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She looked handsome, all in black, exactly right; but, to be frank, she looked distinctly old now, one could hardly suppose that Claude still had physical relations with her.
‘They have to be careful,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Look at that fellow with his nose glued to the window, there are dozens like him in the square, trying to scrounge invitations: we call them “swallows”, gate-crashers.’
‘An amusing name,’ said Suzanne. She smiled politely and turned to Battier. ‘We ought to go in now, don’t you think?’
Elisabeth followed them in; for a moment or so, she stood motionless at the back of the auditorium. Claude was helping Suzanne to slip off her mink cape; then he sat down beside her; she leaned towards him and laid her hand on his arm. A sharp stabbing pain suddenly shot through Elisabeth. She recalled that December evening when she had walked through the streets drunk with joy and triumph because Claude had raid to her: ‘You’re the one I really love.’ On her way home to bed she had bought a huge bunch of roses. He loved her, but that had changed nothing. His heart was hidden; that hand on his sleeve could be seen by every eye in the theatre, and everyone took it for granted that this was its natural place. A formal bond, a real bond, that was perhaps the sole reality of which one could be actually certain; but for whom does it really exist, this love that exists between us? At this moment, even she did not believe in it, nothing remained of it anywhere in the whole of existence.
‘I’ve had enough,’ she thought; once more she was going to suffer all through the evening, she foresaw the whole gamut: shivers, fever, moist hands, buzzing head. The very thought of it made her feel sick.
‘Good evening,’ she said to Françoise. ‘How beautiful you look.’
She was really beautiful tonight. She had a large comb in her hair and her dress was ablaze with vivid embroidery; she attracted a great many glances without seeming to be aware of them. It was a joy to feel that this brilliant and calm young woman was her friend.
‘You look lovely, too,’ said Françoise. ‘That dress looks so well on you.’
‘It’s old,’ said Elisabeth.
She sat down on the right of Françoise. On her left sat Xavière, insignificant in her little blue dress. Elisabeth rucked up the material of her skirt between her fingers. It had always been her principle to own few but expensive things.
‘If I had money I would certainly be able to dress well,’ she thought. She looked with a little less distress at the back of Suzanne’s well-arranged hair. Suzanne belonged to the tribe of victims. She accepted anything from Claude – but we belong to a different species, we are strong and free and live our own lives. It was from pure generosity that Elisabeth did not reject the tortures of love, yet she did not need Claude; she was not an old woman – I shall say to him gently but firmly: ‘You see, Claude, I have thought it over. I think we ought to change the basis of our relationship.’
‘Have you seen Marchand and Saltrel?’ asked Françoise. ‘They’re in the third row on the left. Saltrel is already coughing; he’s getting ready to spring. Castier is waiting for the curtain to go up before taking out his spittoon. You know he always carries it with him; it’s an exquisite little box.’
Elisabeth glanced at the critics, but she was in no mood to be amused by them. Françoise was obviously preoccupied about the success of the play; that was to be expected, there could be no help from her.
The lights went down and three metallic raps rang out across the silence. Elisabeth felt herself growing completely limp. ‘If only I could be carried away by the acting,’ she thought, ‘but I know the play by heart – the scenery is pretty and so are the costumes – I’m sure I could do at least as well, but Pierre is like all relatives – no one ever takes members of their own family seriously – he ought to see my paintings without knowing they’re by me. I have no social mask – it’s such a nuisance to have to bluff all the time. If Pierre didn’t always treat me like an inconsequential little sister, Claude might have looked upon me as an important, dangerous person.’
The familiar voice startled Elisabeth.
Stand you directly in Antonius’ way … Calphurnia!
Pierre really had an amazing presence as Julius Caesar. His acting inspired a thousand thoughts.
‘He’s the greatest actor of the day,’ said Elisabeth to herself.
Guimiot rushed on to the stage and she looked at him a little apprehensively: twice during rehearsals he had knocked over the bust of Caesar. He dashed across the open space and ran round the bust without touching it; he held a whip in his hand; he was almost naked, with only a strip of silk around his loins.
‘He’s remarkably well-built,’ thought Elisabeth without being able to summon up any special feelings about him-it was delightful to sleep with him, but really that was forgotten as soon as over-it was light as thistledown – Claude …
‘I’m overwrought,’ she thought. ‘I can’t concentrate.’
She forced herself to look at the stage. ‘Canzetti looks pretty with that heavy fringe on her forehead – Guimiot says that Pierre doesn’t have much to do with her any longer, and that she’s now after Tedesco – I don’t really know – they never tell me anything.’ She studied Françoise. Her face had not changed since the curtain had risen; her eyes were riveted on Pierre. How severe her profile was! One would have to see her in a moment of affection or of love, but she would be capable even then of preserving that Olympian air – she was lucky to be able to lose herself in the immediate present in this way-all these people were lucky. Elisabeth felt lost in the midst of this docile audience that allowed itself to be glutted with images and words. Nothing held her attention, the play did not exist; these were only minutes that were slowly ebbing away. The day had been spent in the expectation of these hours, and now they were crumbling away, becoming, in their turn, another period of expectancy. And Elisabeth knew that when Claude stood before her she would still be waiting; she would await the promise, the threat, that would tinge tomorrow’s waiting with hope or horror. It was a journey without end, leading to an indefinite future, eternally shifting just as she was reaching the present. As long as Suzanne was Claude’s wife the present would be intolerable.
The applause crackled. Françoise stood up, her cheeks were a little flushed.
‘Tedesco never fumbled a line, everything went off perfectly,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’m going to see Pierre. If you wouldn’t mind, it might be better for you to go round during the next interval. The crush is terrible at the moment’
Elisabeth stood up as well.
‘We could go into the foyer,’ she said to Xavière. ‘We shall hear people’s comments. It’s quite amusing.’
Xavière followed her obediently. ‘What on earth can I say to her?’ Elisabeth wondered: she did not find her congenial.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Thank you,’ said Xavière.
Elisabeth held up a match.
‘Do you like the play?’
‘I like it,’ said Xavière.
How vigorously Pierre had defended her the other day! He was always inclined to be generous about strangers; but this time he really hadn’t shown very good taste.
‘Would you like to go on the stage yourself?’ Elisabeth asked.
She was trying to discover the crucial question, the question that would draw from Xavière a reply by which she could once and for all be classified.
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ said Xavière.
Surely she spoke to Françoise in a different tone and with a different look! But Francoise’s friends never showed their true selves to Elisabeth.
‘What interests you in life?’ Elisabeth asked abruptly.
‘Everything interests me,’ said Xavière politely.
Elisabeth wondered if Françoise had spoken to Xavière about her. How was she spoken of behind her back?
‘You have no preferences?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Xavière.
With a preoccupied look, she was puffing at her cigarette. She had kept her secret well; all Francoise’s secrets were well kept. At the other end of the foyer, Claude was smiling at Suzanne. His features reflected his servile affection.
‘The same smile that he gives me,’ thought Elisabeth, and a savage hatred entered her heart. Without any gentleness, she would speak to him without a trace of gentleness. She would lean her head back against the cushions and she would break into ruthless laughter.
The second intermission bell sounded. Elisabeth caught a glimpse of her red hair and her bitter mouth as she passed a looking-glass: there was something bitter and smouldering in her. She had made up her mind, tonight would be decisive. At times Suzanne drove him mad and at others she filled him with maudlin pity: he never could decide to separate from her once and for all. The auditorium grew dark. A picture flashed through Elisabeth’s mind-a revolver-a dagger-a phial with a death’s head on it – to kill someone … Claude? Suzanne? Myself? – it didn’t matter. This dark murderous desire violently took possession of her heart. She sighed-she was no longer young enough for insane violence – that would be too easy. No – what she had to do was to keep him at a distance for a time; yes – to keep at a distance his lips, his breath, his hands. She desired them so intensely – she was being smothered with desire. There, in front of her, on the stage, Caesar was being assassinated. ‘Pierre is staggering across the Senate, and it is I, I who am really being assassinated,’ she thought in despair. This empty excitement in front of cardboard scenery was nothing but an insult to her, since it was she who was sweating out her agony, in her flesh, in her blood, and with no possibility of resurrection.
Although Elisabeth had sauntered slowly along the boulevard Montparnasse, it was only twenty-five minutes past twelve when she walked into the Pôle Nord. She could never succeed in being deliberately late, and yet she felt certain that Claude would not be punctual, for Suzanne would purposely be keeping him with her, counting each minute as a tiny victory. Elisabeth lit a cigarette. She was not specially anxious for Claude to be there, but the thought that he was elsewhere was intolerable.
She felt her heart contract. Each time it was the same: when she saw him in flesh and blood in front of her, she was seized with anguish. There he was: he held Elisabeth’s happiness in the palm of his hand and he was coming towards her casually; with no suspicion that each one of his gestures was a threat.
‘I’m so glad to see you,’ said Claude. ‘At last, a real evening to ourselves!’ He smiled eagerly. ‘What are you drinking? Aquavit? I know that stuff; it’s filthy. Give me a gin fizz.’
‘You may be glad, but you stint your pleasures,’ said Elisabeth, ‘it’s one o’clock already.’
‘Seven minutes to one, darling.’
‘Seven minutes to one, if you prefer,’ she said with a slight shrug.
‘You know very well it’s not my fault,’ said Claude.
‘Of course,’ said Elisabeth.
Claude’s face darkened.
‘Please, my pet, don’t look so cross. Suzanne left me with a face like a thunder-cloud. If you start sulking too, it will be the end of everything. I was so looking forward to seeing your warm smile again.’
‘I don’t smile all the time,’ said Elisabeth, hurt. Claude’s lack of understanding was at times stupefying.
‘That’s a pity. It’s so becoming to you,’ said Claude. He lit a cigarette and looked about him benignly. ‘This place isn’t bad. It’s a bit gloomy though, don’t you think?’
‘So you said the other day. On one of the rare occasions when I do see you, I’m not anxious to have a crowd all round us.’
‘Don’t be cross,’ said Claude. He put his hand on Elisabeth’s hand, but he looked annoyed. A second later she drew her hand away. This was a bad start: an important heart-to-heart explanation ought not to begin with petty squabbling.
‘On the whole, it was a success,’ said Claude. ‘But I wasn’t really carried away for an instant. I think Labrousse doesn’t know precisely what he’s after. He’s wavering between complete stylization and pure and simple realism.’
‘It’s just that touch of stylization that he’s after,’ said Elisabeth.
‘But there isn’t any special touch about it,’ said Claude in cutting tones. ‘It’s a series of contradictions. Caesar’s assassination looked like a funereal ballet, and as for Brutus’s watch in his tent – well, it was like going back to the days of the Théátre libre.’
Claude was being too clever. Elisabeth did not let him settle questions as arbitrarily as that. She was pleased because her reply came readily to her lips.
‘That depends on the situation,’ she said quickly. ‘An assassination has got to be stylized, or else it degenerates into melodrama, and by contrast, a supernatural scene has to be played as realistically as possible. That’s only too obvious.’
‘That’s just what I’m saying. There’s no unity. Labrousse’s aesthetic is simply a kind of opportunism.’
‘Not at all,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Of course, he takes the text into account. You’re amazing; you used to accuse him of making the setting an end in itself. Do make up your mind.’
‘But it is he who can’t make up his mind,’ said Claude. ‘I’d very much like to see him carry out his famous plan of writing a play himself. Then we might know where we stand.’
‘He’ll certainly do that,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Probably next year.’
‘I’d be curious to see it. You know I have a great admiration for Labrousse, but I don’t understand him.’
‘But it’s so easy,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I’d be very grateful if you’d explain it to me,’ said Claude.
Elisabeth was silent for a while, tapping her cigarette on the table. Pierre’s aesthetic was no mystery to her. From it she took the inspiration for her painting, but words failed her. She saw once again the Tintoretto that Pierre loved so much; he had explained things to her about the attitudes of the figures, just what, she could not remember. She thought of Dürer’s woodcuts, of a marionette show, of the Russian ballet, of the old silent movies; the idea was there, familiar and obvious, and this was terribly annoying.
‘Obviously, it’s not so simple that you can pin a label on it. Realism, impressionism, naturalism, if that’s what you want,’ she said.
‘Why are you being so gratuitously unkind?’ said Claude. ‘I’m not used to technical terms.’
‘I beg your pardon, but it was you who started talking about stylization and opportunism. But don’t make excuses; your fear of being mistaken for a professor is superbly comic’
More than anything, Claude dreaded sounding in the least academic, and, in all fairness, no one could look less like a professor than he.
‘I can promise that I have nothing to fear on that count,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s you who always deliberately introduce a kind of Germanic ponderosity into our discussions.’
‘Ponderosity …’ said Elisabeth. ‘Yes, I know, every time I disagree with you, you accuse me of being pedantic. You’re amazing. You can’t bear to be contradicted. What you mean by intellectual companionship is the devout acceptance of all your opinions. Ask Suzanne for that, not me! I have the misforunte to have a brain and to presume to use it.’
‘There you go! Can’t keep your temper!’ said Claude.
Elisabeth controlled herself This was hateful; he always found a way of putting her in the wrong.
‘I may be bad tempered,’ she said with crushing calm, ‘but you can’t hear yourself talk. You sound as if you were delivering a lecture.’
‘Let’s not squabble again,’ said Claude in a conciliatory tone.
She looked at him resentfully. He had clearly made up his mind to be nice to her tonight; he felt affectionate, charming and generous, but she would show him. She coughed a little to clear her throat.
‘Frankly, Claude, have you found this month’s experiment a happy one?’ she said.
‘What experiment?’ he said.
The blood rushed to Elisabeth’s face, and her voice trembled a little.
‘If we have kept on seeing one another after our heart-to-heart a month ago, it was only by way of an experiment. Have you forgotten?’
‘Oh, of course …’ said Claude.
He had not taken seriously the idea of a complete break; she had, of course, ruined everything by sleeping with him that very night For a moment she was put out of countenance.
‘Well, I think I’ve reached the conclusion that the present situation is impossible,’ she said.
‘Impossible? Why so suddenly impossible? What’s happened now?’
‘That’s just it, nothing,’ said Elisabeth.
‘Well, then, explain your meaning. I don’t understand.’
She hesitated. Of course, he had never mentioned that he would one day leave his wife; he had never made any promises; in a sense, he was unassailable.
‘Are you really happy like this?’ said Elisabeth. ‘I put our love on a higher plane. What intimacy have we? We see one another in restaurants, in bars, and in bed. Those are just meetings. I want to share your life.’
‘Darling, you’re raving,’ said Claude. ‘No intimacy between us? Why, I haven’t a single thought that I don’t share with you. You understand me so wonderfully.’
‘Yes, I have the best part of you,’ said Elisabeth, sharply. ‘Actually, you see, we should have kept to what, two years ago, you called an ideological friendship. My mistake was to love you.’
‘But since I love you …’
‘Yes,’ she said. It was most irritating; she was unable to pin down any definite grounds for complaint against him without their seeming nothing but petty grievances.
‘Well?’ said Claude.
