Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  GERMAINE.

  It appears to me that at this moment...

  CHAMBRY.

  Ah, once in a way — in your drawing-room, with doors. It is all doors, this room.

  GERMAINE.

  There are four. It is like every other drawingroom. Surely you do not imagine...

  CHAMBRY.

  Lord! yes — I do imagine...

  GERMAINE.

  I am ignorant of your ideas on furnishing. I like airy rooms, bright, and with simple lines and plenty of space.

  CHAMBRY

  (rises, and examines first the things on a table, next in a glass-fronted cupboard, then on a side table). You have taste, you have a feeling for art, it is true. You may believe me. I understand the matter.

  GERMAINE.

  I do believe you.

  CHAMBRY.

  You have some nice things. Those perfume burners are very pretty in their old setting... old china... old Sèvres, celadon... soft paste... (He takes up a box from the table.) This box, with a miniature on a ground of vernis Martin, striped like one’s great-grandmother’s frock, is pleasing to the eye and to the touch. I love knick-knacks that one may handle with pleasure, which love, themselves, to be caressed. This miniature is a portrait of a well-known woman. It is... wait a moment... I will tell you...

  GERMAINE.

  It is said to be Mademoiselle Fel.

  CHAMBRY.

  And it is. She resembles Latour’s pastel.

  GERMAINE.

  Oh, so you know Latour’s pastel? Good!

  CHAMBRY.

  That surprises you because you only consort with savages. Do you like miniatures? Because if you like them I could show you some rather pretty ones at my house.

  GERMAINE.

  Yes, I like miniatures very much, but not to excess.

  CHAMBRY.

  And would one have to love them to excess to come and see some to-morrow between five and six at No. 18 Place Vendôme, ground floor, left-hand side, no stairs, just three steps?

  [He picks up a book from the table.

  GERMAINE.

  Look what you are holding in your hand.

  CHAMBRY.

  I see... morocco binding... delicate tooling. Superb!

  GERMAINE.

  You will not be able to lay the blame upon me for having given it you. You have found it for yourself. Who is it says, “One cannot avoid one’s fate”? You have gone to meet yours. What you hold in your hand is the Album. Yes, monsieur, that morocco binding is its cover. I, like all the rest, have one. — [She offers him a pen.

  CHAMBRY (turning over the leaves).

  I see, it is an autograph album. And, as such things go, it is not too bad.... Falguière, Paul Hervieu, Massenet... Henri Lavedan, Paul Bourget, Deschanel, Ludovic Halévy.... All the elect. Distinguished names crowd its vellum. Ah, — here and there one finds others less illustrious. I do not know whether I am mistaken, but it seems to me that names such as Janvier Dupont, Colonel Herpin, and Paul Floche, do not shine with dazzling effulgence. You mingle the illustrious and the obscure in your album.

  GERMAINE.

  That is all as it should be. And I will tell you why. Sometimes — oh, not often — a man of the world will write a pretty thing in this album — a celebrity, never! Oh, you may judge yourself, for look what Jules Lemaître, Pailleron, Sardou, Vanderem have written.

  CHAMBRY

  (turning over the leaves and reading in an undertone).

  Yes. You are quite right.... Insignificant... feeble... nothing at all.

  GERMAINE.

  And what about Dumas? Read what Dumas has written. At the beginning... at the top of a page... there —

  CHAMBRY (reading aloud).

  “At the beginning of winter we have the chimneys swept.” — ALEXANDRE DUMAS fils.

  CH AMBRY (reading aloud).

  “Love blossoms in our tears.” PAUL FLOCHE.

  GERMAINE.

  Now, that is pretty.

  CHAMBRY.

  Yes, it is pretty. And it recalls an impression one has experienced sometimes, something one has felt before. What is he, this Monsieur Paul Floche?

  GERMAINE.

  I do not quite know. I think he has something to do with wood pavements. (Seeing CHAMBRY is about to close the album) Oh, your turn has come. You are not going to get off. Write...

  CHAMBRY (opening the album).

  What depresses me is not so much what is written here, it is this white — all this blank space. The sight of it makes one think of all the inanities to come, of all the feeble, halting, abortive thoughts that the future may have in store (he writes), and which will find a home here.

  GERMAINE.

  Write!

  CHAMBRY.

  It is done, Madame. It is done.

  GERMAINE.

  What have you put? (He holds out the album, and GERMAINE reads aloud.) “Love is a stream that mirrors Heaven.” It is charming.

  CHAMBRY.

  And I believe it. Yes, I believe that did love not add colour to our life we should perish from despair and boredom. I am a dreamer, at heart a sentimentalist.

  GERMAINE.

  “Love is a stream that mirrors Heaven,” It is delicious. But water flows if the heavens remain. You are pledged to nothing.

  CHAMBRY.

  The stream unceasingly gives back the sky and murmurs and flows unceasingly. The stars of heaven tremble in its waves.

  GERMAINE.

  But, tell me, does this stream flow from a spring?

  CHAMBRY.

  But...

  GERMAINE.

  Or does it not rather issue from a reservoir, from a very small reservoir whose key you hold, and which you lock up on a fine evening before going out walking?

  CHAMBRY.

  You are rash. You are to be blamed if you mock at love.

  GERMAINE.

  I am not mocking at love. At the worst, I am only mocking at your little stream.

  CHAMBRY.

  It is wrong of you. And more unfair than you imagine. If you only knew...

  GERMAINE.

  Ah, but you see, I don’t know.

  CHAMBRY.

  You believe me incapable of feeling — of tenderness?

  GERMAINE.

  I confess that I have no views on the subject.

  CHAMBRY.

  Yes, yes. Madame, because I do not affect a blunt outspokenness, like Baron Michiels, because I do not roll great eyes, like old Billaine, because I do not weep on your shoulder silently during a whole evening, like the gallant Colonel Herpin — you imagine I am indifferent, that I am unable to appreciate you, that I fail to see that you are charming, exquisite, adorable.

  GERMAINE.

  I do not imagine anything, believe me, I beg of you.

  CHAMBRY.

  You misjudge me: you do not believe in me. Shall I tell you why? Because in love you are all for the classic tradition, for the established forms, for the protocols. You would be made love to by method, you lean to lovers grave and correct. That is a perversity. They ruin a woman when they get her, people of that kind. Do not put yourself in their hands — it would be a crime.

  GERMAINE.

  Have you been to the Exhibition of Water Colours yet? It is a very good show this year.

  CHAMBRY.

  Why do you not believe that I love you? Because I have not told you so? Well, sometimes the more one thinks the less one says.

  GERMAINE.

  Frankly, Monsieur Chambry, had you told me so I should believe it none the more.

  CHAMBRY.

  Why?

  GERMAINE.

  Because as soon as you get to know a woman you say that sort of thing as naturally as another man tells you that it’s raining or that it’s a fine day. The thought has no importance for you. You have not given it a thought — you say it and you think no more about it. It is a mere civility.

  CHAMBRY.

  No — oh, no!

  GERMAINE.

  A
n incivility then, if you like.

  CHAMBRY.

  Nevertheless, it is true that I love you. And if I tell you so after the fashion you describe, it is certainly not to appear civil, not even to appear uncivil, however much I might wish to be so. It is quite simply because I am sincere, and because I do love you.

  GERMAINE.

  It is odd.... Yet one is bound to believe that there are women who are taken in by what you say — because if it did not come off now and then, you would probably have given it up. True enough, women are foolish at times.

  CHAMBRY.

  It is I who am foolish. Let us be foolish together. It is the best thing in the world. You have never been happy. You have never been loved. You do not know what it is. Do not waste your youth, your beauty. (He kneels down and kisses her hand) Unbend, forgive, soften your heart. Do not become your own heart’s enemy. Germaine, I beseech you... for my sake... for your own...

  GERMAINE.

  Get up. There is a ring at the bell. I hear someone coming.

  CHAMBRY.

  No, I will not get up. There is no one coming. No one must come. It would be ridiculous. Just like a theatrical scene. I shall remain at your feet.

  I shall keep your hand pressed to my lips until you believe me.

  GERMAINE.

  Oh, I believe — that I am not utterly distasteful to you. There! Get up.

  SCENE VI.

  The same. CECILE.

  CECILE.

  It is I once more, darling. How do you do, Monsieur Chambry?

  CHAMBRY.

  Madame, I am really enchanted...

  CECILE.

  I am sure you are. (To GERMAINE.) Is not Nalège here? —

  GERMAINE.

  He left more than an hour ago — he went, indeed, in some haste.

  CECILE.

  It was to see me. But he will return, I told him to meet me here. He went off with my husband, who was to show him a horse on the way and drop him at your door. Why isn’t he here by this time?

  CHAMBRY.

  Oh, you will have to wait. When lovers of horses get their feet in the straw and their noses on a crupper, hours seem to them like seconds.

  CECILE.

  You do not know Monsieur de Nalège, his greatest delight is to be out with his gun and his book. But do not misjudge him, although very serious, he has a very pleasant side.

  CHAMBRY.

  And plenty of wit. Unfortunately, it is like my Aunt Clemence’s furniture. They say it is upholstered in admirable Beauvais, but no one has seen anything but the holland covers. Oh, were Nalège to take off his cover! What splendour would be revealed! But he will not take it off.

  CECILE.

  That is to say, he will not take it off for everyone. He is not commonplace.

  CHAMBRY.

  Anyway, he has an advantage for which I envy him. He pleases you. (Then to GERMAINE.) Dear lady...

  GERMAINE.

  Must you go?

  CHAMBRY (in an undertone).

  I shall return. I must speak to you.

  SCENE VII.

  GERMAINE, CECILE.

  CECILE.

  Was he making love to you?

  GERMAINE.

  A little. Does it show?

  CECILE.

  A declaration of love shows when it “takes,” like vaccination. It lends a slight rosiness to the skin.

  GERMAINE.

  How fond you are of talking nonsense.

  CECILE.

  But, dearest, it was easy to guess. He makes love to every woman. He has even made love to me. To me — whom men do not even look at! It is quite true, I have no success. And I am blessed if I know why... I am neither uglier, nor more stupid than others.

  GERMAINE.

  You are very nice to look at.

  CECILE.

  No, I am not nice looking. I am merely comfortable looking and normal — oh, normal. Do you remember when we attended Monsieur Blanchard’s classes together? In one geographical atlas there were heads representing types of the human race: the black, the yellow race, and the white race. Well, the white race was a striking likeness of me. You wrote my name underneath.

  GERMAINE.

  And you complain! It was Venus!

  CECILE.

  Do you think so?

  GERMAINE.

  I am certain. The Medici Venus. Apollo was on her left — underneath a Red Skin. I can see them now.

  CECILE.

  Well then, you must believe that the Medici Venus is no longer in demand, save by Chambry. And the worst of it is that I am normal morally, as well as physically — normal to my very soul. Yes, indeed... You know underneath the white race was written in our atlas, “The women of this race are active, intelligent, courageous, and faithful.” That is just what I am. I conform to type, neither more nor less. I am normal to absolute commonplace.

  GERMAINE.

  But you do not think me an exception — a monstrosity?

  CECILE.

  You, you possess charm, and I believe you are straight.

  GERMAINE, Thank you, Cécile.

  CECILE.

  Yes, I believe you are straight. I think so to begin with because it is pleasanter between friends — I must say it, and why shouldn’t I believe it? Then, perhaps, it is true. I have no proof to the contrary.

  GERMAINE.

  Really?

  CECILE.

  And then, you are a widow, you are free. Liberty holds you back, perhaps.... I know quite well that you are not very sensible. But it is the sensible women who commit the greatest follies. For instance, Madame de Saint-Vincent, she was sensible, austere, classically beautiful, and with lofty sentiments. Well, no sooner did Chambry deign to insult her virtue than she fell swooning into his arms. Ever since she pursues him like a mad woman. Her children, her reputation, her husband’s diplomatic career — she has sacrificed them all to this good-looking young scamp who laughs at her, as you may imagine.

  GERMAINE.

  It makes me nervous.

  CECILE.

  Oh, you know Chambry is a terrible undertaking for a woman. He is vain, he is a liar. I never give advice, even unasked — which, after all, is not quite as silly as to give it when one is asked! But were I to do so, how good my advice would be! I, dearest, hold no cards, so I see the game very well; while the most subtle players...

  GERMAINE. —

  Do not give it, Cécile, do not give it. I should do the opposite, as people always do, and you would have a fearful responsibility. But do not be afraid. I shall commit no follies. There is one thing positive, though, and that is that I am bored with life. Well, seeing that I succeed in that so admirably by myself, it is superfluous to seek assistance. It is better to bore myself than to be bored, just as it is less irritating to do one’s hair badly than to have it ill done by a lady’s maid. I have no more illusions, my dear. Marriage made me quarrel with love. The men whom I meet have not yet induced me to patch it up. The sincere ones are deadly and the others — those who perchance afford us a little pleasure — make fun of us. Under these conditions it is hardly worth while complicating one’s existence. I am neither tender-hearted nor generous, Cécile — give me your esteem — I have not enough heart to behave badly.

  CECILE.

  Agreed that you have not enough heart; but do not put too much trust in that. It is not absolutely necessary to be a saint to behave badly. Now, let us talk seriously. You are dining with me and we will go to the play. Nalège and my husband will come with us. Go and put on your hat. — [FRANÇOIS hands her a card.

  GERMAINE (reading).

  Monsieur de Nalège.

  CECILE.

  Go and put on your hat, quickly. I will receive him.

  SCENE VIII.

  CECILE, NALEGE.

  CECILE.

  Madame de Sescourt begs you to wait for her a moment. She is just coming. Well — did you buy the horse that my husband took you to inspect?

  NALEGE.

  Yes. Has Madame
de Sescourt gone out to shed the light of her presence elsewhere? For in that case she will doubtless be long detained.

  CECILE.

  No, she is in her room, putting on her hat. NALEGE.

  That will also take some time. But as it is one of the most important things she can very well do...

  CECILE.

  I fail to see the importance of it.

  NALEGE.

  I see it very well. What stamps a woman, what gives her her rightful value, what makes her a power in the world which is only equalled by the possession of money, is her dress and her hat.

  CECILE.

  And her fine linen, Monsieur.

  NALEGE.

  And her fine linen. You are quite right.

  CECLIE.

  Monsieur de Nalège, you think women inferior beings. Maybe you are not wrong in thinking so. But you are surely wrong to let them see it. It is not tactful.

  NALEGE.

  Then you, Madame, want us to admire your sentiments as much as your hats?

  CECILE.

  It is not a question of myself. Moreover, Monsieur de Nalège, do not be disagreeable to me. You have no excuse. You are not in love with me. And what’s more, it would be unjust: I have just been praising you and defending you against Monsieur Chambry, who will have it that you keep on your cover.

  NALEGE.

  My cover?

  CECILE.

  Do not seek to understand... I said that you had a very cultured, exceedingly attractive, and not at all commonplace mind, and that you always had a book in your pocket. Is it so?

  NALEGE.

  It is true enough about the book.

  [He pulls a little book out of his pocket.

  CECILE.

  A serious author... a philosopher... NALEGE.

  Or a poet.... This one is Ronsard.

  CECILE (taking the book from him).

  Show me.... Oh! how ancient he looks...

  NALEGE.

  And I find him adorably young.

  SCENE IX.

  GERMAINE, NALEGE, CECILE.

  CECILE.

  Here is Monsieur de Nalège, accompanied by Ronsard — a gentleman from Vendôme.

  GERMAINE.

  Ah, so you have returned, Monsieur de Nalège? NALEGE.

  How could I help myself?

  GERMAINE.

  You are polite.

  NALEGE.