Bonjour tristesse Page 4

  Dinner was a nightmare. Not for one moment had Anne suggested that she would not tell my father anything if I promised to work; it was not in her nature to bargain. I was pleased in one way, but also disappointed that she had deprived me of a chance to despise her. As usual she avoided a false move, and it was only when we had finished our soup that she seemed to remember the incident.

  "I do wish you'd give your daughter some advice, Raymond. I found her in the wood with Cyril this evening, and they seemed to be going rather far."

  My father, poor man, tried to pass the whole thing off as a joke.

  "What's that you say? What were they up to?"

  "I was kissing him," I said. "And Anne thought..."

  "I never thought anything at all," she interrupted. "But it might be a good idea for her to stop seeing him for a time and to work at her philosophy instead."

  "Poor little thing!" said my father. "After all Cyril's a nice boy, isn't he?"

  "And Cécile is a nice girl," said Anne. "That's why I should be heartbroken if anything should happen to her, and it seems to me inevitable that it will, if you consider what complete freedom she enjoys here, and that they are constantly together and have nothing whatever to do. Don't you agree?"

  At her last words I looked up and saw that my father was very perturbed.

  "You are probably right," he said. "After all, you ought to do some work, Cécile. You surely don't want to fail in philosophy and have to take it again?"

  "What do you think I care?" I answered. He glanced at me and then turned away. I was bewildered. I realised that procrastination can rule our lives, yet not provide us with any arguments in its defence.

  "Listen," said Anne, taking my hand across the table. "Won't you exchange your rô1e of a wood nymph for that of a good schoolgirl for one month? Would it be so serious?"

  They both looked at me expectantly; seen in that light, the argument was simple enough. I gently withdrew my hand.

  "Yes, very serious," I said, so softly that they did not hear it, or did not want to.

  The following morning I came across a phrase from Bergson:

  "Whatever irrelevance one may at first find between the cause and the effects, and although a rule of guidance towards an assertion concerning the root of things may be far distant, it is always in a contact with the generative force of life that one is able to extract the power to love humanity."

  I repeated the phrase, quietly at first, so as not to get agitated, then in a louder voice. I held my head in my hands and looked at the book with great attention. At last I understood it, but I felt as cold and impotent as when I had read it the first time. I could not continue. With the best will in the world I applied myself to the next lines, and suddenly something arose in me like a storm and threw me onto the bed. I thought of Cyril waiting for me down in the creek, of the swaying boat, of the pleasure of our kisses, and then I thought of Anne, but in a way that made me sit up on my bed with a fast-beating heart, telling myself that I was stupid, monstrous, nothing but a lazy, spoilt child, and had no right to have such thoughts. But all the same, in spite of myself I continued to reflect that she was dangerous, and that I must get rid of her. I thought of the lunch I had endured with clenched teeth, tortured by a feeling of resentment for which I despised and ridiculed myself. Yes, it was for this I reproached Anne: she prevented me from liking myself. I, who was so naturally meant for happiness and gaiety, had been forced by her into a world of self-criticism and guilty conscience, where, unaccustomed to introspection, I was completely lost. And what did she bring me? I took stock: She wanted my father; she had got him. She would gradually make of us the husband and step-daughter of Anne Larsen; that is to say, she would turn us into two civilised, well-behaved and happy people. For she would certainly make us happy. How easily, unstable and irresponsible as we were, we would yield to her influence, and be drawn into the attractive framework of her orderly plan of living. She was much too efficient: already my father was estranged from me. I was obsessed by his embarrassed face turning away from me at table. Tears came into my eyes at the thought of the jokes we used to have together, our gay laughter as we drove home at dawn through the empty streets of Paris. All that was over. In my turn I would be influenced, re-orientated, re-modelled by Anne. I would not even mind it, she would act with intelligence, irony and sweetness, and I would be incapable of resistance; in six months I should no longer even wish to resist.

  At all costs I must take steps to regain my father and our former life. How infinitely desirable those two years suddenly appeared to me, those happy years I was so willing to renounce the other day ... the liberty to think, even to think wrongly or not at all, the freedom to choose my own life, to choose myself. I cannot say 'to be myself', for I was only soft clay, but still I could refuse to be moulded.

  I realise that one might find complicated motives for this change in me, one might endow me with spectacular complexes: such as an incestuous love for my father, or a morbid passion for Anne, but I know the true reasons were the heat, Bergson, and Cyril, or at least his absence. I dwelt on this all the afternoon in a most unpleasant mood, induced by the discovery that we were entirely at Anne's mercy. I was not used to reflection, and it made me irritable. At dinner, as in the morning, I did not open my mouth. My father thought it appropriate to chaff me:

  "What I like about youth is its spontaneity, its gay conversation."

  I was trembling with rage. It was true that he loved youth; and with whom could I have talked if not with him? We had discussed everything together: love, death, music. Now he himself had disarmed and abandoned me. Looking at him I thought: 'You don't love me any more, you have betrayed me!' I tried to make him understand without words how desperate I was. He seemed suddenly alarmed; perhaps he understood that the time for joking was past, and that our relationship was in danger. I saw him stiffen, and it appeared as though he were about to ask a question. Anne turned to me:

  "You don't look well. I feel sorry now for making you work."

  I did not reply. I felt too disgusted that I had got myself into a state which I could no longer control. We had finished dinner. On the terrace, in the rectangle of light projected from the dining-room window, I saw Anne's long nervous hand reach out to find my father's. I thought of Cyril. I would have liked him to take me in his arms on that moonlit terrace, alive with crickets. I would have liked to be caressed, consoled, reconciled with myself. My father and Anne were silent, they had a night of love to look forward to; I had Bergson. I tried to cry, to feel sorry for myself, but in vain; it was already Anne for whom I was sorry, as if I were certain of victory.

  Part Two

  1

  I am surprised how clearly I remember every thing from that moment. I acquired an added awareness of other people and of myself. Until then I had always been spontaneous and light-hearted, but the last few days had upset me to the extent of forcing me to reflect and to look at myself with a critical eye. However, I seemed to come no nearer to a solution of my problems. I kept telling myself that my feelings about Anne were mean and stupid, and that my desire to separate her from my father was vicious. Then I would argue that after all I had every right to feel as I did. For the first time in my life I was divided against myself. Up in my room I reasoned with myself for hours on end in an attempt to discover whether the fear and hostility which Anne inspired in me were justified, or if I was merely a silly, spoilt, selfish girl in a mood of sham independence.

  In the meantime I grew thinner every day. On the beach I did nothing but sleep, and at meal-times I maintained a strained silence that ended by making the others feel uneasy. And all the time I watched Anne. At dinner I would say to myself, 'Doesn't every movement she makes prove how much she loves him? Could anyone be more in love? How can I be angry with her when she smiles at me with that trace of anxiety in her eyes?' But suddenly she would say, "When we get home, Raymond ..." and the thought that she was going to share our life and interfere with us would rouse me again
. Once more she seemed calculating and cold. I thought: 'She is cold, we are warm-hearted, she is possessive, we are independent. She is indifferent; other people don't interest her, we love them. She is reserved, we are gay. We are full of life and she will slink in between us with her sobriety; she will warm herself at our fire and gradually rob us of our enthusiasm; like a beautiful serpent she will rob us of everything.' I repeated 'a beautiful serpent' . . . she passed me the bread, and suddenly I came to my senses. 'But it's crazy,' I thought. 'That's Anne, your friend who was so kind to you, who is so clever. Her aloofness is a mere outward form, there's nothing calculated about it, her indifference shields her from the countless sordid things in life, it's a sign of nobility.' A beautiful serpent... I felt myself turn pale with shame. I looked at her, silently imploring her forgiveness. At times she noticed my expression and a shadow of surprise and uncertainty clouded her face and made her break off in the middle of a sentence. Her eyes turned instinctively to my father; but his glance held nothing but admiration or desire, he did not understand the cause of her disquiet. Little by little I made the atmosphere unbearable, and I detested myself for it.

  My father suffered as much as his nature permitted, that is to say hardly at all, for he was mad about Anne, madly proud and happy, and nothing else existed for him. However, one day when I was dozing on the beach after my morning bathe, he sat down next to me and looked at me closely. I felt his eyes upon me, and with the air of false gaiety that was fast becoming a habit I was just going to ask him to come in for a swim when he put his hand on my head and called to Anne in a doleful voice:

  "Come over here and have a look at this creature; she's as thin as a rake. If this is the effect work has on her, she'll have to give it up!"

  He thought that would settle everything, and no doubt it would have done so ten days earlier. But now I was too deeply immersed in complications, and the hours set aside for work in the afternoons no longer bothered me, especially as I had not opened a book since Bergson.

  Anne came up to us. I remained lying face down on the sand listening to the muffled sound of her footsteps. She sat on my other side.

  "It certainly doesn't seem to agree with her," she said. "But if she really did some work instead of walking up and down in her room ..."

  I had turned round and was looking at them. How did she know that I was not working? Perhaps she had even read my thoughts? I believed her to be capable of anything.

  I protested:

  "I don't walk up and down in my room!"

  "Do you miss that boy?" asked my father.

  "No!"

  This was not quite true, but I certainly had had no time to think of Cyril.

  "But still, you're not well," said my father firmly. "Anne, do you notice it too? She looks like a chicken that has been drawn and then put to roast in the sun."

  "Make an effort, Cécile dear," said Anne. "Do a little work and try to eat a lot. That exam is important. ..."

  "I don't care a hang about the exam!" I cried. "Can't you understand? I just don't care!"

  I looked straight at her, despairingly, so that she should realise that something more serious than my examination was at stake. I longed for her to ask me: "Well, what is it?" and ply me with questions, and force me to tell her everything: then I would be won over and she could do anything she liked with me, and I should no longer be in torment. She looked at me attentively. I could see the Prussian blue of her eyes darken with concentration and reproach. Then I understood that it would never occur to her to question me and so deliver me from myself, because even if the thought had entered her head, her code of behaviour would have precluded it. And I saw too that she had no idea of the tumult within me, or even if she had, her attitude would have been one of indifference and disdain, which was in any case what I deserved! Anne always gave everything its exact value, that is why I could never come to an understanding with her.

  I dropped back onto the sand and laid my cheek against its soft warmth. I sighed deeply and began to tremble. I could feel Anne's hand, tranquil and steady, on the back of my neck, holding me still for a moment, just long enough to stop my nervous tremor.

  "Don't complicate life for yourself," she said. "You've always been so contented and lively, and had no head for anything serious. It doesn't suit you to be pensive and sad."

  "I know that," I answered. "I'm just a thoughtless healthy young thing, brimful of gaiety and stupidity!"

  "Come and have lunch," she said.

  My father had moved away from us; he detested that sort of discussion. On the way back he took my hand and held it. His hand was firm and comforting: it had dried my tears after my first disappointment in love, it had closed over mine in moments of tranquility and perfect happiness, it had stealthily pressed mine at times of complicity or riotous laughter. I thought of his hand on the steering wheel, or holding the keys at night and searching in vain for the lock; his hand on a woman's shoulder, or holding a cigarette, the hand that could do nothing more for me. I gave it a hard squeeze. Turning towards me, he smiled.

  2

  Two days went by: I went round in circles, I wore myself out, but I could not free myself from the haunting thought that Anne was about to wreck our lives. I did not try to see Cyril; he would have comforted me and made me happier, but that was not what I wanted. I even got a certain satisfaction from asking myself insoluble questions, by reminding myself of days gone by, and dreading those to come. It was very hot; my room was in semi-darkness with the shutters closed, but even so the air was unbearably heavy and damp. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, hardly moving except to search for a cool place on the sheet. I did not sleep, but played records on the gramophone at the foot of my bed. I chose slow rhythms, without any tune. I smoked a good deal and felt decadent, which gave me pleasure. But I was not deluded by this game of pretence: I was sad and bewildered.

  One afternoon the maid knocked at my door and announced with an air of mystery: "Someone's downstairs." I at once thought of Cyril and went down. It was not Cyril, but Elsa. She greeted me effusively. Looking at her, I was astonished at her new beauty. She was tanned at last, evenly and smoothly, and was carefully made up and brilliantly youthful.

  "I've come to fetch my suitcase," she explained. "Juan bought me a few dresses, but not enough, and I need my things."

  I wondered for a moment who Juan could be, but did not enquire further. I was pleased Elsa had come back. She brought with her the aura of a kept woman, of bars, of gay evenings, which reminded me of happier days. I told her how glad I was to see her again, and she assured me that we had always got on so well together because we had common interests. I suppressed a slight shudder and suggested that we should go up to my room to avoid meeting Anne and my father. When I mentioned my father she made an involuntary movement with her head, and I wondered whether perhaps she was still in love with him, in spite of Juan and the dresses. I also thought that three weeks before I would not have noticed that movement of hers.

  In my room I listened while she described in glowing terms her smart and dizzy life in the fashionable places along the Riviera. A strange confusion of thoughts went through my head, partly suggested by her different appearance. At last she stopped talking, perhaps because I was silent. She took a few steps across the room, and without turning round asked in an off-hand way if Raymond was happy. In a moment I knew what I must say to her:

  "'Happy' is saying too much! Anne doesn't give him a chance to think otherwise. She is very clever."

  "Very!" sighed Elsa.

  "You'll never guess what she's persuaded him to do . . . she's going to marry him. ..."

  Elsa turned a horrified face towards me:

  "Marry him? Raymond actually wants to get married?"

  "Yes," I answered. "Raymond is going to be married."

  A sudden desire to laugh caught me by the throat. My hands were shaking. Elsa seemed prostrated, almost as if I had given her a knockout blow. On no account must she be allowed to realise
that after all he was of an age to marry, and could not be expected to spend his life with women of her sort. I leant forward and suddenly lowered my voice to make a stronger impression on her:

  "It simply mustn't happen, Elsa. He's suffering already. It's an impossible state of affairs, as you can very well imagine."

  "Yes," she said. She seemed fascinated.

  "You're just the person I've been waiting for," I went on, "because you are the only one who is a match for Anne. You alone are up to her standard."

  She seemed to swallow the bait.

  "But if he's marrying her it must be because he loves her?" she objected.

  "But look here, Elsa, it's you he loves! Do you want to make me believe that you don't know it?"

  I saw her bat her eyelids, and she turned away to hide her pleasure, and the hope my words had given her. I was prompted by a sort of infallible instinct, and I knew just how to continue.

  "Don't you see? Anne kept harping on the bliss of married life, morality, and all that, and in the end she caught him."

  I was surprised at my own words. For even though I had expressed myself somewhat crudely, that was just what I felt.

  "If they get married, our lives will be ruined, Elsa! My father must be protected, he's nothing but a big baby ..."

  I repeated 'a big baby' with stronger emphasis. It seemed to me that I was being rather too melodramatic, but I saw Elsa's beautiful green eyes fill with pity, and I ended up, like in a canticle:

  "Help me, Elsa! It's for your own sake, for my father, and for the love between you."

  I added to myself: 'and for Johnny Chinaman!'

  "But what can I do?" asked Elsa. "It seems an impossible situation."

  "If you think it's impossible, then give up the idea," I said sadly.

  "What a bitch!" murmured Elsa.

  "You've hit the nail on the head," I said, turning away to hide my expression.