Her Lover (Belle de Seigneur)

by Albert Cohen

  Four guests, painfully aware of their insignificance, did not even dare try to make contacts. They were untouchables, and they clung together and spoke in whispers. They knew that they were pariahs and that pariahs they would always be, but would never have dreamt of admitting it, and they formed a supercilious, jaded little group. Though they were beyond the pale, they sought to capture the moral high ground by making sarcastic remarks about the glittering guests they so envied. These sad lepers, whose cynicism had been thrust upon them, cowered with tribal solidarity in a corner by a window, put on a brave show, and stuffed themselves with sandwiches. They were obscure subordinates of Benedetti: the secretary with eczema from the Information Section, the Portuguese registrar, a Belgian clerk and a typist who looked like a small, fat muskrat. Benedetti had asked them to his party because it was another of his principles that persons in authority should look to their popularity and be loved by those, however humble, who worked under them. But he only invited the four outsiders once a year, and was in no doubt that they would know their place, which was near the window.

  To comfort herself, the secretary with eczema again brought up the subject of her father, who had been a consul somewhere in Japan and as such had once had the honour of putting up a member of the French Academy named Farrere whose complete writings she had had bound up into a set. Two or three times a week she wheeled out her father who had been a consul and her Academician called Farrere. But there, does not each of us have a social hobby-horse which we ride when given half a chance, some small redeeming laurel crown which we hoist to our brow at every conceivable opportunity?

  The most wretched of all the guests was Jacob Finkelstein, doctor of social sciences, a small, underfed man who worked as an ill-paid correspondent for a Jewish press agency. Benedetti invited him once a year too, so as to avoid antagonizing the Zionists, for, like all anti-Semites, he had a morbidly exaggerated idea of their influence in the United States. He invariably invited along some such impossible person who was not seen again for another year. Thus diluted, these dreadful people never impinged on what Benedetti, who prided himself on his literary turn of phrase, called the 'ambiance' of his parties.

  No guest talked to Finkelstein, a social nothing who was not only no use to man or beast but, more damningly, could not harm a fly. He was not dangerous, ergo he was not interesting, not the sort who called for careful handling, not someone you need like or pretend to like. Even the four pariahs by their window kept their distance from his degrading, low-caste presence. Ignored by all and having no other Jews to talk to, the wretched leper decided that acting like a man in a hurry would enable him to show a bold front, and his involvement in the reception consisted of elbowing his way firmly through the chattering mob at regular intervals. Head lowered, as though dragged down by the weight of his nose, he would charge across the immense room from one end to the other, occasionally crashing into other guests, saying sorry, though his apologies fell on deaf ears. Launched on his series of lightning, slanting runs, he camouflaged his isolation by giving the impression that it was desperately urgent that he get to someone he knew who was waiting over there, at the far end of the room. It was a gambit which deceived no one. When Benedetti came across him and could not pretend he had not noticed, he kept him at arm's length with a merry, preventive 'All right?' and immediately left him to his unremitting ambulations. Whereupon the doctor of social sciences and supercharged Wandering Jew set off once more, retraced one of his pointless journeys through this land of exile, and with the same haste headed for the buffet and a comforting sandwich, which was his only social contact and the sole right he enjoyed at the reception. For two hours, between six and eight, poor Finkelstein subjected himself to forced marches of several kilometres, which he would not mention to his wife when he got home. He loved his Rachel and kept his griefs to himself. Why these unremitting charges? And why stay so long among these unfeeling people? Because he clung to his annual invitation, because he would not admit defeat, and also because he went in hopes of a miracle: a conversation with another human being. Poor, inoffensive Finkelstein, who wore your heart on your sleeve, a Jew dear to my heart, I hope you are in Israel now, among your people, among our brethren, and touchable at last.

  At seven thirty, Sir John Cheyne, Secretary-General of the League of Nations, put in an appearance looking several sheets to the wind. Suddenly metamorphosed into a ballerina, Benedetti pirouetted hurriedly to meet him with love-light in his eye. The flame of his love was in no way simulated, for Benedetti was so driven by social ambition that he genuinely admired, nay doted on, any person of importance who might prove useful to him. Only sentiments which are sincere may be expressed effectively, that is, in a way which yields the maximum return. Moreover, one is left with a clear conscience. Far too big a bastard to be dishonest, Benedetti was quite convinced, even when privately admiring himself in his mirror, that he was genuinely fond of the Secretary-General and truly believed him to be a great man. He had been just as lovesick and just as reverential in his regard for the ex-Secretary-General. But when the previous incumbent had resigned, Benedetti had forgotten him instantly in his new enthusiasm for Sir John, whose photograph had immediately appeared in his office, ousting that of his predecessor.

  *

  By now, Sir John was chatting with Benedetti, with one hand placed firmly on his arm. The great man's touch made the bondsman thrill with infinite gratitude. Like Adrien Deume a few weeks previously, he walked like a fluttering virgin on the arm of the chief he loved, flustered by so much kindness and simplicity, proud and maidenly-modest, sanctified by the hand of the master, raising his eyes from time to time and casting a look of religious awe at his liege. For beneath his self-interested love for the lord of all lurked love of a different hue, a terrible, genuine and disinterested love, the abject love of power, the feminine worship of strength, a naked, animal reverence. But enough, more than enough, of this ghastly crew. I have seen my fill.

  CHAPTER 27

  Madame Deume sat in her room at her escritoire, where, warding off starvation with cruelly crunched cracknels, she was catching up with her correspondence. She had just appended her signature to a final letter, to married friends in Lausanne, and had closed with her favourite envoi, which ran: 'Home is where the hearth is. We both send our very best wishes.' (She had been using 'home is where the hearth is' ever since she had read it at the end of a letter from Madame Rampal. 'It's original,' she was wont to say, 'it's succinct, and it says what it means.' To which her husband invariably replied: 'It's a pwetty thought. Has a wing to it.')

  Having duly licked the envelope, she took up her knitting while Monsieur Deume perched on a chair and placed his spirit-level on the top of the mirror-fronted wardrobe to see if it was sitting foursquare. Damnation, it wasn't straight! Quick, find a wedge to go under the left side! Stepping down off the chair, he rubbed his hands, only too happy to have something useful to do. Madame Deume, getting to a straight bit of her knitting which was easy to do, suddenly waxed conversational.

  'What were you doing downstairs just now? You were gone for ages.'

  'I was cleaning out the water-jug fwom yesterday. I managed to get wid of that nasty deposit with coarse salt and vinegar, and then I finished it off by swishing it wound and wound with my finely cwushed eggshells and a little water. You'll see, it's come up all bwight and shiny!'

  'Honestly, dear, you'd make someone a wonderful wife,' she said with a condescending smile, and she gave her mouse of a spouse a little pat on the hand, then yawned. 'Wednesday already, how time flies, it doesn't seem like three days since we had the Kanakises here. The dinner went off terribly well, don't you think? The memory of it is pure gold?

  'Oh quite, couldn't agwee more,' said Monsieur Deume, who was busily rummaging through his toolbox.

  'And, don't forget, Madame Kanakis telephoned the very next morning to say she wouldn't have missed it for worlds, said it had been so nice meeting me, really a most proper person, thoroughly co
nversant with the rules of society, has them at the tips of her fingers, one senses immediately that she has a fine soul, I enjoyed her company immensely.'

  'I'm sure you did,' said Monsieur Deume. (But he hadn't, at all: she was one of those forceful women, very superior, and besides she'd prattled on and on about music no one else had ever heard of. Ah, this looks like a useful wedge, just the right thickness.)

  'And then Monsieur Kanakis. What a charming man, such manners, truly the crème de la crème. Did you notice him kiss my hand?'

  'Yes I noticed,' said Monsieur Deume, who was now on his knees in front of the wardrobe.

  'Such a lervely touch, one senses that he has an aura. Anyway, we managed to get shot of everything we ordered from Rossi's, though there's still some foie gras and caviare left.'

  'Well done,' said Monsieur Deume, whose mind was entirely taken up by the effort of tapping his wooden wedge daintily home with a hammer.

  Clambering back up on to the chair and putting his spirit-level on the top of the wardrobe, he noted that it now showed true. 'Spot on,' he murmured, and his eye lingered fondly on his initials which only last night he had etched in poker-work on the handle of his little hammer. He got down and put the spirit-level on the marble-topped bedside table. What the dickens! The bedside table wasn't plumb either! How had he gone on for all these years with a bedside table that was out of kilter? Especially since there could have been nasty accidents, you know, seeing that it was a bedside table. Quick, something to put under it. Wood was no good. Too thick.

  'Antoinette, you wouldn't have a little bit of cardboard I could put under the leg of the bedside table? It's not stwaight.'

  'Now you've gone and made me lose count,' she said, and she stopped knitting! 'You always start talking to me at the wrong moment, it's most disheartening. No, I don't have any bits of cardboard,' she said, to punish him.

  He tiptoed out. Returning in the same manner, he slipped a piece of card folded in two under one leg of the bedside table, which he then tested. The result was satisfactory. Disconcerted by his instant success and at a loss for what to do next, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood watching his wife, who had put her knitting to one side and was now savouring the small but comforting pleasure — known only to the already comfortable who do not have to worry about tomorrow — of cutting the pages, prior to perusal, of a work entitled Inner Freedom, a present from Madame Ventradour. She was looking forward with joy to making a start on it later, when she had a quiet moment this evening, especially seeing that dear Emmeline had told her that it was such a wholesome book, the sort that provided food for thought. Yes, tonight, when she was in bed, with her feet on a lervely hot-water bottle. Sensing that she had cooled down, he ventured to ask a question.

  'Antoinette, what are we going to do about the Gwuyere that doesn't taste of anything?'

  'Take it back to the grocer,' she said, and she went on cutting. 'I'm certainly not going to be left with a pound of tasteless Gruyere on my hands. And make him give you the money back, it's two seventy-five.'

  'Yes, but he'll give me cwoss looks if I weturn it.'

  'Perlease, Hippolyte, be a man for once.'

  'Couldn't you take it?'

  'No. I've got my stiffness again.' (Whenever she did not feel like working or preferred to leave some disagreeable chore to somebody else, she genuinely felt her right leg go stiff.)

  'Well, couldn't we send the new girl who's starting tomowwow morning?'

  'No. You can go,' she said, and she twiddled the little tuft of hairs which sprouted from the mole on her chin, then gave a sigh of relief. 'I must say, though, I'm very glad to be rid of poor Martha. With that back of hers, there's no telling where it could all have ended.'

  'To be fwank, I'd wather have kept her on till she was better, and got the doctor to her and evewything.'

  'But you must see that she would never have got well here. At such times it's up to one's family to rally round. She'll be able to take things easy and be looked after by her loved ones, who will shower her with care and be at her beck and call, poor dear. State of mind is tremendously important for a healthy body. If she is happy in her mind, her back will get better all the more quickly. And if she does have to have an operation, it's only right and proper that the family should bear their share of the responsibility. The annoying thing, though, is that we'll have to put up with this new daily until Mariette gets back. I must say I was not best pleased by Mariette's telegram. We agreed she could have heaps of time off, until the first of July, to look after that sister of hers. And when we wired her, what did we say? We asked her to come back three weeks before the date we'd agreed on account of this business of Martha and her back.'

  Twoo, but she couldn't, because her sister's got pneumonia.'

  'It's always the same with domestics. I see it as a lack of tact and loyalty. I mean to say, here's someone who is supposed to be devoted to Adrien's wife and for years and years was in the service of Mademoiselle Valérie d'Auble. I should have thought she'd have shown more consideration. Anyway, I wonder if her sister is really as ill as she makes out. The lower classes are such mollycoddles, they give in at the first sign of suffering. I've had bronchitis myself more than once, and I never made as much fuss.'