Aminadab 0803213131 (19 page)

untouchable and indifferent, if it does not feel the effects of their faults, they are nonetheless at fault in relation to it, and all the more so in that it does not move and does not risk crumbling down on them and so only judges them with its impassive and utter contempt. It has therefore seemed necessary, because of the harm they may do, to exercise control over the domestics and to submit them to a strict jurisdiction. This is what we call 'attracting them to us.' But then, in the name of what can they be judged? A first difficulty is that they do not think of themselves as responsible to us. On the one hand, they see the tenants as nothing but a parasitic caste who - because they do not live as intimately with the furnishings, the im plements and utensils, the obscure corners of the house -have not been initiated into its secrets and can even be considered as still belonging to the outside; such people would in any case have no grounds for judging those who are superior to them. On the other hand, they claim that their activity is determined by rules known only to them, and they add that if one day a judgment were necessary, this judgment would emanate sponta neously from these rules or, if need be, would be pronounced by way of a tribunal established by them. The confusion of powers is obvious. And yet, it is indeed true that in some ways we find their presence disarming, for among their obligations - and this proves the importance of their role they have been given, as one of their most sacred duties, guardianship of the rules. Theycannot release the register that contains them without com mitting an unheard-of error. They cannot admit therefore that a few pages ought to be entrusted to us, even if our judgment should end up purify ing them and relieving the remorse that consumes them. They prefer to be tormented by their errors than to be cleansed of them by a new crime; and who can blame them? Besides, we could never be tempted to lay our hands on these rules and enforce them, for we do not know what they are. No," he continued, looking at Thomas with a provocative air, "we do not know what they are. Of course we do not know the ones that concern us. There is no need even to say that. Otherwise, would we respect them, would we have for them that veneration without which the rules are scorned even as they are observed? What would the law be if our only duty toward it were to conform our behavior to it? As though one were able not to follow the law, as though one could cause it to break down. An absurd, ridiculous thought. May it not come to cloud our minds." He stopped to take a deep breath and to expel the bad air that such 99

words had drawn into him; then he continued with greater calm: "How then do the employees behave, these employees who not only have guard ianship over our rules but who are not even ignorant of the precepts per taining to themselves? It is a situation that makes one tremble. If one dared to speak lightly, one might say that it is from such an anomaly as this that all our misfortunes, and theirs, proceed. It is unheard-of that men would have the ability every day to look at the book and to read in it what they ought to do, what they ought not do, why they ought to do it, and what texts they are violating if they do not. Is this possible? The employees themselves deny it. They claim that the book itself has never been opened, that they keep it before them without ever looking in it, that in any case if they had ever looked through its pages, they could never have deciphered it. We believe them; we are glad to believe them. Understand the text of the law? And why not write the law itself, falsify it or modify it? Those who say that the law does not exist commit an infinitely less serious crime than those who play around with such thoughts as these. It is always possible to declare that there are no rules, and this is probably true; the more one thinks that the rules are distant, that they escape our experience and our language, that they are inaccessible, the less one risks overstepping them. And this is equally true of every person who is in charge of the rules. Do you under stand," he added, looking once more at Thomas, "why we say that the staff is invisible?" Thomas avoided giving any response; he only nodded his head gravely. But the young man took no notice of this reticence. "Should we then renounce judging the domestics?" he asked everyone there. "Will we be exposed to their caprice and to their depraved imagina tions? And this because the domestics have in their possession the material documents and the texts on which every judgment is based and perhaps even the judgments themselves, and because, on top of that, they refuse to heed our summons? We can do without all that. Naturally, in a certain sense, we will never really be able to judge an employee, even the most in significant among them. But we do not wish to do so. We are even happy not to have the means. Carrying out such a task would require that we in dulge in a simulacrum of justice, and the very thought is repugnant to us. Dispense justice to a domestic? What an idea! We can detest them on the whole as much as we want; we can pursue them out of anger for all the harm they do, or out of envy for all the benefits they enjoy; we are nonethe100

less all too aware of how much we owe them not to leave them in peace in matters of justice. Where would that take us? Most of the time, as you have seen, the employees seem to be outright criminals. Of course they have all sorts of little defects that make them very unpleasant; they meddle in everything; they have no idea what work is; they love to play jokes - and what jokes! They're also thieves and gluttons; in that regard, I'm surprised that the servant didn't drink your coffee, it's almost the rule; all these de fects certainly make of them something other than model servants, but since they also have all those good little qualities that correct such imper fections, we pay no attention to them, and in the long run we forget their trifling errors." "What good qualities are those?" said Thomas sharply. "They are qualities of considerable value," answered the young man, with an angry look, either because he was annoyed that Thomas had inter rupted him, or because he considered this too insignificant to apply his mind to it. ''I'll give you one example: they are terribly indiscreet, but in their indiscretion, they know how to forget, so that if we grumble at them because they are always looking over our shoulder, we are also grateful to them for seeming not to be there at all and for never saying what they think, and in the end we feel happy about this almost invisible presence that comforts us, that warms us and helps us, at the price of disturbances that are overall quite minimal." "But," said Thomas, "there is nothing pleasant in the jokes they play." "No doubt about that," said the young man. "They are generally exasper ating, and I can understand why the loud knocking at the door made you angry a moment ago." "Was that for my sake?" asked Thomas. "Naturally," said the young man, with a smile. "Whom else would it be for? But, you see, you yourself had knocked in a way that was so solemn, so important, as if your entry ought to be taken for some sensational event, that they might well make a little fun of you. Besides, it's always like that. Their jokes are ridiculous, but we often behave in such ridiculous ways; we attach importance to too many things; how could one not be tempted to laugh at it?" "Do you approve of everything they do?" asked Thomas. "Of course not," said the young man. "What a strange creature you are! I am often reproached for being too harsh with them. My God," he added,
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with a kind of horror, "if you are already so worked up over such trifles, what will your reaction be to the other misdeeds they sometimes commit? Shall I tell you what they are?" "That's up to you to decide," Thomas answered, "but perhaps you think that I'm more ignorant than I am; perhaps I know a little something about it already." "What childishness!" said the young man, with impatience. "How could you know about it? Do we ourselves know everything? Have you heard about what goes on in the bedrooms, or what happens up above with the sick?" « I know nothing, that's understood," said Thomas. « But I do know that -to put it bluntly - the domestics can be accused of murder." « That's a manner of speaking," replied the young man. (re you referring to the measures they take to get rid of certain tenants by making their stay particularly uncomfortable, by transforming their beds into little infernal machines? That isn't so serious; it's rather a bad joke. One need only take a few precautions. To avoid these difficulties we have given up going to bed, and in many rooms the beds have been removed at the request of the ten ants. This is no doubt precisely what the domestics wanted, since they hate making the beds; generally, in the midst of their work, they are overcome with dizziness and are forced to lie down on the mattress where an excru ciating sleepiness overcomes them, for they claim that they never sleep. None of this is very serious. If we had nothing else to reproach them with, we would never even give them a second thought. But there are count less other things they do that are much more reprehensible. And to tell the truth it is not, properly speaking, a question of actions, although some of them are truly nasty; it is rather a way of being, a general conduct that we sense is driven by dishonorable motives. When they enter our rooms elsewhere they are not so bold - they merely stare at us with sly, suspi cious looks, as though they know what we're thinking, and what looks! Or rather, no, that's not it; they don't look at us; they're incapable of looking at us; they circle around us with eyes that look at nothing in particular, that watch over us and inspect us there where we are not to be found. What are they looking for? What do they think they see? To all appearances their in quiries are legitimate; they take care not to leave us alone with thoughts that, out of negligence or timidity, we would hesitate to express; they want to anticipate our desires; they put themselves as much as possible in our 102

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place. This is an explicit part of their obligations. But, as you will have guessed, it is not their duties that they have in mind. They couldn't care less about preventing us from doing evil. On the contrary, with their looks ofvague suspicion, they are thinking only of how to convince us of the evil we have done or of how to impart to us the idea of having done it. Nothing, alas, could be easier. Not only do they have tremendous authority- and despite the general contempt they have been unable to avoid, they enjoy a situation of the first order - they also know everything about us. They have gigantic catalogues in which the slightest details of our existence are re corded, everything there is to know about our tastes, our habits, our rela tions, and even - the very thought sends a shiver - our past before coming into the house. This is their favorite work. Gathering information under the pretext of dispensing it, interrogating us with a servile air about what we are lacking in order to know what we desire, catching us in intimate moments because the service has to be impeccable - in all this, believe me, they spare no trouble. Perhaps they know more, perhaps less than we think. It hardly matters. We are overwhelmed by such a belief. We cannot stop ourselves from believing that they are aware of our most vague and fleeting impressions. They know us better than we know ourselves: that is our unshakable conviction. So they have an easy time of it. How could we resist the feeling of malaise and anguish that they evoke for us when ever they come to visit? The suspicion in their eyes reflects the fault in our souls. We know that the evil is here. It is somewhere near us; it is within us. Oh misery, how to deliver ourselves from the thoughts that then op press us and impose such inexpressible torments? For all of our misfortune comes from our feeling of innocence, an accursed innocence that vainly contradicts the suspicion chasing after us. If we had really committed a fault, then we could rest easy; in agreement with this suspicious domestic, we would smile at him in recognition of his insight, and everything would be over. But this consolation is not available to us. We know only too well that our hearts are pure. We can rummage through our lives all we want, inspect every corner of our conscience, all we find are honest actions and virtuous thoughts. So where is the fault? For it does exist; we feel it with no less force than we feel our purity. It is within this world in which we feel so happy. It suddenly stinks up the air. We can no longer breathe. We say to ourselves that we must find it and uncover it. We go to our friends and ask them questions; we beg them to find us guilty. Wasted efforts. They do not 10 3

know where the fault is to be found either. All that remains for us is to be come criminals, and that is no doubt the ultimate goal of the domestics. It is true that some tenants claim that this is not so. They believe, on the con trary, that the staff has such an elevated idea of purity, such an inflexible conception of the morality of the house that where we see only clarity and whiteness, they are offended and literally blinded by the stain that has been made; their eyes are drawn to it; their sight grows dim from it -hence their troubled and insidious looks. This is a likely interpretation. But at bottom it does not contradict another thought, the thought of those who see the domestics as vicious monsters with a sickly curiosity, ready to do anything to witness new events and to transcribe them into their records. At any rate, whether it is out of concern for morality or a sadistic curiosity, they have but one desire, to drive the evil they have perceived, or implanted, toward a resounding action that will suppress the danger of this evil. Here we are, then, back at one of their primary duties. How is it possible to judge it? Some claim that the rules forbid sly thoughts, unformulated complaints, plans for revenge that one keeps to oneself, which are all sources of mal aise and disorder in a public establishment. Does such a text really exist? This is unverifiable. In any case, it has always been difficult to enforce. Can one distinguish between the thoughts that are allowed and the ones that are forbidden? What are the true limits of a bad mood? In the midst of such a mood, does not everything in one's mind suffer from its influence? The domestics, aware of such difficulties, used them as a pretext for ex tending to all thought the prohibition that should only have applied to dubious reveries concerning the house. Thus, in principle, it is forbidden us to think or-but this comes to the same thing - to keep our thoughts to ourselves. We must speak and act. As soon as an idea passes through our heads, we are obliged to communicate it to a neighbor or to carry out immediately the plans we have thought up on our own. Now do you under stand the reasons for the interminable discussions in which we turn over every aspect of these often insignificant facts? Can you make sense of the incoherent, puerile, or downright insane actions we undertake on so many occasions? It's the law, or the law of the staff at least. Notice that such a rule serves their curiosity quite well. They have no need to fear that deep down we are keeping some great secret or even some more or less vain re flection that it would torture them not to know. Notice too that this rule is far from being a burden to us. Aside from our conversations in groups, 104