with this? … My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there … why really! … And then it's improper! … Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach."
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere. … Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
"Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!"
And resting her head