working,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You must come and see my canvases.’
She loved dress rehearsals. Perhaps it was childish, but she derived tremendous pleasure from shaking hands with all these writers and actors; she had always needed a congenial environment really to find and be herself – ‘When I’m painting, I don’t feel that I’m a painter; its thankless and discouraging.’ Here she was, a young artist on the threshold of success, Pierre’s own sister. She smiled at Moreau who looked at her admiringly, he had always been a little in love with her. In the days when she used to spend a great deal of time at the Dôme with Françoise, in the company of the beginners with no future and the old failures, she would have looked with wide-eyed envy at that vigorous, gracious young woman who was talking casually to a newly-arrived group.
‘How are you?’ said Battier. He looked very handsome in his dark lounge suit. ‘The doors here are well guarded at least,’ he added peevishly.
‘How are you?’ said Elisabeth, shaking hands with Suzanne. ‘Did you have any trouble getting in?’
‘That doorman scrutinizes all the guests as if they were criminals,’ said Suzanne. ‘He kept on turning over our card in his fingers for at least five minutes.’
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
