ON THE WAY TO THE BALL
I think I have been lacking both in skill and prudence. I was in too
great haste; I overshot the mark, without asking Laurence if she
understood me. How can I, who am ignorant of life, teach its science?
What means do I know how to employ, except the systems, the rules of
conduct, dreamed of at sixteen, beautiful in theory, but absurd in
practice? Is it enough for me to love the good, to stretch towards an
ideal of virtue vague aspirations, the aim of which is itself uncertain?
When reality is before me, I know how little these desires take
practical shape, how powerless I am in the struggle it offers me. I
shall never know how either to bind or conquer it, ignorant as I am of
the way in which to seize it and unable even to avow to myself what
victory I demand. A voice cries out in me that I do not want the truth,
that I do not desire to change it, to transform what is evil in my sight
into good. Let the world which exists stand; I have the audacity to wish
to create a new land, without making use of the wrecks of the old.
Hence, having no solid foundation, the scaffolding of my dreams crumbles
at the slightest shock. I am only a useless thinker, a platonic lover of
the good nursed by vain reveries, whose power vanishes as soon as he
touches the earth.
Brothers, it would be easier for me to give Laurence wings than to give
her a woman's heart.
We are but grown up children. We do not know what to do with that
sublime reality, which comes to us from God and which we spoil at
pleasure by our dreams. We are so awkward in living, that life, for this
reason, becomes bad. Let us learn how to live and evil will disappear.
If I possessed the great art of the real, if I had any conception of a
human paradise, if I could distinguish the chimera from the possible, I
could talk and Laurence would understand me. I would know how to take
possession of her again and set her an example to follow. The delicate
science which revealed to me the causes of her errors would find a
remedy for each wound of her heart. But what can I do when my ignorance
erects a barrier between her and me? I am the dream, she is the reality.
We shall trudge on side by side without ever meeting, and, our journey
finished, she will not have understood me, I will not have comprehended
her.
I have decided to retrace my steps, in order to take Laurence such as
she is and let her follow the road for which her human feet are fitted.
I have resolved to study life with her, to descend that we may rise
together. Since I am compelled to undertake this rough and disagreeable
task, it is on the lowest step that I desire to start.
Would it not be a recompense great enough if I induced her to give me
all the love of which she is capable? Brothers, I have a well grounded
fear that our dreams are nothing but deceptions; I realize how weak and
puerile they are in the presence of a reality of which I am vaguely
conscious. There are days in which, further off than the sunlight and
the perfumes, further off than those dim visions which I cannot turn to
account, I catch a glimpse of the bold outlines of what is. And I
comprehend that this is life, action and truth, while, in the
surroundings which I have created for myself, move people strange to
man, vain shadows whose eyes do not see me, whose lips cannot speak to
me. The child can be pleased with these cold and mute friends; afraid of
life, it takes refuge in that which does not live. But we men should not
be satisfied with this eternal nothingness. Our arms are made for work.
Last night, as I was out walking with Laurence, we met a herd of
maskers, packed into a carriage and going to the ball, intoxicated, in
disorder, making a great noise. It is January, the most terrible of all
the months. Poor Laurence was vastly moved by the cries of her kind. She
smiled upon them, and turned that she might see them as long as
possible. It was her former gayety which was passing by, her
carelessness, her mad life so sharp that she could not forget its biting
joys. She returned home sadder than ever and went to bed, sick of
silence and solitude.
This morning, I sold some of my clothes and hired a costume for
Laurence. I announced to her that we would go to the ball in the
evening. She threw herself upon my neck; then, she took possession of
the costume and forgot me. She examined each ribbon, each spangle;
impatient to deck herself, she threw the soiled satin over her
shoulders, intoxicating herself with the rustle of the stuff. Sometimes
she turned, thanking me with a smile. I realized that she had never
before loved me so much, and I could scarcely keep my hands from
snatching the gewgaw which had brought me the esteem I had failed to
acquire with all my kindness.
At last, I had made myself understood. I had ceased to be an unknown
being in her eyes, a frightful compound of austerity and weariness. I
was going to the ball like all the rest; like them, I hired costumes and
amused my friends. I was a charming fellow and, like everybody else,
loved buxom shoulders, cries and oaths. Ah! what joy! My wisdom was a
sham!
Laurence felt herself in a country with which she was acquainted; she
was no longer afraid; she had resumed her freedom of manner and gave
vent to bursts of hearty laughter. Her familiar words, her easy
gestures, filled her with satisfaction. She was perfectly at home in her
present atmosphere.
This was what I wished, but I had hoped that a month of tranquillity,
even though it had not succeeded in reforming her, had at least led her
to forget somewhat her former ways. I had imagined that, when the mask
fell, the face it would disclose would have less pallor about the lips
and more blushes upon the cheeks. I was mistaken. The mask fallen, I had
before me the same faded features, the same thick and noisy laugh. As
this woman was when she entered my mansarde, rough, vulgar and cynical,
so I again found her, after I had for a month protested against the
infamy of her past life, silently to be sure, but every day. She had
learned nothing, she had forgotten nothing. If her eyes shone with a new
expression, it was only because of the miserable joy she felt on seeing
that I seemed, at last, to have come down to her level. In view of this
strange result, I asked myself if it would not be simply a waste of time
to try again. I had wished for a real Laurence, and this Laurence,
through whom ran a breath of life, terrified me more, perhaps, than the
mournful creature of the past month. But the struggle promised to be so
sharp that I heard, in the depths of my being, my audacity of twenty
revolt at my repugnance and my fright.
As six o'clock struck, although the ball would not begin until midnight,
Laurence began to make her toilet. Soon the chamber was in complete
disorder: water, splashing from the wash-basin and dripping from the wet
towels, flooded the floor; soap lather, fallen from Laurence's hands,
spread out upon the planks in whitish patches; the comb was on the floor
near the hair brush, and various articles of clothing, forgotten upon
the chairs, on the mantelpiece and in the corners, were soaking amid
pools of water. Laurence, to be more at her ease, had squatted down. She
was washing herself energetically, throwing handfuls of water in her
face and upon her shoulders. Despite this deluge, the soap, covered with
dust, left broad streaks of dirt on her skin. At this she was in
despair. Finally, she emptied the entire contents of the wash-basin over
her.
Then she arose, shivering, her shoulders red, and began to use the
towel.
The key had remained in the lock of the door. As Laurence was rubbing
her neck with the icy towel, Pâquerette came in. The old woman visited
us occasionally to get a stick or two from the hearth with which to
kindle her fire, and pity prevented me from driving her off in disgust.
"Ah! my dear," cried Laurence to her, "come and help me a little. I'm
tired of this wretched rubbing."
Pâquerette took the towel, and began to rub with all the strength of
her wasted arms. She did not seem astonished at either the disorder of
the chamber or Laurence's wholesale preparations for the ball. She
quietly passed her stiff hands over the girl's fresh looking shoulders,
envying their whiteness, thinking of the pleasures of the past.
Laurence, her head half turned around, smiled upon her and shivered by
fits.
"Where are you going, my child?" at last asked the horrible old woman.
"Claude has invited me to go to the ball."
"Ah! that's as it should be, Monsieur," resumed Pâquerette, ceasing to
ply the towel and turning towards me.
Then, taking up a dry towel, she continued, as she affectionately wiped
Laurence's arms:
"I said to myself only this morning that you would soon die of sadness,
if you persisted in always remaining shut up in this chamber. Laurence
is a good girl, Monsieur, a very good girl and a kind-hearted and
indulgent one into the bargain. I know more than one such who would have
quitted you twenty times, if subjected to the same treatment that
Laurence has undergone for the past month. She is a miracle of patience
and devotion to have remained. There, my child, you are as dry as a bone
and as beautiful as a butterfly. You will have hosts of handsome and
attentive gallants at the ball to-night! Are you jealous, Claude?"
I could not answer her. I smiled mechanically, and continued to gaze
upon the strange scene. A single engrossing recollection, which
unceasingly presented itself to my mind, prevented me from hearing what
the old woman said. It was that of an antiquated engraving, which I had
seen I know not where, representing Venus at her toilet, bathed by
nymphs, caressed by little Cupids. The goddess has abandoned herself to
the arms of her women, as young and beautiful as herself; the foam of
the waves partially covers them, and, on the shore, an old faun stands
lost in mute admiration and astonishment at the sight of so much youth
and freshness.
"He is jealous, he is jealous!" cried Pâquerette, with a sharp laugh,
broken by hiccoughs. "So much the better for you, my girl; he will make
you more presents and it will be much easier for you to fool him. I once
had an admirer, who strongly resembled you, Monsieur. He was a trifle
shorter, I think, but he had the same eyes, the same mouth; he even wore
his hair combed back, as you do. He adored me, overwhelmed me with
attention and followed me everywhere, but, nevertheless, I dismissed him
at the end of a week."
While Pâquerette was chattering, Laurence had dressed herself. She
combed her hair, standing before the looking-glass, serious and
thoughtful. The old woman stood beside her, as straight as a lance; she
had ceased to babble, and was enviously contemplating the packages of
rouge, and the vials of aromatic oils, common perfumery bought at a low
price at stands in the open air. The two women having forgotten me, I
sat down in a corner.
I saw their images in the looking-glass. Both the faces, despite the
wrinkles of the one and the relative freshness of the other, seemed to
me to have the same expression of degradation and baseness. The same
looks stamped with dissipation, the same pale lips, were common to each.
One could hardly read upon their faded cheeks the number of years which
separated their ages. They were equally old in sin. For an instant I
thought that I was endeavoring to reform Pâquerette instead of
Laurence, and I closed my eyes to banish her from my sight.
They had forgotten that I existed. Occasionally they spoke in whispers.
Laurence swore, striking her foot violently on the floor, when one of
her rebellious locks refused to curl. Then the old woman spoke of her
own flaxen tresses of other days; she described the style of coiffure of
the girls of her time, and, to make herself better understood, arranged
in her turn her gray locks before the looking-glass. Then followed long
eulogies upon my companion's youth, endless lamentations in regard to
the weariness of old age. Pâquerette said that her wrinkles had come to
her long before she was ready for them, and that she greatly regretted
not having enjoyed herself more when she was twenty. Now, she must live
slowly in silence and gloom, having at heart a jealous admiration for
those who could yet grow old.
Laurence listened, but only asked questions, demanding if such and such
a curl became her, seeking for new praises. Then, when her locks, so
long toiled over, had been satisfactorily arranged, her face was to be
painted. Pâquerette wished to put the finishing touch to the
masterpiece. She took red and blue pigments upon little balls of
wadding, and passed them along the cheeks and around the eyes of the
young woman. She enlarged her eyelids, purified her forehead and gave
health to her lips. And, like us, poor dreamers, who daub reality with
discordant colors and afterwards cry out that we have made a creation,
she was amazed at her work, without seeing that her trembling hand had
confused the features, exaggerated the red of the lips and made the
eyelids too large. Beneath her fingers Laurence's visage had horribly
changed, I thought. It had acquired in spots dull and earthy tints,
while in other spots, which had been rubbed with ointment put on to fix
the rouge, it shone with tremendous brilliancy. The stretched and
irritated skin grimaced; the entire face, at once red and faded, had the
silly smile of pasteboard dolls. The tones were so loud and so false
that they wounded the sight.
Laurence, straight and motionless, her glance partially turned towards
the looking-glass, complacently allowed herself to be rejuvenated. She
scratched off with her finger-nail the touches which seemed to her too
prominent. Leaning forward, she gravely studied for several seconds each
of the beauties which Pâquerette gave her.
The work finished, the old woman drew back a few paces the better to
scrutinize what she had done and note its effect. Then, satisfied, she
exclaimed:
"Ah! my child, you look like a girl of fifteen!"
Laurence smiled contentedly. Both of these creatures were sincere; they
frankly admired, not doubting in the least that a miracle had been
worked. Then, they remembered me. Laurence, proud of the restored charms
of her fifteenth year, came to embrace me, wishing to dazzle my eyes
with her newly-acquired beauty. Her bare shoulders had the fresh and
peculiar odor of a person who has just come out of a bath. At the touch
of her cold lips, damp with rouge, I shivered with disgust.
"Bear me in mind, my child," said Pâquerette, as she was leaving the
room. "Old women like sweetmeats."
We had yet two full hours to wait. I have no remembrance of any
weariness so terrible. This waiting for a pleasure which clashed with
all my tastes was indescribably uncomfortable and sad, and Laurence's
impatience retarded still more for me the slow march of the minutes.
She was seated upon the bed, in her costume of pink satin ornamented
with gilt spangles; this tinsel had the strangest effect in the world,
brought into bold relief by the smoky paper on the chamber walls. The
lamp burned dimly, the silence was broken only by the dashing of the
rain against the window panes. Brothers, I do not know what demon then
took possession of me, but I must admit to you, who know all my thoughts
and feelings, that, sitting in the presence of that woman, abandoned by
my cherished ideas, I caught myself wishing Laurence young and
beautiful; I desired the power to transform my miserable mansarde into a
delicious and mysterious retreat, a veritable nest for ideal happiness,
with every surrounding of luxury and magnificence. For the moment, I
lost all higher aspirations. What disgusted me was no longer vice, but
ugliness and poverty.
At last, I went for a carriage and we started for the ball. Despite the
lateness of the hour, the streets were still full of noise and light.
Bursts of laughter came from every corner, groups of drunkards and women
were in each drinking house. Nothing could be more odious to see than
the people running in the mud, and elbowing each other amid the refrains
of bacchanalian songs. Laurence, leaning out of the carriage window,
laughed heartily at this disgusting joy. She called to the passers-by,
seeking insult, happy at being able to participate in a war of rough
words. As I remained mute, she said to me:
"Well! what on earth are you doing? Do you intend to go to sleep while
you are taking me to the ball?"
I leaned out of the window in my turn; I sought for some one to insult.
I would willingly have struck one of those brutes who were amused by
such a spectacle as I then saw. Before me, upon the sidewalk, stood a
tall young man with his shirt unbuttoned at the throat; a circle of
laughers surrounded him, applauding each one of the many oaths he
uttered. I shook my fist menacingly at him, for I was terribly
exasperated. I hurled at him, as we went along, the most offensive
epithets I could summon up.
"And your wife!" cried he, in reply. "Put her out here a little while,
that we may pay her our compliments!"
The rough words of this man changed my anger into an indescribable
sadness. I closed the window and leaned my forehead against the damp
glass, leaving Laurence to her wretched pleasure. I was, so to speak,
rocked by the cries of the crowd and the hollow roll of the vehicle. I
saw, with the vague sight of a dream, the passers flee behind me,
strange shadows which lengthened and vanished without presenting any
meaning to my mind. And, in this din, in this quick succession of
darkness and light, I remember that I forgot everything for an instant,
and gazed dreamily into the pools of water and mud between the
pavements, upon which the lamps of the shops cast rapid reflections.
It was thus that we reached the ball-room.
To-morrow, brothers, I will tell you the rest. I cannot write everything
now.