Sebastien Roch (Dedalus European Classics) Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  Published in the UK by Dedalus Limited,

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  Publishing History

  First published in France in 1890

  First published by Dedalus in 1996

  First ebook edition in 2013

  Translation copyright © Nicoletta Simborowski 2000

  The right of Nicoletta Simborowski to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Printed in Finland by W. S. Bookwell

  Typeset by RefineCatch

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  OCTAVE MIRBEAU CHRONOLOGY

  1848

  Born February 16, in Trévières (Calvados)

  1859

  Sent for schooling by the Jesuits in Vannes

  1870

  Joined the army

  1885

  Conversion to anarchism. Stopped writing for the pro-monarchist newspaper Le Gaulois and started writing for the radical paper La France.

  1886

  Published Letters from my Cottage and Le Calvaire

  1888

  Published Abbé Jules

  1890

  Published Sébastien Roch

  1894

  Dreyfus affair

  1898

  Published Torture Garden

  1900

  Published The Diary of a Chambermaid

  1901

  Published Twenty-one days in the Life of a Neurasthenic

  1903

  Business is Business, Mirbeau’s most notable play is performed. Adapted for the English stage in 1905. A bitter satire on an unscrupulous financier who deals ruthlessly with his financial associates and his family.

  1917

  Died February 16

  These pages are respectfully dedicated to Edmond

  de Goncourt, the venerable and magnificent

  master of the modern novel.

  O.M.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  Octave Mirbeau Chronology

  Dedication

  Book One

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Book II

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  The Translator

  The Editor

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER I

  Around 1862, the school of St Francis Xavier in the picturesque town of Vannes was at the height of its renown, and was, as it still is, run by the Jesuit fathers. Today, the school is just one of several diocesan seminaries, a decline in fortunes that is due to one of those caprices of fashion which affect and shape governments, female royalty, hats and schools, rather than to the recent wave of political persecutions, which, in any case, led only to a brief change of personnel – since restored to their posts. At that time, however, there were few such flourishing schools, either religious or lay. As well as the sons of the noble families of Britanny, Anjou and the Vendée, who formed the basis of its usual clientèle, this famous institution attracted students from every right-minded corner of France. It even attracted students from other Catholic countries, from Spain, Italy, Belgium and Austria, where the impulsiveness of revolutions and the cautiousness of political parties had, in the past, forced Jesuits to seek refuge, and where they have put down the deepest of roots. This popularity derived from the Jesuits’ curriculum, reputed to be paternalistic and conventional, and derived, above all, from their educational principles, which offered exceptional privileges and rare pleasures – an education in lofty ideals, both religious and worldly, well-suited to young gentlemen born to cut a dash in the world and to carry on the tradition of proper doctrine and perfect manners.

  It was no mere chance that, on their return from Brugelette, the Jesuits had settled in the very heart of Brittany. No other physical or social setting could have been more congenial to their aims of moulding minds and manipulating souls. There, the mores of the Middle Ages are still very much alive, memories of the Chouan revolt are respected as though they were articles of faith. Of all the areas in Brittany, taciturn Morbihan has remained the most doggedly Breton, in its religious fatalism, its stubborn resistance to change, and the harsh, unspeakably sad poetry of its soil that delivers up to the voracious and omnipotent consolations of the Church men brutalised by poverty, superstition and sickness. These moors, these rocks, this barbaric, suffering land, planted with pale wayside altars and sown with sacred stones, exude a rough mysticism and an obsession with legends and epic history, ideally suited to impressing young, delicate souls and to imbuing them with that spiritual discipline and that taste for the marvellous and the heroic which form the very basis of the Jesuit strategy, by which they hope to impose their all-encompassing power upon the world. The school’s prospectuses – masterpieces of typography – adorned with pious drawings, alluring views, sonorous names, prayers in rhyme and certificates of hygiene, were full of praise for the moral superiority of Breton society, while lyrical descriptions of the surrounding countryside and various historic monuments were sure to excite the interest of archaeologists and the curiosity of tourists. Along with these glorious evocations of local history, of Breton battles and martyrs, these prospectuses also pointed out to families that, by a great stroke of good fortune, owing to the proximity of Sainte-Anne-d’Auray, miracles were by no means uncommon at the school – especially around the time of the baccalaureat examinations – that the students went sea-bathing at a special holy beach, and that they dined on lobster once a week.

  Faced with such a prospectus and despite his modest means, Monsieur Joseph-Hippolyte-Elphège Roch, the ironmonger in Pervenchères, a little town in the Department of Orne, dared to entertain the proud thought of sending his son Sébastien, who had just turned eleven, to the Jesuits in Vannes. He mentioned it to the parish priest, who gave his hearty approval:

  ‘Goodness, Monsieur Roch, that’s a bold idea… When a student graduates from a place like that, you know… Well!… When a student graduates from a place like that… Oooph!’

  That favourite exclamation of his became a long, whistling exhalation, whilst, at the same time, he opened his arms wide in a sweeping gesture that embraced the whole world.

  ‘Of course, I know, I know,’ agreed Monsieur Roch, who echoed the priest’s gesture, only on a still grander scale. ‘Of course, you don’t have to tell me that. But it is very expensive … too expensive really.’

  ‘Too expensive?’ replied the priest. ‘Indeed. But, listen… All the nobility, all the élite…that’s quite something, Monsieur Roch! The
Jesuits…my word…I beg you, now, make no mistake about it…I myself have met a general and two bishops…well, they went there, you see! Not to mention marquesses, my friend, there’ll be plenty of them there, plenty! That kind of thing costs money, though, oh yes.’

  ‘Of course, I’m not denying that,’ protested Monsieur Roch, impressed. ‘And of course you get what you pay for!’

  Then he added, puffing up with pride:

  ‘Anyway, why should they offer it cheaper? For, let’s be fair, Father, I’m no different. Look at this lamp, for example, it’s a fine lamp you’ll agree. Well, I’d certainly sell it for more than I would an ugly one …’

  ‘Exactly!’ went on the priest, patting Monsieur Roch’s shoulder affectionately, encouragingly. ‘My dear parishioner, you have put your finger on it. Oh yes, the Jesuits! My goodness, that’s no small thing.’

  They walked along together for some time beneath the lime trees outside the priest’s house, engaged in wise, wordy talk, mapping out for Sébastien a splendid future. The sun filtered through the leaves, dappling their clothes and the grass along the avenue. The air was heavy. They proceeded slowly, hands behind their backs, stopping every few steps, red-faced and sweating, their souls filled with grandiose dreams. A little lame dog trotted behind them, its tongue hanging out…

  Monsieur Roch said again:

  ‘With the Jesuits on your side, you’re bound to go a long way.’

  To which the priest added his enthusiastic support.

  ‘You certainly are! Because they have fingers in every pie, those fellows! Oh, yes indeed, people have no idea.’

  And then, in a confidential tone, his voice trembling with respect and admiration, he murmured:

  ‘You know, people say they tell the Pope what to do…as simple as that!’

  Sébastien, who was the subject of all these marvellous plans, was an attractive child, fresh-faced and blond, with a healthy complexion from hours spent in the sun and the fresh air, and very gentle, honest eyes, which, until then, had only ever shone with happiness. He had the spry greenness, the supple grace of young shrubs full of sap that have sprung up in fertile soil; he shared too the untroubled candour of their vegetable lives. At the school he had attended since the age of five, he had learned nothing; he had merely run about, played and developed strong muscles and a healthy constitution. His dashed-off homework, his lessons – quickly learned and even more quickly forgotten – were merely a mechanical, almost physical task, requiring no more mental effort than a sheep would when leaping. They had failed to develop in him any cerebral impulse, any spiritual feelings. He enjoyed rolling in the grass, climbing trees, watching for fish by the river’s edge, and all he asked was that nature should be an eternal playground for him. His father, absorbed all day in the many details of a successful business, had not had the time to sow the first seeds of intellectual life in that virgin mind. It did not even occur to him, preferring instead, in his moments of leisure, to pontificate to the neighbours who gathered outside his shop. A lofty figure obsessed with matters of transcendental stupidity, he could never have brought himself to take an interest in the naive questions of a mere child. One should add straightaway that had he done so he would have been utterly at a loss, for his ignorance equalled his pretensions, and these knew no bounds. One stormy evening, Sébastien wanted to know what thunder was. ‘It means the Good Lord is unhappy,’ explained Monsieur Roch, taken aback by this unexpected question. He extricated himself from many other situations which taxed his knowledge by resorting to this unchanging aphorism: ‘There are some things a lad your age doesn’t need to know.’ Sébastien would not persist, for he had little taste for unravelling life’s secrets or for making any further pointless incursions into the moral domain. And he would go back to his games, without enquiring any further. At an age when children’s minds are already stuffed with sentimental lies, superstitions and depressing poetry, he was lucky enough not to have suffered any of the normal distortions which are part of what people call a family upbringing. As he grew, far from becoming a sickly child, his complexion became still rosier; far from stiffening up, his mobile limbs became more supple, and his eyes retained their depth of expression, like a reflection of wide, open spaces, the same expression that fills the mysterious eyes of animals with a look of infinity. But local people said that for the son of a man who was as spiritual, wise and ‘well-to-do’ as Monsieur Roch, Sébastien was rather backward, which was most unfortunate. Monsieur Roch did not worry. It did not cross his mind that his child, flesh of his flesh, could belie his birth and fail to achieve the brilliant destiny that awaited him.

  ‘What’s my name?’ he would sometimes ask Sébastien, fixing him with an aggressive stare.

  ‘Joseph, Hippolyte, Elphège, Roch,’ the child would reply, as if reciting a lesson learned by heart.

  ‘Always remember that. Keep my name – the name of the Roch family – always in your thoughts, and all will be well. Say it again.’

  And in a gabble, swallowing half the syllables, the young Sébastien would start again:

  ‘J’seph..p’lyte … phège … Roch.’

  ‘Very good!’ the ironmonger would say, taking pleasure in the sound of a name which he considered to be as fine and magical as a charm.

  Monsieur Roch lived in the Rue de Paris, in a house easily identifiable by its two storeys and its shopfront, painted dark green with a broad red border. The window display gleamed with copperware, porcelain lamps and hosepipes with bronze fittings, whose rubber tubing, loosely coiled into garlands, created intriguing and appealing decorative shapes alongside the funeral wreaths, lacy lampshades and red leather, gilt-studded bellows. The house was the only one in the street to have two storeys and a slate roof and it was, thus, a source of great pride to him, as was the shop itself, the only one in the area to display a dazzling crest inscribed upon a black marble background, with gold, relief lettering. His neighbours envied the air of superiority and rare comfort lent to this luxurious accommodation by the roughcast façade in two shades of yellow, and the windows, their frames embellished with mouldings, painted the dazzling white of new plaster. But they were proud of the house on behalf of the town. Monsieur Roch was not in any case just an ordinary individual; he was an honour to the district as much on account of his character as his house. In Pervenchères he enjoyed a privileged position. His reputation as a rich man, his qualities as a fine talker, and the orthodoxy of his opinions raised him above the status of an ordinary tradesman. The bourgeoisie mingled with him with no fear of demeaning themselves; the most important local officials willingly paused at the door of his shop to chat with him on ‘an equal footing’; everyone, according to social status, showed either the most cordial friendship towards him or the most respectful consideration.

  Monsieur Roch was fat and round, pink and fleshy, with a tiny skull and a square, flat, gleaming forehead. His nose was geometrically vertical, and, without diversions or projections, it continued the rigid line of his forehead between two entirely smooth, unshadowed cheeks. His beard formed a woolly fringe linking his two ears, which were vast, deep, involuted and soft as arum lilies. His eyes, sunk into the fleshy, bulbous capsules of their lids, reflected the regularity of his thoughts, his obedience to the law, his respect for established authority, and a particular kind of tranquil, regal, animal stupidity which sometimes achieved a kind of nobility. This bovine calm, this heavy, ruminant majesty impressed people greatly, as they felt they recognised in him all the characteristics of good breeding, dignity and strength. But what really earned him universal esteem, even more than his physical characteristics, was his ability, as a dogged reader of newspapers and legal journals, to explain things by repeating garbled, pompous phrases, which neither he nor anyone else understood, but which nevertheless left his listeners with a sense of admiring unease.

  His conversation with the priest had excited him a great deal. All day he was more serious than usual, more preoccupied, distracted from his work by a
host of chaotic thoughts which wrestled long and hard with each other inside his narrow skull. In the evening, after dinner, he kept little Sébastien by his side for a while and observed him on the sly, deep in thought, without addressing a word to him. The following day, he merely said confidentially to a few select customers:

  ‘I think something of significance might be about to happen here. Be prepared for some important news.’ The result was that people went home intrigued, and indulged in the most improbable conjectures. The rumour went from house to house that Monsieur Roch was about to remarry. He was obliged to clear up this flattering misunderstanding and inform Pervenchères of his plans. Besides, whilst he liked to arouse public curiosity by means of ingenious little mysteries that led to comment and discussion about himself, he was definitely not a man to keep secret for many days something from which he could derive direct and immediate admiration. However, he added:

  ‘It’s still just an idea. Nothing’s been settled yet. I’m pondering, weighing everything up, considering.’

  There were two powerful motives behind his extravagant choice of the school in Vannes: Sébastien’s future, in that he would get a ‘smart’ education there and could not fail to be shaped in the right way so that he would achieve great things; but, mainly, his own vanity, which would be delightfully flattered whenever people referred to him as ‘the father of the little chap who’s being educated by the Jesuits’. He was fulfilling a duty, more than a duty, he was making a sacrifice which he intended should weigh heavy on his son whilst giving himself the opportunity to flaunt his superiority in the face of everyone else. It would all greatly increase his standing locally. It was tempting. It also merited serious and lengthy consideration, for Monsieur Roch could never resign himself simply to taking a decision. It was always necessary to go over everything again and again, looking at things from every angle, until, finally, he got lost in an absurd, unlikely tangle of complications which had nothing whatever to do with the matter in hand. Although he knew how much he was worth down to the last centime, he was determined to count up his funds once more, go through his inventory of stock, check all incoming revenue in minute detail. He made calculations, balanced budgets, came up with irrefutable objections, then countered them with equally irrefutable arguments. But it was not the healthy state of his accounts that eventually made his decision for him, it was the words of the parish priest, continually ringing in his ears: Not to mention marquesses, my friend, there’ll be plenty of them there, plenty!’ As he composed the letter to the Rector of the school in Vannes, it seemed to him that he was gaining immediate admission to France’s nobility.