Bonjour tristesse Read online

  "You must teach me the bebop," he said, forgetting his talk of rheumatism.

  He stopped dancing to welcome Elsa with polite flattery. She came slowly down the stairs in her green dress, a conventional smile on her face, her casino smile. She had made the most of her lifeless hair and scorched skin, but the result was more meretricious than brilliant. Fortunately she seemed unaware of it.

  "Are we going?"

  "Anne's not here yet," I remarked.

  "Go up and see if she's ready," said my father. "It will be midnight before we get to Cannes."

  I ran up the stairs, getting somewhat entangled with my skirt, and knocked at Anne's door. She called to me to come in, but I stopped on the threshold. She was wearing a grey dress, a peculiar grey, almost white, which, when it caught the light, it resembled the colour of the sea at dawn. She seemed to me the personification of mature charm.

  "Oh Anne, what a magnificent dress!" I said.

  She smiled into the mirror as one smiles at a person one is about to leave.

  "This grey is a success," she said.

  "You are a success!" I answered.

  She pinched my ear, her eyes were dark blue, and I saw them light up with a smile.

  "You're a dear child, even though you can be tiresome at times."

  She went out in front of me without a glance at my dress. In a way I was relieved, but all the same it was mortifying. I followed her down the stairs and I saw my father coming to meet her. He stopped at the bottom, his foot on the first step, his face raised. Elsa was looking on. I remember the scene perfectly. First of all, in front of me, Anne's golden neck and perfect shoulders, a little lower down my father's fascinated face and extended hand, and, already in the distance, Elsa's silhouette.

  "Anne, you are wonderful!" said my father.

  She smiled as she passed him and took her coat.

  "Shall we meet there?" she asked. "Cécile, will you come with me?"

  She let me drive. At night the road appeared so beautiful that I went slowly. Anne was silent; she did not even seem to notice the blaring wireless.

  When my father's car passed us at a bend she remained unmoved. I felt I was out of the race, watching a performance in which I could no longer intervene.

  At the casino my father saw to it that we soon lost sight of each other. I found myself at the bar with Elsa and one of her acquaintances, a half-tipsy South American. He was connected with the stage and had such a passionate love for it that even in his inebriated condition he could remain amusing. I spent an agreeable hour with him, but Elsa was bored. She knew one or two big names, but that was not her world. All of a sudden she asked me where my father was, as if I had some means of knowing. She then left us. The South American seemed put out for a moment, but another whisky set him up again. My mind was a blank. I was quite light-headed, for I had been drinking with him out of politeness. It became grotesque when he wanted to dance. I was forced to hold him up and to extricate my feet from under his, which required a lot of energy. We laughed so much that when Elsa tapped me on the shoulder and I saw her Cassandra-like expression, I almost felt like telling her to go to the devil.

  "I can't find them," she said.

  She looked utterly distraught. Her powder had worn off leaving her skin shiny, her features were drawn; she was a pitiable sight. I suddenly felt very angry with my father; he was being most unkind.

  "Ah, I know where they are," I said, smiling as if I referred to something quite ordinary about which she need have no anxiety. "I'll soon be back."

  Deprived of my support, the South American fell into Elsa's arms and seemed comfortable enough there. I reflected somewhat sadly that she was more experienced than I, and that I could not very well bear her a grudge.

  The casino was big, and I went all round it twice without any success. I scanned the terrace and at last thought of the car. It took me some time to find it in the car park. They were inside. I approached from behind and saw them through the rear window. Their profiles were very close together and very serious, and looked strangely beautiful in the lamplight. They were facing each other and must have been talking in low tones, for I saw their lips move. I would have liked to go away again, but the thought of Elsa made me open the door. My father had his hand on Anne's arm, and they scarcely noticed me.

  "Are you having a good time?" I asked politely.

  "What is the matter?" said my father irritably. "What are you doing here?"

  "And you? Elsa has been searching for you everywhere for the past hour."

  Anne turned her head slowly and reluctantly towards me.

  "We're going home. Tell her I was tired and your father drove me back. When you've had enough take my car."

  I was trembling with indignation and could hardly speak:

  "Had enough? But you don't realise what you're saying, it's disgusting!"

  "What is disgusting?" asked my father with astonishment.

  "You take a red-haired girl to the seaside, expose her to the hot sun which she can't stand, and when her skin has all peeled you abandon her. It's altogether too simple! What on earth shall I say to Elsa?"

  Anne turned to him with an air of weariness. He smiled at her, obviously not listening. My exasperation knew no bounds:

  "I shall tell Elsa that my father has found someone else to sleep with, and that she had better come back some other time. Is that right?"

  My father's exclamation and Anne's slap were simultaneous. I hurriedly withdrew my head from the car-door. She had hurt me.

  "Apologise at once!" said my father.

  I stood motionless, with my thoughts in a whirl. Noble attitudes always occur to me too late.

  "Come here," said Anne.

  She did not sound menacing, and I went closer. She put her hand against my cheek and spoke slowly and gently as if I were rather simple:

  "Don't be naughty. I'm very sorry for Elsa, but you are tactful enough to arrange everything for the best. Tomorrow we'll discuss it all. Did I hurt you very much?"

  "Not at all," I said politely. Her sudden gentleness after my intemperate rage made me want to burst into tears. I watched them drive away, feeling completely deflated. My only consolation was the thought of my tactfulness.

  I walked slowly back to the casino, where I found Elsa with the South American clinging to her arm.

  "Anne wasn't well," I said in an off-hand manner. "Papa had to take her home. What about a drink?"

  She looked at me without answering. I tried to find a more convincing explanation:

  "She was awfully sick," I said. "It was ghastly, her dress is ruined." This detail seemed to me to make my story more plausible, but Elsa began to weep quietly and sadly. I did not know what to do.

  "Oh, Cécile, we were so happy!" she said, and her sobs redoubled in intensity. The South American began to cry, repeating "We were so happy, so happy!" At that moment I heartily detested Anne and my father. I would have done anything to stop Elsa from crying, her eye-black from running, and the South American from howling.

  "Nothing is settled yet, Elsa. Come home with me now!"

  "No! I'll fetch my suitcases later," she sobbed. "Goodbye, Cécile, we got on well together, didn't we?"

  We had never talked of anything but clothes or the weather, but still it seemed to me that I was losing an old friend. I quickly turned away and ran to the car.

  6

  The following morning was wretched, probably because of the whisky I had drunk the night before. I awoke to find myself lying across my bed in the dark; my tongue heavy, my limbs unbearably damp and sticky. A single ray of sunshine filtered through the slats of the shutters and I could see a million motes dancing in it. I felt no desire to get up, nor to stay in bed. I wondered how Anne and my father would look if Elsa were to turn up that morning. I forced myself to think of them in order to be able to get out of bed without effort. At last I managed to stand up on the cool stone floor. I was giddy and aching. The mirror reflected a sad sight; I leant against it and
peered at those dilated eyes and dry lips, an unknown face; mine? If I was weak and cowardly, could it be because of those lips, the particular shape of my body, these odious, arbitrary limits? And if I were limited, why had I only now become aware of it? I amused myself by detesting my reflection, hating that wolf-like face, hollow and worn by debauch. I repeated the word 'debauch' dumbly, looking into my eyes in the mirror, and suddenly I saw myself smile. What a debauch! A few unfortunate drinks, a slap in the face and some tears! I brushed my teeth and went downstairs.

  My father and Anne were already on the terrace sitting beside each other in front of their breakfast tray. I sat down opposite them, muttering a vague 'good morning'. A feeling of shyness made me keep my eyes lowered, but after a time, as they remained silent I was forced to look at them. Anne appeared tired, the only sign of a night of love. They were both smiling happily, and I was very much impressed, for happiness has always seemed to me a great achievement.

  "Did you sleep well?" asked my father.

  "Not too badly," I replied. "I drank a lot of whisky last night."

  I poured out a cup of coffee, but after the first sip I quickly put it down. Their silence had a waiting quality that made me feel uneasy. I was too tired to bear it for long.

  "What's the matter? You look so mysterious."

  My father lit a cigarette, making an obvious effort to seem unconcerned, and for once in her life Anne seemed embarrassed.

  "I would like to ask you something," she said at last.

  "I suppose you want me to take another message to Elsa?" I said, imagining the worst.

  She turned towards my father:

  "Your father and I want to get married," she said.

  I stared first at her, then at my father. I half expected some sign from him, perhaps a wink, which, though I might have found it shocking, would have reassured me, but he was looking down at his hands. I said to myself' it can't be possible!', but I already knew it was true.

  "What a good idea," I said to gain time.

  I could not understand how my father, who had always set himself so obstinately against marriage and its chains, could have decided on it in a single night. We were about to lose our independence. I could visualise our future family life, a life which would suddenly be given equilibrium by Anne's intelligence and refinement; the life I had envied her. We would have clever tactful friends, and quiet pleasant evenings. . . . I found myself despising noisy dinners, South Americans and girls like Elsa. I felt proud and superior.

  "It's a very, very good idea," I repeated, and I smiled at them.

  "I knew you'd be pleased, my pet," said my father.

  He was relaxed and delighted. Anne's face, subtly changed by love, seemed gentler, making her appear more accessible than she had ever been before.

  "Come here, my pet," said my father; and holding out his hands, he drew me close to them both. I was half-kneeling in front of them, while they stroked my hair and looked at me with tender emotion. But I could not stop thinking that although my life was perhaps at that very moment changing its whole course, I was in reality nothing more than a kitten to them, an affectionate little animal. I felt them above me, united by a past and a future, by ties that I did not know and which could not hold me. But I deliberately closed my eyes and went on playing my part, laying my head on their knees and laughing. For was I not happy? Anne was all right, I had no serious fault to find with her. She would guide me, relieve me of responsibility, and be at hand whenever I might need her. She would make both my father and me into paragons of virtue.

  My father got up to fetch a bottle of champagne. I felt sickened. He was happy, which was the chief thing, but I had so often seen him happy on account of a woman.

  "I was rather frightened of you," said Anne.

  "Why?" I asked. Her words had given me the impression that a veto from me could have prevented their marriage.

  "I was afraid of your being frightened of me," she said laughing.

  I began to laugh too, because actually I was a little scared of her. She wanted me to understand that she knew it, and that it was unnecessary.

  "Does the marriage of two old people like ourselves seem ridiculous to you?"

  "You're not old," I said emphatically, as my father came dancing back with a bottle in his hand.

  He sat down next to Anne and put his arm round her shoulders. She moved nearer to him and I looked away in embarrassment. She was no doubt marrying him for just that; for his laughter, for the firm reassurance of his arm, for his vitality, his warmth. At forty there could be the fear of solitude, or perhaps a last upsurge of the senses. ... I had never thought of Anne as a woman, but as an entity. I had seen her as a self-assured, elegant, and clever person, but never weak or sensual. I quite understood that my father felt proud, the self-satisfied, indifferent Anne Larsen was going to marry him. Did he love her, and if so, was he capable of loving her for long? Was there any difference between this new feeling and the affection he had shown Elsa? The sunwas making my head spin, and I shut my eyes. We were all three on the terrace, full of reserves, of secret fears, and of happiness.

  Elsa did not come back just then. A week flew by, seven happy, agreeable days, the only ones.

  We mode elaborate plans for furnishing our home, and discussed time-tables which my father and I took pleasure in cutting as fine as possible with the blind obstinacy of those who have never had any use for them. Did we ever believe in them for one moment? Did my father really think it possible to have lunch every day at the same place at 12.50 sharp, to have dinner at home, and not to go out afterwards? However, he gaily prepared to inter Bohemianism, and began to preach order, and to extol the joys of an elegant, organised bourgeois existence. No doubt for him, as well as for myself, all these plans were merely castles in the air.

  How well I remember that week I Anne was relaxed, confident, and very sweet; my father loved her. I saw them coming down in the mornings, leaning on each other, laughing gaily, with shadows under their eyes, and I swear that I should have liked nothing better than that their happiness should last all their lives. In the evening we often drank our aperitif sitting on some café terrace by the sea. Everywhere we went we were taken for a happy, normal family, and I, who was used to going out alone with my father and seeing the knowing smiles, and malicious or pitying glances, was delighted to play a rôle more suitable to my age. They were to be married on our return to Paris.

  Poor Cyril had witnessed the transformation in our midst with a certain amazement, but he was comforted by the thought that this time it would be legalised. We went out sailing together and kissed when we felt inclined, but sometimes during our embraces I thought of Anne's face as I saw it in the mornings, with its softened contours. I recalled the happy nonchalance, the languid grace that love imparted to her movements, and I envied her. One can grow tired of kissing, and no doubt if Cyril had not been so fond of me I would have become his mistress that week.

  At six o'clock, on our return from the islands, Cyril would pull the boat onto the sand. We would go up to the house through the pine wood in single file, pretending we wore Indians, or run handicap races to warm ourselves up. He always caught me before we reached the house and would spring on me with a shout of victory, rolling mo on the pine needles, pinning my arms down and kissing me. I can still remember those light, breathless kisses, and Cyril's heart beating against mine in rhythm with the soft thud of the waves on the sand. Four heart-beats and four waves, and then gradually he would regain his breath and his kisses would become more urgent, the sound of the tea would grow dim and give way to the pulse in my ears.

  One evening we were surprised by Anne's voice. Cyril was lying close to me in the red glow of the sunset. I can understand that Anne might have been misled by the sight of us there in our scanty bathing things. She called me sharply.

  Cyril bounded to his feet, naturally somewhat ashamed. Keeping my eyes on Anne, I slowly got up in my turn. She faced Cyril, and looking right through him spoke i
n a quiet voice: "I don't wish to see you again."

  He made no reply, but bent over and kissed my shoulder before departing. I felt surprised and touched, as if his gesture had been a sort of pledge. Anne was staring at me with the same grave and detached look, as though she were thinking of something else. Her manner infuriated me. If she was so deep in thought, why speak at all? I went up to her, feigning embarrassment for the sake of politeness. At last she seemed to notice me and mechanically removed a pine needle from my neck. I saw her face assume its beautiful mask of disdain, that expression of weariness and disapproval which became her so well, and which always frightened me a little.

  "You should know that such diversions usually end up in a nursing home."

  She stood there looking straight at me as she spoke, and I was horribly ashamed. She was one of those women who can stand perfectly still while they talk; I always needed the support of a chair, or some object to hold like a cigarette, or the distraction of swinging one leg over the other and watching it move.

  "You mustn't exaggerate," I said with a smile. "I was only kissing Cyril, and that won't lead me to any nursing home."

  "Please don't see him again," she said, as if she did not believe me. "Do not protest: you are seventeen and I feel a certain responsibility for you now. I'm not going to let you ruin your life. In any case you have work to do, and that will occupy your afternoons."

  She turned her back on me and walked towards the house in her nonchalant way. A paralysing sense of calamity kept me rooted to the spot. She had meant every word; what was the use of arguments or denials when she would receive them with the sort of indifference that was worse than contempt, as if I did not even exist, as if I were something to be squashed underfoot, and not myself, Cécile, whom she had always known. My only hope now was my father; surely he would say as usual: 'Well now, who's the boy? I suppose he's a handsome fellow, but beware, my girl!' If he did not react like this, my holidays would be ruined.