Page 76 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
grotesque. What they were doing here was only a distorted reflection of sublime adventures which occur perhaps in rich dwellings, to persons worthy of being seen and heard. The beggars who fought and insulted one another attenuated the violence of their gestures and cries so as not to adorn themselves thereby with any noble attribute reserved for your world. The other beggars watching these battles laid a light eye on them, for this gesture too should be only a reflection. To a tirade, to a high−sounding and humorous insult, to a sudden rush of eloquence as well as to a blow cleverly, too skillfully delivered, they refused the smile or admiring word. Quite the contrary, though in silence, and in the secrecy of their hearts, they blamed it as though it implied an incongruity. Which it was, and their sense of decency rejected it. For example, no beggar would have said to another, in a pitying tone of voice, “Poor chap, don't worry. You'll forget about it.” These gentlemen had tact. For their own security, so as to avoid any flaw through which grief might enter, they observed an indifference bordering on the most extreme courtesy. Their language preserved the restraint of the classics. Knowing that they were distorted and unhappy shadows or reflections, they strove piously to possess the unhappy discretion of gestures and feelings. They spoke not in a low voice, but in an intermediate tone between low and high. The scene that I wish to describe took place in the rain, but even at noon, in the July sun, the rain seemed to fall on them gently and to make them shiver. Sometimes a soldier would appear. He would say a few words in Spanish, and five or six of the humblest, oldest and homeliest would rush forward miserably: the soldier would take two of them to the wash−house where they would wring and hang out the laundry. Lucien never responded to these calls. He was looking out, from within a shelter of sadness, at the sea getting wet in the distance. His eyes were staring. He was sure that he would never emerge from this dream. Dirt sharpened his features. He shaved rarely and badly, soaping his beard with his hand. Not having—nor had I at that time—cut the cables that hold captive a man whose only chance is detachment, he remained in contact with your world through his youth, his beauty, his concern for elegance, his hunger and his need for earthly glory. It is painful for me to degrade him. I would be overjoyed if I could call him scoundrel, blackguard, riff−raff, guttersnipe, hoodlum, crook, pretty names whose task is to evoke what you, derisively, call a pretty world. But these words sing. They hum. They also evoke for you the sweetest and spiciest pleasure, since, placing before and after them, under your breath, the words tender, dear, adorable or beloved, which they subtly attract, you murmur them to your lovers. May Lucien despair and may I suffer thereby! The veil of modesty torn, the shameful parts shown, I know—with my cheeks aflame—the need to hide myself or die, but I believe that by facing and enduring these painful anxieties I shall, as a result of my shamelessness, come to know a strange beauty. (I use this word at random, for I assume that I shall discover a fairer world where, without disturbing the emotion, without disturbing the love, a discrete—and futile—laugh will be permitted.) Lucien suffered, though secretly, for he was steeping. If he looked at his dirty hands, a burst of rage would sometimes drive him to a fountain. He would zealously wash his torso, then his feet, and his hands; he would scrub his face and comb his hair with a toothless comb. This attempt to go back to your world was futile. A few days later the dirt would gnaw away his courage. More and more he was chilled by the wind, weakened by hunger—not with the noble weakness of sickly languishment; his body remained just as lovely and he was unable to disdain it, for that would have been insolence—and alienated from you by a frightful odor.
I have said enough about what happened when French tourists passed by and leaned over the parapet. When their ship put in at Barcelona, they would go ashore for a few hours. Foreigners in this country, wearing fine gabardines, rich, they recognized their inherent right to find these archipelagoes of poverty picturesque, and this visit was perhaps the secret, though unavowed, purpose of their cruise. Without worrying about wounding the beggars, they carried on, above their heads, an audible dialogue, the terms of which were exact and rigorous, almost technical. “There's a perfect harmony between the tonalities of the sky and the somewhat greyish shades of the rags.”
“...something out of Goya...”
“It's very interesting to watch the group on the left. There are things of Gustave Dore in which the composition...”
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