Chasing the Dream

by Liane De Pougy

  ‘Well, my friend, she does, a real heart, and a big one, and she knows it for certain from the way the things that are missing from her life bring her so much pain… so many things!’

  ‘Keep talking, keep talking! Now we’re getting to it!’

  ‘Very well. But not like this. I have too much to say, I have seen so much… and one has one’s modesty. In fact it’s rather delightful to feel one has such feelings.

  ‘I know what: Jean, dear Jean, I have never done anything for you, but here’s my idea. I will write to you, regularly, yes, and lengthily too, on my crested notepaper with its de Valneige motto, “Where people catch a glimpse of heaven”.’

  She was pleased and excited by her idea. Naturally, if she had been a writer of no talent the thought would never have occurred to her. But she enjoyed a reputation for intelligence, culture and style, which had from the outset set her apart and which, even in the whirlwind of Paris, rather gratified the former pupil of the Sisters of Saint Agatha.

  And then, to write in this way, to her first lover, about everything she had experienced with the others, certainly was no ordinary thing to do. But there was more to it than that: a moment had come for her when she sensed both the need to reach out and the release that might come from exploring her own story.

  Starting from now, she understood, she was going to settle accounts with her whole past life.

  ‘So it is agreed, dear Jean,’ she went on. ‘You accept my proposition. Will there be jealousy at home? May I write to you as often as I like?’

  And Jean gave her the address of a little place where they would keep for him the promised letters, letters that would present themselves as if at a confessional, and in which Josiane would share with him not just everything she had felt, had experienced in her past, but whatever might arise in the future.

  ‘But will you write back to me,’ she asked, ‘from time to time anyway? I don’t want to find myself soliloquising to the despatch bag of a rural postman! Tell me off, philosophise at me like a good stick-in-the-mud provincial, yes indeed, that will be fun; and feel sorry for me too when necessary.’

  He promised, enchanted by his good fortune.

  They talked on for a long time. They were like two friends making plans for a journey together.

  And when Jean Leblois took his leave, he wished, in his mind’s eye, he could already be ripping open the first envelope, while Josiane’s gaze stole softly towards a little Meissen ink-stand that was waiting to one side, among the many trinkets…

  ‘Madame,’ the angelic Gérard announced when Josiane was alone once more, ‘I forgot that M. de Normande sent to say that he would meet you this afternoon in the Bois de Boulogne.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’s sake, as if I was interested in that, dear Gérard. Tell Brunet not to harness the coupé. And Mlle Alphonsine was meant to be bringing round the design for my trousers: send her away. I shall not be going out… I’m not in to anyone.’

  And stretching out once more on the chaise longue, Josiane de Valneige sank into her memories.

  II

  Josiane de Valneige to Jean Leblois

  Shall I tell you, my dear friend, that when you abandoned me I expected to suffer immense distress? It is very comforting to believe oneself beyond consolation.

  Unfortunately, I was not. For a week I remained in our little furnished lodgings, hounded by offers of forgiveness from M. Aubertin (who has shown no signs of life since), taking devotedly to our bed each night, reliving our existence as lovers newly arrived in Paris…

  And then one fine morning, or evil one if you prefer, I realised nothing could be further from the truth. With some bewilderment, I understood that breaking the great taboo, which I had so longed to do, had left me little more satisfied with my fate than before.

  You had had me, but how, and why? To an imbecile, and to preserve my own dignity, I would say: out of love. But you know, my dear Jean, that I was just an impossibly curious young woman, excited by the energy coursing through her bird’s brain, her heart, her nerves, her body.

  My husband would plod peaceably up and down his rows of vines, while I sat in my cheaply-covered blue armchair, mind adrift, eyes closed, a book abandoned at my feet.

  Ah, what a narrow, stifling life! You can wither and die while all the time you feel inside you an unstoppable force is urging you on, a flame is burning you up.

  What appalling torture!

  First it’s a feeling of contempt for everything around you, then hatred and finally something cracks, everything collapses inside. Rational thought does no good, not even fear holds you back. You go, you go, in the grip of this demon that whispers mad things in your ear, and without quite knowing how, you find yourself one day clasped in a lover’s arms.

  So don’t be surprised at what happened after you. Whatever sort of creature I was when you took me, so I remained, or very nearly, when you left me. We had some good moments, but, don’t take offence, hardly on the grand scale. And whatever made me give myself to you gave me to others: the constant search for pleasure’s pinnacle, a burning thirst to drink from every cup, a yearning for excitement, glamour, domination.

  In that little apartment where I wept over you, it was like being at home in the Touraine. The walls were bearing down on me, then suddenly, the roof, as if by a miracle, lifted and my dreams joyfully took flight like great birds.

  To be something, to be someone, in that teeming Paris, to be a woman there, a real woman in the full understanding of the word: the power of that desire! And I sensed I had it in me, the necessary stuff, I sensed I was capable of knowing it all, of embellishing it… of being that woman!

  Your old uncle Leblois showed me great kindness. When he saw I was utterly determined not to go back to my husband and to break away from my family entirely, and that I had neither money nor means of support, he came to my assistance of his own free will, with no speeches or strings attached.

  I was therefore fairly secure for the immediate future (which doesn’t excuse you for leaving me in such straits), but in truth I didn’t greatly care. For me, money is not important, it doesn’t exist. I have always managed to come by it, I always will… don’t let’s speak of it.

  What a strange position a woman is in who wants nothing better than to… and who is on the lookout!

  If you want my honest opinion, it is very enjoyable, especially when one does things properly. Besides, to my way of thinking it is unimaginable to do otherwise, and it is certainly a trait that has been my saving grace, as it will always be the saving of any woman even when her star is fading.

  Oh, living in this permanent state of eager expectation, telling yourself life lies before you like an open field, where you may gather flowers, sniff the air, harvest the whole world for your own, without troubling about anything else! What sort of man will be the next to come along? What will love’s ins and outs hold for you this time, or rather all the business that passes for love?

  This is happiness as a guessing game.

  Other people prefer it efficiently drawn up and guaranteed like an invoice or contract. But chance is not an enemy to me, I believe it arranges everything kindly and I walk with my eyes fixed on my lucky star. It can’t be helped, my dear, it’s the way one is born.

  At any rate, I was convinced this star would not leave me languishing and that, an excellent state to be in, every sort of happiness was my due.

  Come now, in all conscience, was I not deserving?

  Think back. I was altogether charming, if I am now adorably worse: the look in my eyes, the clearness of my brow, and as for my mouth…!

  Although I could be impetuous at times, my caresses had the touch of velvet. Although almost tall for a woman, I have a talent for making myself small, and in the corset of a man’s hands my waist is as slender as that of a child.

  I have an instinct for all that is graceful and supremely elegant. Arriving from the Touraine I awoke without transition as a Parisienne to the tips of my fingernails. A P
arisienne on top, underneath and inside, and is that not exactly what they call the art of being a woman! Without taking a single lesson, I had understood everything.

  So there was nothing left to do but make up my mind and get started!

  What happened to all of that? At the present time I am beautiful in a very different way: the beautiful Valneige whose portrait is seen in windows along every boulevard next to that of the queen of England or the Pope. But in those days, the most beautiful thing about me lay concealed within: my faith in pleasure and kisses!

  III

  To the Same

  One thing in this life of mine that I can always claim, dear friend, is that I got off to a flying start.

  Others vegetate but I reached my goal right away.

  Gaston was perfect, with his father’s fortune. It allowed him to love a woman like me, who was to be so magnificently spendthrift, and to have his own racing stable, blue cap and orange sleeves, that never brought him in a penny.

  Not for a moment did Gaston imagine I would settle for anything less than the very finest lifestyle. His self-respect would in any case not have wanted it otherwise, and my house was furnished like something out of a fairy tale.

  Between Lardissen the interior decorator, Rousset the fashion designer and Massabien the purveyor of linens, my hours were truly spun with silk and gold. And it was not merely for the pleasure of opening the windows and throwing in handfuls of the precious metal – despised only by those who don’t know how to use it – it was also with the intention of proving my superiority and my taste.

  One of the most satisfying moments for any woman is when she gives herself entirely to the task of making herself beautiful, the focus of esteem, envy, love. Throughout the organising of all this – with such amusing little details! – the old penny-pincher who hopes you will cover everything in his crocodile skins, the angelic Gérard who turned up to offer her services as a manicurist and almost immediately made herself an indispensable member of the household, the piano teacher who guarantees you a competent polka in three lessons, the man who deals in King Charles spaniels, the whole band of fakes and swindlers who want to sell you their services – I felt like a theatre director overseeing his set and his production ahead of a major premiere.

  My personal premiere took place at Auteuil, at the races.

  ‘Now that’s a pretty woman!’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘No one knows her.’

  Ah, the thrill of joy when one becomes a Paris event! To feel so much curiosity and desire circling round you. To know you are at the admiring centre of life’s greatest concentration of elegance, wealth, happiness. And to have on you too the eyes of women who know what’s what and are judging you, and of the ones who are about to be eclipsed by you and can’t help revealing their fear!

  Sitting on my chair, alone, for several minutes I drank in the giddy excitement of it all. So this was it. Paris. Here it was before my eyes, all around me, I could feel it rumble, roil, shudder in all its beauty and terror, and I was part of it.

  I shall never forget that first minute when I came into my possession and I must have looked quite radiant because when Gaston, a few moments later, came to join me as the bell rang and the noise of the crowds rose on all sides for the start of the racing, he said to me: ‘My dear, you have caused a sensation, you are marvellous, they love you.’

  ‘So, I hope you are pleased.’

  ‘And very proud to show them you are with me… ah, what a happy accident it was to leave the Jockey Club at exactly the right moment to meet you going into the Old England.’

  A little later we took a stroll through the bar; he even gave me his arm for a while. He introduced me to some of his friends, and your little Mme Aubertin found herself accepting the ovation of a really top-class field, as they liked to say then.

  I was wearing a costume in the armorial colours of the stable and there wasn’t a single person in that circle who wasn’t both titled and a notable person of influence. And it was in the course of that afternoon, as it happens, that I was christened.

  Perhaps you have wondered about the name I use, Valneige. It’s very simple: I have the honour of being named after a horse.

  Valneige! Valneige!! By happy fortune the winner of the day, the only one of Gaston’s horses that ever did anything! To commemorate such an unforgettable event and to make sure no one should remain in ignorance of it, Valneige, it was agreed, should become my nom de guerre, a very decorative name too, and without needing further persuasion, Beauty took the name of the Beast.

  That moment was certainly the happiest – on the outside – of my life. It was the honeymoon period of my launch into society, of champagne and sleepless nights.

  A cast-iron stomach, a frame that could withstand anything: I was seen everywhere, at any hour of day or night. I was the epitome of the women of whom one asks, ‘How does she do it?’ How? I simply let myself go, sustained by a burning fever worthy of the unfortunate Lady of the Camellias.

  From the very first minute there was not a single false step between Gaston and me: he knew what it was that attracted me, what I was looking for out of life, and he gave it to me, I have to say, in full knowledge and like a perfect gentleman.

  We went to all the little theatres, concerts in out-of-the-way places, all-night restaurants, cabarets in Les Halles, buffet suppers in Montmartre: I saw it all, with its attendant company of black-suited, gardenia-buttonholed types. And what Gaston particularly enjoyed was the originality of having to educate his mistress in all of this, a woman, however, who proved herself to be completely unprejudiced. He would say, laughing, that it was like being one of those newly married husbands who find great amusement in depraving their wives.

  I was an excellent pupil, my friend, believe me.

  None of which implies that I ever gave Gaston anything to reproach me for.

  I restrained myself, however impossible and pointless that may seem.

  Not that opportunities were lacking. His friends, to start with: there was a whole little collection of them to choose from. The nicest of all was Preilly, the lover of Mme de G***, a woman who wanted, it appeared, to get to know me by any means available. Preilly, I had him afterwards… why not? And I still remember how furious he was when, wishing to embrace him (embracing, my dear, please note, has nothing in common with kissing) I had the temerity to disturb his parting.

  On many evenings I received at home. One of my entertainments was even described in Le Gaulois and le Figaro.

  As for love, nothing, or almost nothing!

  But the biggest struggles I had to face were with women. You can have no idea how determined they were to make me cheat on Gaston! I used to meet frequently with several who were constantly in the public eye, the cream of the milk: Louise Martin, Mme de Darcy, Suzanne de Cologne, Mathilde de Courcelles, and then there were some of the little boulevard actresses: Rose Lafeuille with her chap, a theatre critic, Laure Chiné and her half-baked stockbroker, Jeannette Lévy with her companion Mastic. Well, all of these women, without exception, acted as stimulants, drove me on.

  I shall not even tell you the name of the woman who arrived one day bearing offers from a rich Brazilian general with a diamond-studded cigar-holder. Even the angelic Gérard, one morning when I was in the bath, tried to interest me in one of her protégés, a Belgian who wouldn’t have interfered with my life and simply wanted to be on my list.

  It would have been ridiculous to get angry at all of this, and inappropriate; I simply laughed at it and took note.

  I have always had a kind of loyalty that goes down very well in this field of activity. Although I know all there is to know about how passions operate, even then, when one finds oneself unusually well placed, I believe one should know how to behave correctly. It is a form of commercial honesty.

  In any case, why would I have wanted to cheat on Gaston?

  He was a very handsome fellow, ready for anything, and knew how to make a woman happy, sev
eral women even… I owe him that tribute, along with a little gratitude for everything that, as a man of the world, he did for me.

  Now he is married, like you, my friend, but I am sure that he too treasures happy memories of our liaison.

  It lasted several months, it could have lasted many more.

  But at this point we encounter what must be considered the flaw in my character, or if you will, the excuse for it and the best part of me.

  I had ‘arrived’, as they say, all along the line, my every need supplied, my public face that of a woman having the time of her life, thrilled by the sheer allure of it all, and yet something was missing. The further I advanced and the more material comfort I acquired, the more I became aware of an empty space inside.

  ‘What’s wrong, my dear?’ Gaston asked. ‘Several times now I seem to have caught a pensive look in your eye… are you bored…? Is there something you want?’

  ‘No, I assure you, everything is fine.’

  On another occasion he said to me: ‘I bet I know… I’ve guessed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you’ve come over all dreamy… when a woman begins to day-dream like that… come on, be open about it at least… tell me everything: it’s a crush, you’ve developed a little crush on someone… who is it?’

  I needn’t tell you he didn’t believe a word he was saying. But he was closer to the truth than he thought. I was in love… yes, I was! Only what I was in love with was love itself!

  Yes, agreed, I had everything a woman like me can wish for; some even said, more than she deserves. Nevertheless, deep down inside, I realised I was very unhappy. How could I have been so silly? Did you ever see such a creature? Well, yes, you have seen one, because everything I have just set down is true, is sincere.

  To be loved is hardly an accomplishment, it’s nothing to be all that proud of; it happens to the plainest of women and in the most surprising of ways; to love is everything. And we would be very contemptible creatures if we thought otherwise.