CALVARY
(A NOVEL)
BY
OCTAVE MIRBEAU
Member of the Goncourt Academy
TRANSLATED BY LOUIS RICH
(From the original French "Le Calvaire")
NEW YORK
LIEBER & LEWIS
MCMXXII
CHAPTER I
I was born one evening in October at Saint-Michel-les-Hêtres, a smalltown in the department of Orne, and I was immediately christened by thename of Jean-François-Marie-Mintié. To celebrate in a fitting mannermy coming into this world, my godfather, who was my uncle, distributeda lot of dainties, threw many coppers and other small coins to a crowdof country boys gathered on the church steps. One of them, whilestruggling with his comrades, fell so awkwardly on the sharp edge ofa stone that he broke his neck and died the following day. As for myuncle, when he returned home he contracted typhoid fever and passedaway a few weeks later. My governess, old Marie, often related theseincidents to me with pride and admiration.
Saint-Michel-les-Hêtres is situated on the outskirts of a greatnational forest, the Tourouvre forest. Although it counts fifteenhundred inhabitants, it makes no more noise than is made in the fieldson a calm day by the trees, the grass, the corn. A grove of giant beechtrees, which turn purple in autumn, shields it from the northern winds,and the houses with pentile roofs, descending the declivity of thehill, extend far out until they meet the great valley, broad and alwaysgreen, where one can see straying herds of oxen. The Huisne River,glittering under the sun, winds and loses itself in the meadows whichare separated by rows of tall poplars. Dilapidated tanneries, smallwindmills scale its course, clearly visible among clumps of alders. Onthe other side of the valley are cultivated fields with straight linesof fences and apple trees scattered here and there. The horizon isenlivened by small pink farms, by hamlets one can see here and therein the midst of the verdure which appears almost black. Because of theproximity of the woods, the sky is alive with crows and yellow-beakedjackdaws coming and going at all seasons.
Our family lived on the outskirts of the town, opposite a church,very old and tottering, an ancient and curious structure which wascalled the Priory—an annex of an Abbey which was destroyed during theRevolution and of which were left not more than two or three facesof a crumbled wall covered with ivy. I recall clearly but withouttenderness the smallest details of the places where my childhood wasspent. I recall the iron gate in a neglected condition which openedwith a creaking sound into a large court adorned by a scurfy grassplot, two shabby looking sorbs visited by blackbirds, some chestnuttrees, very old and with such large trunks that the arms of four mencould not reach around them—my father used to tell this with prideto every visitor. I recall the house with its brick walls, grim andcrusty; its semi-circular steps beautified by geraniums; its irregularwindows which looked like holes; its roof, very steep, ending in aweather-cock, which in a breeze made a sound like an owl. Behind thehouse, I remember, was a basin where muddy wake-robins were bathing orsmall carps with white scales were playing. I recall the sombre curtainof fir trees which hid the commons from view, the back yard, the studywhich my father built on the edge of the road skirting the property insuch a manner that the coming and going of clients and clerks did notdisturb the quiet of the household. I recall the park, its enormoustrees, strangely twisted, eaten up by