“It’s all their wives’ fault!” she thought with veiled hostility. She cast a quick look at Claire and Alix as they sat facing her. They were both extremely pretty, with thick black hair that they had always refused to cut and pale complexions free of makeup. Even that upset her: she sensed that if Claire and Alix did not use makeup, it was less through personal taste than as a criticism of Mariette’s rouged cheeks. The mother sometimes saw arrogance in the pallor of their faces and thought their lips seemed bloodless, colorless. She usually managed to stifle her natural dislike out of a genuine effort to be kind, to love them as much as her own children, but this evening she felt tired, ill, and sad—overcome by bitterness and anger. It was all their fault: if her sons arrived late, if they were ill, if they were unhappy, she knew, she was sure, that it was all due to these outsiders.
Quietly she said, “Eat … You’re not eating!”
But her own food remained almost untouched.
“Are you ill, Mama?” asked Claire.
Her daughters-in-law took a particular, rather cruel, pleasure in seeming to defer to her and to appear loving. As young married women they had been so worried about incurring her displeasure (not that she had been tyrannical or wicked, poor woman; they had just been trying to humor the men they loved), that they still vaguely resented her for it. Now they knew, or thought they knew, that their husbands belonged to them alone; they had eroded the bond between the sons and their mother so cleverly and effectively, so worn it down, that it hardly existed any longer. Now they could afford to be generous. They could say, “Darling, think about your poor mother,” or “Alain, have you written to your mother?” But within the affectionately tolerant way they looked at her, there remained a repressed animosity and a longing for revenge.
Little Bernadette was stroking her father’s hand, as he distractedly fingered his sleeve. In a low voice, Alix said to her sister, “Poor child, it’s pathetic the way she adores Alain. And she gets nothing back,” she added, as she watched Alain pull his hand away.
“Pathetic,” Alain repeated, raising his eyebrows in ironic disapproval.
By a tacit, unspoken agreement, certain words were forbidden in the Demestre family. It was as unacceptable to use them as it was to cry or to complain in public. As a result, their conversations always sounded like a collection of clichés, from which any genuine or meaningful words had been banished. Claire always said that through this excessive delicacy her husband and her brothers-in-law had reduced their vocabulary to words which, over time, had become gentle euphemisms. For them, as for many people, when they described someone as being “tired” it meant that in fact they were at death’s door. She had whispered this to Augustin, who had smiled and murmured, “You’re quite right, my dear!”
Theirs was one of those marriages that everyone acknowledged to be perfect: their politeness and mutual affection, together with a barely discernible hint of contempt in one of them, combined to present a smooth, impenetrable facade to anyone observing them.
Claire smiled. They understood each other well, she and Augustin. For a long time now she had been in the habit of talking like the Demestre family, while Alix on the other hand seemed to take pleasure in provoking them. Claire listened with astonishment to Alix’s loud voice; when she was little she had talked quietly and shyly. Where did this harsh, almost vicious tone come from? When she and Alain turned toward each other, they appeared inexplicably hostile and angry. Even when she asked him to pass her the salt, it sounded like a furious accusation.
As they all left the table, the mother whispered to Augustin, “What’s wrong with you children?”
“Nothing, Mother. Why should there be anything wrong?”
The three brothers remained together, leaving the women to go and have coffee in the salon.
Alain asked immediately, “Well, have you thought about it?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not …” he stopped, took a deep breath, then started again, trying to control his husky voice. “Is it really impossible for you to help me? It’s an excellent opportunity, you know, with great potential.” He did not dare shout at them, “Look, listen to me! I’m finished if you don’t help me. I can’t stand Alix and the life I have any longer. I want to go, I must go! If only you knew! Who’s going to understand me and help me if not my own brothers?”
Nervously he crushed an unlit cigarette in his fingers as he spoke. Even more brusquely than usual, he talked about the annual production of latex, in the faint hope that he might convince them of the soundness of a business he knew only by name.
“You’re priceless,” said Augustin, who never lost his temper, half-closing his eyes while a self-satisfied, faintly mocking expression crossed his face. “You can’t see how hopeless it is, this plan of yours; it’s typical of the Demestre family, and especially of Albert, our precious older brother. Naturally there are tobacco and tea plantations, factories, refineries, diamond and coal mines, and oil wells all over the world. But you have an infallible instinct for failure, a special nose for disaster—just like Albert in all his financial affairs—so you’re going in search of rubber. With things as they are it’s the most catastrophic choice you could make, the one most likely to lose you your—sorry, our—money.”
“I want to go away,” said Alain, through gritted teeth.
“You’ve got a perfectly good job here, and it’s secure,” said Albert.
“I want to leave. You don’t know …”
“I do,” volunteered Augustin.
Alain shot him a brief look. “We don’t get along, my wife and I,” he mumbled.
“Really?” replied Augustin, ironically. “I’d never have guessed …”
“It’s your fault,” said Albert firmly. “The way you talk to her, your moods, your lack of interest in the children …”
“That’s my business, old man.”
“Exactly so,” said Augustin quietly. “Our life is our own business, it’s ours alone. It’s complicated enough without saddling ourselves with other people’s lives, with those of our brothers … especially yours, Alain. I’d like to point out that no one’s been helped and supported more than you. With your character, my poor fellow, marriage was the ultimate stupidity—almost a crime, in fact.”
“But the day I want to get away from it …” Alain murmured bitterly.
“Too late,” said Augustin, with unusual energy. “Even though it would be very convenient.”
“Do you know what’s held me back? You know that Alix has no money, no family, no one else in the world apart from your wife. You do know I couldn’t abandon her to nothing.”
“Yes, I do,” murmured Augustin.
For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then closed his eyes wearily. Claire would never forgive him for contributing to Alix’s unhappiness! Coping with her reproaches would be beyond him. And not to speak of the conjugal loyalty; it was a greater and more inflexible duty, he felt, than brotherly solidarity. To cut the whole thing short, he stood up, saying, “I just don’t understand you, old man.”
He was struck by the despairing look in his brother’s eyes. “His tragic face,” he thought with irritation and a strange feeling of remorse. He put his hand on Alain’s shoulder.
“It’ll work out in the end, old man, everything always does.”
They went to join the women, who were obviously wondering what had kept them. Martine and Bernadette were sitting at a small side table playing dominoes. Claire murmured, “The coffee’s cold …”
They drank it in silence. They heard the clock ticking. Each of them tried desperately to think of some news their mother might like to hear. Sabine talked about her servants. For a few moments the women became animated, then the conversation petered out again. During the longer and longer intervals of silence they could hear the gentle whispering of the rain pattering on the cobblestones and the occasional blast of a whistle from a barge on the Seine.
They were all feeling the overwhelming tiredness
that overcomes members of the same family when they have been together for more than an hour. They were staving off a desperate desire to yawn, or go to sleep, which would vanish once they were outside. Even Alain longed to be in bed, forgetting that his wife would be there, too. But even her presence, with her tears and reproaches, would be better than this gloomy silence.
How impatiently they watched the hands on the clock slowly inching around! As soon as it got to ten o’clock they felt relieved and full of goodwill toward one another. Albert asked for more coffee, and drank it standing up.
“Good night, Mama, we don’t want to keep you up … Good night … Good night.”
She did not stop them. She was feeling tired herself. It was certainly a pleasure to see the children—these Sunday meals were a source of joy to her—but she did feel tired, especially tonight. She had caught a cold the previous day, and from time to time she shivered painfully. Then she felt stifled by the heat from the stove. She had once been used to living in the country for most of the year, in huge, cold rooms, and even here, when she was alone, she left all the windows open, in spite of the November rain; the smell of wet leaves, earth, and mist wafted up to her from the grounds of Sainte Perrine. But the children complained about the cold, and since midday the radiators had been spreading that dry warmth and strong whiff of paint characteristic of Parisian flats every autumn when the first fires were lit.
Albert said, “I can’t take anyone with me. I’ve got to go and fetch the children. The car will be full.”
“Of course, old man, that’s fine! Good night, my dear fellow,” said Augustin cheerfully.
He kissed his mother again.
“Don’t forget me, my child. Why don’t you come during the day sometimes—the days are very long.”
“Of course I will, Mama,” he murmured with impatient affection, not listening to her. “Claire will look in, or I will, one of these days. Anyway, we’ll see you on Sunday, won’t we? See you then.”
As soon as they were outside they all went their separate ways. When Augustin and Claire were alone, she took his arm.
“Well?”
He shrugged. “Well, he won’t go, of course. How can he go without any money? He’s not going to leave Alix and the children on the streets. And he knows now that he can’t expect anything from us.”
This insane dream of Alain’s had brought them closer together than usual; they talked in a remarkably similar low, rapid, affectionate tone.
“What does Alix say about it?”
“What can she say? He wants a separation without any tears or arguments. This ridiculous departure is just a pretext. What did he say to you?”
“He says he doesn’t want to live in Europe any longer, that he can’t put up with his office job, that he hates it and is not suited to it. He may be right, but why can’t he just go off camping or fishing, instead of this? Abandoning his family, leaving them on our hands, no, absolutely not! We all have to manage our own lives! He’s responsible for Alix and the children. I think it’s outrageous that he’s trying to get rid of them by dumping them on us,” Augustin said angrily.
They fell silent as they walked in step together; their faces wore the same indignant expression. Each of them was thinking, “If it were only about money … but he’s asking for our time, our peace of mind, our happiness.” They would have to console Alix, calm down old Mme. Demestre. They loved them dearly, of course, as you do love your own flesh and blood. You want them to be happy, but you don’t want to be forced to look after them.
Huddled together under one umbrella, they went toward the metro station: rarely had they felt so close to each other. They had reached that state of perfect understanding between husband and wife that meant that each could speak without listening to the other, at the same time knowing instinctively that their words were a response not just to the other’s words but to their most secret, hidden, unformulated thoughts. They were soothed by this brisk walk in the dark and the soft rain. Wearily, Augustin said, “I don’t want to talk about Alain anymore.”
They stopped and sniffed the breeze blowing in off the Seine.
Claire murmured, “Poor Alix.”
Then they went back to their own life: their plans, their worries, a chair in the flat that needed reupholstering, all those little preoccupations of daily life that unite married couples more strongly than love.
Meanwhile, their mother had closed the door after Alain and Alix, who were the last to leave. Alone, she went from one room to another, opening all the windows. How quiet it was! She did not usually hear the silence, but tonight, after her sons’ steps had faded away and all the young voices had gone, it overwhelmed her. It was that terrible silence of old age, when everything seems to come to an end at the same time: the noise of life lived beyond her four walls, the inner excitement of youth celebrating its joy …
She moved slowly around the room, feeling a sort of self-pitying but benign anger as she tried to disguise her frightful boredom. “Men are lucky,” she thought. “Even when they’re old they have things to interest them—politics, war and peace, world events—and they have clearer and more vivid memories. Women are left with nothing apart from knitting or a game of patience. Oh! What happy sounds there used to be in this house: children’s voices, slamming doors, the sound of laughter and quarrels.” All she could hear tonight were the maid’s footsteps in the kitchen as her slippers brushed almost noiselessly across the floor, then a sigh, or the faint sound of a plate being placed gently on the sideboard, with a chink that echoed for a long time in the silence. She thought gloomily about her daughters-in-law. They had said this, done that … “Alix never says anything. She must make life difficult for Alain. Claire’s a good little thing, she gets along well with Augustin. But then who wouldn’t get on well with Augustin—the most intelligent and nicest of my children? Yet Claire herself … they never tell me anything. Do they think I wouldn’t understand? Well, it’s true, perhaps I wouldn’t understand …”
She let out a deep sigh; her head felt heavy and she kept shivering. She must have caught a chill. She rang the bell for the maid, querulously reminding her that her hot water bottle was never hot enough, nor was her bed properly made. Yet she did not move away from the open window, enjoying the feel of the wind ruffling her gray hair as she breathed in the smell of wet leaves. Then she went to bed.
Almost straightaway she felt the beginning of a fever. She had been ignoring her malaise since the previous day, but now it had taken hold. The first deep shudder, which seemed to come from the very marrow of her bones, was followed by a burning wave, which she accepted patiently and almost with a sense of well-being; it warmed her up, her mood mysteriously lightened, and she recovered some of her lost liveliness and her sense of humor. She thought about her children, especially Albert. On hearing that his mother was ill, his first thought would be, “That’s all I need.” Poor boy! He assumed that family illnesses and all of life’s misfortunes were deliberately sent to him by fate. She smiled. She imagined the reactions of Augustin, Alain, and Mariette. “They hoped I’d leave them alone until next Sunday.” Her mind, which had become dulled through the passage of years, now grew alert, mischievous, almost lighthearted. She hadn’t always been a bad-tempered old woman—the children had forgotten that—and she thought about them, not as she usually did with admiration, respect, and incomprehension, but with that indulgent and ironic tenderness a mother sometimes feels for her children while they are still small, not yet quite human beings, as comical as puppies. They were helpless, touching … How comforting illness and fever can be, as they spread throughout the body and let wisdom and a clearer understanding flourish in their warmth.
Nevertheless, her teeth chattered as she endured the icy little waves that rippled through her; her elderly body was giving in to illness, accepting the rhythm of the fever. Soon her head seemed heavier and she felt a dull ache behind her eyes. She had difficulty breathing. It was as if the air was trapped in her chest, insi
de her ribs, and, moaning with the pain, she made an effort to drag it up from deep inside her. She wanted to move the pillow so that she could rest her cheek on the fresh linen of the bolster, but it was hot and heavy. All at once she realized how weak and tired she was. She closed her eyes, and the treacherous fever rose up like a slow, relentless tide of ice and fire, drowning her. There was nothing left in her now, no thoughts, no regrets, no desires. The images of the children grew faint. All that remained was an ill-tempered body, feebly fighting its illness. How long the night can be!
By morning, her temperature had gone down. She arranged for her sons to be told. Each of them took an hour out of his day to go and see her, to sit by her bed, to say with dismay, “But yesterday you were perfectly fine!”
The doctor came in during the morning. He said they would have to wait; it was too early to give an opinion one way or the other.
The three daughters-in-law had taken up their positions, one by the bed, the others in the little parlor. Soon they sent their clumsy husbands away; the mother was left in the cool, calm hands of the wives, who gently tucked her in. Only Mariette went from one to the other with a drawn, frightened face. She went over to the bed to look at her mother, but her sisters-in-law reassured her with a gentle shrug.
“It’s a bad cold … It’s nothing.”
“It’s the time of year for it,” said Sabine.
“There’ll be a nurse here tonight, Mother.”
Dimanche and Other Stories (Vintage International) Page 6