The Diary of a Chambermaid by Octave Mirbeau

indignation, all my passion for destruction, I, too, am not free of it. I who am oppressed by wealth, who realize it to be the source of all my misery, all my vices and hatred, all the bitterest humiliations that I have to suffer, all my impossible dreams and all the endless torment of my existence, still, all the same, as soon as I find myself in the presence of a rich person, I cannot help looking up to him, as some exceptional and splendid being, a kind of marvellous divinity. And in spite of myself, stronger than either my will or my reason, I feel, rising from the very depths of my being, a sort of incense of admiration for this wealthy creature, who is all too often as stupid as he is pitiless. Isn’t it crazy? And why … why?
    When I had left this horrible woman and her curious shop (where in any case I hadn’t been able to match my silk), I thought despairingly of everything she had told me about my employers. It was drizzling, and the sky was as foul as the soul of this scandalmonger. I slipped on the muddy pavement and, furious with her and with my employers, furious with myself, furious with this provincial sky, with the mud in which I felt that my heart as well as my feet were immersed, furious with the incurable sadness of this little town, I kept repeating to myself: ‘Oh well, so this is where you have landed up! This is really the last straw! Hell!’
    Yes, I had made a proper mess of things. But there was worse to come. Madame dresses herself and does her own hair. She locks herself into her dressing-room, and even I am scarcely allowed in. God knows what she does there for hours and hours. This evening, unable to stand it any longer, I peremptorily knocked at the door and the following conversation ensued between her ladyship and myself:
    ‘Knock, knock.’
    ‘Who’s there?’
    Oh, that shrill, yapping voice … I’d like to shove it down her throat with my fist.
    ‘It’s me, Madame.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘I was going to do the dressing-room.’
    ‘It’s been done. Go away, and don’t come back until I ring for you.’
    Which means that I’m not even a chambermaid here … I don’t know what I am, or what I’m supposed to do. Dressing and undressing them, and doing their hair is the only part of the job I enjoy. I love laying out their nightdresses and playing with the frills and ribbons, fiddling about with their underclothes, their hats and lace and furs; rubbing them down after a bath, helping them to dry, powdering them, pumice-stoning their feet, perfuming their breasts—in short, getting to know them from top to toe, seeing them in all their nakedness. Like that, they cease to be just your mistress, and become almost your friend or accomplice, often your slave. Inevitably, in all sorts of ways, you become the confidante of all their sorrows and vices, of their disappointments in love, of the most intimate secrets of their married life, of their illnesses … not to mention the fact that, if you are clever enough, you acquire a hold over them in a thousand little ways that they don’t even suspect. And there’s much more to it than that: it can be profitable as well as entertaining. That’s my idea of a chambermaid’s duties. You would never imagine how many of them are—how shall I put it?—how many of them are really crazily indecent in their private lives, even those who, in society, are regarded as being most circumspect and severe in their behaviour, most inaccessibly virtuous. But in their dressing-rooms, when they let their masks fall, even the most impressive facades reveal themselves as cracked and crumbling.
    I remember one woman I used to work for who had the most curious habit. Every morning before putting on her chemise, and every evening after taking it off, she used to stand naked for a quarter of an hour at a time, minutely examining herself in front of the mirror. Then, thrusting out her bosom and stretching back her neck, she would throw her arms in the