The Governesses

by Anne Serre

  If you mentioned a man’s name in her presence she would look away, annoyed, so Monsieur Austeur demanded that no further questions be asked of her. Laura was going to be a mother; as for the child’s upbringing, it was secure: one day he would join the gaggle of little boys, and that was that.

  Which is what happened. After a difficult confinement, Laura discovered a little boy of six pounds lying next to her, a feisty-looking creature, as chubby as you could wish. She was enthralled. She would never have imagined herself capable of such a feat. Secretive by nature, she had always been the last to run to the gates, the last to speak to strangers, the one, she couldn’t help thinking, for whom Monsieur Austeur had the least affection and esteem. And yet it was she, the hazy-eyed straggler almost entirely wrapped up in her dreams, who had performed this heroic act, without really knowing how, leaving her two nonchildbearing companions far behind her.

  It was strange all of a sudden to be running the show, to be the one they all looked up to and turned to for advice. Perhaps that was why she’d had this child: in order to change roles in the household?

  She had been moved out of her governess’s room, and into the one set aside for young mothers. Situated at the center of the building, it was the largest bedroom in the house and the one with the prettiest decor. Lying in her huge bed with its white quilt and embroidered pillows, she gazed at the freshly laundered net curtains over the tall glass doors leading onto the stone balcony. The creamy white, silk-lined walls and the thick rugs almost entirely covering the parquet made her feel like a jewel in a velvet box. In her new room, the sounds from the house were muffled, unlike in the governesses’ rooms, where you could hear ankle boots clicking or Eléonore moaning to herself or Inès splashing in the antiquated pink bathtub. In her new room nobody came bursting in. And when the little maids knocked, they did so by merrily drumming their almond-shaped nails on the wood.

  For the first time in her life, Laura was in charge. It wasn’t difficult. It was a lot easier than being a governess, where something was always lacking, you were never quite sure what, and couldn’t help wondering if, at bottom, it wasn’t yourself. She remembered how they’d race over to the gates, their picnics in the forest, the shouts and tears, the strident joys of their life together. It was like remembering her childhood. Those things had happened, no doubt, but all so long ago, in another life, perhaps to a different person . . . She no longer dreamed of leaving. The bustle was no longer going on outside; it was here, within the garden, at home, at the center of the house. All you had to do was listen. From time to time, she would part the curtains so that the elderly gentleman across the way could go about his work. But she didn’t play with him anymore. No more mincing around, no more striking provocative poses to feel the air vibrating around her. She walked over to her bed and slipped between the sheets — he could watch her dreaming now.

  “One less,” thought the elderly gentleman to himself as he folded up his telescope. This one wouldn’t be wriggling around anymore, this one would never do anything unexpected again. He’d learn nothing more about her from the dress she was wearing, the locks of her hair, her way of pacing up and down. To find a way in, he’d have to look much further afield than her delectable flesh. Stretched out on his bed, with his game of solitaire spread out on the sheets and his big book at his side, he would have to close his eyes.

  It was a bit worrying. What if the other two were to marry and leave the house, or, like Laura, give birth to a child — what would become of him and his midnight vigils? Would they simply abandon him one day, after all the joy and hope they had given him? Would he be forced to look out over an enormous, icy garden? He had other distractions, of course: there was his book to examine, the slow procession of the seasons to be followed in the sky and trees; his games of solitaire; the occasional visit perhaps. But these faces he loved, the expressions they wore as they came and went in the garden, which would change suddenly when one of the governesses ran across it — how he would miss it all. . . . He vowed he would break his telescope in two when the last of the governesses left the stage. He would draw the curtains. He might even pull up stakes and move to another town, another country, and begin afresh. A new life, with no telescope, no standing at the window, no dark room where you conjured up images, darkening or lightening the black parts, adding pink or brown tints to the white bits, playing around with color and form.

  No, in his new life he would live. He’d meet other women perhaps, and instead of watching them come and go and rush around, instead of deciphering the mysterious speech on their lips, he would love them in earnest. He would go down to the gardens and terraces, the houses they inhabit, and engage them in conversation. He would untie their ribbons and their bows and unfasten their small pearl buttons. He would run his fingers through their mysterious long hair, touch their lips, put his finger between their teeth.

  Because of the governesses, he can’t help imagining women in threes. He tries to merge them into a single woman, long and frail, pining for love yet firm as a reed, and at the same time moody. He permits his hands, his mouth, and his sex to explore those moods where they are found, at the junction of the thighs, beneath a thatch of pale summer straw. His fingers slip into moist caverns, make their way up to the soft, sloped belly with its shimmering blonde down, and on up to the tender pale breasts, the tips of which are like everything he ever longed for. And then the frail, willowy neck under a forest of hair. And at last the eyes, the lids fragile as eggshells you can kiss, and the fearless, dreaming brow, the brow that remains so still in the presence of men.

  Oh yes, he can see himself living at last. He’ll continue to observe her, of course, but she’ll observe him, too. She’ll call him “darling,” or words to that effect. They’ll go traveling together, or maybe they’ll stay at home — it’s really not important. She’ll be there with him, he’ll be able to touch her, and speak to her as well. He’ll wonder how he managed to spend all that time simply watching and listening.

  There were times, it’s true, when he enjoyed being in his poorly lit room. He loved being tucked up in bed in that warm, dark chamber papered with unicorns and ivy, then pulling out his telescope and snooping in the house and garden. What a delightful way to spend the day! And life was so much less cumbersome, so much less bewildering when kept at bay through that lens. He would watch, write something down in his big book, watch again and write something else down. From time to time, a woman would come in to change the sheets, shake out the pillows, and present him with a crisp, golden-brown roast chicken and a few apples. Then she would disappear.

  Did he want to go out sometimes? No, he never felt the urge. He didn’t want to be distracted from his task, because that task was the only thing that could make him happy, he knew this perfectly well. Before growing old, he had tried all kinds of things. He had gone out. He, too, had seen the roads and towns. He’d had friends. But he’d never been a good traveler, or a good friend. When he traveled he couldn’t wait to get home, and when he spent an evening with friends he couldn’t wait to leave. When he was obliged to go out, he was like someone disturbed in a dream and forced to get up in the cold. To go where? He has no idea. He does as he’s told, quickly gets to his feet, puts on his clothes, and follows his guide downstairs and out into the road that leads to the bustling, well-lit town. All these lights hurt his eyes and the noises deafen him. He shakes hands, chats, drinks wine, but he still doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s lionized, he is sure he loves his friends, and for a moment he wonders why he doesn’t get out more.

  And then his guide takes him home, sweating profusely and in a real flap. Everything is colliding in his brain: that lady, the remark she made, the way that man had of snapping his suspenders, the champagne glass he broke, that other woman who seemingly couldn’t stand him, the noise. It’s too much for him. Too many images and sounds piled together like some horrific car crash. Only one thing from the evening has stuck in his min
d, and he clings to it to remain upright: the sound of a bell in a nearby church, reminding him of the governesses.

  The further they were from him, the more eager he was to see them again. Everything they’d done while he was away was lost to him forever, and yet he’d come back refreshed. Deprived of their presence for so long, he observed them with a much keener eye than before. Now that he was old, he never went out, except at night, alone, when they were sleeping and the countryside was so still that there was no risk of being distracted from his dreams. He would button himself up in a nice, warm old overcoat, knot a scarf around his neck, thrust his hands into his pockets and, bareheaded, go out for a short stroll along the moonlit road.

  How lovely it felt, the chill night air on the crown of your skull. . . . He turned up the collar of his overcoat and walked softly down the asphalt road, not wanting the tramp of his own feet to disturb him.

  There were times when he wasn’t alone. One night, he was making his way along the road when silhouettes came creeping up on a path that ran parallel to his own. Hidden by a row of trees, they were obscured from the elderly gentleman’s view. In spite of his age, however, he had sharp ears, so when he remarked chirping sounds and stifled laughter, steps scurrying away and a silky rustle of fabric, he felt his heart race like a madman’s.

  It was the governesses, he was sure. They were there, in the dark, playing tricks on him. Perhaps they wanted to play? But what did they want him to do exactly? He was worried that he might scare them off. Should he walk faster or carry on at the same pace, as if he hadn’t heard anything? Or rush over and pounce on them? Wait on their pleasure, allow them to decide everything? His heart was pounding as he made his way down the gray, moonlit road amid the rustle of leaves and that other, softer and more intimate rustle of the silhouettes who kept him company but had no wish to reveal themselves.

  Soon he couldn’t hear a sound and felt alarmed. Had they gone? Had they turned back into the woods, leaving him alone until the following morning, when they would reappear on the lawn once more? All of a sudden, he looked up and saw them. Like young deer, they were bounding across the road, one behind the other, a hundred yards in front of him, the folds of their long skirts flying open like wings as they rose, then folding back around their bodies the moment they touched ground.

  He started to run, trying to catch up with them, but they had disappeared into the woods. And when he arrived at the spot where they had sailed across the road all he found were a few fallen leaves and the tracks left by their tiny heels in the young grass.

  After that night, of course, he went out more often, and always at the same hour and on the same road. He would prick up his ears and think he heard somebody creeping around in the dark, but it was just an animal going by. He heard laughter: it was just water, or pigeons cooing. He scanned the road ahead of him: silhouettes appeared all right, but they didn’t leap around and they never rose into the air on outstretched wings. He would come home exhausted from these nocturnal excursions, which became less and less frequent before being phased out altogether. In the morning, it seemed almost miraculous to find the governesses back on the green lawn in their white dresses. Amazed, he observed them closely, filling out their bright, lively forms with night colors, adjusting their contours and silhouettes, advancing.

  The child grew. Scarves and little cardigans were knitted for him, and such enormous quantities of miniature socks that no one knew what to do with them. The women in the house were all at it, from Madame Austeur in her white salon, her workbasket at her side, to the little maids unspooling cherry-red and sky-blue balls of wool under the porches. Every time Monsieur Austeur walked through the house, he had the impression of a nest being built. There were scraps of wool everywhere: on the rugs and mantelpieces, dangling from the wainscoting or wound round the banister posts on the stairs. Everywhere he went women would be knitting away without so much as a glance in his direction.

  It was starting to get on his nerves. Miniature clothes were piled up on the dressing tables and commodes, and on one occasion he even found a pair of pretty red booties on his desk, which certainly didn’t belong there. He lost his temper and called for a semblance of order in the house. He even employed the word “respect.” But nobody was listening. They continued to toil away blindly like ants, avoiding him whenever they crossed his path, making him feel like an obstacle, a deadweight, a sort of menhir whose founding role had long been forgotten. So he shut himself away in the smoking room, lonelier than ever. Even his midnight vigils had ceased to serve any real purpose. No one needed him to put them back in orbit anymore, to soothe and direct their sleep. His ministerings were in vain. The center of the house had shifted. It was now located in the room adjoining Laura’s on the first floor, behind a cloud of muslin, screaming, crying, laughing, fresh as a baby waterfall.

  It was this still unformed voice and consciousness that henceforth regulated the movements of the household. To Monsieur Austeur it came as a shock. What! His age and experience and all the hardships he had endured could simply be usurped by this tiny creature with next to no knowledge of life? Was the child’s arrival in the world really enough to dethrone him — he who, on account of his age and experience and the hardships he had endured, had always felt entitled to run the house? It was as though his whole life up to that point had been weighed on some strange scale and judged of no more worth than the featherweight of existence enjoyed by this piddling little infant.

  Madame Austeur could sense her husband’s confusion. She would have liked to come to his aid but had herself been swept up like a wisp of straw on this powerful new tide, and had no sooner turned to him with open arms than she disappeared from view, as though swallowed up by the room on the second floor.

  Had the governesses been more thoughtful, they might have shown him more respect. But what a fool he had been to count on their support! They no more knew what they were doing than Madame Austeur did; as tenderhearted as the little maids, they sank down in this ocean of softness, bouncing happily around in a kind of zero gravity.

  And to think he’d expected them to rally round at the first puff of smoke from his cigar! That, whatever the circumstance, whatever the temptations, it was to him they would turn, him they would support with their powerful young love.

  Wounded, Monsieur Austeur spent more and more time out of doors: in the orchard, where he would clip the trees; in town, where he suddenly had things to do; or on long walks that led nowhere and only brought him back to a house where life had withdrawn to a spot that was out of bounds to him.

  Nobody prevented him from entering that room, and yet he couldn’t help tiptoeing past it, removing his shoes on the landing when he came in late. And were the door to start to open while he was standing there, he would hurry back to his living quarters, hugging the walls like a burglar, without once finding the slender, austere silhouette of Madame Austeur waiting there to console him.

  The spectacle now confronting him astonished him: Madame Austeur in a red dress, bounding up and down the stairs four steps at a time and singing like an opera star. He would hear her laughter cascading through the hall. She never used to laugh like that, not even during their engagement when, though she was shy, it’s true, she could be so youthful and accommodating, and even cooing, at times. She worshipped him in those days, her eyes would light up when he proposed a walk or picked up a little feather on the lawn and offered it to her. She was as delighted by the feather he gave her as she was by his love. And it was because of this happiness that he loved her. With her, the house would be gay and lighthearted. The windows would always be wide open, the curtains would flutter in the breeze, and even in winter it would be so mild and merry outside that the great marbled hall would be like an ice rink where she would glide around on her little feet, speeding toward him with flushed pink cheeks and slightly tousled hair as he held out his arms to her. With age Madame Austeur had become less gay. Was it that he loved her
less? That he didn’t give her enough pleasure or gave it clumsily? Yet she didn’t seem to desire that pleasure anymore. . . . And so they moved to a different circle — together and hand in hand, but a little sadly, as though turning their backs on something they had vowed to accomplish and had been unable to attain.

  This was when they started to lie to each other. Oh, nothing serious, of course: they merely hid their souls from each other slightly. They would try not to, but whenever they rushed toward each other it was as though their souls came up against an invisible obstacle and they would fall back to earth before they could unite. They felt humiliated by these falls, as an old man does when he gets to his feet thinking he can walk and his legs give way beneath him. They never spoke of these intimate defeats.

  And so the lies accumulated, like links in a chain. So much so that there came a time when they were telling each other nothing but lies. It had become their new life. They didn’t much like staring into each other’s eyes in silence, but as this was easy enough to avoid, they overcame that final hurdle in no time at all. Their life was an exact replica of what it had been before, only the other way round. There was even a rekindling of their passion during this period: it was such a relief not to have to struggle anymore.

  They could have tried to break out of this new circle, of course. But at what cost? The thought made them shudder. Madame Austeur would probably have left the house. Or Monsieur Austeur. And neither could imagine living without the other. They preferred to go on lying to each other. They preferred to live apart, so long as they were together. And that wasn’t so simple either. It’s not that easy to keep one’s soul under lock and key, as it were. It was like being alone in the world and, in a way, doomed. Yet they were in thrall to a kind of law according to which the person who has accompanied you in love will be the one who accompanies you in death. They were like animals, obedient to an instinct whose meaning and function eluded them.