_November 13._
And I see myself again at Neuilly, with the sisters of Our Lady
of Thirty-Six Sorrows, a sort of house of refuge, and also an
employment-bureau for housemaids. My! but it is a fine establishment,
with a white front, and at the rear of a large garden. In the garden,
which is ornamented, at intervals of fifty steps, with statues of the
Virgin, there is a little chapel, very new and sumptuous, built from
the proceeds of the collections. Large trees surround it. And every
hour one hears the tolling of the bells. It is so nice to hear the
bells toll. It stirs in one's heart memories of things so old and
long forgotten. When the bells toll, I close my eyes and listen, and
I see again landscapes which perhaps I never saw before, and which I
recognize all the same,--very peaceful landscapes, imbued with all the
transformed recollections of childhood and youth,... and bagpipes,...
and, on the moor bordering on the beaches, the slowly-moving panorama
of holiday crowds. Ding ... dinn ... dong! It is not very gay; it
is not the same thing as gaiety; it is even sad at bottom,--sad,
like love. But I like it. In Paris one never hears anything but the
fountaineer's horn, and the deafening trumpet of the tramway.
In the establishment of the sisters of Our Lady of Thirty-Six Sorrows,
you sleep in attic dormitories; you are fed meagrely on scraps of meat
and spoiled vegetables, and you pay twenty-five sous a day to the
institution. That is to say, the sisters withhold twenty-five sous from
your wages, when they have secured a place for you. They call that
getting you a place for nothing. Further, you have to work from six
o'clock in the morning until nine in the evening, like the inmates of
prisons. You are not allowed to go out. Meals and religious exercises
take the place of recreation. Ah! the good sisters do not bore
themselves, as M. Xavier would say; and their charity is a famous trap.
They rope you in finely! But there it is,--I shall be stupid all my
life. The stern lessons of experience, the succession of misfortunes,
never teach me anything, are of no use to me. I am always crying out
and raising a row, but in the end I am always victimized by everybody.
Several times comrades had spoken to me of the sisters of Our Lady of
Thirty-Six Sorrows.
"Yes, my dear, it seems that only very swell people come to the box,...
countesses,... marchionesses. One may chance on astonishing places."
I believed it. And then, in my distress, I remembered with some
feeling, booby that I am, the happy years that I spent with the little
sisters of Pont-Croix. Moreover, I had to go somewhere. Beggars cannot
be choosers.
When I arrived, there were forty housemaids there. Many came from a
great distance,--from Brittany, from Alsace, from the south, girls who
had never yet had a place,--awkward, clumsy, with livid complexions,
sly airs, and singular eyes that looked over the walls of the convent
at the mirage of Paris lying beyond. Others, not as green, were just
out of a place, like myself.
The sisters asked me whence I came, what I knew how to do, whether I
had good references, and whether I had any money left. I told them all
sorts of things, and without further inquiry they welcomed me, saying:
"This dear child! We will find her a good place."
We all were their "dear children." While waiting for the promised good
place, each of these dear children was put at some work, according
to her faculties. Some did cooking and housework; others worked
in the garden, digging in the soil, like navvies. I was promptly
put at sewing, having, said Sister Boniface, supple fingers and a
distinguished air. I began by mending the chaplain's pantaloons and
the drawers of a sort of monk who was just then preaching a retreat
in the chapel. Oh! those pantaloons! Oh! those drawers! Surely they
did not resemble M. Xavier's. Then they intrusted to me tasks less
ecclesiastical,--quite profane, in fact,--the making of fine and
delicate linen garments, among which I again found myself in my
element. I participated in the making of elegant bridal _trousseaux_,
of rich baby-linen, ordered of the good sisters by charitable and
wealthy ladies who were interested in the establishment.
At first, after so many shocks, in spite of the bad food, the
chaplain's pantaloons, the lack of liberty, in spite of all the fierce
exploitation that I could plainly see, I felt a sense of real relief
amid this calm and silence. I did not reason much; I felt rather a need
of prayer. Remorse over my past conduct, or, rather, the weariness
resulting from it, prompted me to fervent repentance. Several times
in succession I confessed to the chaplain. He was a queer man, this
chaplain, very round and red, a little rude in manner and in speech,
and afflicted with a disagreeable body-smell. He asked me strange
questions, and insisted on knowing my favorite authors.
"Armand Silvestre? Yes. To be sure, he is dirty. I would not
give you his works instead of the 'Imitation.' No, not that; yet
he is not dangerous. But you must not read impious books, books
against religion,--Voltaire, for instance. No, never; never read
Voltaire,--that is a mortal sin,--or Renan, or Anatole France. They are
dangerous."
"And Paul Bourget, Father?"
"Paul Bourget! He is entering on the right path; that I do not
deny. But his Catholicism is not sincere,--not yet; at least, it
is much mixed. Your Paul Bourget makes upon me the impression of a
wash-basin,--yes, that is it,--of a wash-basin, in which no matter
what has been washed, and in which olives from Calvary are swimming
amid hair and soapsuds. You should wait a little before reading him!
Huysmans! Well, he is a little stiff in his expressions,--yes, indeed,
very stiff,--but he is orthodox."
And he said to me further:
"Yes ... Ah! you do mad things with your body! That is not good. No,
indeed, that is always bad. But, sin for sin, it is better to sin with
your masters, when they are pious persons, than with people of your own
condition. It is less serious, less irritating to the good God. And
perhaps these people have dispensations. Many have dispensations."
As I named M. Xavier and his father, he cried:
"No names. I do not ask you for names. Never tell me names. I do not
belong to the police. Besides, those are rich and respectable people
whom you have just named,--extremely religious people. Consequently you
are wrong; you are rebellious against morality and against society."
These ridiculous conversations considerably cooled my religious zeal,
my ardor for repentance. The work, too, annoyed me. It made me homesick
for my own calling. I felt impatient desires to escape from this
prison, to return to the privacies of dressing-rooms. I sighed for
the closets full of sweet-smelling linen, the wardrobes stuffed with
silks, satins, and velvets, so smooth to the touch, and the bath-rooms
where white flesh is lathered with oily soaps. And the stories of the
servants' hall, and the unforeseen adventures, and the evenings on the
stairs and in the chambers! It is really curious; when I have a place,
these things disgust me, but, when I am out of a place, I miss them.
I was tired also, excessively tired, sickened in fact, from having
eaten for a week nothing but preserves made out of spoiled currants, of
which the good sisters had purchased a large quantity in the Levallois
market. Anything that the holy women could rescue from the refuse-heap
was good enough for us.
What completed my irritation was the evident, the persistent effrontery
with which we were exploited. Their game was a very simple one, and
they took little pains to conceal it. They found places only for those
girls of whom they could make no use themselves. Those from whom they
could reap any profit whatever they held as prisoners, taking advantage
of their talents, of their strength, and of their simplicity. As the
height of Christian charity, they had found a way of having servants
who paid for the privilege of working, and whom they stripped, without
remorse and with inconceivable cynicism, of their modest resources and
their little savings, after making a profit out of their labor. And the
costs kept running on.
I complained, at first feebly, and then more forcibly, that they had
not once summoned me into the reception-room, but to all my complaints
the hypocrites answered:
"A little patience, my dear child! We are planning to get you an
excellent place, my dear child; for you we desire an exceptional place.
We know what sort of a place you should have. As yet not one has
offered itself such as we wish for you, and such as you deserve."
Days and weeks passed. The places were never good enough, never
exceptional enough for me. And the costs kept running on.
Although there was a watcher in the dormitory, the things that went on
every night were enough to make one shudder. As soon as the watcher had
finished her round, and every one seemed to be asleep, you could see
white forms arise and glide about among the beds. The good sisters,
holy women, closed their eyes that they might see nothing, stopped up
their ears that they might hear nothing. Wishing to avoid scandal,
they tolerated horrors of which they feigned ignorance. And the costs
kept running on.
Fortunately, when I was at the very depth of my ennui, I was delighted
by the entrance into the establishment of a little friend, Clémence,
whom I called Cléclé, and whom I had known in a place where I had
worked in the Rue de l'Université. Cléclé was a charming pink blonde,
extremely gay and lively, and very fly. She laughed at everything,
accepted everything, and was contented everywhere. Devoted and
faithful, she knew but one pleasure,--that of being useful to others.
Vicious to the marrow of her bones, her vice had nothing repugnant
about it, it was so gay, artless, and natural. She bore vice as a plant
bears flowers, as a cherry-tree bears cherries. Her pretty, bird-like
chatter sometimes made me forget my feeling of weariness, and put to
sleep my tendency to rebel. Our two beds were next to each other; and
one night she told me, in a funny sort of whisper, that she had just
had a place in the house of a magistrate at Versailles.
"Fancy, there were nothing but animals in the den,--cats, three
parrots, a monkey, and two dogs. And they all had to be taken care of.
Nothing was good enough for them. We were fed on old scraps, the same
as in this box here. But they had what was left over of the poultry;
they had cream, and cakes, and mineral water, my dear! Yes, the
dirty beasts drank nothing but Evian water, because of an epidemic of
typhoid fever that was raging at Versailles. In the winter Madame had
the cheek to take the stove out of my chamber, and put it in the room
where the monkey and the cats slept. Would you believe it? I detested
them, especially one of the dogs, a horrible old pug, that was always
sniffing at my skirts, in spite of the kicks that I gave it. The other
morning Madame caught me whipping it. You can imagine the scene. She
showed me the door in double-quick time."
Oh! this Cléclé! how agreeable and amusing she was!
People have no idea of all the annoyances to which domestics are
subjected, or of the fierce and eternal exploitation under which they
suffer. Now the masters, now the keepers of employment-bureaus, now
the charitable institutions, to say nothing of the comrades, some of
whom are capable of terrible meanness. And nobody takes any interest
in anybody else. Each one lives, grows fat, and is entertained by the
misery of some one poorer than himself. Scenes change, settings are
shifted, you traverse social surroundings that are different and even
hostile, but everywhere you find the same appetites and passions. In
the cramped apartments of the _bourgeois_ and in the elegant mansion
of the banker you meet the same filth, and come in contact with the
inexorable. The result of it all, for a girl like me, is that she is
conquered in advance, wherever she may go and whatever she may do.
The poor are the human manure in which grow the harvests of life,
the harvests of joy which the rich reap, and which they misuse so
cruelly against us. They pretend that there is no more slavery. Oh!
what nonsense? And what are domestics, then, if not slaves? Slaves in
fact, with all that slavery involves of moral vileness, inevitable
corruption, and hate-engendering rebellion. Servants learn vice in
the houses of their masters. Entering upon their duties pure and
innocent,--some of them,--they are quickly made rotten by contact with
habits of depravity. They see nothing but vice, they breathe nothing
but vice, they touch nothing but vice. Consequently, from day to
day, from minute to minute, they get more and more used to it, being
defenceless against it, being obliged, on the contrary, to serve it, to
care for it, to respect it. And their revolt arises from the fact that
they are powerless to satisfy it, and to break down all the obstacles
in the way of its natural expansion. Oh! it is extraordinary. They
demand of us all the virtues, complete resignation, all the sacrifices,
all the heroisms, and only those vices that flatter the vanity of the
masters, and which yield them a profit. And all this in return for
contempt and wages ranging from thirty-five to ninety francs a month.
No, it is too much! Add that we live in perpetual distress of mind, in
a perpetual struggle between the ephemeral semi-luxury of the places
that we fill, and the anguish which the loss of these places causes
us. Add that we are continually conscious of the wounding suspicions
that follow us everywhere,--bolting doors, padlocking drawers, marking
bottles, numbering cakes and prunes, and continually putting us to
shame by invasive examination of our hands, our pockets, and our
trunks. For there is not a door, not a closet, not a drawer, not a
bottle, not an article, that does not cry out to us: "Thief! thief!
thief!" And also the continuous vexation caused by that terrible
inequality, that frightful disproportion in our destinies, which,
in spite of familiarities, smiles, and presents, places between our
mistresses and ourselves an impassable abyss, a whole world of sullen
hatreds, suppressed desires, and future vengeances,--a disproportion
which is rendered every minute more perceptible, more humiliating,
more disgracing, by the caprices, and even by the kindnesses, of
those beings that know no justice and feel no love,--the rich. Did
you ever think for a moment of the mortal and legitimate hatred, of
the murderous--yes, murderous--desires with which we must be filled
when we hear one of our masters, in trying to describe something base
and ignoble, cry out in our presence, with a disgust that casts us so
violently outside the pale of humanity: "He has the soul of a domestic;
that is the sentiment of a domestic." Then what do you expect us to
become in these hells? Do these mistresses really imagine that I should
not like to wear fine dresses, ride in fine carriages, have a gay time
with lovers, and have servants of my own? They talk to us of devotion,
of honesty, of fidelity. Why; but it would choke you to death, my
little chippies!
Once, in the Rue Cambon ... how many of these places I have had!...
the masters were marrying their daughter. They gave a grand reception
in the evening, at which the wedding-presents were exhibited,--enough
of them to fill a furniture-van. By way of jest I asked Baptiste, the
_valet de chambre:_
"Well, Baptiste, and you? What is your present?"
"My present?" exclaimed Baptiste, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Yes, tell me, what is it?"
"A can of petroleum lighted under their bed. That is my present."
It was a smart answer. Moreover, this Baptiste was an astonishing man
in politics.
"And yours, Célestine?" he asked, in his turn.
"Mine?"
I contracted my two hands into the shape of talons, and, pretending to
claw a face ferociously, I answered:
"My nails, in their eyes!"
The butler, without being asked, remarked quietly, while arranging
flowers and fruits in a glass dish with his fastidious fingers:
"I would be satisfied to sprinkle their faces in church with a bottle
of good vitriol."
And he stuck a rose between two pears.
Oh! yes, how we love them! The extraordinary thing is that these
revenges are not taken more frequently. When I think that a cook, for
instance, holds her masters' lives in her hands every day; a pinch
of arsenic instead of salt, a little dash of strychnine instead of
vinegar, and the thing is done. Well, no, it must be that we have
servitude in our very blood!
I have no education, and I write what I think and what I have seen.
Well, I say that all this is not beautiful. I say that from the moment
when any one installs another under his roof, though he were the last
of poor devils, or the lowest of disreputable girls, he owes them
protection, he owes them happiness. I say also that, if the master
does not give it to us, we have a right to take it, even from his
strong-box, even from his blood.
But enough of this! I do wrong to think of things that make my head
ache and turn my stomach. I come back to my little stories.
I had much difficulty in leaving the sisters of Our Lady of Thirty-Six
Sorrows. In spite of Cléclé's companionship, I was growing old in the
box, and beginning to be hungry for liberty. When they understood that
I had made up my mind to go, then the worthy sisters offered me places
and places. There were places only for me. But I am not always a fool,
and I have a keen eye for rascalities. All these places I refused.
In all of them I found something that did not suit me. You should
have seen the heads of these holy women. It was laughable. They had
calculated on finding me a place in the house of some old bigot, where
they could get back out of my wages the cost of my board with usury,
and I enjoyed playing them a trick in my turn.
One day I notified Sister Boniface that it was my intention to go that
very evening. She had the cheek to answer me, raising her arms to
heaven:
"But, my dear child, it is impossible."
"How so? Why is it impossible?"
"Why, my dear child, you cannot leave the house like that. You owe us
more than seventy francs. You will have to pay us first these seventy
francs."
"And with what?" I replied. "I have not a sou; you can search me."
Sister Boniface gave me a hateful look, and, then declared, with severe
dignity: "But, Mademoiselle, do you know that this is a robbery? And to
rob poor women like us is worse than robbery; it is a sacrilege, for
which the good God will punish you. Reflect."
Then anger got the better of me, and I cried:
"Say, then, who is it that steals here,--you or I? No, but you are
astonishing, my little mothers."
"Mademoiselle, I forbid you to speak in this way."
"Oh! don't talk to me. What? One does your work, one toils like a beast
for you from morning to night, one earns enormous money for you, you
give us food which dogs would refuse, and then we must pay you into the
bargain! Indeed, you have no cheek!"
Sister Boniface had turned very pale. I felt that coarse, filthy,
furious words were on her lips, and ready to leave them; but, not
daring to let them go, she stammered:
"Silence! You are a girl without shame, without religion. God will
punish you. Go, if you will; but we keep your trunk."
I planted myself squarely before her, in an attitude of defiance, and,
looking her full in the face, I said:
"Well, I should like to see you try it. Just try to keep my trunk, and
you will have a visit from the commissary of police in short order.
And, if religion consists in patching the dirty pantaloons of your
chaplains, in stealing bread from poor girls, in speculating on the
horrors that go on every night in the dormitory...."
The good sister was fairly white. She tried to cover my voice with her
own.
"Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!"
"Oh! don't pretend ignorance of the dirty things that go on every night
in the dormitory! Do you dare to tell me, in my face, your eyes looking
into mine, that you are ignorant of them? You encourage them because
they are profitable to you,--yes, because they are profitable to you."
And trembling, panting, with dry throat, I completed my accusation.
"If religion is all that; if it is religious to keep a prison and a
brothel,--well, then, I have enough of religion. My trunk, do you hear?
I wish my trunk. You will give me my trunk at once."
Sister Boniface was frightened.
"I do not wish to discuss with a lost creature," said she, in a voice
of dignity. "All right; you shall go."
"With my trunk?"
"With your trunk."
"Very well; but it takes tall talk to get one's rights here. It is
worse than at the custom-house."
I went, in fact, that very evening. Cléclé, who was very nice, and who
had saved something, lent me twenty francs. I went to engage a room in
a lodging-house in the Rue de la Sourdière, and I bought a seat among
the gallery-gods at the Porte-Saint-Martin. The play was "The Two
Orphans." How true it is! Almost my own story.