thundered in his disdain (Oh, how amused she was at his comical fury!)
at these heads of imbeciles, frozen in solemn smiles. That the dear eyes
of his Luce should have to apply themselves to reproducing and her hands
to tracing the pictures of these mugs seemed to him a profanation. No,
it was too revolting! Copies from the museums were more worth while. But
one could not count on them any more. The last museums had shut their
doors and no longer interested her clients. It was no longer the hour
for Virgin Maries and angels, only for the _poilus_. Every family had
its own, dead or alive, oftener dead, and wanted to eternalize his
features. The wealthier ones wanted colors: work paid for well enough,
but beginning to be scarce; it was needful for her not to be capricious.
Lacking which, all that remained for the time being was the enlarging of
photographs at laughable prices.
The clearest point in all of this was that she no longer had any reason
to spend her time in Paris: no more copies in the museum; all that was
needed being, to go to the shop to collect and bring back the orders
every two or three days; the work itself could be done at home. That was
not exactly what the two children liked. They continued to stroll about
the streets, unable to decide on taking up the way to the station. Since
they felt weary and the icy fog pierced them through, they went into a
church; and there, seated most properly in the corner of a chapel, they
talked in low voices about the little common-place affairs of their life
while they looked at the stained-glass windows. From time to time there
fell a silence; and their souls, delivered from mere words (it was not
the meaning in the words that interested them but their breath of life,
like the furtive contacts between quivering antennae) their souls
pursued another dialogue more solemn and profound. The dreams in the
colored windows, the shadows cast by the piers, the droning of the hymns
mingled with their dream, evoked the sorrowful facts of life which they
desired to forget and the consoling homesickness of the infinite.
Although it was nearly eleven o'clock, a yellowish twilight brimmed the
nave like the oil of a sacred cruet. From on high and from a great
distance came strange gleams, the sombre purple of a window, a red pool
on violet ones, indistinct figures encircled by their black settings.
Against the high wall of night the blood-like gleam of light made a
wound....
Abruptly Luce remarked:
"Shall you have to be _taken_?"
He understood at once what she meant for in the silence his spirit too
had pursued the same obscure trail.
"Yes," he said. "We mustn't talk of it."
"Only one thing. Tell me when?"
He told her:
"In six months."
She sighed.
He said:
"We mustn't think of it any more. What use would it be?"
She said:
"Yes, what use?"
They drew long breaths in order to push back the thought. Then
courageously (or should one say to the contrary "timorously"? Let him
who knows decide where true courage lies!) they both compelled
themselves to talk of something else--of the stars of the candles,
trembling in a reek, of the organ playing a prelude. Of the beadle who
was passing. Of the box full of surprises which her handbag was, in
which the indiscreet fingers of Pierre were rummaging. They had a very
passion of amusing themselves with nothings. Neither one nor the other
of these poor little creatures so much as considered the shadow of an
idea of escaping from that destiny which must separate them. To make any
resistance against the war, to brave the current of a nation: as well
to lift up the church which covered them with its shell! The only
recourse was to forget, to forget up to the last second, while hoping at
bottom that this last second would never arrive. Until then, to be
happy.
After they went out, while chatting, she pulled him by the arm in order
to cast a glance at a shopfront, which they had just passed. A shoe
shop. He found his gaze caressing tenderly a pair of fine leather shoes,
tall and laced up.
"Pretty, eh?" said he.
She said:
"A love!"
He laughed at the expression and she laughed also.
"Wouldn't they be too big?"
"No, just a fit."
"Well, then, suppose one bought them?"
She pressed his arm and pulled him on so as to tear him away from the
sight.
"One has to belong to the wealthy" (humming the air of _Dansons la
capucine_....) "But they're not for us."
"Why not? Cinderella put the slipper on all right!"
"At that time there were fairies still."
"In the present time there are lovers still."
She sang:
"_Non, non, nenni, mon petit ami!_"
"Why so, since we are friends?"
"Just for that reason."
"For that?"
"Yes, because one cannot accept things from a friend."
"Then perhaps--from an enemy?"
"Rather from a stranger; my shopman, for instance, if he wanted to
advance me a payment, the robber!"
"But, Luce, I certainly have the right to order from you a painting, if
I wish?"
She stopped, to burst out laughing.
"You, a painting by me? My poor friend, what could you do with it? You
have gained a good deal of merit already, just for having looked at
them. I know well enough that they are _croutes_. They would stick in
your throat."
"Not at all! Some of them are very cunning. And besides, if they suit
my taste?"
"It's certainly changed since yesterday."
"Isn't it allowable to change one's taste?"
"No, not when one's a friend."
"Luce, do my portrait!"
"Well, well, now; his portrait!"
"Why, it's very serious. I'm as good as those idiots...."
She squeezed his arm in an unthinking burst:
"Darling!"
"What was that you said?"
"I didn't say anything."
"I heard you all right."
"Well then, keep it for yourself!"
"No, I shan't keep it. I'll give it back to you double.... Darling!...
Darling! You'll do my portrait, won't you? It's settled?"
"Have you a photo?"
"No, I have not."
"Then what do you expect? I can't paint you in the street, I suppose."
"You told me that at home you were alone almost every day."
"Yes, the days mama works at the factory.... But I don't dare...."
"You are afraid, then, that we shall be seen?"
"No, that's not the reason. We have no neighbors."
"Well, then, what is it you're afraid of?"
She did not reply.
They were come to the square before the tramway station. Although all
about them were people who were waiting, they were hardly to be seen,
the fog continued to isolate the little couple. She evaded his eyes. He
took her two hands and said tenderly:
"My darling, don't be afraid...."
She lifted her eyes and they gazed at each other. Their eyes were so
loyal!
"I trust you," said she.
She closed her eyes. She felt that she was sacred to him.
They let go hands. The tram was about to start. Pierre's gaze questioned
Luce.
"What day?" he demanded.
"Thursday," she replied. "Come about two."
At the moment of parting she regained her roguish smile; she whispered
in his ear:
"And you must bring your photo just the same. I am not strong enough to
paint without the photo.... Yes, yes, I know you have some, you naughty
little humbug."
* * * * *
OUT beyond the Malakoff. Streets like broken teeth separated by vague
regions losing themselves in a dubious kind of country-side where among
boarded enclosures blossom the cabins of ragpickers. The gray dull sky
is lying low over the colorless ground whose thin edges smoke with the
fog. The air is chill. The house easy to find: there are only three of
them on one side of the road. The last of the three; it has no neighbor
across the street. It has but one story with a little courtyard which is
surrounded by a picket fence; two or three starveling trees, a square
patch of kitchen garden under the snow.
Pierre has made no noise on entering; the snow deadens his steps. But
the curtains of the ground floor are in motion; and when he reaches the
door, the door opens and Luce is on the threshold. In the half light of
the hall they say good day in a choking voice, and she ushers him into
the first apartment which serves as dining-room. There it is that she
works: her easel is installed near the window. At first they do not know
what to say to one another: both have thought over this visit altogether
too much beforehand; none of the speeches they had prepared is able to
come forth; and they talk in a halfvoice, although there is nobody else
in the house--and it's just for that reason. They stay seated at some
distance from each other with their arms rigid; and he has not even
thrown back the collar of his cloak. They chat about the cold weather
and the hours of the tramcars. They are unhappy to feel themselves so
silly.
At last she makes an effort and asks if he has brought the photographs,
and scarcely has he taken them from his pocket when both pluck up a
spirit. These pictures are the intermediaries over whose heads the chat
revives; for now the two are not entirely alone; there are eyes that
look at you and they are not embarrassing. Pierre has had the clever
idea (there was really no roguishness in it) to bring all his
photographs, from the age of three; there was one that showed him in a
little skirt. Luce laughed with pleasure; she spoke to the photo in
comical baby talk. Can there be anything more delightful to a woman than
to see the picture of the person she loves when he was quite small? She
cradles, she rocks him in her thoughts, she gives him the breast; and
she is even not so far from the dream that she has given him birth. And
besides (nor does she dupe herself at all) it forms a convenient pretext
to say to the infant what she cannot force herself to say to the
grown-up.--When he asks which one of the photographs she prefers, she
says without hesitating:
"The dear little codger...."
How serious he looks, already! Almost more serious than today. Certainly
if Luce dared to look (and just here she does dare) in order to make
comparisons with the Pierre of today, she would see in his eyes an
expression of joy and infantile gayety that does not appear in the
infant: for the eyes of this infant, this little _bourgeois_ under a
bell glass, are birds in a cage that lack sunlight; and the sunlight has
come, hasn't it, Luce?...
In his turn he asks to see photos of Luce. She exhibits a little girl of
six with a big plait who is squeezing a little dog in her arms; and as
she sees it again she thinks mischievously that in that period she loved
no less fervently nor very differently; whatever heart she possessed she
gave it even then to her dog; it was Pierre already, while waiting till
he arrived. Also she showed a young miss of thirteen or fourteen who
twisted her neck with a coquettish and a somewhat pretentious air;
luckily there was always there at the corners of the mouth that roguish
little smile which appeared to say:
"You know, I'm just amusing myself; I don't taken myself seriously."
Now they had completely forgotten their former embarrassment.
She set herself to sketching-in the portrait. Since he must not budge
one bit any more, nor talk except with the tips of his lips, she it was
who made almost all the conversation, all by herself. Instinct told her
that silence was dangerous. And as it happens with sincere persons who
talk at some length, she came quickly to the point of confiding to him
the intimate affairs of her life and those of her family which she did
not have the slightest intention of recounting. She heard herself speak
with astonishment; but there was no way of returning to solid ground;
the very silence of Pierre was like a declivity down which the stream
glided....
She recited the facts of her infant life in the provinces. She came from
Touraine. Her mother belonging to a well-to-do family of the solid
_bourgeoisie_ became infatuated with a tutor, the son of a farmer. The
_bourgeois_ family opposed the marriage; but the two lovers were
obstinate; the young girl had waited until she was of age in order to
send out the legal summons to her family. After the marriage her people
would not recognize her. The young couple lived through years of
affection and hard fare. The husband wore himself out at his task and
sickness arrived. The wife accepted this further burden courageously;
she worked for two. Her parents, obstinately cherishing their wounded
pride, refused to do anything to come to his assistance. The sick man
died a few months before the outbreak of the war. And the two women did
not try to renew connection with the mother's family. The latter would
have welcomed the young girl if she had made any advances; she would
have been received like a _mea culpa_ condoning the action of her
mother. But the family might wait! Rather eat stones for breakfast!
Pierre was amazed at the hard heartedness of these _bourgeois_ parents.
Luce did not find it extraordinary.
"Don't you believe there are a great many people like that? Not wicked.
No, I am sure that my grandparents are not, and even believe that it
pained them not to say to us: 'Come back!' But their self-respect had
been mortified too much. And self-love among these people, there's
nothing else that is so great. It is stronger than all the rest. When
one has done them wrong it is not merely the wrong that one has done
them; there is _the Wrong_; the others are wrong and they themselves are
right. And so, without being cruel (no, really, they are not) they would
let you die near them at a slow fire rather than concede that perhaps
after all they were not right. Oh, they are not the only ones! One meets
with many others!... Say, am I mistaken? Aren't they just like that?"
Pierre pondered. He was excited. For he was thinking:
"Why, yes. That is the way they are...."
Through the eyes of the little girl he saw abruptly the penury of heart,
the desert-like aridity of this _bourgeois_ class of which he formed a
part. Dry and wornout earth which little by little has imbibed all the
juices of life and does not renew them any more, just like those lands
in Asia where the fecundating rivers, drop by drop, have disappeared
under the vitreous sand. Even those whom they believe they love are
loved in a proprietary way; they sacrifice them to their egotism, to
their buttressed pride, to their narrow and headstrong intelligence.
Pierre took a sorrowful review of his parents and himself. He was
silent. The panes of the apartment vibrated under the shock of a distant
cannonade. And Pierre, who was thinking of those who were dying, said
with bitterness:
"And that, too, is their work."
Yes, the hoarse barking of these cannon away off there, the universal
war, the grand catastrophe--the dryness of heart and the inhumanity of
that braggart and limited _bourgeoisie_ had a large part in the
responsibility for all that. And now (which was only just) the unchained
monster would never stop until it had devoured them.
And Luce said:
"That is true."
For without knowing that she did so she followed the thought of Pierre.
He started at the echo:
"Yes, it is true," said he, "what has come about is just. This world
was too old; it ought to, it must die."
And Luce, bowing her head, sorrowful and resigned, said once more:
"Yes."
Solemn faces of children bent beneath Destiny, whose youthful brows
touched by the wing of care bore within them such distressful
ponderings!...
Darkness increased in the room. It was not very warm in there. Her hands
being icy, Luce stopped her work, which Pierre was not allowed to see.
They went to the window and contemplated the evening shadows across
mournful fields and wooded hills. The violet forests formed a half
circle against a greenish sky powdered with dust of a pale gold. A bit
of the soul of Puvis de Chavannes floated there. A simple phrase of Luce
made it evident that she understood how to read that subtle harmony. He
was almost astonished. She was not miffed at that, and said that one
might easily feel a thing that one would be incapable of expressing.
Though she painted very badly, it was not altogether her fault. Through
an economical turn, perhaps ill-advised, she had not finished her course
at the Arts Decoratifs. Besides, poverty alone had made her turn to
painting. What use in painting without a purpose? And did not Pierre
think that almost all those who produce art do it without actual
necessity, through vanity, in order to occupy their time, or else
because at first they think they need it and later on will not confess
they were mistaken? One should not be an artist save when one absolutely
cannot keep to oneself the feeling one has--only when one has too much
feeling. But Luce said she possessed just enough for one. She went on:
"No, for two."
(Because he made a face at her.)
The lovely golden tints in the sky began to turn to brown. The deserted
plain put on a disconsolate mask. Pierre asked Luce if she was not
afraid in that solitude.
"No."
"When you get home late?"
"There is no danger. The Apaches don't come here. They have their own
customs. They are _bourgeois_, too. Besides, we have over there an old
ragpicker, and his dog. And besides, I have no fear. Oh, I'm not
boasting about myself! I have no merit at all in it. I am not courageous
naturally. Only, I have not as yet had any occasion to meet with real
fear. The day I do see it, perhaps I shall be more of a poltroon than
the next one. Does one ever know what one really is?"
"Well, I for my part know what you are," quoth Pierre.
"Ah, that is much easier. I myself likewise, I know ... as to you! One
always knows better about another."
The moist chill of evening entered the room through the closed windows.
Pierre felt a little shudder. Luce, who perceived it at once on his
neck, ran to make him a cup of chocolate, which she heated on her
spirit-lamp. They took a bit of food. Luce had thrown her shawl
maternally over Pierre's shoulders; and he let her do it like a cat
enjoying the warmth of the stuff. Once more the current of their
thoughts brought them back to the family history which Luce had
interrupted.
Pierre continued:
"Both of you all alone, so entirely alone, you and your mother: you must
be deeply attached to one another."
"Yes," said Luce. "We were very much attached."
"_Were?_" repeated Pierre.
"Oh!" said Luce, "we always love each other;" still somewhat embarrassed
by the word which had escaped her without thinking. (Why must she always
tell him more than she meant to? And nevertheless he did not ask, he
dared not ask her. But she saw that his heart was putting the question.
And it's so nice to confide in someone when one has never had the
chance! The silence of the house, the half-shade of the room encouraged
her to confess.) She observed:
"There's no saying or knowing what has been going on for the last four
years. The whole world is changed."
"You mean to say that your mother, or that you have changed?"
"The whole world," repeated she.
"In what respect?"
"That's hard to define. One feels everywhere among people who know each
other, even in the family, that the relations are not the same. One is
never sure of anything any more; in the morning one says to oneself:
What is it I am going to experience this night? Shall I recognize it?
One is as if on a plank in the water just about to upset."
"What is it that's happened?"
"I don't know," said Luce, "I can't explain it. But it has come since
the war. There is something in the air. Everybody is troubled. In
families one sees people who were not capable of doing without one
another marching off today, each one in his own direction. And as if
intoxicated each one runs along with nose on the trail."
"Where do they go?"
"I don't know. And I believe they don't either. Either pure chance or
some desire spurs them. Women take lovers. Men forget their wives. And
kindly people, too, who generally appear so calm and so orderly!
Everywhere we hear of households broken up. It's the same between
parents and children. My mother...."
She stopped, then ran on:
"My mother lives her own life."
She stopped again:
"Oh, it's perfectly natural! She is still young, and poor mama has not
had much happiness; she has not poured out her sum of affection. She has
a right to want to make her life over again."
Pierre inquired:
"She wants to marry again?"
Luce shook her head. One could hardly know very well.... Pierre dared
not insist.
"She loves me well, still. But it's not the way it used to be. She is
able to do without me at present.... Poor mama! She would be so sorry if
she knew that her love for me is no longer in her heart as the first of
all! She would never confess that, never.... O, how queer it is, this
life!"
She wore a sweet smile, sorrowful and roguish. Upon her hands placed on
the table Pierre put his hands tenderly, and sat without motion.
"We are poor creatures," he muttered.
Luce continued in a moment:
"We two, how tranquil we are!... The others have the fever. The war. The
factories. People are in a hurry. They hustle. To work hard, to live, to
enjoy themselves...."
"Yes," said Pierre, "the time is short."
"All the more reason not to run!" said Luce. "One gets too soon to the
end. Let us walk slowly."
"But it's time that hurries along. Hold on to it well."
"I'm holding onto it; I'm holding," said Luce, grasping his hand.
Thus back and forward, tenderly, gravely, they talked like a pair of
good old friends. But they took good care that the table should stay
between them.
And behold, they perceived that the night had filled the room. Pierre
rose hurriedly. Luce did nothing to retain him. The short hour had
passed. They were afraid of the hour that might come. They said _au
revoir_ to each other with the same constraint, the same low and choked
voice as when he came in. On the threshold their hands scarcely dared to
press each other.
But when the door was shut, just as he was about to leave the garden, as
he turned his head toward the window of the ground floor, he saw in the
last gleam of the copper-colored twilight, on the pane, the outline of
Luce, who was following his departure into the uncertain depths of the
gleam-filled obscurity with a face full of passion. And turning back to
the window, he pressed his lips against the closed pane. Their lips
kissed through the wall of glass. Then Luce moved back into the shadows
of the room and the curtain fell.
* * * * *
FOR the past fortnight they had been unaware of anything that was going
on in the world. In Paris people might make arrests and issue
condemnations as hard as they could. Germany might make treaties and
tear up those she had signed. Governments might lie, the press denounce
and armies kill. They did not read the papers. They knew there was the
war somewhere all about them, just as there is typhus or else influenza;
but that did not touch them; they did not want to think about it.
The war recalled itself to them that night. They had already gone to bed
(they spent their hearts so freely in those days that when evening came
they were worn out). They heard the alarm signals, each in his or her
respective quarter, and declined to get up. They hid their heads in
their beds under the bedclothes as a child will during a
thunder-storm--not at all from fear (they were positive that nothing
could happen to them) but in order to dream. Listening to the air
rumbling in the night, Luce thought:
"It would be delightful to listen to the storm as it passes, in his
arms."