Pity for Women Read online

  She stroked his hair, then clasped her hands archwise over his head and rested her forehead against his chest, bowing so low that all he could see was her hair, in a gesture of utter submission.

  They went out. An old man was sitting on a bench feeding the birds, and she made a detour so as not to frighten them away. In the streets, a few radiant faces were almost engulfed by the repulsive, virulent magma of the unloved and the unloving (not to mention the notorious ugliness of the Parisians). And he was filled, for the hundredth time and yet as freshly as ever, with that regal sensation of walking side by side, as though her legitimate owner, with a woman who attracts stares and almost shouts of admiration. She still addressed him as vous, though oblivious of the delicate pleasure he derived from being thus authorized to say vous in return. With this vous, Costals was able to deny the intimacy of their relationship, to create, alongside the reality, another order of things that belied it.

  From time to time he put his hand on her waist, for a second only, as if to make sure that she was still beside him. But soon she put her arm through his. It was only the second time she had done so, the first having been on the night of their great misunderstanding. On both occasions, it was after having seen him troubled: he was touched by this. Soon, however, he began to feel uncomfortable. For the fact was that ever since he had first gone out with a woman he loved at the age of nineteen, he had always obstinately refused to keep in step with his female companions; he found it ridiculous and humiliating for a man. So they jolted along for another fifty yards, and it seemed to him painfully symbolic that a man could not walk straight because the woman who loved him, and whom he loved, was holding his arm. Finally it was she who, breaking step as soldiers do on the march, fell into rhythm with her lover. He noticed this and was pleased. Soon, however, it wasn't enough for him. That weight on his arm seemed like a chain. The very gesture with which, poor child, she had thought to bring them closer together, had only made him feel impatience and scorn at being coupled. He took advantage of a traffic jam, as they were crossing a street, to detach himself gently. And then, having regained his freedom, he felt a wave of tenderness towards her.

  She was dining with friends in the centre of town. They passed travel posters showing Algerian belly-dancers (for the benefit of French tourists) shoeshine boys (for the benefit of British tourists), all the symbols of that devilish human invention, travel, which for inconvenience, exhaustion, danger, time-wasting and nervous wear and tear has no rival except war (the only difference being that travel costs you the earth whereas at least one is paid for going to war). What they inspired in Costals was not so much a desire to be sea-sick in Solange's company as an urge to make a great splash on her behalf, which, now that she had given herself, would no longer look as though he were trying to buy her (this feeling comprised a mixture of delicacy and vulgarity, as is so often the case with questions of money): he could feel the banknotes quivering in his wallet like thoroughbreds at the starting-gate. He said to her:

  'You know, old thing, I like squandering money on women; it's one of the things I pride myself on. When I am old and poverty-stricken, with only a pension of eight hundred francs granted me by the Society of Literature and the proceeds of the subscription launched for me in the Figaro to live on, I like to imagine that all the money I ever spent on the women I loved will be reconstituted somewhere in tangible form and that I shall depart this world satisfied with what I have done, my eyes fixed on that mountain of gold - which, if you'll forgive the expression, I shall call "the gold of my loins". This is why I regret having spent so little on you when we were out together. I get the impression that I'm out with a decent woman, and that's a sensation I don't like at all.' (Since when this note of insolence with her? Wasn't it since ... Ah, wretched males, even the best of them! ) 'Listen: those are bank-notes, made to be changed into happiness; and that's something I know all about, for I won't deny I've had my whack at God's creation. Do you want to come away with me somewhere for a couple of months? I say two months, because that's just about the time it takes to get through a good love affair, but it might be longer - until one of us has had enough.' ('One of us' was a charming euphemism. He knew perfectly well that he was always the first to break off.) 'Anywhere you like. Persia. Or Egypt. Or Transylvania. Or Pennsylvania. Or Mount Ararat. And I really mean it: you name the place and off we go. In my life as in my art, I'm ready for anything: what's difficult is to really want something, but this time I somehow believe I do. And so it's all right, because I love my desires. I have the impression that God has given you parents who want your happiness above everything else. You will come back armed with two months' happiness: a splendid weapon to face the future with. You will then be admirably placed for marrying. You are no longer a virgin - though, taking one of those linguistic liberties which are the privilege of great writers, I shall continue to call you a girl, for I am too fond of youth to resign myself to using the word "woman" unless I really have to: it sounds so old and pompous - you are no longer a virgin, but from what I know of men, and if you have any wit at all, your husband won't even notice it. Besides, even if he does, he won't say a word: we're not savages in France! Then, either he'll make you happy and you won't regret me, which is what I very much hope; or else you'll be unhappy, and then I shan't be far away. We'll get you a divorce if need be, and go back to good old Ararat. This trip can either remain a secret as far as you're concerned, or be made public. In the latter case, it will redound to your eternal credit. You never bother about your own glory, so one has to look after it for you. But it can also be kept very secret. I've been on a dozen honeymoons in my life, and nothing has ever leaked out. And I would go to gaol sooner than give away a woman I loved. All in all it's a plan against which no objection, social, moral or otherwise, can hold water. Of course there are always those who will say: "Sir, you're a revolting cad" - to which I would reply: "Far from being a revolting cad, I'm a spirit of the air. Of course it's not your element, etc...." You see, when one wants to give pleasure to somebody, one mustn't look too far ahead, or bother too much about the consequences. When one wants to give pleasure to somebody, it's the same as when one wants to produce a great work of literature - it must be done with a kind of studied insouciance: because if you thought about it too long you'd never do it at all ... '

  For a moment he dreamed of seeing the beauty of the world with her, unveiling it to her, becoming merged with her as part of that beauty. Then his day-dream disintegrated, wandered, took another path. And he realized that though he did want to go on such a journey, he wanted to go alone. And it was true that, when he remembered all the wonderful places he had seen - every one of which he had visited at least twice, once alone and once with someone he loved - or when he wanted to use them in his books, it was always the time when he had travelled alone that came to his mind most vividly, most magically and most potently. For it is a major law of nature that we are no longer entirely one when we are two. If God said 'It is not good that man should live alone', it was because he was afraid of the solitary man. And so he weakened him by providing him with a mate, in order to have him at his mercy.

  But he quickly repelled the sirens of solitude: 'After all, whatever I made of it would be for her. To give pleasure to someone who deserves it is not to be despised …'

  Under an archway he pulled her towards him. His lips hovered above her face and eventually came to rest on one of her eyelids, where they remained for what seemed an eternity.

  As they were about to part, he said to her:

  'You know, one day I'm going to put in one of my books an image that occurred to me about your teeth - "like those of a decapitated sheep".'

  'How horrible!'

  'But it's true. And so it has to be said. You don't mind my making use of you in my books, do you?'

  'Not at all. On the contrary, I'm glad to be useful to you in your work.'

  'Well said. . . . You're not the first, mind you. . . . But still, well said. . . . Now I sh
all be able to love you even more than I do already.'

  He gazed at her fondly. But just then an expression crossed her face which spoiled her prettiness. And it struck him that if ever he allowed himself to be finally caught, and married her, it would again be out of pity. And he was afraid of his Pity …

  Back in his studio, he was tidying up the bed when he saw traces of blood on the top sheet. He reflected that the sheet would go to the laundry, whereas fifteen years earlier he would have kept it as it was, as a souvenir. He felt a pang as he realized once again that he was not sufficiently open-hearted towards her. As though to make up for this, when he went to bed he searched for Mlle Dandillot's blood-stains on the sheet and placed them against his heart. And he fell asleep feeling somehow protected by the affection he felt towards her.

  During the days that followed, Costals awaited some sign of life from Andrée: a letter, a telegram or a visit.... The concierge, the servant, everyone was warned - a little ridiculously - to bar her passage. Ah, if only he could have had her deported to the Island of Dogs near Constantinople, or to some other equally God-forsaken spot! But nothing happened.

  'Perhaps she's killed herself.' The thought filled him with profound satisfaction.

  It is a peculiarity of most young girls to wish to show their parents to the man they love, even when these parents are total idiots who will alienate him at once. Costals was invited to lunch at the Dandillots'.

  The advent of 'the family' invariably provoked three reflexes in Costals. Terror at the threat of the Hippogriff: 'I know what they're after!' A feeling of ridicule, this being for him a basic element in the concept of the family. And animosity, for he could not but detest all parents, who represented the potential enemy. On this occasion, these reflexes combined to put him in a state of excitement to which the thought of the risk he was running and the ordeal to be overcome contributed greatly.

  Solange had sought to make the prospect more alluring by saying: 'You'll see, my parents are very likeable.' 'Likeable to whom?' he thought to himself. 'To her? What do I care! To me? How does she know?' It reminded him of the people who tell you on their invitation-cards, by way of encouragement, what you will be given to eat or drink: 'Tea, Sherry, etc.' (The vulgarity of European manners compared to those of 'savages' - the Chinese, the Arabs etc.)

  Mme Dandillot had the dimensions of a horse and the aspect of a policeman. To reconcile the two, let us say that she resembled a police horse. She was a head taller than her husband and Costals. To his horror, Costals recognized in her a caricature of her daughter. The same nose, though misshapen, the same lips, though colourless, the same expression, though deadened. The resemblance could not be said to be frightful, since it was natural; it was nonetheless startling: 'At fifty, my mistress will look a similar fright. In fifteen years' time she will be as plump as a partridge already. It's a warning from heaven; there's not a moment to lose.' He was appalled to think that Mme Dandillot knew all about their liaison and that perhaps, in certain çircumstances, she had dictated Solange's behaviour. The thought that Solange was incapable of lying oppressed him now like sultry weather.

  M. Dandillot, on the other hand, had an appearance of such nobility that no one would ever have taken him for a Frenchman. Close-shaven, and with hair as thick as a young man's, though nearly white, he reminded one a little of the 'family Doctor' as seen in advertisements for patent medicines. His smile, which was delightful, revealed a row of perfect, gleaming teeth. But all his features seemed to be drawn with pain. Clearly he was a doomed man. At table, M. Dandillot said nothing except for a few polite words.

  It has often been said that nothing reveals a man's character more than his home. The Dandillots' interior bespoke an absence of taste rare even for their social background and for Paris. A few quite handsome objects stood cheek by jowl with a mass of vulgar and pretentious junk - inexcusable for people in their circumstances: it was all fairly opulent-looking. Costals could have understood a bachelor engaged upon some great work putting up with such surroundings out of indifference to externals and contempt for them. But a 'worldly' family, and this ravishing girl! That Solange had not compelled her family to have a decent-looking home, that she could tolerate this obscene décor, told heavily against her: there must be something of the same inferior quality in her that enabled her to feel at home in it all. And it seemed to him even more serious that she should have no hesitation in showing it to him, no suspicion of the uneasiness it might cause him, or what it might make him feel about her.

  Mme Dandillot said that her daughter had never had a day's illness ('She's beginning to boost her wares'), and that she did not care for scent or jewellery. When Costals said he did not much care for them either, she simpered: 'Another thing you have in common.' ('She's already treating us as if we were engaged, blast her!') She also sang her husband's praises, presumably so that Costals should not think she had married a corpse. If one were to believe her, M. Dandillot had more or less created French sport. He had run various sports clubs, encouraged the young, been 'a man of action'. Costals choked back the retorts that rose to his lips: that action is like an itch: you scratch, and that's all; that the only action worthy of the name is inside oneself; that all men of action, when you press them about it, can ultimately think of nothing to say, so little justification can they find for it, etc.

  Solange, her nose in her plate, said not a word. She was embarrassed beyond belief to see Costals in the midst of her family. Embarrassment hardened her features, gave her a sly, ill-natured expression. What family life can do to people! An angel of sweetness transformed into a femme fatale. Anyone who saw Solange now for the first time could not have helped thinking: 'She's a perfect bitch. Beware!'

  Costals and Mme Dandillot talked about nothing for an hour. In order to be sure of pleasing the writer, and also to avoid saying anything stupid, Mme Dandillot would repeat, after a suitable interval, precisely what Costals himself said. Costals having expressed the view, over the hors d'oeuvres, that 'journalism does not prevent a real writer from getting on with his work', Mme Dandillot declared with an air of wisdom over the coffee, as if it were a truth which Costals needed to be convinced of: 'You know it's quite possible to produce a good book and also write for newspapers.' Costals felt more and more ridiculous, and humiliated at the idea that he was here as a possible fiancé. A fiancé! A 'son-in-law'! Braggart though he was, he could not shake off this feeling of humiliation.

  He looked at these people and despised them for not looking after their daughter better. 'Whether out of vanity, or immorality, or calculation, or irresponsibility, they have let her go out with a man like me, and I find it hard to believe that they don't know I sleep with her. Perhaps they think I'll marry her, but how do they know? A girl who was obviously cut out to be a virgin, who was the personification of the chaste young girl, and they don't do anything to protect her against herself, the swine. No religion, no tradition, no education, no self-respect, no backbone. My role is to attack, I know, but it's up to society to defend itself! Yet whenever I try to conquer people's bodies, or trouble people's minds and spirits, it's always the same: no defences! Soft as putty everywhere. I play my game, but they don't play theirs!' From then on, the thought of having parents-in-law so lacking in decorum made the possibility that he might one day allow himself to be drawn into marrying Solange even more remote than ever. Nevertheless it must be noted that had the Dandillots been high-minded people who would never have let their daughter go out alone with him, he would have railed against both them and her, and would promptly have discarded her with a jibe against prudery. Despising them for being high-minded, despising them for not being so, he held them as though in a vice, and Solange with them. He would screw it tight the day he stopped loving her. The machinery was ready.

  After lunch, a visitor was announced. Mme Dandillot and Solange went to entertain her in the drawing-room. M. Dandillot asked Costals to join him in his study. Costals thought: 'If he says: "I entrust my daughter t
o your care" (he felt a lump in his throat), I shall reply: "She will be like a little sister to me." It's not a phrase that commits me in any way. For as my mistress she's like a little sister to me.'

  In his study, M. Dandillot let himself sink into a low armchair. He suddenly seemed tiny, like a fly shrivelling up just before it dies. The outline of his emaciated thighs was visible inside the trouser legs. We shall refrain from describing the study, for we know that novel-readers always skip the descriptions.

  'Monsieur Costals,' he said, 'I am not the sort of person you think me. If I hardly spoke at lunch it was because I have been eating my meals with Mme Dandillot for thirty-one years, and we have said all we had to say to each other. I have lost the habit of talking, or rather I've acquired the habit of talking to myself in my room. As for you, I prefer to talk to you alone, as I want to talk to you seriously. However, there's something about you that bothers me a little, and I should like to get it off my chest before I start talking about myself. May I speak with absolute frankness?'

  'You can always try, and we shall see,' said Costals, who this time could feel the baleful Hippogriff literally breathing down his neck.

  'Now, now!' said M. Dandillot with a smile, pretending to see it as a joke. 'I owe it to the man who wrote that great book' (he pointed to one of Costals' books which was lying on a table nearby) 'to be absolutely frank. Well, here goes: why do you wear that?'

  He pointed to the red rosette of the Legion of Honour in Costals' buttonhole.

  'I don't like making myself conspicuous. If I had refused ...'

  He was about to add: '... I should have appeared to be making a great deal of fuss about it,' but stopped short, sensing that he was about to put his foot in it.