Madame

by Antoni Libera

  I had my admission card, so I had no trouble getting a ticket. The only question was where to sit, and answering it was rather like solving a chess problem: deciding how best to position one’s king in an endgame. I had to find, by a process of elimination, the point in the auditorium best suited to my purposes, regardless of where my opponent placed, or rather seated, his king. Logically, the best place was one with the widest and most natural view of both audience and stage, so that I wouldn’t have to strain or peer. Here this condition was fulfilled by the boxes at either end of the first balcony, a narrow U-shaped strip running around the back of the auditorium. They gave a good view not only of the stalls and the other boxes but also of part of the second balcony, which was low-hung and steep. But these boxes had the significant disadvantage of being reserved for the privileged few – the haute société. Judging by what I had seen at the Zacheta Gallery, it was possible, indeed probable, that this was where Madame would sit. And that would not be a happy coincidence. On the contrary, it would seriously upset my plans. I wanted only to observe, to watch from the shadows, unseen. After a moment’s reflection, therefore, I chose the middle of the first row on the second balcony. It meant giving up the view of the back of the stalls and the centre boxes, but it gave me a perfect view of most of the other places where Madame was likely to sit.

  When I arrived at the theatre that evening – again, as at the gallery, with a good deal of time to spare, and equipped with a pair of opera glasses – I did not go straight to my seat. I stopped in the lobby, stationed myself behind a poster and once again scanned, as I had at the Zacheta Gallery, the faces of the arriving guests.

  Tonight the Fates were kinder to me, although they took their time. She arrived at the last minute, after the second bell. But there was nothing hurried about her behaviour. Other latecomers dashed in madly, flustered and wild-haired, and rushed to the cloakroom, struggling out of their coats as they ran; she, cool and composed in a well-cut sheepskin, high-heeled, knee-length boots and a colourful scarf at her neck, sailed in quite calm and dignified, almost majestic, and didn’t take her ticket out of her bag (the same one she’d had at the gallery) until she was at the entrance to the foyer, where the ushers stood. She exuded an air of unshakeable confidence that the performance would not start without her.

  I followed her at a suitable distance. She handed her coat to the cloakroom attendant, checked her make-up in the mirror, smoothed down her hair, and then, having procured a programme, made her way to the stalls. My heart began to beat more confidently. All’s well, I thought, as long as she doesn’t go to the back. Before taking off my coat I peeked through another door into the stalls. She was going into the fifth row, making her way past the people already seated there, who stood up to allow her to pass. I rushed upstairs to the balcony (and the cloakroom there).

  My seat gave me a perfect view. A very slight movement of my eyes was enough to shift my gaze from the stage to her. She was sitting in the middle of the row, reading the programme with concentration. On her right two elderly ladies were chatting. The place on her left was empty.

  The sight of that empty place naturally prompted a flood of speculation. Who was it meant for? No one in particular – a stranger? Or was she expecting someone? And if so, who? Who was the person she was supposed to have come with, or to meet? And was that person now definitely not coming, or would he turn up later, at least for the second half? Her composure seemed to argue that she wasn’t waiting for anyone. Which meant that she could, indeed, be alone – as she had come.

  Alone! Unaccompanied! And with a free place next to her to boot! Could anything more propitious be imagined? Was this not precisely the kind of assumption, the kind of imaginaire, that had formed the basis of my plans to transfer the game to neutral ground? It was exactly the opportunity I’d dreamt of. Well, then? Confronted with the reality, I was paralysed: incapable of acting, unable even to imagine it. I fled from the thought of what would have happened if I had ended up taking that place by accident – especially if I had got there first and sat down not knowing who my neighbour would be.

  I was paralysed because I was afraid. Afraid of her reaction at the sight of me, afraid of rejection, humiliation, her expression of distaste. The consciousness that my presence was annoying and unwanted, that I was nothing but a pest, would be too much for me to bear. And this feeling was so strong that I preferred to gain nothing, attempt nothing, to running the risk of defeat. Even if victory lay ahead. I clung to the guarantee of safety that lay in inaction.

  I took the tortoiseshell opera glasses out of their case and focused them on Madame, then swept them over the stalls, row by row, looking for familiar faces. There were quite a few actors (among them Prospero and the beautiful Helena de With), a sprinkling of film people (among them the director of Ashes) and several well-known writers of the older generation. I shifted my gaze to the boxes – and froze. For there, in the last box on the right (the one that had first caught my attention), was Freddy. He sat slightly stooped, his elbows on the railing, and was engaged in the same activity as I: sweeping his opera glasses over the audience. I followed the line of his sight, and Madame reappeared in my field of vision. She was still reading the programme. I shifted back to Freddy. He hadn’t moved; his black opera glasses were still glued to his eyes. He did not interrupt his observation even when the gong sounded and the lights dimmed.

  I had seen Phèdre once before, two or three years ago – in Polish, on television. Although it had been played by some of our leading actors, I hadn’t liked it much. I was disappointed; I’d turned off the television disillusioned with Racine. This was supposed to be the chef-d’oeuvre of French drama – the ‘continental Shakespeare’ as the television presenter had been at tedious pains to insist (apparently the tag was Stendhal’s)? I’d been incredulous. It had been off-puttingly, toe-curlingly bad. Stiff, bloodless, tediously rhetorical – dead. I could feel no sympathy for these pompous heroes and their bombastic passions, so larger-than-life that they lacked all verisimilitude. Their tragedy left me cold.

  This time I was entranced – from the very first words. The text sounded so different: incomparably purer than in Polish, clear and modern, without a trace of archaism, and above all beautifully rhythmic and melodic. The classical alexandrines, foreign to Polish prosody, rolled out like the soothing clicketyclack of a train: da-da-DUM, da-da-DUM, or, faster more urgently, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, lulling one into a trance. Yet nothing sounded false or artificial; the rigour of the form, far from being constraining, enhanced the meaning. The melody, the rhythm, the intonation were in perfect conformity with the spoken language; indeed, they were the ideal of French. No operatic stiffness, no trace of pathos or grandiloquence. Everything was real and credible and at the same time crystalline, wonderfully pure.

  Then the actors! One was struck not just by their discreet, subtle, perfectly controlled performances but also by their appearance, their stage presence. Handsome, distinguished-looking, eloquent, graceful, expressive – there was something godlike about them. They had what used to be called breeding. Especially the ones who played the four main roles: Hippolytus and Phaedra, Aricia and Theseus. Tall, slim, with long, elegant necks and regular features, they moved with harmony and grace and exuded a kind of magnetic power. They were ideal-types: the proud and severe youth; the mature Grande Dame; the charming young beauty; the strong and virile master. They evoked admiration and awe close to worship, and also an obscure longing mingled with a profound sadness – a sadness born of the knowledge that they were from another world, and that world was unattainable. They were unattainable. One didn’t know them and would never know them. And even if one could meet them, privately, outside the theatre, they’d probably be quite different from how they seemed on stage.

  One might say they fulfilled the highest ideal of art: they had the power to move, to stir our emotions, to evoke our sympathy for something that didn’t actually exist – fictional characters in an imaginary world. And th
ey made us want, childishly, ridiculously, to be part of that world. They made us dream. For it is only in illusion that there is a chance of fulfilment – just a chance, nothing more. And in the vicarious experience granted to us by the passionate dramas enacted on stage that chance is invariably, irredeemably lost. The fate of those beautiful creatures is ineluctably tragic: they are doomed to defeat – to death without fulfilment.

  Theseus, king of Athens – legendary hero and lover, slayer of Sciro, Procrustes and the Minotaur; beloved of Ariadne, whom he perfidiously abandoned; conqueror of Antiope, queen of the Amazons and mother of his son Hippolytus; and, finally, stately husband of Ariadne’s younger sister, the fiery, hotblooded Phaedra – set sail more than six months ago for distant Epirus to help a friend in need, and has not been heard of since.

  Meanwhile, at his palace, in his native city of Troezen, major changes have taken place. Hippolytus, his son, left behind to guard the palace hearth, a pure, proud youth who until now has scorned love, succumbs to a passion for Aricia, an Athenian princess, the last descendant of a house hostile to his father, being held under strict guard at the palace. At the same time, Phaedra, Theseus’s wife, who has long adored her stepson in secret, begins to burn with uncontrollable desire: her love is transformed into a passion that bursts into flames.

  Both of them, haughty and proud, shocked by the disgraceful nature of their feelings, struggle as well as they can with love’s poisoned arrows: he seeks oblivion in desperate chariot races and hunting expeditions; she plays the cruel, forbidding stepmother. In vain. Aphrodite is stronger. Finally they reach the limits of their endurance. He decides to go away and she to depart from this world.

  It is here that the action of the tragedy begins. And this is what happens:

  They have barely made these decisions – it remains for them only to take their leave of each other – when news arrives of Theseus’s death. It is sad news, but it brings a certain relief, even a spark of hope. For with Theseus gone, the shame and disgrace of their illicit feelings is at least lessened; perhaps now there is even a chance of fulfilment. After all, no blood tie links Phaedra to Hippolytus; their union would now violate no taboo. Indeed, it would further the interests of the state, for it would eliminate dispute over the succession. More natural still would be a marriage between Hippolytus and Aricia, for the only thing preventing their union was his dead father’s enmity towards her house. Did not Theseus himself take as his wife the queen of a house with which he was at war?

  Thus does Aphrodite add fuel to the fire. The dreams, lusts and desires that were to have been extinguished for good burst forth again, raging with a new and even stronger flame.

  Two meetings take place: between Hippolytus and Aricia, and between Phaedra and Hippolytus. These last two seem intent on sticking to their decisions, despite the changed circumstances after Theseus’s death; they both want to cut through the knot that fetters their will and painfully constricts their hearts. But they also wish to depart reconciled, by atoning for past wrongs.

  Thus Hippolytus repeals his father’s cruel sentence condemning Aricia to perpetual slavery and returns Athens to her, for Athens is hers by right. Phaedra, for her part, regrets her past hostility and cruelties to Hippolytus, and appeals to his generosity. But creeping through these gestures of reconciliation and words of contrition an entirely different tone and content can be discerned; all at once, the settling of accounts and the pleas for forgiveness become open declarations of love. The walls of shame crumble; the reins of pride are loosened and fall. Words lose their ambiguity and meanings become clear. Puisque j’ai commencé de rompre le silence – Hippolytus swerves suddenly from the path of his speech and plunges into a confession (I give his words in translation):

  Now the silence is broken and I have begun,

  I’ll go on, for I must. My lady, I’ll speak.

  My heart is too swollen, my will is too weak.

  And in a long, passionate speech he spills out the whole truth: how he was wounded by love, how he suffered and struggled, how in the end he succumbed to the power of un amour si sauvage.

  The effect of this confession on Aricia is not at all what Hippolytus feared: she is filled with astonished joy. It’s like a miracle, a dream, a glimpse of heaven. It’s the last thing she expected. For years enslaved, sentenced, she thought, to eternal chastity, by now reconciled to her unhappy fate, here she is suddenly being granted her freedom, love and a kingdom – all at once, and from the hands of a man who captivates her. She blossoms like a flower in the sun:

  I accept all the gifts that you wish to bestow.

  But your empire, so glorious, so great and so wide

  Is not the most dear of your gifts in my eyes.

  She accepts his confession! She returns his love! It is a happy moment; a respite, at last, from his lonely sufferings. Is there anything more worthy, more desirable than this?

  The scene was played with charming subtlety and finesse: Hippolytus, emboldened by Aricia’s acceptance, slowly extended his arm to her, with open hand, as if asking her to dance; she responded by raising her hand to meet his. But they did not touch. When their fingers were no more than an inch apart they froze, immobile, and held the pose – like God and Adam in Michelangelo’s Sistine fresco.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then applause. Immediately I looked down, to the fifth row of the stalls.

  She wasn’t applauding. She sat still and unmoved.

  Meanwhile, the drama was approaching its climax. Phaedra had appeared on stage for her great ‘aria’.

  Yes – she knows Hippolytus is repelled by the sight of her; she has done everything to inspire his loathing. Nevertheless, circumstances being what they are, she appeals to him to stay his revenge for the wrongs she has done him, and in particular not to take vengeance on her young son, his half-brother. More: she wants Hippolytus to accept him as his own and watch over his safety. He alone can defend the child against its enemies:

  Only you have the strength to defend him for me.

  This is already a somewhat suggestive-sounding request (defend him – in other words, become his father – and thus her husband?). But there is more; this is just the beginning. Phaedra is carried away and loses control over her words. She begins to identify her stepson with his father:

  But no – not dead, my lord! For he lives on in you.

  When I see you before me, it’s his face I view.

  And she begins to recall the events of long ago, in Crete, when Theseus slew the Minotaur with the help of her sister, Ariadne. In those days he was the image of Hippolytus: young, splendid, beautiful. That was when he first inspired her love. But she was too late; Ariadne had got there first. And when she did marry him, years later, he was a different man, and that other, younger self had gone. She did not understand this fully until she saw Hippolytus for the first time, in Athens: a replica of his father in the days of his glory. Those features, that body, that enchanting figure – it was her destiny, whoever it belonged to, father or son.

  That is the terrible, unendurable thing: it is not we who choose. We are merely playthings in the hands of the gods. We suffer, we burn with passion, we writhe about in a frenzy, and the gods, vastly entertained, laugh with delight. An echo of their sardonic laughter can sometimes be heard in the moans and sobs of their victims.

  So if mortal man has any dignity, he should refuse to tolerate this sorry spectacle, this unequal game. He should do away with himself. End it all, and put a stop to his humiliation. And Phaedra, having confessed her love and thus sunk, in her own eyes, as low as it is possible to sink, entreats Hippolytus to kill her. Since there is nothing else he can give her, let him at least give her this – her death:

  Here’s my heart. Take your sword. This is where you must strike.

  It leaps forth in my breast to atone for past harm.

  Impatient it waits for the blow from your arm.

  Strike. Or if such a blow is beneath your estate,

  If you
r hatred denies me so gentle a fate,

  If my blood is too vile to sully your hand,

  Then lend me your sword. Have pity. Unbend.

  Let me have it.

  As Phaedra pronounced these words there was another bit of silent choreography, corresponding to the last but negative where that had been positive – in a minor key, as it were. It was beautifully and very precisely done. On those final words, that short, suggestive ‘Let me have it’, Phaedra, standing on Hippolytus’s left (from the point of view of the audience), reached across with her right hand for the short sword strapped to his left side. At this Hippolytus’s right hand went to the hilt of his sword, in an attempt to prevent her. Then she, with her left hand, grasped that arm at the wrist and pulled it towards her, while with her right she slowly drew out the sword and raised it aloft. And in this position, turned in three-quarters profile to the audience, they froze, immobile, for several long seconds.

  It was a magnificent tableau, and pregnant with layers of meaning. Hippolytus’s hand hung limp, like the head of a dead bird, in Phaedra’s grasp, while the blade of the upraised sword in her other hand, in striking contrast, was rigid and straight. As they held this position they looked defiantly into each other’s eyes. There was a hint of perversion and masochism in the scene: violence trying to provoke violence. Kill me, or I’ll cut you down! cried Phaedra’s arm, extended by the sword. Take the sword and strike! Or, if you won’t take it, use your bare hands, and strangle me! Let me die in that sweet embrace! Or at least . . . at least do something with that limp, helpless hand, unworthy of a man and so insulting, so humiliating to me! Turn it outwards, at least, and take . . . take me . . . by the hand . . . just for a moment!

  If Hippolytus had done this – if he had freed his wrist from Phaedra’s grasp and taken her hand – he would have transformed their position into the classic marriage pose. They would have stood, facing the audience, like a couple at the altar. But he did not do this – perhaps for that very reason. He stood motionless and withdrawn, a grimace of revulsion on his face.