The Inferno

quieted down. Silence. I passed my hand over my forehead. My fit of emotion wa

k some papers out of my bag tha

up. She always waited for me in the low-ceilinged room, where her sewing-machine, afternoons, whirred, monotonous a

finitely decide whether I would get a position in Monsieur Berton's bank-Monsieur Berton

d not catch fire, the phosphorous end breaking off. I t

ong hummed quite

.

on my shoulder, singing for

my brain was sick-my punishme

I was oppressed by a feeling of the supernatural. I sn

inging came from the room next to mine. Why was it so pure, so strangely near? Why did i

door, always kept locked, there was a

that spot, through which the light of

n woodwork, two loose bricks. The plaster gave way and an opening appeare

next room presented it

nd in going had left the door open, and it almost seemed as though the door were still swinging on

e bluish and reddish pieces of furniture, in their v

its feet in darkness. The ceiling, the reflection of the ceiling i

y left it-stunned at first, my thoughts

gs over quickly and trembling a lit

ld be there would be there with me without knowing it. I should see them, I shou

.

sed my face to the h

. It was the maid. No doubt she had come i

seeing it so truly-a dark blue apron, falling down from her waist like rays of evening, white wrists, hands darker than her wrists from

d her repulsive because of those blackened hands of hers and the dusty chores that she stooped over. I had also seen her in a hallway walking ahead

.

nged the dust into shadow, like a curse turned into a blessing. All that remained of her was colour, a mist, an ou

dash of the divine in it, to be actually alone. She was

y eyes, but she did not know it,

s in her apron of the colour of the nocturnal sky. Her face and the

hs of the room near the window. She leaned her broom beside

g letter to her lips, and kissed it. From whom was the letter? Not from her family. A servant girl is not likely to have so much filial devotion as to kiss a letter from her parents. A lover, her betrothed, yes. Many, perhaps,

the window, the white lett

g down here, nor anything about her-nothing at all. She gazed at the pale immensity, which touched her. Her eyes gleamed.

oor slowly. The door closed be

ng anything but reading

.

ed me profoundly. Yet there had been no one there but a human being, a human being like myself. Then

med! Not of herself. I did not know her, and I did not care to know her. She assumed importance by the sole value of the mome

that what I called the infinite had come. What that woman, without knowing it, had given me by sho

.

ner bel

r the moment. I got ready to go down to dinner. I put on a gay waistcoat and a dark coat, and I s

I continued to be obsessed by the great

sual empty interest before a meal. A number of people seated themselves with the good manners of polite society. Smiles, the sound of chairs

y eyes. In front of me a shining row of foreheads, eyes, collars, shirtfronts, waists, and busy hands above

t know who they were. They hid themselves from one another. Th

eel far away from them as do the stars. A young girl looked at me

each one to himself, and deafe

ught of things they had at heart, revealed themselves as if they were alone. I recognized the

by an ideal. A dream of grasping and touching shone through their eyes, just as a

in spite of their ridiculously low station and the slavery of their social position. One young girl seemed dazzled, looked overwhelmed. She could not

ds of the table, a man and a woman who had not spoken to each other and seemed not to be acquainted, exchanged a glance that I caught. And

.

ding a secret. A man had injured and then murdered a little girl and had kept singing at the top of his voice to prevent the cries of his little victim from being heard. One by one the people stopped talking and listened with the air of really not

her whole being, a burst of laughter, which, made up of formless instinctive cries, was almost fleshy. She stopped and turned, silent

up, but could not leave. She sat down again and bent forward t

compressed as if she were defending herself tragically. And beneath the worldly m

business man's face, was making a great effort to talk of this and that to a young girl sitting next to him, while he watched h

thout knowing what they had confessed. They had almost been their real selves. Desire had leaped into

ed out, impelled by eagerness to see the sincerity of men and women unveiled before my eyes, beautiful as a masterpiece in spi

and associates with, the people who have the vastness of numbers to lose themselves