by Colette
His eyelids close suddenly and his entire body relaxes, as if allowed to rest. The dread image is coming to life, and in place of Léa’s neck, in place of the triple, iridescent chain, Chéri can see a young, amber-colored neck, smooth, bent in sadness, adorned with a thin strand of pearls. And the nape of the neck, the necklace, the soft cascading hair, undone, all shudder to the rhythms of impassioned sobs . . .
The image, the whispering of the sobs accompany Chéri, descend with him to sleep, where a dream timid with tenderness and remorse sketches itself out, a dream in which his hand, protective for the first time, touches the necklace it has fastened there, on the silky young neck, the thin necklace of tiny little pearls . . .
[Translated by Matthew Ward]
DIALOGUES FOR ONE VOICE
Literature
“Godmother?”
“. . .”
“What are you doing, Godmother? A story for the papers? Is it a sad story?”
“. . . ?”
“Because you look so unhappy!”
“. . .”
“Ah, it’s because you’re late? It’s like a composition: you have to turn in your work on the day they tell you to? . . . What would they say if you turned in your notebook without anything in it?”
“. . . ?”
“The men who judge it at the paper!”
“. . .”
“They wouldn’t pay you? That’s so boring. It’s the same thing for me; but Mama only gives me two sous for each composition. She says I’m mercenary. Well, work hard. Can I see your page? That’s all you have? You’ll never be ready!”
“. . . !”
“What! you don’t have a subject? Don’t they give you an outline, like us at school, for French composition? That way at least you have a chance!”
“. . .”
“What I’d like is for Mademoiselle to let us write whatever comes into our heads. Oh boy, if I was a writer!”
“. . . ?”
“What would I do? I’d write a hundred thousand million things, and stories for children.”
“. . .”
“I know there’s lots of them; but they’re enough to make you sick of being a child. How many more am I going to get as presents? You know, too many people take us for idiots! When I see in a catalogue: ‘For Young Readers,’ I say to myself, ‘Well, that’s just great! more grownups knocking themselves out to come down to our level, as they say!’ I don’t know why grownups use a special tone to come down to our level. Do we children get to write books for grownups?”
“. . .”
“That’s fair, isn’t it? I’m for what’s fair. For example, I want a book for teaching you things to be a book for teaching you things, and a book for fun, I want it to be fun. I don’t want them mixed up. For years, you saw, in children’s books, a car drive up, and there was always a man in the story to pass along to you his opinion about the progress of machines . . . Now you’re sure to see a dashing aviator descend from the sky, but he talks about the conquest of the air . . . and of the . . . the glorious dead who lead the way. You see, there are constantly things breaking in on the story in children’s books, things that smell of a grownup giving a lesson. It’s no use for Papa to repeat, ‘A child must understand everything he reads . . .’ I think that’s grotexque . . .”
“. . .”
“Grotesque? Are you sure? Grotexque is prettier.”
“. . . ?”
“I think it’s grotexque because grownups never seem to remember about when they were little. I think things that I don’t understand everything about are terrific. I like beautiful words that sound pretty, words you don’t use in talking. I never ask what they mean, because I would rather think about them and look at them until they make me a little scared. And I like books without pictures too.”
“. . . ?”
“Yes, you see, Godmother, when they say, for example, in the history book I’m reading, ‘There once was a beautiful young girl in a castle, on the edge of a lake . . .’ I turn the page, and I see a drawing of the castle, and the young girl and the lake. Oh brother!”
“. . . ?”
“I can’t really explain, but it never, never looks like my young girl, or my castle or my lake . . . I can’t put it in words. If I knew how to paint . . . That’s why I prefer your books, your yellow books without any pictures. You understand me, Godmother?”
“. . .”
“You say ‘yes’ but I’m not sure . . . And also, they don’t talk enough about love in books for children.”
“. . . !”
“What did I say now? Is love a bad word?”
“. . .”
“On top of that, I don’t know what it is! I’m very much in love.”
“. . . ?”
“Nobody. I know I’m only ten and that it would be ridiculous to be in love with somebody, at my age. But I am in love, that’s all, just like that. I’m waiting. That’s why I like love stories so much, terrifying stories, but that end happy.”
“. . .”
“Because with stories that end sad, you go on feeling sad afterward, you’re not hungry, you think about it for a long time, and when you look at the book’s cover, you say to yourself, ‘They just go on being unhappy in there . . .’ You think about what you could do to make things right, you imagine writing the next story where everything would work out . . . I like it so much when people get married!”
“. . . ?”
“Yes, but only after they’ve been very unhappy before, each in his own way. It isn’t that I like it, all the unhappiness, but it’s necessary.”
“. . . ?”
“For there to be a beginning, a middle, and an end. And also because love, the way I see it, is being very sad at first, and then very happy after.”
“. . .”
“No, no, not at all, it’s not often the opposite! Who’s asking you that? Don’t bother me with your grown-up opinions! And now try to write a beautiful story in your newspaper, a story for me, not for children. A story where people cry and adore each other and get married . . . And put words I like in it, too, yes, like ‘foment,’ ‘surreptitious,’ and ‘pro rata’ and ‘corroborate’ and ‘premonitory’ . . . And then when you start a new paragraph you’ll say, ‘At this juncture . . .’”
“. . . ?”
“I don’t know exactly what it means, but I think it makes it very elegant.”
My Goddaughter
“Is it you who’s calling me, Godmother? I’m here, under the stairs.”
“. . . ?”
“No, Godmother, I’m not sulking.”
“. . . ?”
“No, Godmother, I’m not crying anymore. I’m done now. But I’m very discouraged.”
“. . . ?”
“Oh, it’s always the same thing, for a change. I’m mad at Mama. And she’s mad at me, too.”
“. . . !”
“Why ‘naturally’? No, not ‘naturally’ at all! There are times when she’s mad without me being mad back—it depends on if she’s right.”
“. . . !”
“Oh, please, Godmother, not today! You can tell this to me another day. There are plenty of days when I’m in a good mood and when you can make me lay back my ears . . .”
“. . .”
“No, not lay down, lay back! When you scold the dog, what does he do? he lays back his ears. Me too, I’ve laid my ears back since lunch. So, I’ll start over; you can lay back my ears about my parents, and the fairness of parents, and how a child shouldn’t judge his parents, and this and that . . . But it’s no use today.”
“. . . ?”
“What’s the matter? The matter is that Mama discourages me. Come here, so I can tell you about it. You’re still the one I tell the most, because you don’t have any children. You understand better.”
“. . . !”
Yes, it does make sense! You don’t have any children, you still have a mama, you get scolded, you storm, you rage, and you have the reputation o
f being unreasonable: Mama shrugs her shoulders when she talks about you, like with me . . . That pleases me. That gives me confidence.”
“. . .”
“There’s no need to apologize, I don’t do it on purpose . . . Come on, we’ll go sit by the fire: I’ve had enough of sitting under these stairs, too! There, now. Mama discourages me. I can’t seem to make her understand certain things.”
“. . . ?”
“Serious things, things about life. Can you believe she just bought me a hat to go to school in! . . . Oh, yes, it’s true, you don’t know, you’re not from the country . . . In Montigny, the girls in the public school never wear hats, except in the summer for the sun, and I’m only telling you this under the ceiling of secrecy . . .”
“. . . !”
“The ceiling, I’m telling you! The proof is that you don’t say it in another room . . . So, I’m telling you under the ceiling of secrecy that we go ‘Boo!’ in the street at the students of the nuns, because they wear hats to school. No repeating?”
“. . . !”
“Good. So then Mama buys me a hat. And so I make a face at the hat! Naturally, Mama starts a two-hour lecture, which has nothing to do with the point: that I’m more than ten years old, and that I’m almost a young lady, and that I should set the example of an irreproachable appearance . . . She finally ended up upsetting me. I lost my patience, I told her that it didn’t concern her, that my life at school was a special life which parents don’t understand anything about, et cetera . . . ‘Tell me, Mama,’ I said to her, ‘do you tell Papa what he should do at his office? It’s the same thing with me at school. I have a very noticeable position at school, a very delicate position, because I have personality, as Mademoiselle says. To hear you, Mama, I should only concern myself with my family! You send me to school, I spend half my life there. Well, that counts, half of my life . . . School’s like another world, you don’t talk about it the same: what’s appropriate here isn’t at school, and if I tell you I shouldn’t go to class in the winter with a hat, it’s because I shouldn’t wear a hat! You see, Mama, there are things you sense, there are nuances!’ I spelled this all out to her very calmly, all at once, so that she didn’t have the time to get a word in edgewise, because you know how mamas are, don’t you? They fly off the handle, and besides, they don’t have a sense of proportion.”
“. . . ?”
“I mean, they rant and rave over everything, as much for a broken glass as for something very, very bad. Mine especially. She’s easily affected. Afterward, she was looking at me as if I fell from the moon, and she said in a soft voice, ‘My God, this child . . . this child . . .’ She looked so unhappy and so astonished, you would have thought I was the one who had scolded her. So much so that I put my arm around her like this and I rocked her up against me, saying, ‘There . . . there . . . my little darling, there! . . .’ It ended very happy.”
“. . . ?”
“Yes, we are! we are angry, but for a different reason. The story of the hat is from yesterday. Today . . . here, look at my finger.”
“. . . !”
“Yes, a cut, a big one, and the nail is split. It has hydrogen peroxide and I don’t know what else on it. And here, on my cheek, you can see a red burn; it stings. And my hair, can’t you see, on my forehead? Smell it: It must still smell a little like when they singe the pig in the square. These are all today’s ordeals, which got Mama and me angry with each other . . . I wanted curly bangs on my forehead; so, so I cut a few hairs—big deal! I know you always go further than you want with scissors . . . And I burned my cheek trying to turn the curling iron, to cool it down, like the hairdresser, you know: it makes it so pretty . . .”
“. . . ?”
“The cut, that was the scissors. A little farther and I would have poked out my eye . . . So, here I am, right, with my hand covered with blood, my hair singed and cut like a staircase, my cheek burned . . . And naturally, right when Mama comes back! Boy, did I ever catch it!”
“. . . !”
“Yes, I was in the wrong, but she scolded me in a way that wasn’t the way she usually does. I’m sure it wasn’t a question of what’s appropriate, or of dress, or of children who get into everything and are punished for it! It wasn’t even a question of me—or barely!’
“. . . ?”
“Wait, I’m about to remember . . . She was like a fury. She said that I had ruined her daughter for her! She said, ‘What have you done with my beautiful hair which I tended so patiently? You had no right to touch it! And that cheek, who gave you permission to spoil it! And this little hand? . . . How? . . . I’ve taken years, I’ve spent my days and my nights trembling over this masterpiece and all it takes is one of your exploits, you destructive little demon, to ruin the adorable result of so many pains! What you’ve done to it is cowardly, it’s shameful! Your beauty is mine, you don’t have the right to take away what I entrust to you!’ What do you think of that, Godmother?”
“. . .”
“Me either, I couldn’t think of anything to say. But it shook me up. I went under the stairs without saying a word. And I felt as sorry for myself as I could. I felt my hands, my legs, my head. ‘Poor little things,’ I said to myself, ‘your hands, your legs, your head aren’t even yours! You’re like a slave, then! A lot of good it did for your mother to give you birth, since she’s taken back all the rest! You wouldn’t dare even lose a single baby tooth or break a nail, for fear that your mother will claim it back from you . . . ‘ Well, you know how you talk to yourself when you want to make yourself cry . . . Oh, I have a mother who torments me so much, Godmother!”
“. . .”
“You think I do the same to her! It’s possible. So, if she’s nice to me at dinner, I can forgive her, too?”
“. . .”
“I really want to. It’s true, she did call me a destructive demon, but . . .”
“. . . ?”
“But she also called me an ‘adorable result,’ and I like that.”
A Hairdresser
“Here, Madame, in the little salon at the back, we won’t be bothered. Shampoo?”
“. . .”
“Naturally, I know the refrain: not enough time, just a rinse! And then afterward, they complain about having dry, split hair. I’ll bet you’re going to the preview at the Gymnase? I was sure of it! Did you like the one at the Ambigu?”
“. . .”
“It wasn’t what I was expecting. Nothing really new, nothing audacious, no ‘discovery.’ Not one entrance which makes you cry out.”
“. . . ?”
“Yes, cry out . . . ‘There’s one, at last!’”
“. . . ?”
“Well, a coiffure, naturally! There, like everywhere else, it was a mishmash, a mishmash of attempts; yes, that’s the expression I was looking for! You saw the fright wigs, the sugar loaf, spit curls, the eternal turban, the sac à mouches made out of tulle wrapping the head . . . Watch your eyes, the fumes . . . Next time I’ll give you a nice raw-egg shampoo.”
“. . . ?”
“Is it good? It’s excellent . . . for the egg sellers. Hah, hah!”
“. . . !”
“Sorry, the comb got stuck. You have dandruff.”
“. . . !”
“No, I made a mistake. Don’t pay any attention; it’s just that we’ve reached the point where I always say that . . . to my regular clients. But I have so little business sense! You see, I don’t insist. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“. . .”
“Not at all, the pleasure’s all mine. Besides, I have no malice whatsoever, and I leave to a certain colleague the bit about hair falling out after you have a baby.”
“. . . ?”
“You don’t know that one? It’s simple. A client—I mean a woman—loses her hair at the temples and hairline after having a baby, it never fails, but it grows back six months later. What does my colleague do? He says, ‘You’re losing your hair here, and here, and here, too . . .’—‘O
h, my God!’ the lady says—‘Don’t worry,’ says the hairdresser, ‘we have a tonic water which . . . a tonic water that . . .’ Anyway, to make it short, three months later the lady sees her hair starting to grow back and sings long and hard the praises of the tonic which . . . the tonic that . . . Shall I wave you?”
“. . . ?”
“It’ll take fifteen minutes. You ask me that every time, I’m not blaming you. And every time I tell you, ‘It’ll only take fifteen minutes,’ like I’m supposed to for every operation that takes twenty-five minutes. Which dress are you wearing tonight?”
“. . . ?”
“Yes, yes, I know the one, the gold lamé on a midnight-blue background. People have already gotten a pretty good look at you in that one.”
“. . . !”
“Certainly not, I have no intention of offering you another one like it. Because even if my means permitted me such whims, my clientele wouldn’t allow it. Ah! . . . But we can give your blue dress a new look.”
“. . . ?”
“With a pretty wig in the same shade.”
“. . . !”
“Jump if it amuses you, but not too high, because I’m holding the hair on your neck. A pretty blue wig, I think. With two rows of little paste gems and a spray of paradise blue . . . Fine, fine, you’ll come around!”
“. . .”
“Maybe not you personally, but your best friend, your teatime acquaintances, your sister-in-law, your cousin, all the women to whom you say when talking about colored hair, ‘What a horror! If I ever see you with dead, apple-green hair on your head, I’ll never speak to you again!’ Well, they will wear it, they’re already wearing it, and you’re still speaking to them. So I, your hairdresser, giggle in my little corner.”
“. . .”
“No, that’s not why. It’s because I realize that I, as a hairdresser, a simple wigmaker, I nevertheless have more influence over your closest friends than you have over them yourself. I could die laughing. I’ll be done in just a second.”