MR JOCASTA
Madam, do you remember our great quarrel one evening in the lounge of Japan, about the father who committed incest? Do you remember your indignation, violent words you jetiez me, the excitement of your anger, and you remember everything I said to defend this man? You have condemned me. I called.
Nobody in the world, pretend you, nobody could absolve the infamy of which I am advocating. I will now tell this drama in public.
Perhaps they will find someone there, not to excuse the vile and brutal, but to understand that we can tackle some fatalities cons that seem horrific fantasies of omnipotent nature!
He had been married at sixteen, with a man old and hard, a businessman, eager for her dowry. It was a cute blonde creature, cheerful and dreamy at the same time, with large appetites of ideal happiness. Disillusionment fell on his heart and grind. She realized suddenly life, the future lost, disaster his hopes, and he remained one desire in the soul, that of having a child to hold his love.
She had none.
Two years passed. She loved him. He was a young man of twenty-three, who adored him to commit all the follies for her. She resisted, however, resolutely and long. His name was Pierre Martel.
But one winter evening, they found themselves alone in her home. He came for a cup of tea. Then they were seated near the fire, on a low seat. They spoke little, harpooned by desire, full lips that thirst of the wild casts on other lips, arms quivering from the need to open up and hug her.
The shaded lamp shed a light lace intimate lounge in the quiet. Both embarrassed, sometimes they pronounced a few words, but when their eyes met, their hearts lifted a jerk. What can
feelings against violence learned instincts? What can the prejudice of decency against the irresistible will of nature?
Their fingers accidentally touched. And that is enough. The brute force of the senses and threw one to the other. They hugged and she gave way.
It was big. Her lover or her husband? Could she know? But the lover, no doubt.
Then a terror to harass and it is believed certain to die in childbirth, and she always took an oath to him who had owned and of watching over the child throughout his life, not to deny, of be everything for him, and even, if necessary, to commit a crime for her happiness.
This obsession bordered on madness, she was excited more and more approaching the issue. She died giving birth to a daughter.
It was for the young man terrible despair, a despair so furious that he could not hide. The husband, perhaps, had doubts, perhaps he knew that his daughter could be born of him! He closed his door to him who the real father believed him and hid the child he had erected in secret.
And many years passed.
Pierre Martel forgot, as we forget everything. He became rich, but he loves most and never married. His life was that of the whole world, that of a man happy and quiet. No news came to him more than he had deceived the husband nor the girl he assumed his.
But one morning he received a letter from an indifferent teaching him, by chance, the death of his former rival, and a wave disturbance, a kind of remorse swept over him. What had become of this child, her child? Could there be anything for her? He inquired. It was collected by an aunt, and she was poor, poor to reach poverty.
He wanted to see her and help her. He was present in the single parent of the orphan. His name
awoke from mind. It was forty years old and still seemed a young man. He was received without his daring to say he had known the mother for fear of giving rise to a suspicion later.
But when she entered the little room where he was anxiously awaiting his arrival, he started a surprise that bordered on terror. It was she! other! the dead!
It was the same age, same eyes, same hair, same size, same smile, the same voice. The illusion so complete the maddened, he did not know he lost his head all his love of the past tumultuous seething in his heart. She too was gay and simple. Immediately friends and an outstretched hand.
When he returned home, he noticed that the old had been suffering reopened, and he wept wildly, her head locked in his hands, he cried the other, haunted by memories, haunted by the familiar words, she said, suddenly fell into a hopeless despair.
And he frequented the house where the girl. He could not do without her, laughing his talk, the sound of her dress, the intonations of his voice. He confounded his mind now and in his heart, and disappeared alive, forgetting the distance, time, death, always loving each other in it, loving it in memory of another, no longer seeking to understand, namely, not even asking if she could be his daughter.
But sometimes to the annoyance or that he loved living in this dual passion, confused and incomprehensible for himself, tortured him horribly.
What could he do? Offer money? In what capacity? By what right? Play the role of guardian? It seemed hardly older than she: we would have believed her lover. Marry her? This thought suddenly arose in his soul, terrified. Then he calmed down. Who would want it? She had nothing, but nothing.
The aunt looked ahead, seeing that he loved this child. And he waited. What? did he know?
One evening they were alone. They chatted quietly, side by side on the sofa in the lounge. Suddenly he took her hand in a fit father. And he kept it, troubled heart and meaning despite its commitment, not daring to push the hand she was abandoning, and feeling faint if he was guarding. And suddenly she fell into his arms. Because she loved him passionately, as her mother had loved him, as if she had inherited this fatal passion.
Distraught, he pressed his lips into her hair blond, and as she raised her head to escape both their lips met. It becomes
crazy times. They were.
When he found himself in the street, he walked in front of him without knowing what he would do.
I remember, Madam, your indignant cry: "He had only to kill!"
I answered: "And she? Did he have to kill her too?"
This child loved her wildly, madly, this passion and fatal hereditary had shot, virgin ignorant and distracted on the chest of this man. She had done so in this irresistible intoxication of being the world who does not know, which gives the tumultuous instinct wins, jumps into the embrace of a lover, as he throws the male beast.
If he killed, what would it be? ... She would die! ... She would die disgraced, desperate, horribly tortured.
What?
abandon it, the build, to marry ...? She died yet, she would die of grief, without accepting his money or another husband, since she had delivered to him. He had ruined his life, destroyed any happiness possible for her, he was condemned to eternal misery, despair, eternal, flame eternal, the eternal loneliness or death.
And he also loved him! He loved her with horror now, but also with passion. It was his daughter either. Chance of fertilization, the brutal laws of reproduction, a contact of a second daughter had no legal relationship that did not attach to him, he loved as he had loved his mother, and even more as if two passions were accumulated in it.
Was she his daughter anyway? And then, who cares? Who would know?
And the memories came back to her ardent vows made the dying. He promised he would give his life to this child, he would commit a crime if necessary for her happiness.
And he loved her, plunging into the dreadful thought of his crime, soft, torn with grief and torn with desire. Who would know? ... since the other was dead, father!
"Be!" He said, the infamous secret will break my heart. As she did not suspect, I will carry only the weight. "
He asked for her hand, and married her.
I do not know if he was happy, but I like him, ma'am.
January 23 1883.
Maupassant
JOCASTA MR
Remember, madam, the very discussion we had one night in the parlor Japanese, about a father who committed incest? Remember how you were angry, violent words that I was going, his anger exalted? And remember what I said in defense of this man? You condemned me. Appealed.
Nobody in the world, holding you, no one could excuse the infamy of which I was counsel. Today publicly tell this drama.
Perhaps someone may be able not to excuse the fact filthy and brutal, but understand that it is possible to combat some horrific occurrences fatalities seem omnipotent nature.
She had been married at sixteen to a tough old man, a businessman who just covet the dowry. It was a beautiful blonde girl, cheerful and dreamy at the same time, with a huge craving ideal happiness.
The disappointment came over his heart and crushed it. Suddenly he understood what life was the loss of their future, the ruin of his hopes, and he was only one desire in the soul, that of having a son who give their love.
had not.
Two years passed. He fell in love. He was a young man of twenty years of age, who adored to the point of being capable of any insanity by it. But she resisted strongly and for a long time. His name was Pierre Martel.
But some winter afternoon found themselves alone in her house. He had gone for a cup of tea. Then he sat by the fire, on a low seat. Hardly speak, spurred by the desire, her lips full of wild thirst that pushes other lips, arms to which shook the urge to open up and embrace.
lamp, veiled with lace, cast a light close to the quiet room. Both were uncomfortable, sometimes uttered the odd word, but when their eyes met, their heart skipped a beat.
What can the feelings acquired through education against the violence of the instincts? What can the modesty bias against the irresistible will of nature?
His fingers touched by chance. And that was enough. The brutal force threw the senses toward each other. They shook and she was delivered.
became pregnant. "The lover or husband? How could I know? Lover, perhaps. Then
harassed terror, was sure he would die in childbirth, and constantly made him swear that he had possessed and would look after the child throughout his life, he does not deny anything, it would be all for it everything, and, if necessary to make him happy, would be able to commit a crime.
His obsession reached almost to madness, is increasingly exalted as the birth approached. Succumbed to give birth to a girl.
For the young that was a terrible despair, a despair so angry that he could not hide. Perhaps the husband had doubts, perhaps knew that the girl could not be theirs. He closed the door he thought was the true father, and hid the girl, which was bred in secret.
and spent many years. Pierre Martel
forgotten, as everything is forgotten. It was rich, but it did not fall in love and never married. Lived the life of the world, that of a happy and peaceful man. I no longer had any notice of the husband she had cheated, or the young that, as supposed, was his daughter.
But one morning received a letter from a third party who incidentally informed him of the death of his former rival, and invaded a vague uneasiness, a kind of remorse. What had become of that girl, his daughter? Could not do anything for her? Learned. The collection had an aunt and was poor, poor, almost to the misery.
wanted to see her and help her. He made it to the home of the only relative of the orphan.
Your name did not awaken any memories. He was forty years old and still looked like a boy. When I received, did not dare to say that he had met the mother, for fear of arousing any suspicion later.
But as she entered the parlor in which he was anxiously awaiting his arrival, Pierre had a shock of surprise bordering on terror. It was she! The other! The dead!
was the same age, same eyes, same hair, same height, same smile, same voice. The illusion was so complete that crazy, not knowing what to think, lost his head, all the love of the past tumultuous seething in the depths of his heart. She too was happy and simple. Immediate friendship and helping hand. Ya
Back at home, warned that the old wound was reopened, and wept uncontrollably with his head in his hands, cried the other, haunted by memories, haunted by familiar phrases she said, suddenly plunged into a end despair.
And he began to frequent the house where the girl lived. He could not do without it, their cheerful chatter, the rustle of her dress, the intonations of his voice. Now confused in his mind and heart to both, the dead and alive, forgetting the distance, time spent, death, still loved each other in it, loved it in memory of the other, untreated and to understand know, without question, and even if I could be your daughter.
But sometimes, seeing the narrowing of women's lives to which he loved with the passion double, confusing and incomprehensible for himself, suffered horribly.
What could I do? Does money? "By way of what? What right? "Assume the role of tutor? It seemed hardly older than she: he had been taken by her lover. "Marry? This idea, which emerged early in his soul, he was horrified. Then he calmed down. Who would? I had nothing, absolutely nothing.
's aunt, seeing his affection for the young guess their intentions. And he expected ... What? Did you know?
One afternoon he met alone. They chatted quietly next to each other, sitting on the parlor sofa. Suddenly he took her hand, moved by paternal impulse. And held it, despite disturbed him in the heart and senses, not daring to reject that hand as she handed him and feeling while flaquearÃa if retained. And suddenly she slumped into her arms. Because he loved passionately, and his mother had loved him as if he had inherited that passion fatal.
Madly, he kissed her blond hair, and when she raised his head to run away, their mouths met.
There are times when we go mad. That happened to them.
already back on the street, Pierre walked aimlessly, not knowing what he was doing.
remember, lady, how you cried indignantly: "Since he had no more to be killed!"
I said, 'What about her? Do you also had to kill her? "
The girl loved him madly, madly, with fatal, inherited that passion that had broken down, ignorant and frantic virgin, on the chest of the man. Had done so moved by that irresistible intoxication of all being that no longer knows best, that is delivery, which drag the tumultuous instinct, throwing him into the arms of a lover and throws the female to the male animal.
What would happen to her if he was killed? ... He would die! ... Die disgraced, desperate, horribly tortured.
What to do?
Leave Him, to give a dowry to marry her? ... Also die, die of grief, without accepting money or other spouse, and who had given him. Had destroyed his life, had destroyed all possible happiness for her, had condemned to eternal misery, to eternal despair, to an eternal fire, an eternal loneliness or death.
And besides, he loved her. He loved her with horror now, but also passionately! It was his daughter, agreed. Chance of fertilization, the brutal law of reproduction, a contact of a second had to be his daughter that being that was not attached to it by any legal binding, which wanted him as his mother had wanted and more , as if he had added two passions.
other hand, was really his daughter? Anyway, what matter? Who would know?
And he returned to the burning memory the promises made to the dying. He had vowed to consecrate his life to the child, if necessary could be committing a crime to make her happy.
And loved her, sinking into the idea of their abominable crime and sweet, torn by grief and torn by desire. Who would know ?..., if the other, the father was dead!
"All right! "He said," this infamous secret may tear my heart. As she will be unable to suspect, will upload my own with him. "
Requested his hand and he married her.
do not know if he was happy, but I, madam, as he had done.
January 23, 1883.
Translation Carlos Chamber and Miguel Angel Fronten
