Aminadab 0803213131

by Unknown

  couragement, no different from those that occur in all serious endeavors. One day you notice a curious fact: from time to time, the plants feverishly move about; one would think that the clay was no longer enough to satisfy them and that somewhere far away, in the distance of distances, an event had taken place toward which they are forcefully drawn. You see the trem bling of the miniscule petals, and you too ask yourself if you may not have heard, through the silence of the underground spaces, a message or at least the echo of a message. Perhaps it is only a meaningless noise; perhaps the attempt is worth the trouble; soon you have decided, and taking up your shovel, you courageously set out to open a hole in the earth. This is the beginning of an immense task. You must dig for a very long time and accu mulate mountains of silt on both sides of your path. Fortunately, you have become very strong; far from being threatened by the shock of the work, the plants continue to grow and begin to look like small trees that, it's true, lack all color. They spiral firmly, and with authority, into layer after layer of earth, without letting you choose your direction; you need only wait until they have grown deeply, and since, after all, this takes a long time, it seems to you that it takes months and years for your eyes to pierce this dense night and to light the path you are to follow. But why would you be worried? You are heeding the call, and if the difficulties are great, they are no more insurmountable than the ones encountered in an ordinary exis tence, and they are certainly less petty. So you continue on your way; dirt covers your face completely and almost envelops your entire body; but one of your hands remains free, sinks all its fingers into the thick crust, and furiously scrapes open the passage; although it works unassisted, it gets through more work than a whole team of ditchdiggers; with such help as this, you will not be long in finishing. One day, the earth caves in, and be neath the mound that surrounds you, you perceive a thin sliver of light that hovers around the edge of your vision. This was no doubt bound to happen; the day is not far; although the idea of beginning a new life fright ens you a little, you turn with pride toward the past, now buried for good, and you realize that there is a way out; you have managed to escape the in evitable, the only one among countless thousands, for you recognized that the true path did not lead toward the heights but lay deeply buried under the ground. Now a thin crust separates you from the end of the nightmare, and only one problem remains: what will happen up there? Obviously, you are forced to think about the appearance you have taken on and the habits

  you have developed, and you are not unaware that one does not journey for years under the earth with impunity. Would you not do better to re main where you are, joyously waiting for the air and the sun to make your memories grow and to lead you toward your new existence? That is the question now, and you must answer it." Thomas sat up in his bed as if he really did have to answer this ques tion. He looked at the young man and saw that he was questioning him in a most urgent manner that did not allow any escape or even any delay. The strange air of his former companion had struck him already during the course of the conversation. To make his words more lively, he had stood up to mimic the various scenes he recounted. Of course, his gestures were very discreet, and since they often related to events that were difficult to represent, an inattentive person would not always have understood how the anguished force of his movements - the swaying of his body, his way of quickly passing his hand over his face, as though to erase its features, the sly expression with which he moved his fingernails toward his eyes, and many other gestures besides - exhausted the attention of his interlocutor and obliged him to accept everything in this conversation. Thomas was no less disturbed by the efforts his companion made to hide the resem blance between the two of them. The care he took to avoid all of Thomas's habitual attitudes only ended up accentuating this resemblance and in creasing its threatening quality; his immobility itself was a reproach, and it humiliated both of them. Thomas continued to stare at him for a long time; then suddenly think ing of Lucie, he said: "Please excuse me; 1 am not ready to answer your question; 1 must prepare for an important visit, and 1 need to be very calm." The young man went to the curtains and distractedly looked out be tween them; he was probably very frustrated. "I would be happy," Thomas added, trying to soften this disappointment, "to demonstrate my gratitude, for your account greatly interested me. But you will understand that, in my present situation, it would be impossible for me to give any useful consideration to the extraordinary life change you have proposed. 1 am afraid that it is much too late." "I know," said the young man, "I know that." Then he called Lucie in an impertinent voice that Thomas found ex tremely tiresome. The young woman came carrying one of the lamps that had been shining on the steps of the stairway a few moments before; 19 0

  upon entering, she put out the light; daylight continued to stream through the curtain. After a few moments, Thomas, who was trying to determine whether this brightness was coming from the other lamps or from a nearby window, was astonished to hear his companion speak for him in a melan choly tone: "I have long been waiting for this interview. Unfortunately, it will not be possible for me to pay close attention, for my strength is lack ing, and I have difficulty following a conversation. Come, then, and stay next to me." Lucie approached Thomas. "I am much weaker than you might suppose," the young man continued. "You neglected me in the beginning, and now I am just lucid enough to listen to your words. The end awaiting me is not enviable." These last words shocked Thomas, who said immediately: "I am not happy with this language. I would like to express my thoughts myself." Dom turned around, surprised and somewhat annoyed. "That is not possible," he hastened to say. The young woman interceded. "Don't be too quick to condemn him," she said to Thomas in a new tone of intimacy.l "He is acting with good intentions. Tell me, what else would you like to communicate to us?" "It is certainly true," said Thomas, "that my end does not merit such a sad judgment. On the contrary, I feel very happy to have fulfilled my duty and to have lived long enough to meet you." "And yet he is the one who is right," she said, pointing to the young man. "Now you see only the superficial signs, but your last moments can only inspire pity." "But," said Thomas, "I did everything you said to do. I trust you, and I am waiting for my efforts to be repaid. Even though many things were refused to me, I would consider myself satisfied." "Don't commit a final error," said the girl. "And what error would I be committing?" asked Thomas. "Let me give you a piece of advice," said the girl, as if this were the answer. "I am very attached to you, and it pains me to see how badly things have turned out for you. Lie down on your side and lift your head to look through the curtain. There is a window with a black frame that stands out

  1.

  Here Lucie begins to address Thomas with the familiar tu form, rather than the formal

  vous that she has used up to now. - Tr.

  19 1

  from the wall; despite the drapery covering it, it lets in a little air from outside. Can you see it?" Thomas turned over painfully. The girl was directly in front of him. Since the bed was very low, she seemed to dominate him more than ever, and her shape almost towered out of sight. With great effort he saw two intense rays of light. "This window," said Lucie, « gives you an idea of the darkness that will fill the room when the moment has come for our union. Right now your eyes still discern the shadows that slip through the cracks, but soon the dark ness will strike your senses, and you will fall into a state in which you will see nothing more." "A window?" said Thomas. «That's curious. Would you go stand next to it and raise your hand as if you wanted to make a sign to someone outside and were asking him to enter? That would give me some relief." «No," said Lucie, "I am not allowed to leave you now." "Well then," said Thomas, "send the young man. He too has played his role." «You're asking for the impossible," said Lucie impatiently. «Listen to me instead." Thomas looked toward the window again and was still surprised to see the bright light coming into the room. It seemed that the drapery, though made of a thick velvet, could no longer block out the daylight pressing in from t
he outside. "That's it," said the girl. "Don't lose heart, and look with manly courage upon the coming night. As I speak to you, you will stare more and more intently at the shadows, and the darkness will help you to understand me. Indeed, I have some unpleasant news to tell you. Contrary to what you have thought, I do not know you, I never made a sign, and I did not send any message. It is only thanks to the carelessness that reigns in the house that you have been able to come this far; but no order called you here, and someone else was expected. Of course, since you are here, I must take ac count of your presence, and I do not want to send you away under the pretext that you are a stranger to me. You will stay, then, as long as you like, but it was my duty not to allow you to delude yourself any longer." Thomas listened to the girl, as if she would necessarily have to take back what she was saying. "I cannot believe you," he said. "I do recognize you." 19 2

  "Don't be so stubborn," said Lucie. "You have committed an error; I am not the one you are looking for, and you are not the one who was supposed to come. This is very aggravating for you, but I cannot change the truth." "All the same, 1 don't believe you," said Thomas. "There are many things that you too do not know. 1 have been searching for you longer than you think, and 1 cannot lightly abandon all the proof 1 have gathered. Long ago - this, at least, you cannot deny - 1 met you in a large building where you lived in a room next to mine. You knocked at my door; 1 opened, and since it was late, and 1 had some urgent work to finish, you sat down at the table where 1 was writing, and I dictated several letters to you. We be came very absorbed in this work; you barely had enough time to grasp my words and to write them down as you recalled them. It could be, then, that you were unable to look carefully at me and that my features, fleetingly glimpsed, were erased from your memory. But I, I could not forget you; 1 recognize you; 1 know it's you." Thomas put all his strength into these last words, and it seemed to him, after he had said them, that there was no longer anything that he could really believe; his statement had been too categorical. "I would like to spare you the pain 1 am causing you," the girl said sadly. "It is a dreadful thing for you to have followed this long road and not to find yourself in the presence of the person you wanted to see again. It's a terrible misunderstanding." "No," said Thomas shaking his head, "I am not mistaken. The resem blance is too great. But something has happened that 1 cannot understand and that I have no time to explain. Do you resent me for not being very friendly to you back then? The work claimed all our attention. We had no time to look at each other. It was wrong. Now we will have all our lives to ourselves." "Why do you persist?" said the girl. "As we speak, you are losing pre cious time. Look rather at the darkness that rises and gathers behind the curtains. Night will be here, and we will be reunited. When darkness has come, what else is there in the world? So lay your thoughts aside." "No," repeated Thomas, "it is still day, and the day cannot be long enough for my distress. Understand what 1 say: 1 began to search for you every where as soon as you left me. On the roads I sometimes saw young women who resembled you; 1 looked at them, and 1 touched them, but it wasn't you. So 1 went farther, despite my fatigue, I visited all the streets and all 1 93

  the houses: no one had seen you. Later I no longer dared speak of you, so afraid was I that my questions made you flee. I hung my head as I walked and saw only the stones of the road. 'Then whom,' I said to myself, 'shall I find?' It was not even worth the trouble to know; my weariness left me with only strength enough to find my way. But when I saw you from the street, and you made a sign to me, I entered the house and slowly made my way to you. It was mad, no doubt. Is it possible to find anyone in this world? But I searched for you all the same, and here you are next to me." "No," said the girl, "you're deluded. I had never seen your face before you came in here, and I remember nothing that would confirm your claims. There might be others besides you who could make me doubt, and if I rummaged through my memory, perhaps I could succeed in finding an image that would enlighten me. But with you, that is not the case; I do not need to question you to know that we have never yet been in each other's presence." "It's frightful," said Thomas; he made an effort to turn away from the window and to look at the young woman; but she dissuaded him and ca ressed his hair. "Whom else could you remember? We were always alone, and you have known no one but me. Nothing will shake my conviction." "So be it," said the girl. "Since you are so sure of what you say, I surrender to your words. You have convinced me." She turned to Dom and addressed him in a harsh voice, as if she were reproaching him for letting himself be interrupted: "You can speak now." "Just a moment," said Thomas. "I would like to clarify one detail. Al though all the features of your face are the same as those I hold in my mem0ry there is something, however, that does not correspond: your voice has ' changed." "My voice?" Lucie repeated. "Yes," said Thomas. "Don't you remember that your voice was very weak? It was hardly audible. Now, it still has some very gentle intonations, but at times it resounds with such force that one fears being unable to bear it. This is only a small detail, but it worries me." "I can speak more softly," said Lucie, and she said a few words in a whisper. "To whom are you speaking?" asked Thomas. "To you," said the girl. "Do you want that?" "Yes," he answered, but a few moments passed while he listened atten1 94

  tively, as if he were waiting for Lucie to try the experiment again in a more satisfying way. Since she hesitated, he spoke to the young man. "Perhaps," he said, "my illness has altered my organs and is causing me to hear voices in an abnormal way. Would you say a few words as well?" The young man hesitated, then said with a certain ill humor: "With re gard to the conversation we had a moment ago, I fear that you may have been too hasty in reaching a conclusion. In my opinion, my proposal ought to have interested you, and it was not too late." "Really?" said Thomas. He thought for a moment, then added: "I hear your voice perfectly well; it seems to me that even in times past I would not have heard it differently. This forces me to be less categorical." He abruptly raised his head and stared at the girl's face, less to judge its character than to find in it a confirmation of his hopes. He did not appear to have regained any calm. "In considering your features one by one," he said finally, "I can only maintain my first impression. They correspond at every point to those of the person I knew. In terms of the resemblance, it is equally as precise, although one cannot be so sure about a simple analogy. But one thing that requires more caution is the expression of your eyes. You do not look at me as you did back then. It seems to me, when you stare at me, that you are not the one I see. I no longer know then on whom my eyes are resting, and I am afraid of making a mistake. I am obliged," he added, as if he were apologizing for contradicting the girl, "I am obliged to take this remark into account." He waited for a response, but since Lucie said nothing, he asked her: "Do you hold it against me? It is very important to me." The girl still remained silent. "I have only reported my impressions," Thomas continued. "Might you have something to say perhaps?" But no response came. "I did not want to alter the truth," said Thomas. The girl then bent down to him and shouted: "You won't listen to any thing; you're incorrigible." She violently took his head in her hands and forced him to turn toward the window; since Thomas tried to see something new that would have ex plained her gesture, she said to him furtively: "You must wait for the night; it is slow in coming. I do not know if anyone pointed this out to you, but 1 95

  the darkness is easily driven out of the house. Although the sun does not directly illuminate it, hardly does the light seem to have left when it has already returned, and the eye that closed on a sleepy world reopens onto an intense brightness. Only in this last room, situated at the very top of the house, does night fall entirely. It is generally beautiful and soothing. It is pleasant not to have to close one's eyes to be freed from the insomnia of the day. It is also very charming to find in the darkness outside the same shad ows that long ago struck down the truth inside oneself. This night has its particularities. It brings with it neither dreams nor the premonitions that, at times, take the place of dreams. Ra
ther it is itself a vast dream that is not within reach of the person it envelops. When it has surrounded your bed, we will draw the curtains that enclose the alcove, and the splendor of the objects that will then be revealed will be enough to console the most un happy of men. At that moment, I too will become truly beautiful. Whereas now, this false day takes away many of my charms; at that auspicious mo ment I will appear just as I am. I will look at you for a long time; I will lie down not far from you, and you will not need to question me, because I will answer every question. And at the same time, the lamps whose in scriptions you wanted to read will be turned around the right way, and their sentences, which will make you understand everything, will be inde cipherable no longer. So do not be impatient; at your call, the night will do justice to you, and your worries and your weariness will sink out of sight." "One more question," said Thomas, who had listened with great interest, "will the lamps be lit?" "Of course not," said the girl. "What a foolish question! Everything will be covered in darkness." "Darkness, night . . ." said Thomas with a dreamy look. "Then I will see you no more?" "No doubt," said the girl. "What did you think? It is precisely because you will be lost for good in the shadows, and because you will no longer be able to see what is going on around you, that I will immediately tell you about it. You cannot hope to hear, see, and rest all at once. I will therefore warn you about what will happen when the night has revealed its truth to you and you are fully at rest. Is it not good for you to know that in a few mo ments everything you have wished to know will be legible on the walls, on my face, on my mouth, in a few simple words? That this revelation does not touch you yourself is a drawback, to be sure; but the essential thing is to be