Complete Works of Emile Zola (1772 page)

“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 night-time 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 arm-chair, 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 good-natured 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 passers-by, 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 wine-shop. 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 tender-hearted 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 wine-shop 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.