Marie Claire
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Marguerite Audoux >> Marie Claire
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9 [Frontispiece: Marguerite Audoux]
MARIE CLAIRE
BY
MARGUERITE AUDOUX
TRANSLATED BY
JOHN N. RAPHAEL
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
AND AN AFTERWORD BY THE TRANSLATOR
LONDON
G. BELL & SONS, LTD.
1911
_This Edition is intended for circulation only in India, and the
British Colonies_
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
INTRODUCTION
The origins of this extraordinary book are sufficiently curious and
sufficiently interesting to be stated in detail. They go back to some
ten years ago, when the author, after the rustic adventures which she
describes in the following pages, had definitely settled in Paris as a
working sempstress. The existence of a working sempstress in Paris, as
elsewhere, is very hard; it usually means eleven hours' close
application a day, six full days a week, at half a crown a day. But
already Marguerite Audoux's defective eyesight was causing anxiety, and
upsetting the regularity of her work, so that in the evenings she was
often less fatigued than a sempstress generally is. She wanted
distraction, and she found it in the realization of an old desire to
write. She wrote, not because she could find nothing else to do, but
because at last the chance of writing had come. That she had always
loved reading is plain from certain incidents in this present book; her
opportunities for reading, however, had been limited. She now began,
in a tentative and perhaps desultory fashion, to set down her youthful
reminiscences. About this time she became acquainted, through one of
its members, and by one of those hazards of destiny which too rarely
diversify the dull industrial life of a city, with a circle of young
literary men, of whom possibly the most important was the regretted
Charles Louis Philippe, author of "Bubu de Montparnasse," and other
novels which have a genuine reputation among the chosen people who know
the difference between literature and its counterfeit. This circle of
friends used to meet at Philippe's flat. It included a number of
talented writers, among whom I should mention MM. Iehl (the author of
"Cauet"), Francis Jourdain, Paul Fargue, Larbaud, Chanvin, Marcel Ray,
and Regis Gignoux (the literary and dramatic critic). Marguerite
Audoux was not introduced as a literary prodigy. Nobody, indeed, was
aware that she wrote. She came on her merits as an individuality, and
she took her place beside several other women who, like herself, had no
literary pretensions. I am told by one of the intimates of the
fellowship that the impression she made was profound. And the fact is
indubitable that her friends are at least as enthusiastic about her
individuality as about this book which she has written. She was a
little over thirty, and very pretty, with an agreeable voice. The
sobriety of her charm, the clear depth of her emotional faculty, and
the breadth of her gentle interest in human nature handsomely conquered
the entire fellowship. The working sempstress was sincerely esteemed
by some of the brightest masculine intellects in Paris.
This admiring appreciation naturally encouraged her to speak a little
of herself. And one evening she confessed that she, too, had been
trying to write. On another evening she brought some sheets of
manuscript--the draft of the early chapters of "Marie Claire"--and read
them aloud. She read, I am told, very well. The reception was
enthusiastic. One can imagine the ecstatic fervour of these young men,
startled by the apparition of such a shining talent. She must continue
the writing of her book, but in the mean time she must produce some
short stories and sketches for the daily papers! Her gift must be
presented to the public instantly! She followed the advice thus
urgently offered, and several members of the circle (in particular,
Regis Gignoux and Marcel Ray) gave themselves up to the business of
placing the stories and sketches; Marcel Ray devoted whole days to the
effort, obtaining special leave from his own duties in order to do so.
In the result several stories and sketches appeared in the _Matin,
Paris Journal_ (respectively the least and the most literary of Paris
morning papers), and other organs. These stories and sketches, by the
way, were republished in a small volume, some time before "Marie
Claire," and attracted no general attention whatever.
Meanwhile the more important work proceeded, slowly; and was at length
finished. Its composition stretched over a period of six years.
Marguerite Audoux never hurried nor fatigued herself, and though she
re-wrote many passages several times, she did not carry this revision
to the meticulous excess which is the ruin of so many ardent literary
beginners in France. The trite phrase, "written with blood and tears,"
does not in the least apply here. A native wisdom has invariably saved
Marguerite Audoux from the dangerous extreme. In his preface to the
original French edition, M. Octave Mirbeau appositely points out that
Philippe and her other friends abstained from giving purely literary
advice to the authoress as her book grew and was read aloud. With the
insight of artists they perceived that hers was a talent which must be
strictly let alone. But Parisian rumour has alleged, not merely that
she was advised, but that she was actually helped in the writing by her
admirers. The rumour is worse than false--it is silly. Every
paragraph of the work bears the unmistakable and inimitable work of one
individuality. And among the friends of Marguerite Audoux, even the
most gifted, there is none who could possibly have composed any of the
passages which have been singled out as being beyond the accomplishment
of a working sempstress. The whole work and every part of the work is
the unassisted and untutored production of its author. This statement
cannot be too clearly and positively made. Doubtless the spelling was
drastically corrected by the proof-readers; but to have one's spelling
drastically corrected is an experience which occurs to nearly all women
writers, and to a few male writers.
The book completed, the question of its proper flotation arose. I use
the word "flotation" with intent. Although Marguerite Audoux had
originally no thought of publishing, her friends were firmly bent not
simply on publishing, but on publishing with the maximum of eclat. A
great name was necessary to the success of the enterprise, a name
which, while keeping the sympathy of the artists, would impose itself
on the crowd. Francis Jourdain knew Octave Mirbeau. And Octave
Mirbeau, by virtue of his feverish artistic and moral enthusiasms, of
his notorious generosity, and of his enormous vogue, was obviously the
heaven-appointed man. Francis Jourdain went to Octave Mirbeau and
offered him the privilege of floating "Marie Claire" on the literary
market of Paris. Octave Mirbeau accepted, and he went to work on the
business as he goes to work on all his business; that is to say, with
flames and lightnings. For some time Octave Mirbeau lived for nothing,
but "Marie Claire." The result has been vastly creditable to him.
"Marie Claire" was finally launched in splendour. Its path had been
prepared with really remarkable skill in the Press and in the world,
and it was an exceedingly brilliant success from the start. It ran a
triumphant course as a serial in one of the "great reviews," and within
a few weeks of its publication as a book thirty thousand copies had
been sold. The sale continues more actively than ever. Marguerite
Audoux lives precisely as she lived before. She is writing a further
instalment of her pseudonymous autobiography, and there is no apparent
reason why this new instalment should not be even better than the first.
Such is the story of the book.
My task is not to criticise the work. I will only say this. In my
opinion it is highly distinguished of its kind (the second part in
particular is full of marvellous beauty); but it must be accepted for
what it is. It makes no sort of pretence to display those constructive
and inventive artifices which are indispensable to a great masterpiece
of impersonal fiction. It is not fiction. It is the exquisite
expression of a temperament. It is a divine accident.
ARNOLD BENNETT.
MARIE CLAIRE
PART I
One day a number of people came to the house. The men came in as
though they were going into church, and the women made the sign of the
cross as they went out.
I slipped into my parents' bedroom and was surprised to see that my
mother had a big lighted candle by her bedside. My father was leaning
over the foot of the bed looking at my mother. She was asleep with her
hands crossed on her breast.
Our neighbour, la mere Colas, kept us with her all day. As the women
went out again she said to them, "No, she would not kiss her children
good-bye." The women blew their noses, looked at us, and la mere Colas
added, "That sort of illness makes one unkind, I suppose." A few days
afterwards we were given new dresses with big black and white checks.
La mere Colas used to give us our meals and send us out to play in the
fields. My sister, who was a big girl, scrambled into the hedges,
climbed the trees, messed about in the ponds, and used to come home at
night with her pockets full of creatures of all kinds, which frightened
me and made la mere Colas furiously angry.
What I hated most were the earthworms. The red elastic things made me
shiver with horror, and if I happened to step on one it made me quite
ill. When I had a pain in my side la mere Colas used to forbid my
sister to go out. But my sister got tired of remaining indoors and
wanted to go out and take me with her. So she used to go and collect
earthworms, and hold them up close to my face. Then I said that I
wasn't in pain any more, and la mere Colas used to send us both out of
doors. One day my sister threw a handful of earthworms on to my dress.
I jumped back so quickly that I fell into a tub of hot water. La mere
Colas was very angry while she undressed me. I was not very much hurt.
She promised my sister a good slapping, and called to the sweeps, who
were passing, to come in and take her away. All three of them came in,
with their black bags and their ropes. My sister howled and cried for
mercy. I was very much ashamed at being all undressed.
My father often took us to a place where there were men who drank wine.
He used to put me on a table among the glasses, and make me sing. The
men would laugh and kiss me, and try and make me drink wine. It was
always dark when we went home. My father took long steps, and rocked
himself as he walked. He nearly tumbled down lots of times. Sometimes
he would begin to cry and say that his house had been stolen. Then my
sister used to scream. It was always she who used to find the house.
One morning la mere Colas got angry with us and told us that we were
children of misfortune, and that she would not feed us any longer. She
said we could go and look for our father, who had gone away nobody knew
where. When her anger had passed she gave us our breakfasts as usual,
but a few days afterwards we were put into pere Chicon's cart. The
cart was full of straw and bags of corn. I was tucked away behind in a
little hollow between the sacks. The cart tipped down at the back, and
every jolt made me slip on the straw.
I was very frightened all the way along. Every time I slipped I
thought I was going to fall out of the cart, or that the sacks were
going to fall on me. We stopped at an inn. A woman lifted us down,
shook the straw on our dresses, and gave us some milk to drink. I
heard her say to pere Chicon, "You really think their father will take
care of them, then?" Pere Chicon shook his head, and knocked his pipe
against the table. Then he made a funny face and said, "He may be
anywhere. Young Girard told me he had met him on the Paris road."
After a while pere Chicon took us to a big house with a lot of steps
leading up to the door. He had a long talk with a gentleman who waved
his arms about and talked about the dignity of labour. I wondered what
that was. The gentleman put his hand on my head and patted it, and I
heard him say several times, "He did not tell me that he had any
children." I understood that he was talking of my father, and I asked
if I could not see him. The gentleman looked at me without answering,
and then asked pere Chicon, "How old is she?" "About five," said pere
Chicon. All this time my sister was playing up and down the steps with
a kitten. We went back into the cart and to mere Colas again. She was
cross with us and pushed us about. A few days afterwards she took us
to the railway station, and that evening we went to a big house, where
there were a lot of little girls.
Sister Gabrielle separated us at once. She said that my sister was big
enough to be with the middle-sized girls, while I was to stay with the
little ones. Sister Gabrielle was quite small, quite old, quite thin,
and all bent up. She managed the dormitory and the refectory. She
used to make the salad in a huge yellow jar. She tucked her sleeves up
to her shoulders, and dipped her arms in and out of the salad. Her
arms were dark and knotted, and when they came out of the jar, all
shining and dripping, they made me think of dead branches on rainy days.
I made a chum at once. She came dancing up to me and looked impudent,
I thought. She did not stand any higher than the bench on which I was
sitting. She put her elbows on my knees and said: "Why aren't you
playing about?" I told her that I had a pain in my side. "Oh, of
course," she said, "your mother had consumption, and Sister Gabrielle
said you would soon die." She climbed up on to the bench, and sat
down, hiding her little legs underneath her. Then she asked me my name
and my age, and told me that her name was Ismerie, that she was older
than I was, and that the doctor said she would never get any bigger.
She told me also that the class mistress was called Sister Marie-Aimee,
that she was very unkind, and punished you severely if you talked too
much. Then all of a sudden she jumped down and shouted "Augustine."
Her voice was like a boy's voice, and her legs were a little twisted.
At the end of recreation I saw her on Augustine's back. Augustine was
rolling her from one shoulder to the other, as if she meant to throw
her down. When she passed me Ismerie said in that big voice of hers,
"You will carry me too sometimes, won't you?" I soon became friends
with Augustine.
My eyes were not well. At night my eyelids used to close up tight, and
I was quite blind until I had them washed. Augustine was told off to
take me to the infirmary. She used to come and fetch me from the
dormitory every morning. I could hear her coming before she got to the
door. She caught hold of my hand and pulled me along, and she didn't
mind a bit when I bumped against the beds. We flew down the passages
like the wind and rushed down two flights of stairs like an avalanche.
My feet only touched a step now and again. I used to go down those
stairs as if I was falling down a well. Augustine had strong hands and
held me tight. To go to the infirmary we had to pass behind the chapel
and then in front of a little white house. There we hurried more than
ever. One day when I fell on to my knees she pulled me up again and
smacked my head saying, "Do be quick, we are in front of the dead
house." After that she was always afraid of my falling again, and used
to tell me when we got in front of the dead house. I was frightened
chiefly because Augustine was frightened. If she rushed along like
that there must be danger. I was always out of breath when I got to
the infirmary. Somebody pushed me on to a little chair, and the pain
in my side had been gone a long time when they came and washed my eyes.
It was Augustine who took me into Sister Marie-Aimee's classroom. She
put on a timid kind of voice, and said, "Sister, here is a new girl."
I expected to be scolded; but Sister Marie-Aimee smiled, kissed me
several times, and said, "You are too small to sit on a bench, I shall
put you in here." And she sat me down on a stool in the hollow of her
desk. It was ever so comfortable in the hollow of her desk, and the
warmth of her woollen petticoat soothed my body, which was bruised all
over by tumbling about on the wooden staircases, and on the stone ones.
Often two feet hemmed me in on each side of my stool, and two warm legs
made a back for me. A soft hand pressed my head on to the woollen
skirt between the knees, and the softness of the hand and the warmth of
the pillow used to send me to sleep. When I woke up again the pillow
became a table. The same hand put bits of cake on it, and bits of
sugar and sweets sometimes. And all round me I heard the world living.
A voice with tears in it would say, "No, Sister, I didn't do it." Then
shrill voices would say, "Yes, she did, Sister." Above my head a full
warm voice called for silence. And then there would be the rap of a
ruler on the desk. It would make an enormous noise down in my hollow.
Sometimes the feet would be drawn away from my little stool, the knees
would be drawn together, the chair would move, and down to my nest came
a white veil, a narrow chin, and smiling lips with little white pointed
teeth behind them. And last of all I saw two soft eyes which seemed to
cuddle me and make me feel comfortable.
When my eyes got better I used to get an alphabet as well as sweets and
cakes. It was a little book with pictures next to the words. I often
used to look at a great big strawberry which I fancied as big as a bun.
When it was not cold in the classroom, Sister Marie-Aimee put me on a
bench between Ismerie and Marie Renaud, who slept in the two beds next
to mine in the dormitory. Now and then she used to let me go back to
my hollow again, and I loved that. I used to find books there with
pictures, which made me forget all about the time.
One morning Ismerie took me into a corner, and told me with great
secrecy that Sister Marie-Aimee was not going to take the class any
more. She was going to take Sister Gabrielle's place in the dormitory
and the refectory. She did not tell me who had told her this, but she
said it was an awful shame. She was very fond of Sister Gabrielle, who
used to treat her like a little child. She did not like "that Sister
Marie-Aimee," as she used to call her when she knew that nobody heard
her but ourselves. She said that Sister Marie-Aimee would not let her
climb on to our backs, and that we should not be able to make fun of
her as we used to of Sister Gabrielle, who always went upstairs
sideways. In the evening after prayers Sister Gabrielle told us that
she was going. She kissed us all, beginning with the smallest of us.
We went up to the dormitory making a dreadful noise. The big girls
whispered together and said they would not put up with Sister
Marie-Aimee. The little ones snivelled as though they were going into
danger. Ismerie, whom I was carrying upstairs on my back, was crying
noisily. Her little fingers hurt my throat, and her tears fell down my
neck. Nobody thought of laughing at Sister Gabrielle, who went
upstairs slowly, saying "Hush, hush," all the time, without making the
noise any less. The servant in the little dormitory was crying too.
She shook me a little while she was undressing me and said, "I'm sure
you are pleased at having that Sister Marie-Aimee of yours." We used
to call the servant Bonne Esther. I liked her best of the three
servants. She was rather rough sometimes, but she was fond of us.
When I coughed she used to get up and put a piece of sugar in my mouth.
And often she took me out of my bed when I was cold and warmed me in
her own.
Next morning we went down to the refectory in dead silence. The
servants told us to remain standing. Several of the big girls stood
very straight and looked proud. Bonne Justine stood at one end of the
table. She looked sad and bent her head. Bonne Neron, who looked like
a gendarme, walked up and down in the middle of the refectory. Now and
then she looked at the clock, and shrugged her shoulders. Sister
Marie-Aimee came in, leaving the door open behind her. She seemed to
me to be taller than usual, in her white apron and white cuffs. She
walked slowly, looking at us all. The rosary, which hung at her side,
made a little clickety sound, and her skirt swung a little as she
walked. She went up the three steps to her desk, and made a sign to us
to sit down. In the afternoon she took us out for a walk in the
country. It was very hot. I went and sat down near her on a little
hillock. She was reading a book, and every now and then looked at the
little girls who were playing in a field below us. She looked at the
sun which was setting, and kept on saying "How lovely it is, how lovely
it is."
That evening the birch which Sister Gabrielle kept in the dormitory was
put away in a cupboard, and in the refectory the salad was turned with
two long wooden spoons. These were the only changes. We went into
class from nine o'clock till twelve, and in the afternoon we cracked
nuts, which were sold to an oil merchant. The bigger girls used to
crack them with a hammer, and the little ones took them out of the
shells. We were forbidden to eat them, and it was not easy, anyhow.
One of the girls would always sneak if we did, because she was greedy
too, and jealous. Bonne Esther used to peep into our mouths.
Sometimes she caught a very greedy girl. Then she used to roll her
eyes at her, give her a little smack, and say, "I've got my eye on
you." Some of us she trusted. She would make us turn round and open
our mouths and pretend to look at them, and then she said, "Shut your
beaks, birdies," and laughed.
I often wanted to eat the nuts. But I would look at Bonne Esther and
blush at the idea of cheating her, because she trusted me. But after a
time I wanted to eat nuts so badly that I could not think of anything
else. Every day I tried to think of some way of eating them without
being caught. I tried to slip some into my sleeves, but I was so
awkward that I always dropped them. Besides, I wanted to eat a lot of
them, a great big lot. I thought I should like to eat a sackful. One
day I managed to steal some. Bonne Esther, who was taking us up to
bed, slipped on a nutshell and dropped her lantern, which went out. I
was close to a big bowl of nuts, and I took a handful and put them in
my pocket. As soon as everybody was in bed I took the nuts out of my
pocket, put my head under the sheets and crammed them into my mouth.
But it seemed to me at once as though everybody in the dormitory must
hear the noise that my jaws were making. I did all I could to munch
slowly and quietly, but the noise thumped in my ears like the blows of
a mallet.
Bonne Esther got up, lit the lamp, stooped down and looked under the
beds. When she came to mine I looked out at her trembling. She
whispered, "Aren't you asleep yet?" and went on looking. She went
down to the end of the dormitory, opened the door, and closed it again;
but she was hardly back in bed with the light out before the latch of
the door made a little sound as though somebody were opening it. Bonne
Esther lit her lamp again and said, "Whatever is it? It cannot be the
cat opening the door by itself." It seemed to me that she was afraid.
I heard her moving about in her bed, and all of a sudden she called
out, "Oh dear, oh dear." Ismerie asked her what the matter was. She
said that a hand had opened the door, and she had felt a breath on her
face. In the twi-darkness we saw the door half open. I was very
frightened. I thought it was the devil who had come to fetch me. We
waited a long, long time, but we heard nothing more. Bonne Esther
asked if one of us would get up and put the light out, although it was
not very far from her own bed. Nobody answered. Then she called me.
I got up and she said, "You are such a good little girl that ghosts
won't do any harm to you." She put her head under the bedclothes, and
I blew the lamp out. And directly it was put out I saw thousands of
shining specks of light, and felt something cold on my cheeks. I was
sure that there were green dragons, with mouths aflame, under the beds.
I could feel their claws on my feet, and lights were jumping about on
each side of my head. I wanted to sit down, and when I got to my bed I
was quite sure that my two feet had gone. When I dared, I stooped down
and felt for them. They were very cold. I went to sleep at last
holding them in my two hands.
In the morning Bonne Esther found the cat on a bed near the door. She
had had kittens during the night. When Sister Marie-Aimee was told
about it, she said that the cat had certainly opened the door by
jumping at the latch. But we never felt sure about that, and the
little girls used to talk about it in low voices for a long time.
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