Madame

by Antoni Libera

  Please, please tell the truth, I begged silently, half-shutting my eyes and calling up in my mind the memory of her at the theatre as she applauded Phaedra’s harassment of her stepson, when she throws herself on Hippolytus and wrests his sword from him.

  ‘The second,’ I heard her say. ‘And you?’

  ‘The first,’ I replied, returning to the present.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I see you like sweetness . . . despite your claims to the contrary.’

  ‘And you prefer bitterness?’ I asked, involuntarily echoing Freddy’s memorable remark to me.

  ‘In art – yes. In life – no.’ She withdrew her hand from her pocket and straightened her skirt.

  I decided there was no time to delay.

  I rose, approached the bookshelf with the Pléiade editions and picked out Racine. I quickly found Phèdre, and then Hippolytus’s first conversation with Aricia.

  ‘Would you do something for me?’ I asked, approaching the table. ‘To sweeten my life?’ I added, gesturing to my bandaged hand.

  ‘It depends what it is,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, nothing extraordinary . . . just read this to me.’ I handed her the open book and went back to the sofa.

  She looked at it and began to read (I give the text in translation):

  My lady, before I can start

  I must give you some news that will gladden your heart.

  ‘A bit further on,’ I directed in a whisper.

  She stopped, went down the page and resumed at Aricia’s second reply:

  Confused and bewildered by all that you’ve said,

  I’m afraid it’s a dream – just a voice in my head.

  Can it be? Can I . . .

  ‘I’m sorry – a little further down.’

  ‘Well, where exactly do you want me to start?’ she asked, with an edge of impatience.

  ‘From “I, my lady, hate you?” If you would.’

  She found the place and began for the third time:

  Though my pride may elicit dislike and offence,

  I’m no monster devoid of all feeling and sense.

  There’s no fury so savage, no hatred so base

  Would not soften and melt at the sight of your face.

  How could I be unmoved by your delicate charm?

  ‘“What, my lord?”’ I interposed, supplying, from memory, Aricia’s exclamation, which came at this point.

  She looked at me with a smile, and went on:

  How my tongue has defeated my calm!

  Reason yields to compulsion; restraint is undone.

  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.

  It’s an unhappy prince that stands here at your side,

  An instructive example of arrogant pride.

  I, who prized only Dignity, scorning Love’s pains,

  Who so mocked the poor mortals enslaved by her chains,

  Who deplored the sad shipwrecks her galley-slaves bore

  And resolved to stay safe from the storms on the shore,

  Am now shackled like them, and borne off, struggling still,

  On her tide. I am forced to submit. I, too, bend to her will.

  She raised her eyes from the page. ‘Is that enough, or should I go on?’

  ‘Just the last lines.’

  She held my gaze for a moment, looking deep into my eyes, shook her head, as if to say, It’s a risky game you’re playing, and resumed:

  But my gift should be dearer by this fact alone,

  That I speak to you now in a tongue not my own.

  She stopped again, and said teasingly, ‘That’s not right: I’m the one reading this, after all.’

  ‘All right. I’ll read now,’ I said, stretching out my hand for the book.

  She slid off the table to give it to me, then sat down in the little armchair opposite.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think we have to switch: that’s where I should be sitting, and you should be here.’ I needed to get her on my right.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘To conform to Charon’s picture. Who is the king here? You are. So you have to be on the sofa. Please,’ I said, indicating that she should sit. ‘While I, as Racine, will sit in the armchair.’

  ‘The things you think of! How green you are still!’ She rose and sat where I had indicated. ‘Well, what are you going to read me?’ She assumed the pose of Louis XIV. ‘And be sure to read nicely, rhythmically,’ she added, raising an admonishing finger. ‘You remember that in alexandrines you have to put in syllables that are never sounded in ordinary speech.’

  ‘Mais Votre Altesse! How could I forget?’

  ‘Allez-y donc, Seigneur.’

  I turned over the page to Phaedra’s great aria, and began to read:

  No, my lord! I have been clear enough

  You have heard me too well; you can have no more doubt.

  So be it. It’s done; the true Phaedra will out.

  Yes, I love you. And yet, though I love, I’m not blind;

  Don’t imagine my feelings have clouded my mind.

  I condemn my own weakness; my guilt gives me pain.

  It’s no innocent passion that poisons my brain.

  And the vengeance of heaven has not left me free:

  I loathe myself more than you, sire, could hate me.

  The gods can bear witness: it’s they who inspire

  The corruption that burns in my heart with such fire . . .

  I knew the passage by heart. More than that: I had practised reciting it until every detail – every stress, every cadence – was perfect, and brought out the rhythm and logic of each phrase. The words flowed by themselves; I didn’t need to concentrate on them. And as they flowed, I suddenly heard myself from outside, as if it were not I speaking but someone else in my voice; and I felt a familiar shiver run through me. It was a shiver of ambition and the will to conquer; that thrilling shiver I had felt whenever I had determined that by art – by poetry or music – I should triumph over life: win over Prospero in the ASTB offices; subjugate the rabble during the prize-giving at the municipal community centre; captivate the audience at the Spanish civil war celebration. I wondered if Racine felt the same sort of shiver when he was writing his tragedies, especially when he was reading them – to the actresses and to the king. He was shy and unsure of himself; no blue blood ran in his veins; women, the court, the world around him, life in general seemed like some Goliath, some rampant giant towering awesomely over him. His one weapon against it, against the world, was his divine spark: the gift of words. If he was to win, he had to subdue that giant and render him helpless by his magic.

  My hour had come. This was it; now or never. I wanted to do it; I could do it! I could break through the magic circle – reach her, touch her. Penetrate the myth and taste it, know it, at last.

  Conscious of the effect this always had on my audience, I raised my eyes from the page and, still speaking, slowly closed the book and put it down on the table. Then, gazing into her eyes, I continued from memory:

  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.

  She was observing me carefully, still smiling that slightly condescending, slightly provocative smile, but her eyes gleamed. I could see, at last, a spark of wonder and respect. How nicely you write, Racine, they seemed to say, and you read quite nicely, too. Go on . . . don’t stop . . . more . . . more . . .

  I went on:

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

  If your 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.

  On these w
ords, as if I were imitating Phaedra’s gesture at the Comédie Française, I reached out and with my right hand grasped Madame’s left wrist.

  And then it happened. Perhaps it was an instinctive reaction, or perhaps she only meant to indicate that she knew it was a game and was willing to indulge me. Whatever her reasons, she did something astonishing. Turning her slim, cool hand in my hot grasp, she withdrew it a little so that it met mine; then she pressed, hard, from below. It was precisely the gesture that the despairing Phaedra had seemed to want from Hippolytus when she held his wrist in her hand: the gesture of human solidarity that he, in his pride, had refused her.

  But Madame meant something quite different by the manoeuvre. She intended not an expression of sympathy, pity or mercy, but a demonstrative correction, a kind of taming of my own action – which, for all its trappings and the forest of imagined quotation marks surrounding it, had been crude and savage. It was a lesson, not unlike the lesson the Workman had given me when he had tried (fruitlessly, thank God) to show me how to hold the saw.

  No, not like that, silly boy, her gesture seemed to say, that’s not it at all. If you’re going to commit the sacrilege of reaching for my hand, for the hand of any woman, at least learn how to do it right. And do it openly and unashamedly, with your head held high, not slyly and half-heartedly and in disguise. Admit what you’re doing; don’t pretend it’s something else. Look: this is how it’s done. Your right hand on top, my left underneath. The hands touch and the fingers intertwine. The ritual of marriage.

  ‘C’est extraordinaire!’ I exclaimed, trying to mask my emotion. Then, still pretending that my enthusiasm was purely aesthetic, I made my final move. I pronounced the word, and took my king with hers. ‘Tu as fait justement ce qu’Hippolyte n’avait pas fait,’ I said. You did exactly what Hippolytus failed to do.

  She seized on it at once. ‘Tu? Either you’re carried away by your part, or . . . I’ll have to take back that A, since you seem unable to distinguish person and number.’

  ‘Mais la concordance des temps était irréprochable,’ I replied with a smile, and wanted to go on, to say that perhaps more than the sequence of tenses had been correct, to say anything, just to prolong this communion with her, make it last a moment longer – but then the door to the office burst open and there, panting and out of breath, in their coats, were Mephisto and Prometheus.

  ‘The taxi –’ one of them began, then stopped as if petrified by the sight before him.

  I released Madame’s hand.

  ‘Go and fetch his coat, please,’ she said to them, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. ‘Why do you always have to be reminded of everything?’

  They crept away, discountenanced. Madame rose, closed the door behind them and took fifty zlotys out of the right-hand pocket of her tweed jacket.

  ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

  I gave the name of the street.

  ‘That should be enough,’ she said, and gave me the note with the Fisherman.

  ‘It’s far too much,’ I said, taken aback.

  ‘How are you so familiar with the fares? Do you ruin yourself gallivanting about in taxis?’

  ‘A taxi doesn’t have to mean immediate ruin –’

  ‘Stop it, please, and take it!’ she interrupted, and, since I still made no move to take the money, took a step forward and slid the bill into my shirt pocket. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘adieu, mon prince.’

  And she opened the door.

  Endgame

  For a long time afterwards I was in a daze. I went on digesting and redigesting everything in my memory, like a snake that has swallowed too much. Lying on my back on my bed, my eyes closed, I ran and re-ran my mental tape of everything that had happened in the office, trying to extract its essential significance – to understand what had happened and what it meant.

  How was I to interpret the extraordinary, astonishing change in Madame’s behaviour? Was it merely a part she’d been playing, from anxiety or fear – for her position and the plans that depended on it? An attempt to make the best of a bad situation, to put a good face on things? A conscious and deliberate act of sacrifice, intended to disarm me and prevent me from raising the alarm? Or a genuine unveiling? Had she cast off her mask and shown me her true face? And if it was genuine, what did it mean? What had made her do it, what mechanism had prompted her to enter into a game that went far beyond the bounds of what was necessary or proper in the provision of first-aid? Whim? Vanity? Curiosity? Or perhaps . . . perhaps affection, after all? An affection she had concealed and stifled?

  One moment I saw it as a cold and cynical female ploy, calculated to overwhelm me and beguile me into holding my tongue; the next I thought it was a sincere expression of affection – that she had a weakness for me which until now she hadn’t wanted or hadn’t permitted herself to reveal, and that my predicament had somehow, at last, allowed her to express it.

  I so badly wanted this second interpretation to be correct that I gradually came to believe it. And this soon gave rise to a need to have it confirmed: I wanted proof, which in this case, by the very nature of things, would have to be a repetition of the theme – the sweet melody of our duet in her office. The means of getting it that occurred to me shone with a simplicity proper to a work of genius. I would simply fail to turn up at school the next day. My absence would give rise to anxiety about my fate; steps would be taken to determine it; an inquiry would be made by telephone. If someone else rang up, whether or not on her behalf, I would paint as bleak a picture as possible of my condition and ask that this report be passed on to Madame. And if I heard her voice, I wouldn’t overdo it, but nor would I put her mind completely at rest; I would manoeuvre so as to entangle her in another discussion and extract something else from her – a tone sweet to the ear and heart.

  Thus determined, I turned my attention to working out possible opening moves and compiling question-and-answer lists anticipating every conceivable turn the conversation might take.

  I needn’t have bothered. No one rang all day, either to find out how I was feeling or for any other reason. I swallowed the bitter taste of hopes unfulfilled, and on Wednesday, clinging despite everything to the belief that there would be some sort of sequel, with my hand bandaged and supported by an entirely superfluous splint, I set off for school.

  I had assumed my classmates would treat me with the same sympathy they’d extended after the incident with the Viper, albeit doubtless tinged with an element of sarcasm and prurient inquisitiveness that I would have to repel. But I was greeted by indifference, even a certain coldness. Not only did no one ask about my hand, let alone about what had occurred in Madame’s office, they gave the impression of avoiding me. I felt surrounded by a conspiracy of silence; I’d been sent to Coventry. Conversations ceased in my presence and resumed as soon as I had gone; I sensed that I was the subject of whispers and covert glances. It was behaviour characteristic of people who feel betrayed or let down. They acted as if they had been somehow deceived, or made fools of.

  We thought he was one of us, their eyes and expressions seemed to say, a companion in suffering and humiliation; now it turns out that all the time he’s been leading a double life, furtively insinuating himself into the good graces of his French Princess, being rewarded with favours none of us would dream of! Now we know why he struts around so blithely and confidently and takes such liberties: he knows he can do anything he likes and get away with it! Look at him, teacher’s pet!

  Under these circumstances, my hunger for a second course with Madame, or even just some pudding, in the form of a question from her (on the side, of course) about the state of my health, gave way to a much more modest need: now all I wanted to know was what the next French lesson would bring. How would she behave towards me after what had happened? How would she behave in general? And how would the rest of the class see it?

  The answer, when it came, was not encouraging. Madame not only failed to express the slightest interest in me but reverted to
her old habit of ignoring me entirely. No more asking me to correct other people’s mistakes or provide the right answers; she behaved as if I weren’t there, just as she had after the annexation of my notebook. My classmates remained suspicious, smelling pretence and deceit everywhere. Convinced that her refusal to speak to me was a sham, intended to mislead, they not so much disregarded it as placed no credence in it; the ‘radical wing’ even saw it as a sign, indeed as proof, that relations between us were intimate. ‘She won’t speak to him,’ I overheard a snatch of whispered conversation in the cloakroom, ‘because she knows her voice would give her away. You can always tell when people are living together; you can hear it in their speech.’

  The atmosphere of malicious gossip, suspicion and mockery wasn’t too worrying. I didn’t much care what people said. What did bother me, indeed disquieted me profoundly, was the turnabout in Madame’s attitude.

  Why is she doing this? What is it all about? Every day I went through the same litany of questions. Has she taken fright after all? Is she offended? What’s behind it – this sudden change, this silence? Or maybe, I thought, seeking consolation in mythical truths, maybe that’s just the way it always is; maybe that’s the price you have to pay for casting away shame . . . for pleasure . . . for fulfilment? You’ve gone too far, said the voice, my old familiar friend; you have tasted the fruit of the gods . . . you’ve touched her . . . you’ve known her. The price of that is a cloud on the face of God. Expulsion from Paradise. The Fall. Into the vale of tears.

  I tried to think of explanations, solutions, ways of reversing or undoing what had happened. But time was rapidly running out. The hundred-days-before-graduation ball came and went; already the end was in sight. Normal classes were almost over and we were into the revision period. There was all the material in the main subjects to be gone through, there was extra coaching, there were preparations for university. I no longer saw Madame.