Aminadab 0803213131

by Unknown

  up, as if she had to focus all her strength on the final stitches. She spoke in a softer tone, with the very pleasant voice she had had in the beginning. "There are contradictions only between your hopes and this world that does not grant them. Do you want to know the truth?" "Yes," said Thomas. "In principle," she continued, "I should keep silent, for it is strictly for bidden to speak of these matters; we fear that words, no matter how care fully chosen, cannot suitably express such delicate facts; it is therefore wrong of me to be discussing it with you; however, if I disregard this pro hibition, it is because I cannot bear to see you get lost in these hopes, and because in any case you will have no opportunity to misuse the truth. Most of those who enter the house," she said, "are driven at first by the desires you yourself have experienced. Some feel them so strongly that they can not make any progress at all. They are nailed to the spot. They exhaust themselves in the first place they light on here, and they offer a sorry sight, for they are still accustomed to the life outside, and their senses are ob scured by the fog they cannot manage to penetrate; they burn like unruly candles suffocated by their own flame, and they let off a black smoke and a sickly odor. Newcomers such as these are lost from the very first step. They are locked awaycso that they will not pollute the atmosphere of the house, which is already so impure. Others, on the contrary, live for a long time in the building without ever coming out of their idleness, which they enjoy without being attracted by the restlessness of change. These are good ten ants. They accept their lot. They submit to the rules, these famous rules that people are so anxious to discuss in the grand halls and that most often exist only in the minds of the people who get worked up about them. Gradually, as a result of the relations they develop, and by dint of living in the midst of the perpetual intrigues in which everyone here passionately struggles, the fever seizes hold of them, and they begin to be driven upward. Naturally, for most of them it is only a question of an inner migration. What would happen to us if this crowd actually got it into their heads to begin their journey? But they drift along with their dreams, and these dreams allow them to glimpse great and mysterious hopes that absorb their contempla tion and that they project into places they do not know and will never have the strength even to hope to know. The fate that awaits them is therefore infinitely varied, and as I was saying, it is almost impossible to compare the destiny of one to that of another. For some, their desire becomes so press15 1

  ing that they can resist it only by involving themselves in some febrile and disordered activity; they find it necessary to take care of the business of the house; or they need to create a sense of belonging - even if from afar, from infinitely far away -to the mysterious existence whose center they locate somewhere up above, and from which they receive, so they think, the impulse to continue, as well as a few rules to live by. This applies, if you will, to the bulk of the staff. When they work, they often forget the desire that burns in them, and their service, which is so chaotic and so full of conflict, reflects the vicissitudes oflife and death through which they pass, and in which their passion remains just as often unconscious as conscious. It happens in the long run that this desire, which has been unable to tri umph over their busy activity, begins to find nourishment wherever it can and takes more and more crude forms, to the point of erasing this hope from above, toward which their desire had directed them. They are then momentarily cured of their torments, and they fall into base and servile occupations from which they sometimes never rise again. But others who are in truth very rare - escape from this need for miserable activity that drives their companions to flee what had at first attracted them. They resent with great fervor the strange conditions in which they find them selves, and before giving in to the attraction exerted upon them, they are as if indefinitely held back by the vanity of their efforts, and they attach themselves almost forever to the low places they first came to know. In the place where they are, it seems to them that they will never be able to exhaust completely whatever it is they might enjoy there, and despite the bitterness they harbor and the inexplicable sufferings of their very simple life, they patiently wait, persuaded that they are condemned to remain in an obscure and plaintive distress. This wait can last a very long time. It is uncertain whether for some it ever comes to an end. They are seen trying to transform themselves, changing the color of the room they never leave, each day becoming more disaffected and dull, to the point that they are easily confused with objects and come to resemble the house itself. There is really nothing to be said about them; no one knows what becomes of them later. But among the small group of those who have mistrusted their desire, there are some who, one day, receive the order to change places; sometimes they move up, sometimes down, it matters little. The important thing for them, what renews their strength, is that they have been given the proof that in patience and passivity the principle of a blessed action may be 15 2

  found. They have been remembered; they have been pulled from the ditch where they were sure to die. It is true that, as soon as they have entered a new place or a new function, they begin once again to believe they will never get out. They are still distraught at the height of their prison walls, and though their strength may have increased, even if they possessed the keys that opened every door for them, they are incapable of taking the few steps required to attain the object of their wishes. One would think that the passion that ravages them and that grows as they climb higher is only directed against another deeper passion whose fire they will feel when it has been extinguished. As the desire drawing them upward becomes more intense, because its obstacles have been diminished, the more they find within themselves the means to combat it and to detach themselves from it. Thus it is that they alone approach those regions that remain inaccessible to others. I could never describe to you the last stages through which they pass before coming upon that great opening without a door that lies at the end of their aspirations. The torments and delights they undergo there are such that they cannot preserve them in their memory. They are no longer anything, and yet they are everything. They are touched by an intense love that, however, has none of the colors oflove and that reaches them through the abandonment in which it leaves them. They are driven by a glorious hope composed of all the hopes they have previously renounced. They are finally so annihilated by the effort required to resist the temptation to go where they desire with all their soul to go, that they are often consumed by it and succumb to the force of their passion. Some never move past the first step; others go as far as the doorway, where they remain lying in a heap; and yet most of them do enter and leave, after realizing, as they take their last steps in utter indifference and in the death of their last desire, that everything was indeed as they themselves had guessed; the apartment is quiet and empty, and there is nothing left to desire because there is noth ing. When they return, life begins again; the feelings that remain with a person from such a journey are so fine and complex that what one remem bers is liberated from the journey itself, and memory itself retains only the deep and intense ardor that has animated them up to the end. A stronger hope is formed from the particles of images that still burn with a new pas sion. One aspires to return to these unspeakable places that are tarnished by no disappointment and to which one remains ever near in a patience that is renewed as well. They are the same paths, the same stations where 153

  one finds traces of the tears one has shed, and it is the same radiant suffer ing, the same tragic happiness in progressing so slowly toward a goal that one wishes all the more to reach, since one knows that in attaining it, there will be nothing more to wish." The girl seemed to have finished her work; she had set the needle and thread down on the table, and she laid her hands on the large cloth that, however, she had left unfolded. She raised her head, and Thomas met her gaze, a pure and candid gaze from which all light had faded away. He wanted to answer her; but although he knew what he had to say, he shrank back from the effort required to search for the words he needed. Yet he re gretted his silen
ce when he saw that the girl still wanted to speak to him. No matter how gently she might address him, he was oppressed and fatigued by all this talk. "What could you have seen at the window?" she said. "The shutters are closed, and no one can open them onto the outside and lean out. If a ray of light happens to slip between the cracks, it is so feeble that no one notices it, and only later, when going back down, or even much later than that, does one perceive it, as though it could only illuminate you when you have come back into those dark rooms below. No, you have been the victim of an illusion; you thought someone was calling you, but no one was there, and the call came from you. Now," she said, standing up, "it's getting late; you are very tired; you should think about getting some rest. What a mess here," she said, looking at the shreds of fabric and loose thread on the floor. ''I'm going to clean up after my work." Thomas watched her intently. She was small and agile; he had not been mistaken when, downstairs, he had been struck by her childlike face, full of kindness and charm. She stepped lightly across the room. In a few moments everything was put back in order. She stopped near Thomas, touched his shoulder, and said: ''I'm going to open the door. You can look out for a second; it's nice to have some open space out in front of you after being closed up in this room." She went to the door opposite Thomas and then turned back to add: "I am disobeying the orders, so look quickly." Through the opening, Thomas saw a long vault held up by short, thick columns that came together in arches. He was able to see clearly the first columns, which were lit on each side by a shimmering light like the fire of a distant star, but in the other two-thirds of the nave he saw nothing more. 1 54

  "Close the door)" he said) realizing he could not penetrate the shadows. "That's enough for today." The girl closed the door) and Thomas stopped paying attention to her. He thought about what she had said) but he could not overcome his fa tigue. So he stood up to leave) putting off until later the conclusion that he would have to draw from this conversation. He stood motionless for a moment; the room seemed to him surprisingly low and cramped; thus it seemed to him) now that he was standing) that he was contemplating it from high above) and that his head had gone up through the ceiling) and he could no longer tell what was happening down at his feet. When he tried to look up) his eyes grew dim) and he fell ponderously to the floor. After this fall) Thomas sank into a long period of illness) and he could no longer remember anything that happened. Only during the course of his convalescence did he look around at the room that enclosed him and at the bed where he lay. The room was large and bright; several paintings hung on the walls) and on the table there was a carafe next to a glass half filled with water. Thomas sat up and drank the fresh water with pleasure; his lips still burned; his eyes were aching. He had certainly been very ill. Nevertheless) he left the room) and surprised by the calm and silence that reigned in this· part of the house) he hesitated to go any farther. Across from his room he saw a half-opened door; someone must have been in the room) for he heard footsteps now and then. He crossed the wide hallway and went in) but when he saw a woman half hidden behind an armchair) he hastily excused himself. Yet he remained standing in the doorway. The room seemed immense. It was divided into three sections) separated from one another by two sets of steps that ran the width of the room; at the far end) there was a narrow bed) hidden by a curtain) whose miserable ap pearance clashed with the rest of the furnishings. After observing these details) Thomas thought that he had lingered too long to go away with out saying a few polite words) and he asked if there were not a domestic somewhere nearby whom he might call on) since) having recently been ill) it was still difficult to do without the service. The young woman turned slowly) and her gaze) sad and lovely) fell on the half-opened door. Would she answer him? While he listened intently with a slight apprehension) not knowing whether after the silence of a long illness he could bear the sound of another voice) the young woman) as if she had guessed what fear was troubling him) turned away) walked a short distance in the other direc1 55

  tion, and sat down on a stool next to the first steps. At first, Thomas did not know how to interpret such an attitude. Finally, he took a few steps himself and saw that the room was even more vast than he had thought. The ceiling was very high; it was supported by columns built into recesses in the wall, and it rose in the form of a vault that soon vanished into the heights. After looking upward, he had difficulty, when he lowered his eyes, estimating the limits of the large room; he was as though lost in an infinite space; he looked around in vain for the objects that had served as points of reference for him. To escape from this impression of emptiness, he sat down on a beautiful chair covered with velvet, and he felt how much his ill ness had deprived him of his strength; he was exhausted, and this rest, far from relieving his fatigue, weighed down his limbs and made them ache. After a few moments, he fell into a brief sleep that only intensified his feel ing of confusion, for he dreamed of the vast room he had entered, in which he wandered alone, threatened at every moment with being driven away. When he woke, he felt stronger, and he walked out. He was glad at first to be back in his room. Its atmosphere was mild and pleasant. But when he called out in a loud voice, he went back to the doorway to see what kind of person would be sent to him. The hallway, though high and wide, was dark; it was lit only by a few rays oflight coming through large sliding panels on each side. He waited for a long time, lean ing his back against the wall, his head bent forward, as if he had fallen asleep while on guard duty. Then the door across the way opened, and the young woman said, without leaving her room: "Why don't you answer? I called to you several times." Were these words really meant for Thomas? They sounded like words addressed to a servant, and their tone was harsh and contemptuous. He did not move; avoiding her question, he said: "I myself am waiting for a domestic." The young woman paid no attention to this remark and turned back into her room without dosing the door. Thomas, for his part, went back to his room. But hardly was he on the threshold, when he noticed that it was far from being as comfortable as it had appeared to him during the long hours of his fever. There was no chair, the table was ridiculously small, and the too spacious bed was covered in black-and-white sheets that forced one's eyes away. It was a sick person's room. He therefore gave up trying to find any rest there, and, greatly worried, he went to see his neighbor. She

  was standing in the entrance to the room, her arms calmly at her sides. She was quite young, but her youth did not make their relations any easier; as near as she was, she remained distant. "There you are at last," she said to Thomas. "Your service leaves much to be desired." Surprising words. After giving him a little time to acknowledge and to understand her rep rimand, she added: "What you can do now is make me forget your lapse. Get to work and don't waste any time." With an authoritarian gesture, but without any real severity, she dis missed him. Then she withdrew into a corner of the room, slightly behind the little stool where she had sat down at the end of their first meeting. Thomas hurried from the room and went down the hall to find the equipment he needed. He had to walk quite a distance. As he had imag ined, this corridor was monumental. Almost completely covered in dark ness, he noticed as he went that it did not in any way resemble an ordinary hallway; rather it had the appearance of a huge underground tunnel whose ceiling was invisible and which numerous recesses, enormous pipes, and deep holes carved out of the floor - revealing wooden pillars and iron beams - transformed into a silent catacomb. In a small side room Thomas found a broom, a bucket, and a dust cloth, and he set to work. The floor was paved with stones, but it was covered with a thick crust of dirt that could only be removed by scraping it with a shovel or a pickaxe; since Thomas had no such tools, he settled for sweeping it with heavy strokes, casting to either side the largest and most visible detritus. He raised a lot of dust; a sort of red mold with an acrid smell permeated the atmosphere and slowly drifted back down, sticking to everything. Although he put great care and attention into his work, he soon came to the end of it, reaching the spot where wooden planks replaced the pavin
g stones and the dirt. A little farther along was the room. He could therefore consider his task complete. Nevertheless, not wanting it to be known officially that he was finished, he continued to sweep in front of the doors of the two rooms, without paying attention to the red streaks he was leaving on the wooden floor. What he feared, though it was the direct result of his efforts, soon occurred. The young woman, drawn by the noise - Thomas was violently knocking his broom against the wall - came out and shot a look of silent disapproval at him. He must have presented a sorry sight: the dust he had 157

  raised had stuck to his clothes and probably covered his face and hair as well; the bucket lay overturned on the floor- fortunately it was empty and the rag, made of two pieces ripped from a morning coat, was lying soaked in slimy mud. Thomas therefore expected a harsh reprimand. But the young woman did not deign to pass judgment on a piece of work that spoke so clearly for itself, and after going back to the room, she said to him through the door, as if he were no longer worthy of being addressed face to face: "During your absence you were the subject of a communication concerning the affair in which you are a witness. It has been made known to you, then, that for the time being you will have to fulfill the functions of the two employees." What an unpleasant tone of voice! While listening to this voice, he sensed in its words an inexorable meaning that was perhaps not contained in the words themselves; but at the same time, he was glad that the judgment had been pronounced by her, in all its truth and all its force, such that once it had been expressed, it seemed there was no longer anything to fear from it. Thomas reflected for a long time on these words. Then, taking up his work again, he tried to clean up the mess he had made. Seeing that his efforts had little result -the moldy dust had become encrusted in the slats of the floor, and the more he scrubbed, the more they turned black - he went to put the broom and the bucket away and returned to his room to shake off the dust that covered his clothes. Coming back out into the corridor, he noticed that the door opposite was closed. That was something new. The door was hermetically sealed. He pressed his ear against it without hear ing the slightest noise. He bent down to the floor to look for a ray of light, but a large rolled up cloth blocked every crack. As with many doors in the house, there was neither a latch nor a lock, and it could only be opened from the inside. He stood with his forehead pressed against the doorframe. Hours passed, but he could not resign himself to knocking; nothing drew him into the room; nothing drew him outside it; he had a feeling of empti ness and distress that came over him more painfully than any illness and that made him wish he could bury his sorrow and forget his very name. How forbidding everything was here! What strange colors things had, how heavy was the silence! He would have liked to push it away and at the same time to find nothing other than himself. After a long while his knees gave way, and he fell to the floor. He could no doubt be heard from inside, for the young woman - it