Chasing the Dream
Page 13
This silence, this holy place, these walls whose very stones gave the lie to my existence; and then this body, this little body lying there, hands together beneath his shroud. I shivered uncontrollably.
But almost at the same time, a sense of the immense significance of what I had been permitted to do came over me and comforted me.
Tears poured from my eyes, such tears! They flowed as they can never have flowed before at any shrine or beside the body of any loved one. And there, hands shaking, still on my knees, I understood what it meant to know infinite grief.
It is atrocious and it is delicious. How small one feels, how unimportant, as when a storm, breaking over your head, obliterates you entirely!
Pray! Yes, I would have liked to pray, as one does in a shipwreck. But every time I directed my thoughts on high, they slid back to the one who slept down here, over whom I was keeping watch.
So this is what had come to pass: the dream I had cherished all my life ended beside a coffin; the words I had guarded so long in the closeness of my heart were never to be more than an echo in a funeral vault; the secrets that had burned like fires inside me were to be told to a corpse. Yes, I spoke my thoughts out loud, I called to him, I implored him.
‘My Paul…! My beloved…! My only love…! My lost darling…! My child! Yes, my child, for I have loved you with every sort of love, as a mother, as a sister, as a lover. This is the end, then, the end; can it be possible? When you take away your life you take away mine as well, and it is to you, the dead you, that the cry rises from my heart: I love you.’
“I love you”: imagine saying that in a church, with God right beside you! You must agree, my dear friend, at least it wasn’t commonplace.
Now that I am writing these things down, it reminds me of something out of a play by de Musset. But at the time, I had no thought for anything except him and me, the two of us and our poor love.
And around that catafalque, merging into the indeterminate shadows, my thoughts seemed to dance in a ring like ghosts!
I saw him again that day when, with a corner of blue sky above and tender April air all around, he made his burning declaration of love. I remembered my initial transports of rapture at knowing a love so long sought and finally found, and I closed my eyes so as not to see the ruins of all these joys.
But suddenly I heard a slight noise somewhere near me.
I listened, the blood pulsing in my ears and horrible poundings in my heart. What was that? Good God! – Nothing, my dear, no, it was nothing, just one of the candles sputtering.
Yes, yes, the candles were slowly burning down, and their smell now was acrid, pervasive, disturbing. And I realised that the long hours of this night must have passed.
Perhaps it was daylight outside, and the moment for the last farewell had come.
Already! Time to go already! And to leave him, leave behind me the best thing in my life! All the same, I stood up, broken, as if dead, as if I had died in my turn.
But alas, we sometimes have more strength than is good for us: I did not move away, I stood there, for a long time, a very long time, my eyes fixed on the white cross that stood out against the funeral drapery, caught in the candles’ last gleams.
Finally, retreating backwards, my arms reaching out to the one who lay at rest, I found myself close to the door of the crypt. Across the space separating us I sent the last kiss, the kiss he would take with him into the ground, passionate, despairing, made of fire and tears; then, slipping away like a shadow, I left him.
Oh, happiness, elusive phantom! Others, who deserved it less, have been happy.
I, though, have never managed it and the setting for my first night of love was a tomb.
XXVIII
To the Same
And now, my dearest Jean, it is finished. This is the point at which our correspondence ends. I thank you for having made it possible.
I have re-opened for you, at length, these wounds, and you may see that all the later pages seem to be by a different woman from the one who began by telling you some of her stories. So now you know my full history, my whole life to the present day, and I have nothing left to tell you.
Now that you know this past, full of wishes that proved futile and hopes that proved deceptive, do you understand why I am not the joyful Josiane you were expecting to find? And what will the future be?
Oh, dear Jean! All this is not encouraging; and what a lesson to send to those women who believe they have only to stretch out a hand and happiness is there for the taking!
And therefore, for me, the matter is settled. I no longer wish for anything, I shall no longer look for anything, I no longer believe! The days will pass as they may, and the hours however it suits them!
Unless…
Yes, I pause, and here, unsolicited, a thought goes through my mind: unless, disenchanted and battered as I may be, all at once, one day, the thing inside me flowers again, and at the moment when I am least thinking about it, and in spite of myself, I begin again and throw myself once more into the pursuit of the impossible happiness…
And deep down, would you like me to tell you? Would you like to know what I really think, the secret truth?
I am still waiting, still hoping for that day to come. It makes no difference, telling myself I have failed, I have suffered too much. Yes, I will begin again, an irresistible force drives me to hope, in spite of everything, and eternally. In all truth, what better purpose can life have than this search for happiness and love? Nothing here on earth is worth more than a kiss.
Dedalus Celebrating Women’s Literature 2018–2028
In 2018 Dedalus began celebrating the centenary of women getting the vote in the UK with a programme of women’s fiction. In 1918, Parliament passed an act granting the vote to women over the age of 30 who were householders, the wives of householders, occupiers of property with an annual rent of £5 or graduates of British universities. About 8.4 million women gained the vote. It was a big step forward but it was not until the Equal Franchise Act of 1928 that women over 21 were able to vote and women finally achieved the same voting rights as men. This act increased the number of women eligible to vote to 15 million. Dedalus’ aim is to publish 6 titles each year, most of which will be translations from other European languages, for the next 10 years as we commemorate this important milestone.
Titles published so far:
The Prepper Room by Karen Duve
Take Six: Six Portuguese Women Writers edited by Margaret Jull Costa
Slav Sisters: The Dedalus Book of Russian Women’s Literature edited by Natasha Perova
Baltic Belles: The Dedalus Book of Estonian Women’s Literature edited by Elle-Mari Talivee
The Madwoman of Serrano by Dina Salústio
Cleopatra goes to Prison by Claudia Durastanti
The Price of Dreams by Margherita Giacobino
Primordial Soup by Christine Leunens
The Girl from the Sea and other Stories by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
The Medusa Child by Sylvie Germain
Venice Noir by Isabella Panfido
Chasing the Dream by Liane de Pougy
A Woman’s Affair by Liane de Pougy
Forthcoming titles include:
Baltic Belles: The Dedalus Book of Latvian Women’s Literature edited by Eva Eglaja
Fair Trade Heroin by Rachael McGill
Co-Wives, Co-Widows by Adrienne Yabouza
Catalogue of a Private Life by Najwa Binshatwan
Eddo’s Souls by Stella Gaitano
For further information please contact Dedalus at
info@dedalusbooks.com
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First published in France as L’insaisissable in 1898
First published by Dedalus in 2021
Translation copyright © Graham Anderson 2021
The right of Graham Anderson to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Printed & bound in the UK by Clays Elcograf S.p.A
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