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    Disagreeable Tales
    Disagreeable Tales
    Disagreeable Tales
    Ebook217 pages2 hours

    Disagreeable Tales

    By Léon Bloy

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    Thirty tales of theft, onanism, incest, murder and a host of other forms of perversion and cruelty from the "ungrateful beggar" and "pilgrim of the absolute," Léon Bloy. Disagreeable Tales, first published in French in 1894, collects Bloy's narrative sermons from the depths: a cauldron of frightful anecdotes and inspired misanthropy that represents a high point of the French Decadent movement and the most emblematic entry into the library of the "Cruel Tale" christened by Villiers de l'Isle-Adam. Whether depicting parents and offspring being sacrificed for selfish gains, or imbeciles sacrificing their own individuality on a literary whim, these tales all draw sustenance from an underlying belief: the root of religion is crime against man, nature and God, and that in this hell on earth, even the worst among us has a soul.

    A close friend to Joris-Karl Huysmans, and later admired by the likes of Kafka and Borges, Léon Bloy (1846–1917) is among the best known but least translated of the French Decadent writers. Nourishing antireligious sentiments in his youth, his outlook changed radically when he moved to Paris and came under the influence of Barbey d'Aurevilly, the unconventionally religious novelist best known for Les Diaboliques. He earned the dual nicknames of "The Pilgrim of the Absolute" through his unorthodox devotion to the Catholic Church, and "The Ungrateful Beggar" through his endless reliance on the charity of friends to support him and his family.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWakefield Press
    Release dateAug 13, 2020
    ISBN9781939663597
    Disagreeable Tales
    Author

    Léon Bloy

    Léon Bloy, né le 11 juillet 1846 à Périgueux et mort le 3 novembre 1917 à Bourg-la-Reine, est un romancier et essayiste français. Connu pour son roman Le Désespéré, largement inspiré de sa relation avec Anne-Marie Roulé, il est aussi un polémiste célèbre.

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      Book preview

      Disagreeable Tales - Léon Bloy

      I. Herbal Tea

      Jacques thought himself simply horrible. It was despicable to stay there, in the dark, like some sacrilegious spy while this woman, utterly unknown to him, made her confession.

      But then, he would have had to leave right away, as soon as the priest in the surplice joined her—or at least to make a little noise, so they would be aware of a stranger’s presence. Now it was too late, and the terrible indiscretion could only grow worse.

      Idle and seeking, as wood lice do, a cool place at the end of this scorching day, he had conceived the notion (so little in keeping with his ordinary fancies) of entering the old church; he had seated himself in a dark corner, behind the confessional, to daydream while watching the great rose window disappear.

      After a few minutes—knowing neither how nor why—he had become the altogether unwilling witness of a confession.

      True, the words didn’t reach him clearly; all in all, the only thing he heard was whispering. But toward the end, the exchange seemed to intensify.

      A few syllables came loose here and there, emerging from the opaque river of penitential chatter, and the young man—who by some miracle was the opposite of a complete boor—was really and truly afraid of the shocking admissions, which clearly were not meant for his ears.

      Suddenly, what was ordained occurred. A violent whirl seemed to start. The immobile waves rumbled as they split apart, as if to make way for a monster. Gripped by terror, the hearer caught impatient words: "I’m telling you, Father, I put poison in his tea!"

      Then, nothing. The woman, whose face could not be seen, rose from kneeling and silently disappeared into the thicket of shadows.

      As for the priest, he moved no more than a corpse; long minutes passed before he opened the door and departed with the heavy step of a man shocked by a blow.

      It took the incessant chiming of the beadle’s keys and the order to leave, long since bellowed in the nave, for Jacques to rise, too—so greatly was he stunned by those words, which echoed noisily within him.

      He had recognized his mother’s voice perfectly! Oh! There was no mistaking it. He even recognized her walk when the woman’s shadow had risen two steps away.

      But then, how! Everything collapsed—it all disappeared; it was nothing but a monstrous joke!

      He lived alone with this mother; she saw almost no one, and she never went out—except to attend services. He was accustomed to worshiping her, with all his soul, as the paragon of rectitude and kindliness.

      As far back into the past as he could see, there was nothing murky, nothing crooked—no exception, not a single deviation. A neat, white road led to the horizon under a pale-blue sky, for the poor woman’s life had been quite melancholy.

      Since her husband’s death at Champigny (which the young man could hardly recall), she had dressed in mourning, devoting herself exclusively to the education of her son, whom she never left for a single day. She hadn’t wanted to send him to school, fearing the company he might fall into; so she took his instruction upon herself and built his very soul from pieces of her own. From such guidance, he had acquired an anxious sensibility and singularly delicate nerves; they made him susceptible to ridiculous pains—and perhaps to real dangers, as well.

      When the boy entered adolescence, his pranks, which she could not prevent, had made her a little sadder, but her sweetness did not change. Neither scolding nor silent dramas had occurred. Like so many other women, she accepted the inevitable.

      In sum, all the world spoke of her with respect, and he alone—the only one to do so, he, her adored son—now saw himself forced to despise her: to despise her on bended knee and with tears in her eyes, as the angels might despise God if He didn’t keep His promises! …

      Truly, it was maddening—a matter to send one off screaming into the street. His mother! A poisoner! It was insane, absurd a million times over; it was absolutely impossible, and yet it was certain. Had she not just said so herself? He could have torn his head from his shoulders.

      But the poisoner of whom? Good God! No one of his acquaintance had died of poison. It wasn’t his father, who had swallowed a load of grapeshot in the stomach. It wasn’t him, either, that she had tried to kill. He was never ill and had never needed an herbal remedy; he also knew that she adored him. The first time he had come home late one evening—and certainly not for a good reason—she had made herself sick with worry.

      Was it a deed prior to his birth? His father had married her for her beauty when she was hardly twenty years old. Had their wedding been preceded by an escapade allowing for some kind of crime?

      No, not at all. Her crystal-clear past was known to him; he had heard it a hundred times, and accounts were altogether too consistent. So why, then, this terrible avowal? Why, surely, what! Why did he have to witness it?

      Drunk with horror and despair, he returned home.

      His mother immediately rushed up to kiss him:

      How late you are, dear child! And how pale! Could you be ill?

      No, he replied, I’m not ill. But the great heat has tired me, and I don’t think I can eat. And you, mama, don’t you feel a little unwell? You went out, I’m sure, to get a little fresh air? I think I saw you from far away, on the embankment.

      "I did go out, but you couldn’t have seen me on the embankment. I went to confession—something I believe you haven’t done for quite a while, you naughty boy."

      Jacques was surprised he didn’t gasp and fall down thunderstruck (as always happened in the fine novels he read).

      So it was true: she had been to confession! He hadn’t fallen asleep in the church, then; the appalling catastrophe was no nightmare—as he had imagined in a moment of madness.

      He didn’t faint, but he grew much paler. His mother was frightened: What is it, then, my little Jacques? she asked. "You’re not well, you’re hiding something from your mother. You should have more trust that she loves

      you and only you … How you’re staring! My sweet treasure But

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