Marie

by Madeleine Bourdouxhe

  The room is small, the wallpaper decorated with minute stylised flowers, very close together. The table is covered in books and coursework and some wooden skis are propped up against the wardrobe, their curved ends standing away from it. An open folding screen reveals a washbasin, and a light raincoat hangs from a peg on a coat stand. There is a print of a Rouault painting: pinkish tones which brighten and soften on the face of a very human-looking Christ. And a Degas, with a strangely green ballet dancer. A low bed is covered in cretonne, the same material that covers each side of the window. Marie’s eyes travel from one object to another, loving every one.

  They ate so early that they are hungry again. From a shelf in the wardrobe he takes some bread, butter and apples, and they sit next to each other, eating amongst the books. Something primitive flows alongside the blood in Marie’s veins: she experiences a special womanly joy at cutting bread for him and buttering it.

  They talk a little more. When Marie stands up, very near the table where she has put down an exercise book he is showing her, he suddenly takes her in his arms, and they begin to talk like two people who have just greeted each other.

  THEY ARE STRETCHED OUT across the bed next to each other. Marie, her head thrown back, sees yet another Degas print: a circle of short tulle skirts on a bench, with heads looking down at satin slippers. She looks around her again. How light and peaceful this room is! No doubt other women have come here, and others would come after …

  All at once Marie encircles his knees with her leg like a she-animal and throws herself across his body as if to defend it from another. Jealous she-animal, the primitive blood in her veins … She quickly rejects this shameful emotion, for it threatens to overshadow the only thing that really matters: that he is here, she is here, and today is today.

  He is lying on his back and she is curled up against him. Her hands are beneath his arms and she is holding him by the shoulders. His arms are around her, hands clasped in the small of her back. They lie in this embrace for a long time, letting the tenderness well up inside.

  MUCH LATER, after the lights in the room have gone out, they are lying some way apart from each other. In the middle of the space that separates them, the left hand of one and the right hand of the other meet. Perhaps they are asleep. The lights in the road outside project the outline of the venetian blinds on to the walls in long golden stripes. The silence in this room is absolute; and outside, too, apart from the far-off whistle of a fast train to Paris. A train that does not contain Marie …

  One hand has moved, clasping the other more tightly to show that he wasn’t asleep. Marie’s eyes shine brightly in the darkness. Her gaze loses itself in the bright outlines of the room, and she dreams, almost to the point of sleep. He is beside me. He who is so like me, strong and silent. And I am still myself, more than ever myself. Those broad stripes of light: they stretch up to the ceiling and on to the walls, almost in the shape of a chapel … Saint Marie of Solitude. Our Lady has found her heart, her fine, hard heart that no blade can pierce. Her heart is so big that it needs to be protected by broad, high, golden gates, in the shape of a chapel …

  Marie has closed her eyes. Their hands have slipped apart and, with a light sigh of happiness, their bodies join up again in a double circle of arms.

  At last they sleep. But when the pale light of dawn replaces the stripes of light, they want to make love again, for a long time, right up to the moment when they get up and prepare to leave.

  Standing in front of the window Marie discovers what she is about to leave behind. On the avenue, almost opposite the window, stands a triumphal arch with three gates supporting a number of heavy stone ornaments. At the very top of her sightline she sees shields, armour and frozen banners and, on the haut-reliefs, horses standing high amongst brandished arms and helmeted warriors. On top of the old facades, granite balconies display coats of arms emblazoned with weapons, fleurs-de-lis, ducal crowns, and sculpted vases with heavy stone foliage held up by cupids. The view extends further: two cathedral spires rise above the houses and, over the rooftops all around the town, soft brown hills climb towards the sky.

  She turns away from the window and he says softly: ‘Are you ready? Perhaps we could find time to have breakfast before your train leaves …’

  She moves closer to him; he holds her by the shoulders and looks at her for a moment. On the lapel of his jacket she sees the little metal badge shining close to her eyes. She puts her hand on it and rests her head on the lapel, concealing her quivering face in the crook of his shoulder. At last she finds the strength to raise her head and they look at each other again.

  ‘You have such beautiful eyes …’

  So soft was the voice, like a whispering from mouth to mouth, that it could have come from either of them.

  Outside, in the freezing air of the avenue, they walk along with their customary brisk step in their customary silence, their expressions once more impassive and hard. In the light of morning, the town is whiter, calmer, even more proudly handsome than the night before. As they cross a square, some purple pigeons fly up. There is still snow on the clipped trees. Marie looks at the trees: with their naked branches, so tightly interwoven, it’s hard to know whether they are elms, hornbeams or limes. When they sprout leaves, perhaps she will be able to tell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THEY HAD ALREADY PARTED; the platform was full of noise and movement. It was easy to distinguish between those who were embarking on a big journey and those who were only waiting for trains to outlying districts, and you could tell whether they were sad or happy and what work they did – you could read something of their lives on their faces.

  But these two made no sign at all, and nothing in their demeanour recalled the hours they had just spent together: you would have said that they had no future.

  The train has arrived, an attendant has called out. Their hands barely touched, and to see them you would not know whether they were greeting each other or separating. The doors closed, and he retreated along the platform, with his big calm gait. You couldn’t see his face, you didn’t know what he was thinking.

  Marie stayed for a moment in the shadow of the corridor, standing very straight, teeth clenched. Behind the window, everything unfurled backwards: the great iron viaduct, the road that followed the track, the houses and gardens, the canal.

  She sits in a third-class compartment and the minutes go by, merging into one. As they pass through the reality of landscapes and villages, the distance increases according to the relentless rhythm of the wheels. It’s already snowing on the russet-coloured fields, and over there, far away, lies the handsome town, a little to the right or a little to the left, fixed in its circle of rolling hills. A small island of reality in the bigger reality of the world.

  On the seat opposite a child, waking too quickly, rubs his eyes and whimpers. A woman is endlessly searching for something in a big leather bag. A soldier sleeps, legs stretched out: in a movement beyond his control, his hand supports his head, then abandons it, then returns to support it once again. A young girl is eating an orange. Marie is sitting in the corner near the window, hands crossed, head leaning on the wood of the compartment. Her clothes and her whole body retain the smell of love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘OH NO, NOT MILK! I can’t bear any more milk! What I’d really like is an orange juice …’

  Marie put the warm milk down on the table and began to squeeze some fruit.

  Claudine was still very pale but her eyes were clearer.

  ‘One sugar, two sugars, ten sugars, fifty sugars?’

  Laughing loudly, Claudine replied: ‘Not even one, I’m too thirsty!’

  She drank it down like a child, then handed the empty glass back to Marie.

  ‘That was delicious; I’m so glad you’ve come back.’ Sitting up straighter against her pillow she tapped the edge of the bed. ‘Come and sit down, close to me,’ she said.

  Taking Marie’s hands in hers, as she always did, she looked
at her: ‘What is that I see in your eyes?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Claudine seemed worried, almost sad, and tried to explain herself: ‘There’s a sort of light there; I don’t know what it is … It’s in your walk and in your gestures as well. Almost as if you had come into bloom. And yet you don’t look any older, far from it.’

  A big, calm, sweet smile spread over Marie’s face as Claudine repeated flatly: ‘I don’t know what it can be.’

  Moving closer to her sister she reached out, her hands nearly grabbing Marie’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, what have you been doing? Where have you been?’

  Marie went on smiling. She stroked Claudine’s hair with both hands, each side of the pathetic, doll-like face. But Claudine went on talking, her lips almost touching

  Marie’s face, her miserable mouth and her feverish breath saying: ‘Tell me, so that I can do the same thing as you …’

  In a movement that was too abrupt for Claudine’s invalid arms, Marie got up.

  She stands by the bed, her smile suddenly dead, and looks at Claudine.

  ‘You know how much I need you, Marie; you mustn’t go off on your own.’

  ‘But I am here again now, I’ve come back.’

  ‘No, Marie, you haven’t come back.’

  Stretching her hands out again she takes refuge in Marie’s arms and begins to weep softly.

  ‘Come back, Marie, and tell me about it …’

  ‘I have nothing to tell. Life isn’t a story to be told like that. At the very most it might be something that could be shown …’

  ‘But if my eyes don’t see?’

  ‘You only see what you can understand. And you only understand what you love. First you have to give yourself, commit, then you’ll receive something in exchange. But you, you’re always waiting, waiting for something to turn up. You don’t know what it’s called, it’s just a vague sort of happiness which might come to you suddenly and overwhelm you. And because nothing turned up, you got desperate and decided you wanted to die. But everything was there waiting for you. It’s up to you to love, up to you to live. Making the most of life is making the most of yourself …’

  Marie was probably only speaking for herself – this was not something that Claudine could understand. But Claudine became calmer as she leaned against her sister’s breast. Words and flesh full of light and heat, enveloping her … She was being healed by her contact with Marie’s passionate peace.

  Marie held her against her, then put her to bed, pulling the blankets up high so she wouldn’t feel the cold.

  ‘When are you going back to Maubeuge?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And you’ll come and see me tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN MARIE LEFT she went to the home of a pupil who was expecting her, and worked with him until midday. Her next class didn’t start till three, so she had a long moment of freedom ahead of her.

  ONE HOUR AMONGST OTHERS. All hours are precious, but the value of this one comes from the fact that she is spending it alone. At this moment any other known presence would disturb her.

  It isn’t cold, but neither is there any winter sun. The air is colourless: there is nothing to brighten the streets or make them sad, and the houses retain the hue of the stones they are made of. Everything presents itself just as it is. Marie walks slowly, with an easy step. Calm, pensive and alone, she considers the faces that are in her heart.

  Jean: how much has changed in the tender halo that emanates from your face! I realise that there is no god on high to protect the love between a woman and her husband: no word has even been invented to describe it. Friendship, tenderness, love, passion, desire – none of them are suitable, they all signify something else, so I will leave unnamed the human, only human feelings which occupy that place in my heart. So many things have changed and yet so many have remained the same, truer perhaps than the ones that went before, and more alive than ever. I do know that today, on this day, I desire you less, but that may simply be a stage in the love I have for you. I know, too, that I will never cease to love you. And I know that if you asked me to, I would follow you to the end of the world.

  Claudine: my sad sister – her face, how it worries me! And yet it stays in my heart. I shall go back to see her tonight, then tomorrow I shall go to Maubeuge. You don’t find freedom by giving people up: freedom comes from the very core of what you did not forsake. Departures and arrivals, and then fresh departures … When I leave, it isn’t to run away, it’s to move towards something else.

  And you, that other face, so young, so tough, so distant: your beautiful smooth face leaning over me, your eyelids with their long lashes on which I have placed my lips, the hair that I have caressed with my hands. Are you the face of love? A question I don’t need to answer – one feels one’s emotions, one doesn’t have to explain them in words.

  You are a long way away from me, and I accept that painful distance. I do not know exactly in what way you love me. Don’t tell me. Spare me your life, keep it to yourself: you have the right to do so. And if you did not have that right, you would need to acquire it. As for me – I love you, but I shan’t tell you so, I shall say it to myself. Why should I curb it when I feel it so powerfully? I love you. I might love you for a short time, I might love you forever – no one knows.

  In love, neither perfection nor eternity is predetermined. Love operates according to the pulse of time, just like everything else that lives. It asserts itself or disintegrates, it goes into decline, recovers its strength. If it’s alive, then it can die – and that is beautiful in itself. Nothing can ever be important or have the power to move unless it contains within itself the possibility of death. Struggles and safeguards, combined struggles of the heart and the flesh; the success or failure of any one hour in relation to the one that came before it; taking risks, moving forward step by step.

  Does an eternal, perfect love have perpetual beauty? Does a love that dies have tragic beauty? Does a newborn love have blinding beauty? For me, a different kind of beauty is preferable to all of those – a beauty that is neither perpetual nor tragic nor blinding, but heavy, difficult and real. It’s the beauty of love not at the moment of birth or of death but at the moment of life.

  I am at a stage when I love you, the handsome face that I see in my heart. Will I see you again? Trains, trains and more trains: steel tracks will shine in my life like star points. After every encounter we must part without tears and without saying goodbye. We must part without promises and without clasped hands, because our love is a living thing.

  All those faces I see in my heart …

  Is that all, or is there something else? A big, anonymous, living face that even the most ardent of my other loves can no longer eclipse, composed of a quantity of people, of things, of gestures, of landscapes – the great face of the world, marked by joy and suffering, by blessings and miseries. Most of all, on that beloved face, nothing changes: everything is so beautiful just as it is.

  These reflections brought Marie to a halt. She stood stock still on the corner of a Paris street, with dreamy eyes and a broad smile.

  In the road two workmen were setting up the boundaries of a zebra crossing; they worked bent over the ground, which was giving off a strong smell of bitumen. One of them looked up and asked her: ‘What is it, my lovely; are you laughing at the angels?’

  He bent over the ground again and Marie responded, to herself rather than to him: ‘Actually I’m smiling at you.’

  Just as she smiled at all the gentle people who passed: at two children who lingered to look at her, satchels under their arms; at a woman in a hurry; at a young soldier who had no desire for victory of any kind: at all these gentle people touched by the simple grace of being alive.

  TRANSLATOR’S AFTERWORD

  WHEN MARIE WAS PUBLISHED in French in 1943, it was entitled A la Recherche de Marie: at its heart lies the sensuous fusion of immediate experience and recovered
memory so effectively captured by Marcel Proust, a writer whom Madeleine Bourdouxhe much admired. For today’s feminist readers, familiar with a European tradition, its single-minded exploration of a woman’s psyche may carry additional echoes: of Virginia Woolf or Jean Rhys, or of Marguerite Duras. And despite that formal homage to A la Recherche du temps perdu, the writing of Madeleine Bourdouxhe is so distinctive as to make one continually wary of placing her within any literary tradition, even a modernist one.

  This startling singularity, combined with political circumstance and a certain authorial diffidence, explains almost half a century of neglect. Marie is the third of Bourdouxhe’s works to be translated into English. She began to be reprinted in France and Belgium in the mid-1980s. A volume of short stories, A Nail, a Rose, first appeared in English in 1989, followed by the novella, La Femme de Gilles, in 1992 (republished by Daunt Books in 2015). She died in April 1996, five months before her ninetieth birthday.

  The resurgence of interest in her work brought her some gratification but no great surprise. In my conversations with her, which began in 1988 when I was translating the short stories, I came to realise that she had always retained a sense of her literary value. In her own highly developed private world she was sure of her identity as a professional author. She had never stopped writing, but she was not greatly concerned about widespread recognition, knowing that her main literary engagement must be with her own fictional creations rather than with publishers or even readers.

  Although my questions were answered with great warmth and politeness, Bourdouxhe was never forthcoming about her life, reserving the right to disdain almost all connection between it and her work: ‘That is what writers do – they invent.’ Of A la Recherche de Marie, she said only that the chief similarity between herself and Marie was that ‘we were both married women’.