Claudine and Annie

by Colette

  Of days! It was true, he had been gone a long time . . . But days! I had begun to believe he would never return. And now he was going to come back, he was going to leave that distant land, that dark girl who looked like me and whom perhaps, on stormy nights, he called Annie . . . He was going to come back and I had not yet decided my fate and plucked up courage against myself and against him!

  Without picking up the letter I had dropped on the carpet, I gazed about me reflectively. This study, which serves as a smoking-room, had not kept any imprint of its master. There was nothing lying about in it and nothing in it to charm. The tapestry that had been taken down for the summer left a great panel of white, unpapered wall. I felt thoroughly miserable here; I would not stay on in Paris.

  ‘Léonie!’

  The good policeman came running, a skirt dangling from each of her forefingers.

  ‘Léonie, I want to leave tomorrow for Casamène.’

  ‘For Casamène, oh, goodness me, no!’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘Madame hasn’t written to the gardener’s wife, the house is shut up and hasn’t been cleaned, there won’t be any food got in. And besides I need a good two days for the things that need doing here – there’s Madame’s everyday skirts that’s got their linings torn, there’s the white linen dress what we couldn’t find a cleaner for in Germany and the petticoat what goes with it as needs new lace putting on, and then there’s . . .’

  I put both hands over my ears – Léonie’s grammar showed she was seriously upset.

  ‘That’ll do, that’ll do! You shall have two days for all that. Only write yourself to the gardener’s wife and tell her . . .’ (I hestated for a moment) ‘. . . tell her I’m only bringing you. She’s to do the cooking.’

  ‘Very good, Madame.’

  Léonie made a dignified exit. Once again, I had offended her. One has to be careful with one’s subordinates! All the servants who have passed through this house have been hypersensitives, ill-tempered ones too, who fiercely resented other people’s changes of mood and let it appear on their faces – when Alain was absent.

  I am leaving tomorrow. It is high time, my patience is worn out. All this setting of my married life has become intolerable to me, even the Louis XV drawing-room where on Fridays I used to wait, meek and terrified, for the ring that announced the first caller. I exaggerate: in those days which seem strangely far away I was more meek than terrified and almost happy in a timid, colourless way. Is my lot any better today, wandering hither and thither, demoralized yet more self-willed? It’s a very arduous problem for such a tired brain.

  I am leaving nothing of myself behind in this little house, tall and narrow as a tower. Alain did not want Grandmother Lajarrisse’s furniture; it has remained at Casamène. Some books, two or three photographs of Annie – the rest belongs to my husband.

  Three years ago I gave him a little English desk which he has graciously kept ever since in his study. Today I indiscreetly pulled the brass handle of the drawer, which resisted. A methodical man locks his drawers when he goes off on a long journey. Looking at it closer, I discovered it was sealed with a little, almost invisible strip of gummed paper . . . Obviously my husband did not completely trust his domestic staff. But had he only been thinking of his manservant when he devised such a carefully concealed precaution? . . . Suddenly, I had a vision of Marthe’s venomous face: ‘Eighteen months of continuous correspondence and regular meetings . . .’

  I felt I would rather like to know what Valentine Chessenet’s style was like. I can swear that it was not a sudden access of physical jealousy or some feverish compulsion that made me want to open that drawer . . . It was simply that I reached a stage where scruples seemed an absurd luxury . . .

  One after another, all the keys on my little bunch proved useless for the English lock. I disliked the idea of asking anyone’s assistance. I looked round and saw a flat metal ruler lying on the writing table . . . Yes, it would do to make a lever under the drawer. What hard work it was! The exertion made me hot and I broke my thumb-nail, such a well-manicured little pink nail on my brown hand. There was an appallingly loud crack . . . suppose the servants came in, thinking there had been an accident? I listened for a moment, terrified. Thieves must often die of heart-failure!

  The light ash-wood had split. A little more work and the whole front of the pretty desk was smashed and ripped off. It fell to the ground, followed by an avalanche of papers.

  I felt as abashed as a little girl who had upset a box of chocolates. Where should I begin? It would not take long; each little bundle, methodically secured by a rubber band, bore a label.

  Here were Receipted Bills, here were Title Deeds, here were Papers concerning lawsuit over building-plots (what building-plots?), then came Receipts from Marthe (ah?), Letters from Annie (three in all), Letters from Andrée (but which Andrée?), letters . . . letters . . . letters . . . ah, at last! Letters from Valent.

  I went over to the door and quietly locked it. Then, sitting on the floor, I spread the quite thick bundle out on my lap.

  ‘My beloved Carrots . . .’ ‘My little white man.’ (She too!) ‘Dear Friend.’ ‘Monsieur.’ ‘Naughty boy.’ Fickle brute.’ ‘My copper coffee-pot . . .’ The appellations certainly varied considerably more than the theme of the letters. Nevertheless, it had been a complete idyll. One could follow it chronologically from the first little note: ‘I made a fatal error by giving myself so quickly . . .’ up to ‘There is nothing I shall not do to get you back. I shall even seek you out at home with your little black goose . . .’

  In the margin on the back of these letters, Alain had noted in his stiff writing: ‘Received the . . .’ ‘Answered the . . . by telegram.’ I would have recognized him just by that trait. Ah! She could call him beloved Carrots, white pussy-cat, tea-pot, coffee-pot, whatever she fancied . . . he would still be the same man!

  What should I do with all this stuff? Send the packet of letters to Alain’s address, in a sealed envelope addressed in my writing? That was what people did in novels. But he would think I still loved him and was jealous. No . . . I left all the papers on the floor at the foot of the ravaged desk, along with the flat ruler and my bunch of little keys. The only thing I took away was Letters from Annie. My pillaging had made glorious havoc of that tidy soulless room . . . I would give a good deal to see Alain’s face when he returns!

  A blue envelope lay beside my cup on the breakfast tray. I guessed more by the fat round handwriting than by the Bavarian stamp that it was Claudine’s reply. She had taken pity on me and answered quickly . . . Her handwriting was like her; sensual, lively, and upright. The loops were short and graceful; the crosses of the T’s exaggerated and masterful.

  My sweet Annie,

  So it will be a long time before I see them again, those unique eyes that you hide so often behind your lashes, like a garden behind a grille, for I imagine you have gone off on a long journey . . . And whatever gave you the idea of asking me for an itinerary? I am neither Cook’s nor Paul Bourget. Anyway, we’ll see about that in a moment. First I must tell you the most urgent thing, which is as banal as a sensational news item.

  On the day after your departure, I did not see the Léon ménage at Tristan. Your brother-in-law’s absence was nothing – but Marthe missing the intervals of Tristan, the most sensational ones after Parisifal! We returned from the theatre on foot as usual, me hanging on the arm of my dear great man, and we thought we’d both go a little out of our way to inquire after Marthe. Horrors! The respectable Meider home was open to all comers and four little girls in pink pinafores were scurrying about like rats. Finally, I caught sight of Marthe with her red mane standing on end, who slammed the door in our face to prevent us from entering . . . Renaud parleyed with a maid, listened to what she was moaning in Bavarian punctuated by cries of Yo! and led me away, so astonished that he almost looked stupid . . . I exaggerate.

  Do you know what, Annie? Léon had just poisoned himself like a shop girl whos
e young man has chucked her! He had drunk laudanum and so enthusiastically that he had given himself appalling indigestion! You’ll immediately think that Liane’s suicide must have haunted that eminently Parisian brain. Not at all. In the course of a lively scene, Marthe, in a very irritable mood – history does not record why – had called her spouse ‘cuckold’ so frequently and with so much conviction that the wretched man no longer doubted what is called in journalese ‘the extent of his misfortune’.

  The next day I went out to reconnoitre on my own. Marthe received me like a model wife, told me about the ‘fatal mistake’ and got up a dozen times to rush to the invalid’s bedside . . . Maugis was not there because an urgent telegram had summoned him to Béziers the night before. It’s curious, all the same, Annie, how many urgent departures one sees among the French colony at Bayreuth!

  Don’t be alarmed, nervous child; the suicide is going on well. Marthe nurses him like a horse who’s due to run in the Grand-Prix. In a few day he’ll be fit enough to get back to his work at the rate of eighty lines a day instead of sixty to make up for lost time. Your sister-in-law is an intelligent woman who understands to perfection that the situation of a married woman is far superior to that of a divorced one, or to certain widowhoods, even of a lucrative kind.

  Now you are up to date with the news. Let us talk about you. About you, you embarrassing little creature, so slow at getting to know herself; so swift, when the appointed day came, to fly away, silent, and black-capped, like a migrating swallow.

  You are going away, and your flight and your letter are like a reproach to me. How much I regret you, Annie, who smells like a rose! You mustn’t be angry with me for that. I am only a poor brute who loves beauty and weakness and trust, and when a little spirit like yours leans on mine, when a mouth yearns, like yours, towards mine, I find it very hard to understand why I must not embellish both the one and the other with a kiss. I tell you I still don’t properly understand the reason, although it has been explained to me.

  People must have spoken to you, Annie, about me and a woman friend whom I loved too simply, too completely. She was a vicious, fascinating seducer, that Rézi; she tried to put her naked blonde loveliness between me and Renaud and give herself the literary pleasure of betraying us both . . . Because of her, I have promised Renaud – and Claudine too – to forget there may be weak, tempting, pretty creatures whom a gesture of mine might charm and enslave . . .

  You are going away and I can guess that you are all confused in your mind. I hope, for your sake and his, that your husband will not be coming back at once. You are neither sufficiently clear-sighted nor sufficiently resigned. The fact that you do not love him is an unhappiness, a calm grey unhappiness – yes, Annie, an ordinary unhappiness. But think that you might have loved without return, or loved and been deceived . . . That is the only great unhappiness, the unhappiness for which one kills, burns, annihilates . . . Forgive me, Annie, I was on the point of forgetting that, here, we are only concerned with you . . . A woman in love finds it very hard to conceal her egoism.

  ‘Advise me . . .’ you implore. How easy that is! I feel you are ready for all sorts of silly acts – which you will perform quietly, with a gentle obstinacy, with that young girl’s grace that gives such hesitance and charm to your gestures, soft, supple Annie.

  All the same, I can’t very well say to you straight, ‘One can’t live with a man one doesn’t love, it’s filthy indecency,’ though that opinion does not differ appreciably from what I really think. But I can at least tell you what I did.

  Loaded with a great weight of misery and very little luggage, I went back to my native earth. To die there? To recover there? When I went, I had no idea. The heavenly solitude, the pacifying trees, the blue night that was a good counsellor, the peace of wild animals – those were the things that prevented me from doing something irreparable and gently brought me back to that other land I thought I had lost forever – happiness.

  My dear Annie, you can always try.

  Good-bye. Don’t write to me – except to say that the treatment is working. For I shall be too regretful at being unable to suggest another.

  I kiss, from the eyelashes to the chin, your whole face that has the tapering shape and almost the exact colour of a ripe filbert. From so far away, kisses lose their poison and, for a minute, I can pursue our dream in the Margravine’s garden – without remorse.

  Claudine

  TEN

  CLAUDINE HAS DECEIVED me. No, this is unjust. Claudine has deceived herself. The ‘country cure’ is not a panacea. Besides, it is difficult to cure a sick person unless they have faith.

  In the first pages of this diary . . . (I had to break off here to scold Toby who, with his ears pricked and his eyes starting out of his head, had once again dragged it away by one corner like the corpse of an enemy.) In the first pages of this diary which has no end and no beginning, which is depraved and diffident, vacillating and rebellious just like myself, I read these words: ‘the burden of living alone’. Ignorant Annie! What does that burden weigh, compared with the chain I have worn, without respite, for four years, and which I must assume again for life? But I do not want to resume it. It is not liberty in itself that I crave for – I need no further proof of that than my feverish need to keep changing my surroundings and the bitter awareness of my own solitude that makes me see it reflected in this lonely landscape of sky and fields and harsh, grey, red-gashed rocks . . . Yet to be able to choose one’s own misery . . . there are certain people for whom that represents their ideal of happiness . . .

  Alas! I am one of them. I have arrived and already I want to leave. Even though Casamène belongs to me, it is too much associated with my whole life with Alain. There is not a corner of this old-fashioned estate where I could not easily identify traces left by our childhood games; in the romantic shrubbery, under the trees of the ‘little forest’ – a modest copse which I called by this grandiose name – in the dark gloomy shed where the rusted tools suggest some medieval torture-chamber. Near the ravine, a chestnut-tree still bears the cruel scars of a wire Alain fastened tight round its trunk, maybe twelve years ago; the bark has broken out in a blistered swelling. That was where my stern companion was Snake’s-Eye, chief of a tribe of Redskins, and I was his domesticated little squaw who tended the fire of pine-cones. It was one of his favourite games and part of it involved his being extremely severe with me and constantly scolding me.

  He has never liked Casamène. My impractical dreamer of a grandfather laid out these few acres in an exaggeratedly picturesque style: a ravine, wild, of course; two mounts; a dell; a grotto; a belvedere; a great avenue to give a long vista; exotic shrubs; a paved carriage-drive sufficiently winding to give the impression of traversing miles on his property . . . Everything about the place, Alain used to say, was utterly ridiculous. Very likely it is. At this moment all I see in it is the poignant sadness of an abandoned garden. Under this white sun, already as pallid as in October, it has the mournful luxuriance of a cemetery. ‘The pacifying tees! . . .’ Ah, Claudine, I could sob if I were not so scared, so petrified by loneliness. The unhappy trees here know no peace themselves and can give none to others. Beautiful, twisted oak with the fettered feet, how many years have you stretched your trembling branches up to the sky, like trembling hands? What straining effort towards freedom bent you under the wind, then forced you upright again so that your limbs are all tortured angles? All round you, your stunted, deformed, earthbound children are already stretching up beseeching arms.

  Other captive creatures, like that silver birch-tree, resign themselves to their fate. So does that delicate larch, but it weeps and shivers under its torrent of silky hair and I can hear its shrill lament from my window as the gusty wind buffets it . . . Oh, the sadness of all these tormented trees, tethered fast by their roots! How could any pliant, uncertain spirit ever have looked to them for peace and oblivion? It was not in trees, Claudine, or in frisking animals, it was only in yourself there lay strength and
vitality and joy at once dazzling and blinding.

  It is raining, which makes everything worse. I have lit the lamp early and shut myself up in my room. I am in a state of acute nervous tension; even the heavy closed shutters and the sound of Léonie having a loud conversation with the gardener’s little girl do little to reassure me. The fire crackles – we need fires already – so does the woodwork. When the flame is quiet, the buzzing silence fills my ears. The clawed feet of a rat are distinctly audible running overhead, above the joists of the ceiling, and Toby, my little black guardian, looks up ferociously in the direction of this inaccessible enemy. For heaven’s sake, Toby, don’t bark! If you bark, the shattered silence will fall in fragments on my head, like the plaster of an old – too old – house . . .

  It is late, but I dare not go to bed yet. I shall sit up by the dying fire, till the wick of the lamp burns low. I listen to muffled rustlings, to the breath of the wind blowing the leaves along the gravel, to all the footsteps of small, unknown animals. Just now, to give myself courage, I touched the broad blade of a hunting-knife. But the chill feel of the metal, instead of reassuring me, only frightened me more.

  What idiotic panic! Don’t these friendly pieces of furniture know me any more? Yes, but they know I am going to leave them and they will not shelter me. Old piano with the fluted carving, I wearied you with my scales. ‘More energy, my little Annie, more energy!’ Even then! This portrait of a wasp-waisted student, copied from a daguerreotype, is my grandfather. He dug wells on the tops of mountains, started an enterprise for cultivating truffles, tried to illuminate the bottom of the sea ‘by means of whale-oil burning in transparent vessels, hermetically sealed’ (!); in short he light-heartedly ruined his wife and daughter, showed not the slightest remorse, and was adored by both of them. What an elegant waist he had, if the likeness is a true one! A modern woman might envy it. A beautiful, dreamy forehead, the inquisitive eyes of a child, small white-gloved hands – that is all that I know of him.