Jezebel

by Irene Nemirovsky

  ‘We love each other as a man and a woman,’ said Olivier quietly. ‘She is a woman, even though you may never have noticed it. And I’m not just talking about her age: she is courageous, affectionate and loyal the way a woman is. Let us take our chance to be happy. Life is so short …’

  She started, upset. ‘That’s certainly true …’

  ‘Three years … Think about it: isn’t it terrible to miss three years of happiness, three years of life?’

  ‘You must learn how to deserve happiness,’ she said flippantly. ‘Be patient. Believe me, you’ll only love each other more. I imagine this isn’t the official way to reply to a request of marriage. I never thought it would be necessary this soon; I wasn’t expecting it. Good Lord, Marie-Thérèse is still just a little girl to me. How can you not understand that? Until now, I’m the only one she’s ever loved …’

  He quickly shook his head. ‘No. Marie-Thérèse is a woman like any other, thank God. When she was a child, she loved you, of course. She had, and still has, great affection for you. But you know very well that the love of a child is nothing when true love comes along. You must have had the same experience yourself … like all men and women. So you shouldn’t be surprised that Marie-Thérèse loves me more, chooses me; if you continue to oppose our marriage, she will end up considering you an enemy.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ murmured Gladys. ‘That isn’t possible …’

  Two distinct feelings tore at her heart: she couldn’t bear the idea of being hated by Marie-Thérèse, the way she had hated her own mother. But what upset her even more was the thought that, for the first time in her life, she was standing face to face with a man who saw her only as his fiancée’s mother, the person standing in the way of his happiness.

  ‘I’m not a woman any more,’ she thought. ‘I’m just Marie-Thérèse’s mother. Me, me … Oh, I know very well that it happens to everyone. But death also happens to everyone and who thinks of death without horror? I love Marie-Thérèse, I do, with all my heart; I want her to be happy. But what about me? Me? Who will take pity on me? Of course I think I’m still young and beautiful, but I’m already old to other people, an old woman who will soon be laughed at. “She used to be beautiful,” they will all soon be saying. “So many men used to be in love with her.” And this young man …’

  She would have liked him to find her attractive. Not so she could steal him from her daughter. The very idea that Marie-Thérèse might know the desire she felt filled her with shame. She just wanted to see herself in a better light, wanted to obliterate the cruel feeling of humiliation that filled her heart, the pain of wounded pride. She would have loved to make him desire her, even for just a moment …

  ‘I only want him to look at me once with desire, no, not even that, just admiration, the way a man looks at a woman; I want him to feel flustered, not know what to say, to fantasise, like so many men before him, and then I’ll give in, I’ll let him have my daughter, I’ll agree to everything, just so long as I know and feel that I’m still a woman. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?’

  Olivier was thinking, ‘They’re all alike, these old women. They haven’t much time left to enjoy life. So they take it out on us. They may not even be aware of it, but deep down inside they’re thinking, “I have so little time left to be happy. Well then, as long as it’s within my power, I’ll steal a few years of happiness from my children.” They tell themselves they are caring, prudent, wise, experienced. In reality they’re just plain jealous. They don’t want to share life with their children. They curse life, but they intend to hang on to it for themselves, for themselves and no one else. Poor naïve souls,’ he mused with pity. He slowly unfolded his long arms, felt the wonderful power of his muscles, the fire in his blood beneath his skin. He remembered how old she was and, suddenly, felt invincible. He looked at Gladys and smiled.

  ‘You know, Madame, three years will pass very quickly, and it will be just as hard as it is now …’

  Gladys slowly brought her hand to her brow. ‘What am I doing? How could I even think of trying to seduce this young man whom Marie-Thérèse loves? How shameful …’

  ‘Go now, Olivier, I’m begging you,’ she murmured. ‘Listen, all I’m asking for is a few months, a few weeks … no time at all,’ she begged him in despair. ‘You must grant me that. I promise you, I swear to you that I’ll be good,’ she said, like a frantic child. ‘Yes. I’ll be a good old woman. Just give me one year. What do you say, one year? It’s not a lot. One year’s grace!’ she whispered. ‘Wait for one year. You’ll have your whole life to be happy, but what about me?’

  ‘You won’t prevent me from seeing Marie-Thérèse?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You won’t take her to the other end of the earth? I’m rather suspicious, you know,’ he said, forcing a laugh.

  She shook her head. ‘No, no.’

  ‘Very well then,’ he murmured with a sigh. ‘Agreed!’

  She stood up, walked to the doorway and gestured to Lily Ferrer as she passed by.

  ‘I want him to go!’ she thought, ‘I just want him to leave me alone …’

  Lily Ferrer came over, briskly fanning herself. She was wearing a yellow dress and feathers in her hair; her face was a painted mask.

  Olivier exchanged a few words with the two women and left.

  ‘He’s in love with you, darling,’ said Lily Ferrer, watching him walk away.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Gladys, shaking her head. ‘No one is in love with me any more, no one …’

  She fell silent, holding back the tears with difficulty.

  She kissed Lily. ‘I’m very fond of you, my dear …’

  She walked out of the sitting room, crossed the reception room and went out on to the terrace. George Canning was watching her.

  ‘Maybe him?’ she thought in desperation.

  She smiled at him. He lowered his head and she recognised the furtive expression of an impatient man who is intrigued by a woman, a man who thinks he’s the one who has chosen, that he’s the one who will win her over.

  They walked together down into the garden …

  9

  At the beginning of the war Gladys and her daughter were in Paris, and the Beauchamps in Switzerland. Before leaving for the front, Olivier managed to get to Paris to see Marie-Thérèse. Winter came and Gladys returned to Antibes.

  Never had the weather been so beautiful, the roses so sweet. Sans-Souci was deserted, the men servants away at war, the cars and horses requisitioned. Every day Gladys said with a sigh, ‘We have to leave … What are we doing here?’

  But she stayed on because of George Canning. She was having an affair with him; he was handsome and she liked him. She had forgotten Mark, forgotten Beauchamp, forgotten in the way only women can: with difficulty, but completely. She had even forgotten Olivier, it seemed. At the beginning of the war Marie-Thérèse had spoken to her again about getting married, but Gladys refused to discuss it. She had quickly left Paris for Deauville and by the time she returned Olivier was already at the front. She barely noticed Marie-Thérèse. She spoke to her sweetly, as she had always done, using terms of endearment, but she looked through her without actually seeing her, thinking only of Canning, herself and her own happiness. She loved her daughter; she had always loved her, but in the thoughtless, erratic way she loved everything. Her fickle affection was interspersed with long periods of indifference. She was grateful to her for no longer mentioning Olivier’s name, for not destroying the complex web of delusions without which she would not know how to go on living.

  Nevertheless, it was only in her eyes that Marie-Thérèse could still pass for a child. Marie-Thérèse had changed since autumn: she had become more mature, more womanly, slimmer, and the way she moved was softer and less rushed; her young face had lost its look of innocence and boldness; her body was softer and paler; she wore her beautiful hair tied up.

  In October Gladys received a letter from Beauchamp telling her that Olivier was dead
, killed at the front. Gladys was alone that night. She sat on the little terrace for a long time, holding the letter. It was a calm evening with not a breath of wind. Finally she got up with a sigh and went and knocked on her daughter’s door. Marie-Thérèse was in bed. Gladys walked over to her and gently stroked her hair.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘are you asleep? I saw you switch off the light as I was coming in.’

  ‘I’m not asleep,’ said Marie-Thérèse.

  She had pulled herself up on to her elbow and leaned against the pillow; she looked anxiously at her mother, pushing back the dishevelled hair that fell over her forehead.

  ‘Darling, my darling little girl, I have terribly sad news for you and I know you’ll feel so much pain that you’ll think it will never end, that you’ll never forget, but it will pass, my darling, you’ll see, it will pass. Poor dear Olivier is dead.’

  Without a word, without a tear, Marie-Thérèse grabbed the letter her mother held out to her, read it, then hid her hands beneath the sheet; she wrung her hands so violently that blood rushed to her fingernails. But she didn’t say a word; it seemed to take every ounce of her strength to hold back the words that tried desperately to escape her lips.

  ‘My darling,’ Gladys whispered with pity, ‘I can’t bear to see you looking so sad. But it will pass. I swear to you that it will pass. A woman’s first love, you know, seems so strong, but it’s forgotten so quickly. I know you think I don’t understand, that I don’t know, that I’ve forgotten such feelings, but I remember them as if it were yesterday, if you only knew … You loved him, I know. But there will be others, Marie-Thérèse. Love is not just a few kisses, a few meetings and lovely plans for the future. You’ll only know what love truly is later on, when you’re a woman, when it is too late, perhaps,’ she said with a strange little passionate but weary sigh. ‘You see, I sensed something would happen,’ she murmured sincerely. ‘I’m so happy now that I didn’t give in to your tears, your pleading. A little love affair can be forgotten. But a husband …’

  ‘Please, Mama,’ said Marie-Thérèse quietly, ‘please go away and let me be alone.’

  ‘I can’t, my darling, that would make me feel so sad. Don’t pull away like that. Cry. Listen to me. You will forget, Marie-Thérèse. You trusted me in the past. I swear to you that one day you’ll forget, do you understand?’

  She wanted to hold Marie-Thérèse’s pale, silent face close to hers; she lightly kissed her.

  ‘Look at me …’

  Marie-Thérèse looked up slowly. ‘I was Olivier’s mistress, Mama,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘What?’ whispered Gladys.

  She leaned forward and looked at her daughter’s face: with her plaits half undone, her slim neck and childlike features, she still looked so young that Gladys thought, ‘She’s lying! It isn’t possible …’

  With a sudden movement she lifted Marie-Thérèse’s nightdress over her chest; her breasts were heavy and the colour of white marble that is a sign of early pregnancy.

  ‘You poor child,’ Gladys said softly, ‘you have caused your own unhappiness.’

  ‘No,’ said Marie-Thérèse, shaking her head. ‘You’re the one who has caused my unhappiness, you and you alone. Why wouldn’t you let me marry Olivier? We were young, we loved each other, we could have been happy. Why did you do that? Why?’

  ‘I didn’t stop you from doing anything,’ cried Gladys angrily. ‘You have no right to say that to me! I asked you to wait. You were both so young!’

  ‘And we did wait,’ said Marie-Thérèse in despair, ‘we waited until death came and took him from me. We waited like good little foolish children, so that you, you could be happy, find love, feel passion, while we had to be satisfied with a few kisses, a few lovely plans for the future, as you put it! Oh, I can’t forgive myself. You were quite right to say that the young are foolish. Yes, foolish, cowardly and weak, weak when in your hands. What else could we do but wait? When the war started I begged you to let me marry Olivier. You wouldn’t even listen. You told me it wasn’t possible to allow a marriage with a boy who might soon be killed … that your duty as a mother forbade it! Ah, how pleased you were finally to have maternal duty on your side! My goodness, how sincere you were. That was when we realised we’d been duped, realised we had to seize at least a few moments of love, a little happiness. I was the one who wanted to, me,’ she said, finally letting the tears flow down her cheeks. ‘Poor dear Olivier, he took pity on me. He sensed he would never come back. And so did I,’ she whispered. ‘I kissed him but in my heart I could hear a voice saying, “He’ll never come back.” It was a voice I tried to block out, but couldn’t. So I begged him to take me, so that for one night I could sleep in his arms and be his wife, and I begged him to give me a child, because I thought, “God will want him to come back if we have a child.” But he’s dead … he’s dead … It’s all over for me now …’

  ‘When did you sleep with him?’ asked Gladys, grabbing Marie-Thérèse’s burning hot hands. ‘You haven’t seen him since last May!’

  ‘That’s what you wanted to believe. You thought I would obey you as I always have, did you? Before leaving for the front he came to Paris. He took a room at the Ritz, on the same floor as us, and I spent one night with him. At least we’ve had that,’ she said more quietly, remembering that night – so brief – the blue curtains, the early dawn light on the bed and that unforgettable sensation of rushing down into an abyss, eyes wide open …

  ‘But what are you going to do now?’ said Gladys, her voice shaking. ‘You’re not going to keep the child, are you?’

  ‘What are you saying!’

  ‘Marie-Thérèse, don’t you know … Don’t you know that you can prevent it from being born, if you want to? It’s only two months, it’s still possible, quite easy, in fact. You do understand that you cannot keep this child? Just think of the scandal. If people found out … But you understand that yourself, don’t you? Answer me; talk to me; say something. You’re not a child any more, sadly, you’re a woman, you knew what you were risking, you wanted this. Well, now you have to be brave. You must get rid of the child, all right? You must, Marie-Thérèse! Listen to me, I know a woman … Carmen Gonzales … She sells make-up but she’s also a masseuse and a midwife, and I know that … she’s done this more than once. It’s nothing, Marie-Thérèse, nothing at all. Do you remember my friend Clara Mackay? Her husband was away and she was expecting a baby and she just couldn’t have it. She went to see Carmen, in the maternity hospital where she works, near here, in Beix. The next evening she came back and no one ever knew anything. Not ever. Her husband would have killed her. For you, there will be a few moments of pain and then it will be over, this nightmare will end. Say something,’ she said, nervously grabbing hold of her bare, slim shoulders. ‘You have to do this for the child, for the child as much as for yourself. You can’t keep it, let it be born. You don’t have the right to inflict life on a child who will be poor, abandoned, unhappy and alone!’

  ‘Do you actually believe I would abandon my child?’ Marie-Thérèse said quietly. ‘Quite apart from the unspeakable crime you are suggesting, which is basically the same as smothering him with a pillow the way pregnant servants do. Do you really believe that I’d be ashamed of him, that I’d hide? How little you know me.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ shouted Gladys. ‘You think you’re a woman? You … You’re nothing but an ignorant child. How could you, you, a rich girl from a respected family, want to keep this child? Do you really think I’d allow you to raise this child? Because, in the end, I have some say in this you know.’

  ‘You have no say in it. You shouldn’t have prevented us from getting married!’

  ‘And you shouldn’t have been that boy’s mistress!’

  ‘I’ll put up with the consequences, Mama.’

  ‘You’re forgetting that you’re only nineteen, my girl. For the next two years I have absolute power over you and your future.’

  ‘Well, then, what
will you do? You can’t kill him.’

  Gladys pressed her hands to her face; they were shaking. ‘One day, you’ll fall in love with another man. You’re not going to spend your whole life mourning a lover you spent one night with, are you? What will you do then? Who will marry you with an illegitimate child? Marie-Thérèse, it’s not maternal love speaking in you. It’s too early for that. You just want revenge. You know that the idea of seeing you a mother, a woman, and doing it this way, hideously, shamefully, is unbearable to me, and that it is to punish me for having made you wait to get married that you are determined to make me suffer. Because you are making me suffer! You’ll see that later.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Marie-Thérèse, lowering her head, ‘but I’m not thinking of myself. Does it seem odd to you that it’s possible not to think about yourself? Does it? I want my child to live and be happy, and as for me, I’m not afraid of anything, I’ll put up with everything …’

  ‘You think you will. But you’ll see later on …’

  ‘Do you think I’ll become like you? Well, never, never. You talk to me so sweetly, but you only ever think of yourself … and that people might say that you, Gladys Eysenach, are old enough to have grandchildren, to be a grandmother. That’s really what you can’t bear! You can’t even hear the word without shuddering.’

  She looked at Gladys.

  ‘You will walk over to your mirror, look at your beautiful face, your blonde hair, and then you will remember that you’re a grandmother and life will no longer seem worthwhile. I know you, oh, I know you so well. If I had married Olivier and had a child with my husband, it would have caused you the same unbearable suffering. Only then you wouldn’t have dared say a word. But now there’s nothing to hold you back. And to avoid becoming a grandmother you’re prepared to murder my child.’

  ‘He isn’t alive yet,’ said Gladys quietly. ‘He isn’t suffering and that type of crime is committed every day …’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to happen to me,’ said Marie-Thérèse, sounding almost wild, thinking that the child she was defending this way, and who existed only to her, was more precious that anything else in the world.