Torture Garden Page 4

  But the man with the ravaged face gestured violently in denial:

  “Listen to me,” he said. “The perils of life – and what a life I’ve had! – have placed me in the presence, not of a woman, but of woman. I have seen her, released from her artifices, and from all the hypocrisies which conceal, like the finery of mendacity, her true soul … I’ve seen her abandoned to her lone caprice, or, if you like, her sole dominion of instincts in an environment in which nothing, it’s true, can curb them, where everything is, on the contrary, conjugated to exalt them … Neither laws, nor morals, nor religious prejudices nor social conventions concealed her from me … Nothing. I saw her in her truth, in her original nakedness, among gardens and tortures, blood and flowers … When she appeared to me I had fallen to the lowest point of human abjection – at least so I thought. Then, confronted with her loving eyes, and compassionate mouth, I had cried out in hope, and I believed … yes, I believed, that through her I would be saved. Well, there was something atrocious about it! Woman revealed crimes I never knew existed, shadows into which I had not yet descended … Look into my dead eyes, into my mouth that no longer knows how to speak, at my trembling hands! … anything but to have to see her! But I can no more curse her than I can the fire that consumes towns and forests, the water which sinks ships, or the tiger carrying bleeding prey between its jaws into the depths of the jungle. Within her woman has an elemental cosmic force, an invincible force of destruction that is like that of nature … she embodies the whole of nature! Being a matrix of life she is, accordingly, the matrix of death … since it is through death that life is perpetually reborn … and to suppress death would be to kill life at the unique source of fecundity …”

  “And what does that prove?” said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders.

  He replied simply: “It proves nothing … Why do painful or joyful things need to be proved? … They just need to be felt.”

  Then, with timidity and – ah, the power of human pride! – obvious self-satisfaction, the man with the ravaged face took a roll of paper out of his pocket and carefully unfolded it:

  “I have here,” he said, “the tale of that period of my life … For a long time I have been reluctant to publish it, and I still hesitate. I’d like to read it to you, to you who are men unafraid to penetrate into the darkest of human mysteries … May you withstand the bloody horror! … It is called: Torture Garden.”

  Our host called for fresh cigars and drinks …

  1 A professor of chemistry whose support for Dreyfus led to his dismissal and to his being hounded by conservative opinion.

  2 A ‘gentleman criminal’ who murdered Marie Regnault and her child and maid in the course of a theft. He was executed in 1887.

  MY MISSION

  Before I recount one of the most terrifying episodes of my travels in the Far East, it may be of interest if I explain briefly the circumstances that led me to undertake the journey. It is part of contemporary history.

  For anyone amazed by the anonymity I have jealously guarded during this judicial and painful tale, I’ll say: “My name is of no consequence! … It is the name of someone who brought considerable suffering on both others and himself – more on himself than on others – and who, after many shocks, having descended one day into the depths of human desire, is trying to recover his soul in solitude and obscurity. Peace on the ashes of his sin.”

  FIRST PART

  I

  Twelve years ago, no longer knowing what to do and condemned by a series of misfortunes to the harsh necessity of either hanging myself or throwing myself into the Seine as a final resort, I put myself forward at the parliamentary elections in a departement where I knew no one and had never before set foot.

  It’s true that my candidacy was officially supported by the governing party which, no longer knowing what to do with me, thought this would be an ingenious and delicate way to rid itself once and for all of my persistent daily entreaties.

  On this occasion, I had a solemn and intimate conversation with the minister, an old college friend.

  “You see how nice we are to you!” this powerful and generous friend told me … We’ve scarcely saved you from the clutches of the law – and that wasn’t easy – than we’re making you a deputy.”

  “I’ve not even been nominated yet,” I said rather peevishly.

  “No doubt! … but you’ve got every chance. You’re intelligent, charming, prodigal, and you can be a good boy when you want, as well as possessing the sovereign gift of pleasing … A lady’s man, my dear chap, is a man of the people. I’ll answer for you. You just need to understand the situation properly … It’s pretty simple.”

  And he warned me:

  “Above all, no politics! Don’t get involved … or carried away! In the district I’ve chosen for you one question dominates all others: the beet crop. Anything else is irrelevant and a matter for the prefect. As a candidate, you are solely concerned with agriculture. No, more accurately, an exclusively beet growing one … Don’t forget. Whatever happens during the campaign, stick resolutely to this excellent platform. Do you know anything about beet?”

  “God, no,” I replied. “Just what everyone knows: that sugar and alcohol are made from it.”

  “Great! That’s all you need,” the minister applauded with a reassuring and cordial air of authority. “Proceed on that basis … Promise great returns and fabulous chemical fertilisers to be provided free … railways, canals and roads to improve distribution of the interesting and patriotic vegetable. Announce a few tax reductions and premiums for the farmers, fierce duties on competing products … whatever you like! So far as this is concerned you have carte blanche and I’ll help. But don’t get drawn into personal or general polemics which may become risky and, with your election, compromise the position of the Republic … Between ourselves, old chap – I’m not reproaching you for anything, I’m just pointing out you have a somewhat embarrassing past …”

  I wasn’t in a mood to laugh … This remark annoyed me, being both unnecessary and insolent. I replied sharply, staring at my friend full in the face, and he could read the clear and frosty threats in my eyes:

  “It would be more accurate to say, ‘we have a past …’ I can’t imagine, dear comrade, that yours leave anything to be desired next to mine …”

  “Oh well, as for me! …” said the minister with an air of superior detachment and casual unconcern. “It’s not the same thing … My dear friend, I’m sheltered by France!”

  And returning to my election, he added:

  “So, to sum up … Beet, more beet and still more beet! … That’s your programme … Make sure you don’t depart from it.”

  He then discreetly handed me some money and wished me good luck.

  *

  I faithfully followed the programme outlined by my powerful friend, and I was wrong … I didn’t get elected. I attribute the crushing majority my opponent enjoyed, apart from some underhand manipulations, to the fact that the confounded fellow knew even less than I did and was an even more notorious blackguard.

  I would point out in passing that, in our current age, ostentatious dishonesty assumes the place of finer qualities, and the more infamous a man is, the more disposed we are to credit him with intellectual force and moral value.

  My adversary, whose current celebrity is a fine illustration of the glory of politics, had frequently stolen during his life. And his superiority arose because, far from hiding the fact, he bragged about it with the most repulsive cynicism.

  “I’ve stolen … I’ve stolen …” he proclaimed in the village streets, on public squares, along the roads and in the fields …

  “I’ve stolen … I’ve stolen …” he published it in his declarations of intent on his election posters and confidential circulars …

  And, perched in bars on casks, his agents, stained with wine and bloated with alcohol, repeatedly trumpeted these magic words:

  “He has stolen … He has stolen …”

 
The hard-working city populations were as amazed as the stout-hearted country folks and cheered the bold man with a frenzy which increased every day, in direct proportion to the frenzy of his admissions.

  How could I compete with a rival possessing such a service record when my conscience was touched by no more than the paltry peccadillos of youth, like domestic theft, extortion from mistresses, card sharping, blackmail, anonymous letters, informing and forging (which I modestly hid) … Oh, the candour of inexperienced youth!

  One evening at a rally I narrowly avoided being beaten up by furious voters after I had responded to my adversary’s scandalous declarations by asserting not only the supremacy of beet, but also the rights of virtue, morality and integrity, proclaiming the need to cleanse the Republic of the personal filth that dishonoured it. They hurled themselves on me. They grabbed me by the throat, lifted me up and tossed me from hand to hand like a parcel … Fortunately this excess of eloquence left me with only a swollen cheek, three bruised ribs and six broken teeth …

  That’s all this disastrous adventure, into which I had been so unfortunately led by the patronage of the minister who called himself my friend, had brought me.

  I was fed up.

  I had an even greater right to be fed up because the government abandoned me right in the thick of battle, leaving me to my own devices with only my beet as a talisman to make my views known and come to terms with my adversary.

  At first the prefect was very submissive, but he soon became very insolent. He refused me the data necessary to my election and in the end just about slammed his door in my face. The minister himself no longer answered my letters and granted me none of the things I asked for, while zealous newspapers issued underhand attacks and made awkward allusions about me in polished and florid prose. They didn’t go as far as to attack me officially, but made it clear to everyone that I’d been abandoned. Ah! I really believe that a man’s soul has never been subjected to such rancour!

  Upon returning to Paris, firmly determined to create hell no matter what the cost, I demanded an explanation from the minister. Seeing my disposition, he was immediately compliant and adaptable …

  “My dear chap,” he said. “I’m really sorry for what’s happened … Upon my word! … You can see how upset I am. But what could I do? I’m not the only one in the cabinet … and …”

  “You’re the only one I know!” I violently interrupted, causing a pile of files next to my hand on the desk to scatter … “I’m not interested in the others … They didn’t put me up to this. You were the only one … You betrayed me. It’s sickening! …”

  “But, goddamit! Listen for a moment, will you!” the minister pleaded. “Don’t fly off the handle before you know …”

  “There’s only one thing I know, and that’s enough. You’ve made a fool of me … Well, no! You won’t get away with it as easily as you think. It’s my turn now …”

  I marched around the office, uttering threats and throwing chairs around …

  “So you made a fool of me! … Let’s see who has the last laugh. The country will finally know what ministers get up to. At the risk of poisoning the country, I’ll expose everything, rend the soul of a minister asunder. Idiot! Don’t you realise that you, your fortune, your secrets, your portfolio, are in my hands! … So you’re embarrassed by my past? … It’s shocks the modesty of both you and the Nation? Just you wait! Tomorrow, yes tomorrow, it’ll all be out in the open …”

  I was choking with rage. The minister tried to calm me, taking my arms and gently easing me into the armchair from which I’d just leapt.

  “Calm down, then!” he said, giving a supplicatory tone to his voice … “Please listen to me! … Sit down, come on! … What a confounded fellow you are, determined to hear nothing! Look, what happened is this.”

  Very quickly, using short and abrupt trembling phrases, he recited:

  “We didn’t know your opponent. It was only during the campaign that he revealed himself as a powerful man … as a real statesman! You know how short we are of ministerial material. Although it’s always the same people who return, from time to time we need to offer the Chamber and the country a new face … But there just isn’t any. Can you think of anyone? So we thought your opponent might be one of those faces. He has all the qualities useful in an acting minister – for a minister in a time of crisis. And then, as he could be bought forthwith … You do understand? I admit it’s hard on you. But the interests of the country …”

  “Don’t give me such humbug. We’re not in the Chamber now. You don’t give a damn about the interests of the country, and nor do I … It’s my interests that are at stake. And, thanks to you, I’ve become a down and out. Last night, the cashier at the gambling den insolently refused me a hundred sous. My creditors had counted on my success and are furious that I’ve lost and are after my skin … They’re ready to sell me out. I don’t even have enough to eat today. And you just expect me to let matters rest! You can’t be so stupid … as stupid as one of the silent majority?”

  The minister smiled. Tapping my knees familiarly, he said: “I’m perfectly happy – if you would just let me say something – I’m perfectly happy to offer you compensation.”

  “Re-par-ation!”

  “Okay, reparation.”

  “In full?”

  “In full! … Come back in a couple of days … I should be able to make an offer. In the meantime, here’s a hundred louis. It’s all that’s left of the reserve …”

  With cordial good humour, he amiably added: “Half a dozen fellows like you … and there would be no budget!”

  This liberality was more than I dared hope for and instantly calmed me down. I continued to grumble – not wishing to appear mollified or satisfied – as I pocketed the notes under my friend’s gaze, before making a dignified exit.

  I spent the next three days in the grossest of debaucheries …

  II

  Let me go back in time. I should perhaps tell you who I am and where I have come from. This will help to explain the irony of my fate.

  I was born in the country into a lower middle-class family – that worthy, thrifty and virtuous middle-class which the powers that be would have us believe is the real France … Anyway, it doesn’t make me any the prouder.

  My father dealt in grain. He was a vulgar, rough and ready sort of man, but he had a sharp business sense. He had a reputation for deviousness which consisted in ‘getting people where you want them’, as he used to say. His principles were to mislead people about the quality and weight of his merchandise, charge two francs for what cost him two sous and, whenever possible, if it didn’t entail too much of a row, make them pay twice over for the same thing. For instance, he never handed over oats without first soaking them in water. This caused the grain to weigh double, especially when a little gravel was added, a practice my father assiduously cultivated. He was also adept at slipping in blighted grain and other noxious seeds that had been rejected during the winnowing, and no one was shrewder at mingling fermented flour with fresh. Because when it came to business you had to waste nothing and bear in mind that everything adds to the weight. My mother, even greedier for wretched profits, abetted his ingenious embezzlement, guarding the till stiffly and distrustfully, like a sentinel on guard duty.

  My father was an intolerant moralist and strict Republican, an ardent patriot – he supplied the army – and was a respectable man, as popular parlance has it. He was pitiless and never excused the dishonesty of others, especially when it affected him. Then, he never ceased talking about the need for honour and virtue. One of his pet projects was that a properly regulated democracy should make them obligatory in the same way as education, taxes and voting. One day he discovered that a cart driver he had employed for fifteen years was stealing from him. He immediately had him arrested. The cart-driver defended himself in court.

  “But the only thing that ever concerned the boss was ‘getting people where you want them’. When he played a ‘great
trick’ on a client, he boasted about it as though it was a good deed. ‘All that matters is to get the money,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter where or how. To sell an old rabbit for a good cow, that’s the secret of business.’ Well, I was just following the boss’s precepts … I’d got him where I wanted him.”

  This cynicism didn’t impress the judges. They condemned the cart driver to two years in prison, not only for having pilfered a few pounds of wheat, but mainly because he had defamed one of the region’s oldest firms … a house founded in 1794 and passed from father to son, of long-standing, steadfast and proverbial respectability.

  The evening following this memorable judgement, I recall that my father invited some friends around. They were also businessmen and, like him, convinced that this preliminary principle of ‘getting people where you want them’ was at the heart of business. You can imagine how indignant they were about the cart-driver’s provocative attitude. They spoke of nothing else till midnight. From the din and the trite remarks, the aphorisms, arguments and small glasses of marc that punctuated the memorable evening, I retained this precept, which could be said to be the moral of the episode as well as the synthesis of my education: