I had scarcely expected that sort of youthful stupidity, and I burst out laughing.
“Yes, I occupied myself with psychic research; I photographed auras, vital bubbles. By night, I laid out sensitive plates to obtain the imprints of the states of my soul; I even slipped into my friends’ homes. I wasted three years of my life in India studying the secrets of indigenous magic! And I won’t mention spiritualist séances, daggers to cut through emanations, electrical recordings of prayers, of the expir and the inspir…
“My first wife was to blame. I married too young; I was in love. My wife was a theosophist; out of love, I devoted myself to the same follies as her. The worst of it was that we were both very wrapped up in the little circle that we formed, and my medical studies had given me an impressive vocabulary and an authority. How could one not be stupid at that point? That’s youth…
“In our Northern lands, one does not mature as quickly as in your country, and one also remains young for longer. Then my wife died—she threw herself out of a window on a day of great inspiration; the inspir ought to have saved her. My eyes were opened. Afterwards, I read August Comte and Le Dantec,3 to mention only your philosophers, and I burned that which I had adored, reverting to sane ideas. The brain secretes thought as the kidney secretes urine. Der Mann is was er ist. Everything is inscribed in matter. There’s still a lot of naivety in that, I grant you, but I resumed my studies, this time seriously. Science has completed my formation by submitting me to its discipline. I was one of Berger’s pupils at Jena for six years.4 I became passionate about his work on the electricity of the brain, before taking flight on my own wings.”
I listened distractedly to this tale, which brought a smile to my lips with its extreme volubility. I had to say something.
“In my profession, we only have to deal with stones—it’s less dangerous.”
“A fine profession nevertheless,” said the doctor. “A profession of artisans and artists…”
With these words he appeared to have exhausted the possibility of a discourse on architecture, for he continued without transition: “I’m glad that you’ve made the acquaintance of my girls. They don’t see many people, and my company is scarcely agreeable. I make an effort from time to time to steer them this way or that, but everything that amuses most people bores me, and inversely…”
He followed this declaration with hearty satisfied laughter, which relieved him of all bitterness. As we were arriving, he suggested that I accompany him to his study on the first floor while we waited for lunch. I couldn’t refuse, and I followed him into a sort of vast library, very comfortably furnished, with a wholly Dutch orderliness. Colored panes in the windows contributed to giving that interior the appearance and intimate atmosphere of a painting by a minor master.
A large photograph was standing on the desk. “My first wife,” the doctor explained. Taking the photograph between his thumb and index finger, he made it pivot on its support. Another female face was framed on the other side. “The second,” he said.
I did not linger over the comical aspect of that juxtaposition, moved though I was by finding Yvane’s features echoed in the new face: there was the same nose, small and delicate, the same slight projection of the cheekbones, and the same obliquity of the features, which gave the face an expression reminiscent of a nervous hind.
“Whisky?” asked the doctor, abruptly. He added, perhaps by way of excuse: “An old colonial habit.”
I accepted. He pulled a little wheeled bar toward him. Suddenly, he uttered a curse and rang for a servant. A bare-footed Malay came in, and he spoke to him harshly in Dutch. Without saying a word, the servant went to move a large standard lamp that stood in one corner of the room five centimeters to one side.
“I can’t bear the objects in my study not being in exactly the right place,” the doctor told me. “The slightest modification of position upsets my thought-processes. For ten years, I’ve been working in unaltered surroundings. When I think that, one day, Yvane took it into her head to bring in a bouquet of flowers! It’s the only time I lost my temper with her, the poor child!”
That little scene had made a slightly painful impression on me. My embarrassed gaze scanned the room. Half-hidden behind a movable staircase, something reminiscent of a grand plan of Paris was hanging in front of the books in a bookcase. The encounter with that familiar image gladdened my heart.
However, the doctor said: “It’s an anatomical illustration, considerably enlarged, representing the internal face of the right hemisphere of the brain. It has hung there for ten years. I haven’t been able to resolve myself to taking it down, and it remains in my lair like a sorcerer’s owl.”
Whisky in hand, he went to stand in front of the image, and laughed. “Nothing is as beautiful as a brain, truly. Every sinuosity, every groove of the pallium, has its meaning. And to think that I know all of that by heart! What a marvel of a labyrinth, in which one does not get lost! Now, Monsieur Delambre, if you like such things, here’s a rather nice item…”
He lifted the lid of a varnished box, which revealed a solidified mass on a black marble pedestal, which I recognized this time as the lobes of a brain.
“A fine molding,” I said, with a layman’s slight nausea.
“A molding! It’s an anatomical preparation, hardened in formaldehyde—a success that cost me rather dear, although I was able to make a good job of it. It’s the brain of my second wife.”
I could not repress an exclamation.
“I had asked that an autopsy be carried out on the cadaver,” the doctor told me. “Wasn’t it the least I could do to reserve a choice morsel, the favorite object of my studies? Preserve it in alcohol? Never! A slow petrifaction has made it into this work of art…
“In your architect’s office, Monsieur Delambre, perhaps you have a view of the Parthenon, Rheims cathedral or the Empire State Building—what do I know? As an architect of the brain, why should I not give pride of place to a perfect encephalum?—the encephalum of a woman that I was pleased to imagine perfect for a long time. Others might have kept her heart, but we must abandon that organ to the symbolic significance that it has in the popular imagination. For us, who are much closer to the secrets of the flesh, a brain is much fuller of memories. You know, I often think that here”—he touched a region of the grey marble with the rim of his glass—“in the striated zone bordering the calcarine fissure, images of me reflected in my poor Gilberte’s eyes formed many times over. The impulse that drove her arms, her beautiful bare arms, to fold around me, came from that frontal ascendant circumvolution, on the edge of the fissure of Rolando—and there in the region that extends from the mesocephalum to the rachidian bulb, where the ‘central self’ of that adorable being resided, along with the supreme regulator of all the physical functions, the entire personality of the departed doubtless remains, obscurely inscribed in the petrified fibers. What was she but a fragment of organized matter?—a cleverly-ordered atomic ballet; a bundle of cells ruled by this superior structure of which I conserve her very being, in a far more authentic fashion, much truer than within the vain memories in my own mind, or the superficial images that photographic prints evoke for us.”
He had got carried away, perhaps slightly intoxicated by the alcohol, forgetful of my presence. The lunch-bell sounded opportunely, freeing me from the necessity of furnishing any reply. I felt rather ill-at-ease. When we met up with the young women in the hallway, their presence was a great relief to me. Yvane shook my hand in a comradely manner, perhaps with a slight hint of detachment. Dirk sat down at the table after having greeted us be clicking his heels. The doctor, at whose side he took his place, was the only one to offer him his hand.
During the meal, my uneasy impression dissipated gradually. The greater part of the conversation was abandoned to more-or-less overt attempts by Narda to obtain authorization from her uncle to remain at La Colle instead of returning to her Swiss boarding-school after the vacation. I appointed myself as her advocate. We finall
y obtained a “We’ll see” from the doctor, which was almost a consent, and won me a covert smile from the young cousin. Entering into that little family comedy amused me, but I wasn’t there to play the big brother. As we got up from the table, I asked Yvane to take me to the reservoir that I had to have repaired.
I had been looking forward to being alone together for a while. It was almost disappointing at first. She remained thoughtful, but gradually confided in me.
“Last night, I thought about the walk we took yesterday, and behind my thoughts, as if from a misty background, I saw the frightful ‘What’s the point?’ that has pursued me all my life appear once again. The thought of your amity hasn’t caused it to vanish…”
That sadness contrasted so strongly with her youth and the dazzling health of her body that I could easily have refused to believe it, but her tone was sincere. She was not acting out some comedy of coquetry, but seemed, on the contrary, to be surprised by what she was saying.
Far from being put off by her gloomy disposition, I experienced instead a desire to get closer to her, to help bring her out of herself, to force her to blossom freely and happily. It was akin to a devotional duty, a good deed to be done. I affected a great optimism, spoke with assurance, put on a display of vigor and will-power, in order to give her an exemplary tonic.
We were walking slowly, having forgotten the pretext for my visit. At the rear of the property, a little summer-house stood on the hill. I asked her to take me to look at it. The three rooms, on one floor, were surmounted by a loggia, which was reached by means of a ladder, and which looked out on to the mountains of the hinterland.
“Have you never had any desire to live here?” I asked.
“Well, no—you see, that’s the sort of idea that doesn’t occur to me spontaneously.” She added, with a hint of bitterness: “The ideas that come to me spontaneously aren’t good ones.”
She sat down on the rim of the loggia, with her back to the column. Was it the shadow that the roof projected over her? Her eyes seemed to me to be brighter, bluer, and larger. A very vague smile floated sadly over her face. I had the bizarre feeling that I recognized it, and perceived that she was duplicating the expression her mother wore in the portrait that the doctor had kept. But the horrible memory of the anatomical specimen enclosed in the varnished casket was superimposed over her living image, and I had to make an effort to put it out of my mind.
She began speaking, in a deliberate and slightly strained voice, as if she were reciting a prepared text: “A gentleman goes for a stroll on the Côte d’Azur. Thousands of gentlemen go strolling on the coast. Why this gentleman? What difference is there between the day when, while taking a dip in the sea, one meets this gentleman, and all the other days when one takes a dip in the sea? The gentleman has certainly met a great many ladies who were also taking dips, in the sea or elsewhere. And is this gentleman asking himself: ‘Why this lady?’” In a sharper tone, she added: “Yes, why should that meeting take on a serious significance, when nothing distinguished it, when it occurred, from all the other meetings in the world?”
“My word,” I began, not knowing quite what I was going to say, “if it was a matter of chance, why complain about it? The clouds in the sky, the stars, life itself—everything is a matter of chance.”
She sighed, raising her hand to her forehead. “Yes, yes—I’m very stupid when I let my poor head run on.”
By way of protest, I had also moved my hand discreetly toward the head that she was slandering. Gently, like a trusting animal, she leaned forward to rest her forehead in the palm of my hand. It was the first time I had touched her face. Emotionally, I was allowing my fingers to model her temples and come into contact with the curve of her brow when the memory of the atrocious relic preserved by the doctor came to mind again. I felt that I had a duty to remove her from a depressing atmosphere and a deadening influence—the causes of the anxiety to which her thoughts gave testimony.
She raised her head again—the entire scene had lasted no longer than a few seconds—and said, in a changed and cheerful voice: “You have cool hands; you’ve cured me.”
As we went back down the loggia’s ladder, an idea suddenly crossed my mind and, without further reflection, I exclaimed: “Would you rent this summer-house to me?”
She was momentarily nonplussed. “What an idea!”
“Quite seriously,” I said, “I like the place. It reminds me of those bungalows in India that are open to the cool night air. You’re not doing anything with it; for my part, I could live in it as easily as the hotel. If I have the impression of being in my own home, I would be more willing to stay on the coast for some time.”
“But you’d be very badly lodged—the rooms are uninhabitable.”
“It wouldn’t take much to get them back into a proper state.”
“Do you think so?” she cried, suddenly, with a childish spontaneity. “Oh it would be chic then!”
We began to study the place methodically. She brought to the domiciliary visit a zest and gaiety that she had not yet shown that day.
“Do you really think that it’s possible?”
“Why not? If your stepfather will accept me as a tenant…”
“Oh, it will be perfectly all right with him.”
I was sincere in my desire to rent the summer-house; the picturesque quality and the tranquility of the place, the olive-grove outside my door and the view of the mountains all attracted me. When I raised my head to interrogate the crumbling plaster of the ceilings, however, I nevertheless thought: I’m in the process of putting a noose around my own neck. But I thought it with some contentment, even delight. She seemed so pleased!
We went on to study the possibilities that I would have of reaching my home without passing through the property. There was a pathway along the estate’s enclosing wall, which led directly to the main road. A door—long sealed up, admittedly—opened on to the path; all that was required was to find the key. Once the bundles of firewood that were encumbering it were cleared, the debris of a neighboring shed would furnish a garage for my car sufficient for the summer. Like children in the depths of a park, we were playing Robinson Crusoe. The intimacy between us was increased.
CHAPTER FOUR
None of what we had imagined proved impossible. Instead of putting the contractor’s laborers to work on the reservoir, I sent them to the summer-house. I went to supervise the work every day. A week later, I was almost ready to take up residence.
If I had feared finding myself too close to the inhabitants of the château by renting the summer-house, that fear would immediately have proved vain. They exercised the greatest discretion in not disturbing my comings and goings. I had refused the items of furniture that the doctor had offered me, preferring to buy a few chairs or rustic accessories at random during my visits to the antique-dealers of the inland villages. Whenever I happened to meet Yvane, I asked her to accompany me on my excursions. Our searches amused her, I could tell. Once, she sighed: “And to think that these things would overwhelm me with boredom if it were a matter of my own house!”
There was a semi-admission in that, whose charm derived from her casual personality; it was an observation that she made innocently and unguardedly, whose real significance seemed to escape her.
I asked her to call me Pierre, since I called her by her first name. She did so immediately, without any reluctance. On occasion, she even addressed me as “tu” inadvertently, without anything ever having happened between us that justified a greater intimacy. That gave our relationship an air of pleasant comradeship, which would have been a trifle puerile if I had not found her grave and tormented on other occasions. Sometimes, her gaze became so vague that, plunging into her pupils, I had the impression that no matter how far I might go, sinking infinitely into the mists and blue-tinted heaths of her internal world, I would never succeed in catching up with her. But these sudden changes of mood prevented our meeting from becoming habitual, and the interest that I brought to the
m was ever on the alert. I could see her again and again without any monotony tarnishing her individuality.
One day, I was coming back from Biot with a consignment of earthenware pots that were destined for the decoration of my future dwelling, when I saw Dirk on the road, returning to La Colle on foot. In the course of the recent meals at which he had appeared, he had not opened his mouth. I wanted to be friendly and as I drew level with him I proposed that he get in. He did so without hesitation.
“Were you taking a little walk?” I asked.
He took some time before replying: “I was an assistant to a stockbroker in Amsterdam before entering the doctor’s employ.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I forgot to ask you. You haven’t always studied medicine, then?”
“I’m primarily occupied with assisting in certain experiments, and spend a great deal of time in conversations in which I do nothing but listen.”
“I was wondering what sort of collaboration you engaged in with the doctor.”
“You’ll have to give me a light, then,” he declared.
I turned toward him to hand him a box of matches, but to my surprise, he had nothing in his mouth.
“A funny way of asking for a cigarette,” I said. “Look, there are some in the pocket on your side of the car.”
He took a cigarette for himself and lit it. “You’re right,” he said.
“About what? Never letting go of the steering-wheel? One can never be careful enough, and I have a whole lot of pottery there.”
He seemed to be a million miles away, and his remarks were disjointed to the point that I suspected him of some secret intention. Where was he heading? Was it that my presence at La Colle near the young women had awakened a certain jealousy within him, which was responsible for his strange attitude toward me?
The Eye of Purgatory Page 3