Read Online The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Octave Mirbeau
Tags: General Fiction
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people … Oh, if only, when I used to come away from the chapel of the Assumptionists, I had chosen to listen to the very odd psalms that quite respectable old gentlemen used to whisper in my ear, perhaps I shouldn’t be here now!
Today the weather has improved and the sun is shining, one of those misty suns that make walking a pleasure and help you to forget your troubles. I don’t know why, but this blue and gold morning makes me feel almost light-hearted. It is about a mile to the church, and you get there by a pretty little pathway, with hedges on either side. In the spring there must be lots of flowers, wild cherry trees and hawthorn. I love hawthorn … it has such a lovely scent and it reminds me of the time when I was a little girl. Apart from this, the country round here is much the same as anywhere else … nothing particularly exciting. There’s a broad valley, and further on, at the end of the valley, sloping hills. A river flows through the valley and the slopes are covered with woods, veiled in transparent golden mist, that hides the view too much, though, for my taste.
It’s a funny thing, but I still remain faithful to the countryside in Brittany … it’s in my blood. Nowhere else seems to me so beautiful, nowhere else makes such an appeal to my heart. Even here, in the midst of the richest, most prosperous country in Normandy, I’m homesick for the heathland and the splendid tragic sea of the place I was born in … Just to think of it spreads a cloud of melancholy over the cheerfulness of this lovely morning.
On the way I met lots of other women. Prayerbook in hand, they were on their way to mass: cooks, housemaids and farm girls, coarse, heavy women, slowly dawdling along like cattle. It was a scream to see them all dressed up in their Sunday best, looking just like parcels! They smell strongly of the countryside, and it was obvious they had never been in service in Paris. They looked at me with curiosity; a wary, though not unfriendly curiosity. You could see they were jealous of my hat, my clinging dress, my little beige jacket and my rolled umbrella in its sheath of green silk. They were astonished that I was dressed like a lady, and especially that I wore my clothes in such a smart, coquettish way. With gaping mouths and staring eyes they nudged each other, drawing attention to my extravagance and chic. But I just walked on, fluttering and elegant, boldly holding up my dress, which made a swishing noise as it rubbed against my petticoats, high enough to show off my small, pointed boots … After all, any girl likes to be admired.
As they passed me I could hear them whispering to each other:
‘It’s the new maid at The Priory.’
One of them, short, fat, red-faced and asthmatic, with legs spread out like those of a trestle to support her immense belly, approached me with a coarse, slimy smile of someone who likes her drink.
‘So you’re the new maid at The Priory? And your name is Célestine? And you arrived four days ago from Paris?’
She already knew as much about me as I did myself. But what most amused me about this pot-bellied creature, this perambulating wineskin, was her musketeer’s hat, a huge black felt, whose plumes fluttered in the wind. She continued:
‘My name’s Rose, Ma’amselle Rose. I work for Monsieur Mauger next door to you, a retired captain. Perhaps you have seen him?’
‘No, Mademoiselle.’
‘I thought you might have caught sight of him over the hedge that divides our two properties … He’s always working in the garden … He’s still a fine figure of a man, you know.’
We slowed down, for Mademoiselle Rose was almost out of breath. She was whistling like a broken-winded horse, and at each breath her bosom rose and fell, rose and fell.
‘It’s my asthma, you know … Everybody has something wrong with them these days … It’s something awful,’ she went on jerkily, wheezing and spluttering.
‘You must come and see me, my dear … If
Today the weather has improved and the sun is shining, one of those misty suns that make walking a pleasure and help you to forget your troubles. I don’t know why, but this blue and gold morning makes me feel almost light-hearted. It is about a mile to the church, and you get there by a pretty little pathway, with hedges on either side. In the spring there must be lots of flowers, wild cherry trees and hawthorn. I love hawthorn … it has such a lovely scent and it reminds me of the time when I was a little girl. Apart from this, the country round here is much the same as anywhere else … nothing particularly exciting. There’s a broad valley, and further on, at the end of the valley, sloping hills. A river flows through the valley and the slopes are covered with woods, veiled in transparent golden mist, that hides the view too much, though, for my taste.
It’s a funny thing, but I still remain faithful to the countryside in Brittany … it’s in my blood. Nowhere else seems to me so beautiful, nowhere else makes such an appeal to my heart. Even here, in the midst of the richest, most prosperous country in Normandy, I’m homesick for the heathland and the splendid tragic sea of the place I was born in … Just to think of it spreads a cloud of melancholy over the cheerfulness of this lovely morning.
On the way I met lots of other women. Prayerbook in hand, they were on their way to mass: cooks, housemaids and farm girls, coarse, heavy women, slowly dawdling along like cattle. It was a scream to see them all dressed up in their Sunday best, looking just like parcels! They smell strongly of the countryside, and it was obvious they had never been in service in Paris. They looked at me with curiosity; a wary, though not unfriendly curiosity. You could see they were jealous of my hat, my clinging dress, my little beige jacket and my rolled umbrella in its sheath of green silk. They were astonished that I was dressed like a lady, and especially that I wore my clothes in such a smart, coquettish way. With gaping mouths and staring eyes they nudged each other, drawing attention to my extravagance and chic. But I just walked on, fluttering and elegant, boldly holding up my dress, which made a swishing noise as it rubbed against my petticoats, high enough to show off my small, pointed boots … After all, any girl likes to be admired.
As they passed me I could hear them whispering to each other:
‘It’s the new maid at The Priory.’
One of them, short, fat, red-faced and asthmatic, with legs spread out like those of a trestle to support her immense belly, approached me with a coarse, slimy smile of someone who likes her drink.
‘So you’re the new maid at The Priory? And your name is Célestine? And you arrived four days ago from Paris?’
She already knew as much about me as I did myself. But what most amused me about this pot-bellied creature, this perambulating wineskin, was her musketeer’s hat, a huge black felt, whose plumes fluttered in the wind. She continued:
‘My name’s Rose, Ma’amselle Rose. I work for Monsieur Mauger next door to you, a retired captain. Perhaps you have seen him?’
‘No, Mademoiselle.’
‘I thought you might have caught sight of him over the hedge that divides our two properties … He’s always working in the garden … He’s still a fine figure of a man, you know.’
We slowed down, for Mademoiselle Rose was almost out of breath. She was whistling like a broken-winded horse, and at each breath her bosom rose and fell, rose and fell.
‘It’s my asthma, you know … Everybody has something wrong with them these days … It’s something awful,’ she went on jerkily, wheezing and spluttering.
‘You must come and see me, my dear … If
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