Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  SCENE III.

  GERMAINE and NALEGE.

  GERMAINE.

  True enough, she is lovable.

  NALEGE.

  Very.

  GERMAINE.

  Isn’t she? And men don’t seem to see it. She says to me time and again:— “I am not plainer than others, nor sillier. And yet — you may not believe it — no one makes love to me.”

  NALEGE.

  And to you they do it all day long?

  GERMAINE. —

  Pooh!

  NALEGE.

  All day long.

  GERMAINE.

  No. From five to seven.

  NALEGE.

  And it amuses you to hear all their insipidities, their nonsense. It flatters you to receive the compliments of imbeciles who do not mean a single word they say.

  GERMAINE.

  Monsieur de Nalège, what have you been doing with yourself this winter?

  NALEGE.

  I, Madame? I have lived alone in my woods, with my dog, my pipe, and my gun. I have passed whole days without seeing a human countenance. Two days ago I slept in a charcoal-burner’s empty hut. I had lost myself in my own forests on a grand stormy night.

  GERMAINE.

  Just so! Such existence has left on you a trace of the wilds.

  NALEGE.

  Ah! You find me rough because I tell you that you are fond of empty compliments.

  GERMAINE.

  Not at all.

  NALEGE.

  ... and because I suspect you of being entertained by fine words which hold but little meaning. Do you believe, Madame, that you are not to be caught as others are by phrases and grimaces? Do you believe that it is so easy to detect true feeling, and to see to the depths of the heart?

  GERMAINE.

  I believe that men can see nothing in that regard, even the cleverest. A silly woman can make them believe anything she wishes. Vanity blinds them. And women are not taken in by grimaces. They can very well distinguish under compliments the feelings that inspire them.

  NALEGE.

  You are sure of that?

  GERMAINE.

  Certainly I am. We see at once with whom we have to do.

  NALEGE.

  Yes, you think, you women, that you have a mysterious gift, that you hold the divining-rod which strains towards the hidden point of love. You believe that you can tell, among all others, the one who loves you the most and the best. Women are never mistaken. They say so, and they believe it until long experience has disabused them. I knew in her old age an Italian princess, a former beauty in Milan — and in Paris, too — in the days when Frenchmen wore nankeen trousers and sang Béranger’s songs. In her declining days she would tell her tales to a grand-nephew of hers. And one day she began in these words:— “At that time I was perfectly beautiful.” The young man clicked his tongue and looked at his grand-aunt, as much as to say: “and you profited by it!” Thereupon the princess replied, with a sigh: “Well, then, if you will have it, nephew mine, I have been abominably robbed in my time.” The fact is that in these matters the women and the men proceed... I do not say by touch, for that obviously would not be such a bad way of going about it — I will not say as at blind-man’s buff, for at that people scream danger at you, but crossways through all sorts of phantasmagoria and devilments, like Don Quixote when he bestrode the good steed Chevillard to pursue the Infanta.

  GERMAINE.

  Extraordinary person that you are! You issue from your charcoal-burner’s hut to persuade me, by means of an Italian princess and Don Quixote, that a woman cannot see when someone has a feeling — a liking — for her.

  NALEGE.

  Even so. Sincere feeling, profound passion — a woman can pass them by without seeing them.

  GERMAINE.

  Oh, do not let us talk of passion. We have no notion on the subject. One does not know passion by sight — one has never seen it —

  NALEGE.

  Never?

  GERMAINE.

  Never. Passion is like a thunderstorm — it never hits the mark. Once at Grand’ Combe I was caught in a thunderstorm. I took refuge from it. The sky seemed on fire, the thunder never ceased its rumbling. The lightning split a poplar from crown to base a hundred yards from me. I was none the worse. Passion is like the thunderbolt — it is terrible, but it falls wide. A sentiment, on the other hand... a liking... a woman may inspire them — well and good — and she is aware of it.

  NALEGE.

  Madame, I will give you methodical proof to the contrary. I am a man of method. I have a scientific mind. I have applied these faculties to agriculture. The results were disastrous. But a rational method must be judged in itself and not by effects for which it is not altogether responsible. I am going to prove to you, in the most rigorous manner, that, generally, if a woman perceives that one has a liking for her, it is because that sentiment is not very pronounced, and that the stronger it is the less she will recognize it.

  GERMAINE.

  Proceed with your demonstration.

  NALEGE.

  Must we first define this... liking... of which we speak?

  GERMAINE.

  That would not help us.

  NALEGE.

  No, Madame, it would not be without use. But it would, perhaps, border on impropriety.

  GERMAINE.

  Impropriety? Why, what do you mean?

  NALEGE.

  I think a precise definition might offend your delicacy. And what I say should not cause you surprise for, in fact, when a man is sitting thus near a lady, as I am near you, and says to himself in his heart as he looks at her — thus, as I am looking at you: “Madame So-and-so is delightful,” this reflection holds... I hope it may not shock you?

  GERMAINE.

  Not at all.

  NALEGE.

  The reflection has in it the germ of an idea at the same time natural, physical, psychological, the presentation of which in all its strength and simplicity is utterly opposed to established manners. The mere reflection that “Madame So-and-so is delightful” denotes when it crosses the mind the birth of a sequence of vivid pictures, of curious feelings, and violent desires which succeed one another, multiply themselves, rush to the front, and know no pause till — which know no pause, Madame...

  GERMAINE.

  You trifle!

  NALEGE.

  No, Madame, I do not trifle. I am but establishing the groundwork of my argument. It follows from what I have just set forth that the ordinary, average, everyday man who thinks, as he sees you, “She is charming,” and who entertains the thought without ardour of sentiment, without power of reflection, without strength of soul or body, without even knowing what he thinks or whether he thinks at all, such an one may stay near you and be pleasing, endearing, ingratiating. He talks, smiles, has the will to please. He pleases. Whereas the unhappy man who, above all others, thinks that she is charming, but also feels the full force of that thought, he contains himself, conceals it, shuts it away. He is fearful lest it escape, in spite of him, in untimely turbulence, and he is uneasy. He is mute and depressed. You think he is bored, and he bores you. You say: “Poor man, he becomes rather wearisome.” And that because he is only too well aware of your grace and beauty, because he has received a mortal thrust, because he has conceived a strong and generous inclination towards you. Because, in a word, he is — as people used to say — very hard hit.

  GERMAINE.

  He is somewhat absurd, your good man.

  NALEGE.

  Certainly. He is conscious of the disproportion existing between the ideas he entertains and those he must express. He feels himself ridiculous. He becomes so. It is an absurd incongruity, a burlesque breach of manners, to think of a lady too clearly in terms of a woman. The thought may border on the tragi-comic.

  GERMAINE.

  And then —

  NALEGE.

  Then, instead of making pretty speeches and venturing oneself adroitly, one shows oneself downcast and timid. Even if
one is not so by nature, one becomes so. One gives up all attempt at saying what may only be said by overweakening its expression. One falls into a dull despondency, into a stupidity that weighs one down... [A silence.

  GERMAINE.

  ... from which one issues no more?

  NALEGE.

  From which one issues at the first charming note of the beloved voice. One gathers oneself together, one starts again... and if one happens to be a rustic and a ruminant, a solitary who has wandered dreaming in the woods with his gun, his book, and his dog, one spins wide theories, lays down systems, holds forth on the subject of love. One takes up again the thread of long demonstrations. One argues. It is a foolish business to argue in the presence of a pretty woman, but one argues. One grows dogged, and follows one line of argument with obstinacy and contentiousness... or perhaps...

  GERMAINE.

  Or perhaps...?

  NALEGE.

  Or perhaps one has a brusque change of mood. One becomes gay, trifling, flippant, indulges in pleasantry. One springs up and sits down again, looks about, interests oneself in odds and ends, says: “Here’s a pretty miniature on this box.” (He picks up a box from the table,) Who is this lady in powder — do you know?

  GERMAINE.

  It is Mademoiselle Fel.

  NALEGE (dryly).

  Ah... Mademoiselle Fel.

  GERMAINE.

  At least, I believe so. You may compare it with the pastel by Latour at St.-Quentin.

  NALEGE.

  I will not fail to do so, Madame. Thank you for having given me an interesting occupation. I will give my leisure time to it.

  GERMAINE.

  Why do you employ that tone? What is the matter?

  NALEGE.

  Nothing whatever. I proceed with my demonstration. I say, you look round, you make yourself pleasant — lumberingly pleasant — you gambol like an elephant, or perhaps... do you follow me?

  GERMAINE.

  I am with you... go on.

  NALEGE.

  You take an inward revenge. You decry with sincerity — oh, yes, sincerely... the too precious object. You look at it with the eye of a disdainful connoisseur. You say to yourself: “I see well enough... clear and pure colouring, light golden hair, pretty skin, neck and shoulders of harmonious line, rounded and supple figure.” Well, after all — is it unique? Is it rare? One knows what it is. What folly to hanker after it, what folly to suffer for it!

  GERMAINE.

  Ah! does one indeed?

  NALEGE.

  Yes, you say that, and you try to believe it. And then you pity your very self. You long for some happiness, some rest and tranquillity. You say to yourself: “Go — go and smoke your pipe in the woods, seek your horse and your dog, seek the open sky, idiot that you are. And you pick up your hat (he takes his hat) and say:— “Good day, Madame.” — [He leaves.

  SCENE IV.

  GERMAINE alone. Later, FRANÇOIS.

  GERMAINE.

  He has gone.... Pleasant journey, Monsieur de Nalege. Au revoir... good-bye... good-bye... au revoir. Who knows? A little brusque, a little queer, Monsieur de Nalege. What can one expect?... A man who sleeps out in the woods in a storm, in a charcoal-burner’s hut! Five o’clock.... A savage who, nevertheless... Ah! my letter to poor Adalbert!... (She rings) Perhaps what Cécile says is true, that Adalbert is more stupid than... his brother. But that is of no importance... oh!... none... (Enter FRANÇOIS). That is for the post.... If anyone calls, I am not at home. (FRANÇOIS gives her a card, which she reads.) Jacques Chambry... Show him in.

  SCENE V.

  GERMAINE, JACQUES CHAMBRY. GERMAINE.

  It is quite by chance that you find me at home. Usually I do not return home so early.

  CHAMBRY.

  By chance? Rather by good luck... such a pleasure.

  GERMAINE.

  And a somewhat rare pleasure, for you do not often indulge in it. For instance, yesterday, at the play, you did not come to see me in my box. You denied yourself that pleasure.

  CHAMBRY.

  I did not dare.... Positively did not dare.

  In your box I perceived dragons, ogres, ogresses, dwarfs — it was terrifying.

  GERMAINE.

  What do you mean, dragons and ogres? CHAMBRY.

  A fairy’s bodyguard; quite as it should be. But I shuddered. Behind you was counsel in the person of Billaine, rolling his great eyes; Colonel Herpin, weeping behind your back; and Baron Michiels, sleeping. He was the dwarf. He was quite appalling. —

  GERMAINE.

  The play was charming. Did you not think so? CHAMBRY.

  Oh, yes. Boring — yes, very boring.

  GERMAINE.

  But no, I assure you — delightful, charming. CHAMBRY.

  Charming? Possibly. I only saw one act... GERMAINE.

  Come, come — you stayed in the beautiful Madame Desenne’s box all the time. There were no dwarfs, or ogres, or dragons in her box. There was only Desenne, who is deaf, and little Malcy, who is dumb. You were quite happy there.

  CHAMBRY.

  Very, Madame. I could see you all the time.

  GERMAINE.

  From afar.

  CHAMBRY.

  From afar, but in duplicate. I saw you full face and in profile at the same time. You were reflected in profile in the mirror of the stage-box — showing the nape of your neck. And it is not always that the nape of the neck is pretty. Nay, it is very rare. I have seen but five so far...

  GERMAINE.

  You are a collector?

  CAMBRY.

  In so far as I have a correct eye and know how to use it. Do not laugh. It isn’t everyone who has the faculty. I know people who have loved a woman for months, years... three years... four years...

  GERMAINE.

  Four years — ?

  CHAMBRY.

  If that frightens you, say eighteen months — two years... men who have adored a woman for years, who have loved her... in every way... and who do not even know if she is well made, or what are her good and what her second-rate points. They are not aware of these things, and they never will be. They lack the trained eye, and that is irreparable. On people like that exquisite things are lost. People whose eyes are unable to read a woman constitute the great majority. I can give you an example. You know Thouvenin, old Thouvenin of the Congo Railway. You know that he has lived for years with Mercédès, the dancer...

  GERMAINE.

  No — I know nothing whatever about it.

  CHAMBRY.

  Anyhow, it is so. Well, one day last week I came across Thouvenin in a very well-known house. But not of your world. He was in the drawing-room, turning over an album filled with portraits of young ladies, whose only costumes were their ear-rings and their rings. I was looking over his shoulder. All at once I caught sight of a slight, slender brunette, who possessing no veil but her fan was, with very proper feeling, hiding her eyes with it. I said to Thouvenin: “There is Mercédès.” Staggered, he exclaimed:— “Where?”

  “There, Monsieur Thouvenin, there in the book of specimens. “Impossible — what makes you think so?”— “Everything.”

  “Nothing that I can see.

  How do you expect one to recognize her?” And pray observe that Thouvenin is parting with 15,000 francs a month for the possession of charms that he fails to recognize when he can’t see the tip of her nose. The moral of this story...

  GERMAINE.

  Oh — there is a moral?

  CHAMBRY.

  And you shall unravel it yourself.

  GERMAINE.

  I? I do not even know what you have been saying. I was not listening.

  CHAMBRY.

  Listen, at least, to the moral.... It is melancholy to have to tell oneself one is pretty; but there are few connoisseurs, very few.

  GERMAINE.

  So you have merely a vague idea of this play we saw... together. That is a pity. It was interesting.

  CHAMBRY.

  But I have already told you, I
only looked at you. You will never know how charming you looked last night.

  GERMAINE.

  Describe me, then, describe me. I am certain that you do not even know the colour of my gown.

  CHAMBRY.

  Your gown... the colour...? (After a while) Blue.

  GERMAINE.

  What a pity that you were unable to see yourself as you replied “Blue”! You were like this: (she imitates him). Wandering eyes, puckered brow, arm outstretched, with fingers feeling in the air like a small boy drawing a number out of a bag.

  CHAMBRY.

  Well?

  GERMAINE.

  Well, you have won.

  CHAMBRY.

  And that blue gown suited you to perfection.

  GERMAINE.

  Oh, you thought so? As it happened, an old friend who was in my box said to me: “That dress does not suit you at all. You are a hundredfold prettier in pink than in blue.” And I confess, Monsieur Chambry, I was touched and flattered by this remark because I believed it to be the truth, because I felt its sincerity and that it betokened a real desire to see me to my advantage.

  CHAMBRY.

  It was the dwarf who told you that?

  GERMAINE.

  The dwarf?

  CHAMBRY.

  Yes, Baron Michiels. He affects a rough outspokenness with you. He subjugates you by his calm assurance in judging your frocks. Well, he is colour-blind. He cannot tell red from green. One day in a sale room I found him in ecstasy over some cherries by Madeleine Lemaire. He thought they were plums. Just imagine, then, how this gnome must appreciate the rose of your cheek, which melts so imperceptibly into the soft white of your throat...

  GERMAINE.

  Poor Monsieur Michiels! He is such a good friend. So devoted.

  CHAMBRY.

  Do not believe it. He is sulky, and evilly disposed, that is all. What advantage can you see in surrounding yourself with a bodyguard borrowed from the Law Courts, the Stock Exchange, and the Army, which watches over you with a vigilance at once fierce and grotesque? You are never to be found alone.