It was the first time I had seen her in mourning, and that evening her
youth shone more resplendent than ever.
Her departure was close at hand. She looked about to see if she had
left anything behind in the room, which had been made ready for other
people, the room which was already formless, already abandoned.
The door opened. The young woman turned her head. A man appeared in
the sunny doorway.
"Michel, Michel, Michel!" she cried.
She stretched out her arms, hesitated, and for a few seconds remained
motionless as light, with her full gaze upon him.
Then, in spite of where she was and the purity of her heart and the
chastity of her whole life, her legs shook and she was on the verge of
falling over.
He threw his hat on the bed with a sweeping romantic gesture. He
filled the room with his presence, with his weight. His footsteps made
the floor creak. He kept her from falling. Tall as she was, he was a
whole head taller. His marked features were hard and remarkably fine.
His face under a heavy head of black hair was bright and clean, as
though new. He had a drooping moustache and full red lips.
He put his hands on the young woman's shoulders, and looked at her, in
readiness for his eager embrace.
They held each other close, staggering. They said the same word at the
same time, "At last!" That was all they said, but they said it over
and over again in a low voice, chanting it together. Their eyes
uttered the same sweet cry. Their breasts communicated it to each
other. It seemed to be tying them together and making them merge into
one. At last! Their long separation was over. Their love was victor.
At last they were together. And I saw her quiver from head to foot. I
saw her whole body welcome him while her eyes opened and then closed on
him again. They made a great effort to speak to each other. The few
shreds of conversation held them back a moment.
"How I waited for you! How I longed for you!" he stammered. "I
thought of you all the time. I saw you all the time. Your smile was
everywhere." He lowered his voice and added, "Sometimes when people
were talking commonplaces and your name happened to be mentioned, it
would go through my heart like an electric current."
He panted. His deep voice burst into sonorous tones. He seemed unable
to speak low.
"Often I used to sit on the brick balustrade at the top of the terrace
of our house overlooking the Channel, with my face in my hands,
wondering where you were. But it did not matter how far away you were,
I could not help seeing you all the same."
"And often I," said Anna, bending her head, "would sit at the open
window warm evenings, thinking of you. Sometimes the air was of a
suffocating sweetness, as it was two months ago at the Villa of the
Roses. Tears would come to my eyes."
"You used to cry?"
"Yes," she said in a low voice, "for joy."
Their mouths joined, their two small purple mouths of exactly the same
colour. They were almost indistinguishable from each other, tense in
the creative silence of the kiss, a single dark stream of flesh.
Then he drew away a little to get a better look at her, and the next
moment caught her in his arms and held her close.
His words fell on her like hammer blows.
"Down there the scent of the sap and the flowers from the many gardens
near the coast used to intoxicate me, and I wanted to burrow my fingers
in the dark burning earth. I would roam about and try to remember your
face, and draw in the perfume of your body. I would stretch my arms
out in the air to touch as much as possible of your sunlight."
"I knew you were waiting for me and that you loved me," she said, in a
voice gentler but just as deep with emotion. "I saw you in your
absence. And often, when the light of dawn entered my room and touched
me, I thought of how completely consecrated I was to your love.
Thinking of you sometimes in my room in the evening, I would admire
myself."
A thrill went through him, and he smiled.
He kept saying the same things in scarcely different words, as if he
knew nothing else. He had a childish soul and a limited mind behind
the perfect sculpture of his forehead and his great black eyes, in
which I saw distinctly the white face of the woman floating like a
swan.
She listened to him devoutly, her mouth half open, her head thrown back
lightly. Had he not held her, she would have slipped to her knees
before this god who was as beautiful as she.
"The memory of you saddened my joys, but consoled my sorrows."
I did not know which of the two said this. They embraced vehemently.
They reeled. They were like two tall flames. His face burned hers,
and he cried:
"I love you, I love you! All through my sleepless nights of longing
for you--oh, what a crucifixion my solitude was!
"Be mine, Anna!"
She radiated consent, but her eyes faltered, and she glanced round the
room.
"Let us respect this room," she breathed. Then she was ashamed at
having refused, and immediately stammered, "Excuse me."
The man also looked around the room. His forehead darkened with a
savage frown of suspicion, and the superstition of his race shone in
his eyes.
"It was here--that he died?"
"No," she said.
* * * * * * * * *
Afterwards they did as the others had done, as human beings always do,
as they themselves would do many times again in the strange future--they
sat with their eyes half-closed and the same uneasy look of shame and
terror in them as Amy and her lover.
But these two required no artificial stimulus for their love. They had
no need of the night. And they felt no culpability. They were two
grand young creatures, driven together naturally by the very force of
their love, and their ardour cleansed everything, like fire. They were
innocent. They had no regrets and felt no remorse. They thought they
were united.
He took her soft hand in his dark hand, and said: "Now you are mine for
always. You have made me know divine ecstasy. You have my heart and I
have yours. You are my wife forever."
"You are everything to me," she answered.
They went forth into life like a couple in legend, inspired and rosy
with anticipation--he, the knight with no shadows falling on him except
the dark of his hair, helmeted or plumed, and she, the priestess of the
pagan gods, the spirit of nature.
They would shine in the sunlight. They would see nothing around them,
blinded by the daylight. They would undergo no struggles except the
strife of the sexes and the spying of jealousy; for lovers are enemies
rather than friends.
I followed them with my eyes going through life, which would be nothing
to them but fields, mountains, or forests. I saw them veiled in a kind
of light, sheltered from darkness, protected for a time against the
fearful spell of memory and thought.
. . . . .
I sat down and leaned on my elbows. I thought of myself. Where was I
now after all this? What was I going to do in life? I did not know.
I would look about and would surely find something.
So, sitting there, I quietly indulged in hopes. I must have no more
sadness, no more anguish and fever. If the rest of my life was to pass
in calm, in peace, I must go far, far away from all those awful serious
things, the sight of which was terrible to bear.
Somewhere I would lead a wise, busy life--and earn my living regularly.
And you, you will be beside me, my sister, my child, my wife.
You will be poor so as to be more like all other women. In order for
us to be able to live together I shall work all day and so be your
servant. You will work affectionately for us both in this room, and in
my absence there will be nothing beside you but the pure, simple
presence of your sewing machine. You will keep the sort of order by
which nothing is forgotten, you will practice patience which is as long
as life, and maternity which is as heavy as the world.
I shall come in, I shall open the door in the dark, I shall hear you
come from the next room, bringing the lamp. A dawn will announce you.
You will tell me the quiet story of your day's work, without any object
except to give me your thoughts and your life. You will speak of your
childhood memories. I shall not understand them very well because you
will be able to give me, perforce, only insufficient details, but I
shall love your sweet strange language.
We shall speak of the child we shall have, and you will bend your head
and your neck, white as milk, and in our minds we shall hear the
rocking of the cradle like a rustling of wings. And when we are tired
out, and even after we have grown old, we shall dream afresh along with
our child.
After this revery our thoughts will not stray, but linger tenderly. In
the evening we shall think of the night. You will be full of a happy
thought. Your inner life will be gay and shining, not because of what
you see, but because of your heart. You will beam as blind people
beam.
We shall sit up facing each other. But little by little, as it gets
late, our words will become fewer and less intelligible. Sleep will
lay bare your soul. You will fall asleep over the table, you will feel
me watching over you more and more.
Tenderness is greater than love. I do not admire carnal love when it
is by itself and bare. I do not admire its disorderly selfish
paroxysms, so grossly short-lived. And yet without love the attachment
of two human beings is always weak. Love must be added to affection.
The things it contributes to a union are absolutely needed--exclusiveness,
intimacy, and simplicity.