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Overview
One of the most scandalous books of it's era, the classic erotic novel The Diary of a Chambermaid was the inspiration for not one but two films-by Jean Renoir and by Luis Buñuel. Penned by the infamous anarchist and art critic Octave Mirbeau, it is the shocking, titillating, and pungently satiric tale of Célestine R., the daughter of a fisherman, and her sensuous adventures and ultimate debasement in the depraved world of the French nobility.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780946626823 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dedalus, Limited |
| Publication date: | 07/03/2001 |
| Series: | Empire of the Senses Series |
| Pages: | 316 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 7.75(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Octave Mirbeau (1848-1917) was a French playwright, journalist, novelist, and staunch supporter of the anarchist cause in France. His work was influenced by many, especially MoliÈre and Dostoyevsky. He was also a lover of art and was one of the earliest supporters of Van Gogh, Pissarro, and Rodin.
Read an Excerpt
The Diary of a Chambermaid
By Octave Mirbeau
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2007 Octave MirbeauAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061237256
Chapter One
September 14.
Today, September 14, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in mild, grey, and rainy weather, I have entered upon my new place, the twelfth in two years. What is there to say of the places which I held in previous years? It would be impossible for me to count them. Ah! I can boast of having seen interiors and faces, and filthy souls. And it is not yet the end. Judging from the really extraordinary and dizzy way in which I have drifted, here and there, successively, from houses to employment-bureaus, and from employment-bureaus to houses, from Bois de Boulogne to the Bastille, from the Observatory to Montmartre, from the Ternes to the Gobelins, everywhere, without ever succeeding in establishing myself anywhere, the masters in these days are, to say the least, hard to please. It is incredible.
The affair was arranged through an advertisement in the "Figaro," and without any interview with Madame. We wrote letters to each other, that is all; a risky method, often resulting in surprises on both sides. Madame's letters are well written, it is true. But they reveal a meddlesome and fastidious character. Ah! the explanations and the commentaries that she insisted upon, the whys and the becauses. I do not know whether Madame is stingy; at any rate she is hardly ruining herself with her letter-paper. It is bought at the Louvre. I am notrich, but I have more elegance than that. I write on paper perfumed à la peau d'Espagne, beautiful paper, some of it pink, some light blue, which I have collected from my former mistresses. Some of it even bears a countess's coronet engraved upon it. That must have been a crusher for her.
Well, at last, here I am in Normandy, at Mesnil-Roy. Madame's estate, which is not far from the country, is called the Priory. This is almost all that I know of the spot where henceforth I am to live.
I am not without anxiety, or without regret, at having come, in consequence of a moment's rashness, to bury myself in the depths of the country. What I have seen of it frightens me a little, and I ask myself what further is going to happen to me here. Doubtless nothing good, and the usual worries. To worry is the clearest of our privileges. For every one who succeeds,--that is, for every one who marries a worthy young fellow or forms an alliance with an old man,--how many of us are destined to ill-luck, swept away in the great whirlwind of poverty? After all, I had no choice, and this is better than nothing.
This is not the first time that I have had a job in the country. Four years ago I had one. Oh! not for long, and in really exceptional circumstances. I remember this adventure as if it had happened yesterday. Although the details are a bit indecorous, and even horrible, I wish to tell it. Moreover, I charitably warn you that I intend, in writing this diary, to keep nothing back, in relation either to myself or to others. On the contrary, I intend to put into it all the frankness that is in life. It is not my fault if the souls from which we tear the veils, and which then appear in all their nakedness, exhale so strong an odor of rottenness.
Well, here it is.
I was taken on in an employment-bureau, by a sort of fat governess, to be a chambermaid in the house of a certain M. Rabour, in Touraine. The conditions agreed on, it was decided that I should take the train on such a day, at such an hour, for such a station; which was done, according to the programme.
As soon as I had given up my ticket at the exit, I found, outside, a sort of coachman with a rubicund and churlish face, who asked me:
"Are you M. Rabour's new chambermaid?"
"Yes."
"Have you a trunk?
"Give me your baggage ticket, and wait for me here."
He made his way to the platform. The employees hastened about him. They called him "Monsieur Louis" in a tone of friendly respect. Louis looked for my trunk in the pile of baggage, and had it placed in an English cart that stood near the exit.
"Well, will you get in?"
I took my seat beside him, and we started. The coachman peered at me out of the corner of his eye, and I examined him similarly. I saw at once that I had to do with a countryman, an unpolished peasant, an untrained domestic who had never served in grand establishments. That annoyed me. For my part, I like handsome liveries. I dote on nothing so much as on white leather knee-breeches tightly fitting nervous thighs. And how wanting in elegance he was, this Louis, without driving-gloves, with a full suit of greyish-blue drugget that was too big for him, and a flat cap of glazed leather, ornamented with a double row of gold lace. No, indeed, they are slow in this region. And, with all, a scowling, brutal air, but not a bad fellow at bottom. I know these types. At first they assume a knowing air with the new people, and later a more friendly footing is arrived at. Often more friendly than one would like.
We sat a long time without saying a word. He assumed the manners of a grand coachman, holding the reins high and swinging his whip with rounded gestures. Oh! how ridiculous he was! For my part, with much dignity I surveyed the landscape, which had no special feature; simply fields, trees, and houses, just as everywhere else. He brought his horse down to a walk in order to ascend a hill, and then, suddenly, with a quizzing smile, he asked:
"I suppose that at least you have brought a good supply of shoes?"
Continues...
Excerpted from The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau Copyright © 2007 by Octave Mirbeau. Excerpted by permission.
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