I too have my temptations regarding you, and I am torn between them: the temptation to point you towards God, as one takes a dog by the collar and points it: 'Fool, that's where it got up', and the temptation to abandon you to your nothingness - which you will feel at last when I am no longer there.
Believe me. Mademoiselle, yours sincerely,
Costals
I must remind you that I am not a believer ... If I looked for God, I should find myself.
I reopen my letter to add this. I make no secret of the fact that last night, when I wrote the above, I intended to abandon you. You had let me down. But the other alternative remains. I shall have pity on you next Saturday at six o'clock in the evening; and I specify this hour because I shall be with someone from whom I can draw this power of pity. But beware - I shall have pity on you in a certain way, and in a particular direction. And you have no idea of the mysteries of pity. I know all about them.
to Pierre Costals
Paris
Andrée Hacquebaut
Saint-Léonard
1 June 1927
'Another endless letter! The girl must be mad! God, how mad the girl is! And how right Ecclesiastes (or Solomon) is when he speaks of the misfortune of falling into the dreams of an ardent woman!' That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Well, no, for once I'm not going to bore you this morning. I feel a little better.
Why do I feel better? I have the impression that in my last few letters I've rambled a good deal, and that now I see the situation more clearly for what it really is. First of all because I went to the hairdresser two days ago, which means that my hair now looks nice (it takes at least that long!), and looking at myself in the mirror with the thought that these horrible days must have added ten years to my age, I find my face more or less the same (indeed it's unbelievable how often I've been told since my trip to Paris how young and smart I look). And then because the weather has become overcast, there's no longer that intoxication of summer that seemed to mock my suffering - today's weather is like autumn, and next autumn, for me, will be different: I shall have other clothes than those in which I've suffered so much ... a kind of superstition. ... Hope has hoisted sail once more. Would you ever have thought that dull, grey weather could bring the promise of happiness?
Hope ... promise.... That pact of hope constantly renewed with myself! That perpetual waiting! For four years now I've waited for a sign from you. I've given you everything, and had nothing in return. You haven't kissed me once in four years. If I were dead, would you give me a kiss at last? Why, oh! why, since it would cost you so little to leave me at least one souvenir which I passionately desire, when you have hundreds of such souvenirs and I shall never have another in the whole of my arid life? For one spontaneous kiss from you I would have given ten years of your friendship without a moment's hesitation.
There's an anomaly in your attitude: you love and yet you give nothing. When one loves, one gives; it's a natural impulse. Your motto seems to be: 'Avoid giving at all costs.' It's so abnormal that I might be tempted to believe that you do not love me. But there's no question that you love me; I should have to be very blind not to have noticed it: women have an infallible instinct in these matters.
You tell me you do not love me. You try as hard as you can to persuade yourself of it. If I knew that you didn't love me, if I was certain that making love to me would be a penance for you, then I would give up of my own free will, for I'm too proud ever to beg for anyone's love. But there it is. I'm certain that the opposite is the case. I know that, without having a devouring passion for me, you love me all the same. Was I dreaming when I read the tenderness in your eyes? Did I dream that the idea of our marrying crossed your mind when we visited the flat in the rue Quentin-Bauchart? Did I dream that you held my hand in yours on the 16th of May last year, that you held my arm and pressed close to me as we walked that day in the square des Etats-Unis, that you confided in me that same day, poured out your heart to me (about your regrets at not being a father)? Did I dream that once, when you were late for an appointment with me and I asked you why, you replied: 'Ask me rather why I came at all!' Do you know what made me aware of your affection? In May 1926, our legs touched in a taxi, and at once you drew yours away, sharply. I realized then that you loved me with your soul. 'The woman one does not enjoy is the woman one loves.' (Baudelaire)
If you are so sure that you do not love me, kissing me would be like kissing a stone. Why, then, do you resist so vehemently? Why don't you invite me to your house any more? Why don't you take me somewhere where we could dance and drink champagne? Then we would see what happened. It really is too stupid of you to pretend that you don't desire me, when you do everything in your power to exorcize this desire.
For four years, in your company, I have felt overwhelmed by your shyness. You want to make an advance, but you dare not. With women whom you don't love with your soul, you can dare all right. With me, you lose your head. Perhaps, too, you think me frigid! It was delightful for a time, but it has gone on too long. It's too absurd to be afraid of me.
If I were to take you at your word, if - however improbable it may seem - you did not want my love, there would be only one way of breaking it off, and that would be to convince me that you do not love me. But you couldn't because you do love me. You see what an inextricable jungle-growth you've got yourself entangled in! Inextricable for you - though a child of two could get out of it. You make me smile, you know. It just shows that a person of genius can be at the same time an idiot. Nothing could be more ludicrous than your attitude towards me - always on the defensive.... You poor, poor child!
Do, please, let yourself go at last. You hold yourself back, and you suffer from doing so. Is this wise? How can you allow the light I kindled in you to fade? How can you return to your barren, loveless solitude, when salvation is there, close by, with its naked arms outstretched, and its fresh face, and all the deep-down things inviolate? Never again will you find a woman like me. Never again will God hold out his hand to you.
Yours,
Andrée
P.S. My friend Raymonde has just left. I have always kept her informed - in a general way - about our liaison. She asked me how things stood. When I told her there was nothing new, she exclaimed: 'Don't you realize that he couldn't care two hoots about you?' When I explained to her that your reserve was a proof of your love, she laughed in my face. I'm ashamed of being a woman when I see women as coarse as that. However, I would like you to authorize me to write to her - after a suitable lapse of time - and tell her that at last you have made me yours. Thus I shall feel more at ease when I speak to her again. Yes, authorize me to say, not only to Raymonde but to one or two other reliable friends: 'Costals is my lover.' You would be giving me the shadow of that happiness of which you refuse me the substance. And after all, you owe me that much at least.
This letter remained unanswered.
to Pierre Costals
Paris
Thérèse Pantevin
La Vallée Maurienne
Sunday
Yesterday, Saturday, at the hour when you were having pity on me - six o'clock - I was seized with violent palpitations. The Angelus went, and I knew then, by an inspiration from you, that those who were ringing it were among the 'false innocents', that they were the Gentiles preparing to go through the pretence of celebrating Corpus Christi tomorrow with lying pomp, and I was horrified by the noise of the bell. I was seized with a violent shuddering - my body quivered like the withers of a horse - and fierce stirrings of the bowels. Then I gave a loud shepherd's cry - they must have heard it as far as Noison's. I began to groan, and lay down prostrate on the floor with my arms outstretched; I felt it was the only place where I would be at ease. I shook my head from side to side, as though dazed and befuddled by the state I was in. Meanwhile, as soon as I had prostrated myself, little Marcel (my sister's child, he's two) began to cry so loud that they couldn't pacify him, so I had to sit up and fondle him. Then I lay back on the floor, whi
ch made the child start crying again. I took him on top of me, and he stayed there quietly. But I went on groaning, I felt my bowels stirring, I said all sorts of things, about the spirit of Babylon, you, our marriage, 'Sigara, who is the symbol of thirst', Lucifer, 'created in rejoicing'. I pressed little Marcel against my breast, against my face, between my legs, I kissed him over and over again, he splashed about in me, he was our son, I was drunk with child. Mamma wondered if they ought to call the priest, but Barbiat said no. So then Mamma got the missal and read the prayers of the Mass, the Te Deum and the Magnificat. After a time Barbiat took little Marcel away from me. Then I began punching myself repeatedly and violently on both breasts at once, and that relieved me a little. I was still talking, but I can't remember anything I said. I hid in a corner. I crawled about on my knees. I clapped my hands. I asked Barbiat to breathe on me, which he did, and then the same thing with Mamma. All the time I was crying to myself and moaning: 'Ah, I'm dying.' I must have looked frightful (it's a pity you can't see how ugly I am). Eventually, when I had suffered enough, I told Barbiat to beat my breasts with a bundle of firewood. He did so, very hard, and I was delivered.
My beloved, I can say no more. Let me know when you have another great pity on me. Oh, how I long for it! But not for a few days - it's too shattering for me.
Marie
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The Girls Page 19