Monsieur Jocaste
Madame, do you recollect our great quarrel one evening in the little Japanese drawing room, about the father who committed incest? Do you recollect how indignant you were, the violent words you flung at me, and how angry you became, and do you also remember all I said in defence of that man? You blamed me. I appeal against you.
No one in the world, you declared, no one could uphold the infamous deed which I defended. Today I am going to tell this tale to the public.
Perhaps someone might be found who, although not excusing the brutal deed, would understand that one cannot struggle against certain fatalities that seem to be horrible fantasies of all-powerful nature.
When sixteen years old she had been married to a hardhearted old man, a business man who married her for her money. She was a darling blonde creature, gay and dreamy at the same time, and yearning for an ideal happiness. Disillusion fell on her heart and broke it. Suddenly she understood life—no future, the destruction of her hopes, and one wish alone took possession of her soul, and that was to have a child to claim her love.
But she did not have one. Two years passed. She fell in love with a young man twenty-three years old, who was wildly in love with her. For some time she firmly resisted his advances. He was called Pierre Martel.
But one winter’s evening they found themselves alone, at her house. He had come to drink a cup of tea. Then they sat down near the fire, on a low seat. They scarcely spoke. They were passionately in love with each other, stung with desire their lips thirsted wildly for other lips, their arms trembled with a desire to open and embrace someone.
The lamp, draped with lace, shed a cosy light in the silent drawing room.
Although they were both embarrassed they occasionally exchanged a few words, but when their eyes met their hearts trembled.
How can acquired sentiments withstand the violence of instinct? How can the appearance of reserve withstand the irresistible desires of nature?
It happened that their fingers touched. And that was enough. They were overcome by passion. They embraced, and she yielded.
She became pregnant. By her husband, or by her lover. How did she know? Doubtless by her lover.
Then she became very much frightened and felt sure that she would die in her confinement, and she insisted on the man who was the cause of her being in this condition to swear over and over again to watch over the child during its whole life, to refuse it nothing, to be everything to it, yes, everything, and, if necessary, even to commit a crime in order to insure its happiness.
She carried this to an absurd extent. She became more and more worked up as her confinement drew near.
She died giving birth to a girl.
The young man was in the depths of despair, in fact his despair was so great that he could not hide it; perhaps the husband suspected something; perhaps he knew that he could not have been the father of the girl! He forbade the house to the man who thought himself the real father, hid the child from him, and had it brought up in seclusion.
Many years passed.
Pierre Martel forgot all about it, as one forgets everything. He became rich, but he could not love anyone now, and he had not married. His life was ordinary; that of a happy, quiet man. He had never heard a word about the husband he had deceived, nor about the young girl he thought was his.
Well, one morning he received a letter from a comparative stranger, who happened to mention the death of his old rival, and he was somewhat disturbed, and filled with remorse. What had become of this child, his child? Could he do nothing for her? He inquired about her. She had been brought up by an aunt, and she was poor, miserably poor.
He wanted to see her and to help her. He called on the only relation of the orphan.
Even his name awoke no memory. He was forty years old and still looked like a young man. He was received, but he did not dare to say that he had known her mother, fearing it would give rise to suspicion later on.
Well, as soon as she entered the little sitting-room where he anxiously awaited her coming, he trembled for he was all but overcome by surprise. It was she, the other woman! the woman who was dead!
She was the same age, had the same eyes, the same hair, the same figure, the same smile, the same voice. The illusion was so real that it maddened him; all the tumultuous love of days gone by sprang up from the depths of his heart. She likewise was both gay and unaffected. At once they became friends and shook hands.
On returning home he found that the old wound had been opened again, and he wept desperately; he held his head in his hands and wept for the woman who had died, haunted by memories and by the familiar words she used to say; he was plunged in despair from which there was no escape.
He visited the house in which the young girl resided. He could no longer live without her, without her merry talk, the rustle of her gown, the intonation of her voice. And now in his thoughts and in his heart he confounded the two women, the one gone before and the living one, forgetting distance, the time that had elapsed, and death; always loving that one in this one, and this one in memory of the other, not trying to understand why, to know why, never even asking himself if she could be his daughter.
Occasionally, when he noticed the discomfort in which the woman lived, whom he adored with this double passion, which he, himself, could not understand, he felt terribly about it.
What could he do? Could he offer money? How could he do it? What right had he? Could he play the role of guardian? He seemed scarcely older than she; everyone would take him for her lover. Should he get a husband for her? This thought suddenly surged up in his soul and frightened him. Then he became calmer. Who would ask her hand in marriage? She had nothing, not a cent.
Her aunt noticed how often he came; and saw quite plainly that he was in love with this child. And what was he waiting for? Did he know?
One evening they were alone. They were talking softly side by side on the sofa in the little sitting-room. Suddenly he took her hand in a paternal manner. He held it, and his heart and senses were awakened against his will, he did not dare to reject the hand which she had given him, and yet he felt himself growing weaker as he held it. Suddenly she threw herself in his arms. For she loved him ardently as her mother had done, just as though she had inherited this fatal passion.
Completely beside himself, he put his lips to her blonde hair and, as she raised her head to escape, their mouths met.
People become mad at times. They were so now.
When he reached the street he walked straight ahead, not knowing what he would do.
I recollect, madam, your indignant exclamation: “He had no choice but to commit suicide!”
I answered you: “And as for her? Should he have killed her also?”
The child loved him to distraction, madly, with the fatal and hereditary passion which had thrown her, a virgin, ignorant and distracted, on the breast of this man. She had acted in this manner owing to the irresistible intoxication of her entire being, which made her lose control of herself, which made her give herself, carried away by tumultuous instinct, and throw herself into the arms of her lover.
If he were to kill himself what would become of her? … She would die! … She would die dishonoured, in despair, suffering terrible tortures.
What should he do?
Leave her, give her a marriage portion, marry her to someone else? … In that case she would die; she would die from grief, without accepting his money or another husband, for she had given herself to him. He had ruined her life, destroyed every possibility of happiness for her; he had condemned her to everlasting misery, to everlasting despair, to everlasting fire, to everlasting solitude, or to death.
Besides he loved her himself also! He revolted at the thought that he loved her extravagantly. She was his own daughter, be it so. The hazard of impregnation, a contact of a second had made—of that being allied to him by no legal bond—his daughter, whom he cherished as he had her mother, and even more, as though he were possessed of two passions.
Besides was she really his daughter? What did that matter anyhow? Who would know it?
Ardent memories brought back the vow made to the dying woman. “He had promised to give his entire life to the child, to commit a crime if necessary to insure her happiness.”
And he loved her so that he plunged headlong into this abominable and pleasing crime, tortured by pain, and ravaged by desire.
Who will know about it? the other man, the father, being dead!
“So be it!” said he; “this secret sin may break my heart. As she does not suspect it, I alone will carry its weight.”
He asked for her hand, and he married her.
I don’t know if they were happy, but I should have done as he did, madam.