The Girls Read online

  'Rose rougeâtre de la terre. Blanc de la neige. Bleu des ombres aux flancs des monts. Sur le versant d'en dessous, des oueds avaient oubliés leur mission dans la vie . . . étaient devenus des pistes, encombrées de galets, qu'on ne distinguait plus que par leurs rubans de lauriers-roses; et puis un ruisseau de glace rouge, comme un ruisseau de gelée à la groseille, ou comme une tranchée pleine de sang frais coagulé. Des troupeaux de moutons, qui avaient la couleur même de la sécheresse, passaient au-dessus de leurs têtes, se déplaçaient avec le rhythme des ombres, et le chien croquait la neige durcie. Des bergers momifiés étaient là depuis cinq mille ans. Des sauterelles, figées elles aussi, sur les buissons neigeux, guettées par la fluxion de poitrine. Et de grands faucons blancs qui glissaient et viraient avec des grâces d'aimée.'

  Like every genuine style, that of Henry de Montherlant is no mere adventitious decoration, but arises naturally from his subject as he enlarges and develops it. Montherlant's efforts as a controversialist should never blind us to the fact that he is primarily an accomplished artist. Les jeunes Riles may be read and enjoyed as a deliberately controversial book - an attack on 'the cult of Woman', on the place that Woman has come to occupy in the modern European world; and as such it may have helped to break down many masculine taboos and phobias. But it is also an imaginative work of art, which, having absorbed and digested its subject matter, presents us with something far more valuable and lasting. Circumstances change; social problems vary; one day the unending War of the Sexes may be fought under completely different standards. But, so long as literature continues to play a part in our lives, Montherlant's story of Les jeunes filles is a book that will retain its youthful freshness.

  PETER QUENNELL

  FOREWORD

  The author would like to point out that in Costals he has deliberately painted a character whom he intended to be disquieting and even, at times, odious; and that this character's words and actions cannot in fairness be attributed to its creator.

  The author made the central character of La Rose de sable. Lieutenant Auligny, a man endowed with the highest moral qualities: patriotism, charity, a horror of violence, a passion for justice and an acute sensitivity to injustice (to the point of being made ill by it), an almost excessive sensibility and scrupulousness, a sense of human solidarity, an anxiety, amounting to obsession, to put himself out for others and to avoid injuring them, etc.

  This character, as central as that of Costals is here, takes up the major part of a work of nearly six hundred pages, and innumerable details lend it that 'autobiographical' aspect which some have claimed to discern in Costals.

  One might well wonder whether the critics and the public, on reading La Rose de sable, would attribute to the author the same abundance of virtues as they attributed to him of vices after reading The Girls.

  For thirty years the chains that bar the platforms of Paris buses have let one through if one lifts them at one end. Yet a great many women, when they wish to board these buses, persist in pulling downwards instead of upwards, and eventually throw imploring looks at the passengers standing on the platform to get them to come to their aid, as a cat with a fish-bone stuck in its gums comes to you to have it pulled out after having torn its mouth to shreds trying to get it out itself. Yet never have we witnessed such a scene with a man in the part. I don't wish to infer too much from this. But it struck me as being worth remarking upon, however petty it may seem.

  H.M.

  Henri de Montherlant

  THE GIRLS

  The Girls Tetralogy #1

  to M. Pierre Costals

  Avenue Henri-Martin Paris

  Mademoiselle Thérèse Pantevin

  La Vallée Maurienne near Avranches (Manche)

  26 September 1926

  †

  A.M.D.G.

  Thank you. Monsieur and dearly beloved, for never answering my letters. They were unworthy of me. Three letters in three years, and not a single reply! But now the time has come for me to tell you my secret.

  Ever since I first came across your books, I have loved you. When I saw your photograph in a newspaper, my passion was aroused. For three months, from November the nth, 1923, to February the 2nd, 1924, I wrote to you every day. But I did not send the letters, I was too ashamed. I sent only one of them. You did not reply. And yet, as I gazed at your photograph, the look in your eyes, your whole expression, revealed to me my happy fate: you did not love me, no, but you had found a place for me in your thoughts.

  With my letter of August the 15th, 1924 - the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin - I reminded you of my existence. And a few days later, I caught a certain gleam on your face in that same photograph which told me that my letter had struck home.

  On April the nth last, I wrote to you a third time. But so great was my fear of displeasing you by an excess of boldness that the terms in which I wrote must have left you in doubt as to my feelings. I did not dare tell you of my love, and it was killing me. So then I wrote you a great confession in a six-page letter which I began on the last Saturday of the month of the Rosary and finished on the eve of the Immaculate Conception. But I did not send that either.

  I think of you, I suffer, I must tell you all: I love you. I wish you no harm whatsoever.

  How I have suffered! When you know me you will understand. I am not a self-sufficient sort of woman. Separated from you I have been nothing, I could do nothing. I have wept, I have prayed, I have meditated, but this inner life is all the life I have had. Why should I take anything out of myself unless it could be dedicated to the man for whom I was made? For God created man for His glory, and woman for the glory of man. Oh! what you could not do for me! Make me live, my friend, for without you I am incapable of living. All I need is to be loved, and I feel capable of so much love.

  I love you and I know that in telling you so I am fulfilling God's will. My friend, have you never dreamed of what our love will be in Eternity?

  Soon it will be October ... the last flowers are in the fields. I could not bear to see them die in vain. I picked them, making the sign of the Cross as I did so. I put four sprigs of them from us both on the grave of twin kittens that died two years ago. I am sending you three sprigs, and am keeping three more which I shall lay at the foot of my little statue of the Sacred Heart.

  This time I beg you to answer me, so that I may give free rein to my tender feelings and, if your heart responds to mine, grow accustomed to my happiness.

  My friend, our task is to reconstruct the Kingdom of God. If you desire this Kingdom, and the kingdom of my heart, give me a sign.

  I kiss your pen, and sign myself

  Marie Paradis

  for 'Thérèse Pantevin' no longer exists.

  (Do not put your name on your envelope.)

  This letter remained unanswered.

  to Pierre Costals

  Paris

  Mademoiselle Andrée Hacquebaut

  Saint-Léonard (Loiret)

  3 October 1926

  Dear great Costals,

  During the summer I was out of doors nearly all the time.

  and the house had ceased to be of any importance to me. With the first cold weather, one fits it out like an ark in which to sail through the deluge of winter, and it is only now, much more than in the spring when my mother died, that I realize what it means to be living in Saint-Léonard (Loiret) with a stupid, deaf old uncle, when one is poor, unmarried, an orphan without brothers or sisters, and pushing thirty.

  And yet, this melancholy is, as it were, swallowed up by the anniversary each October brings. It is now four years to the very day since I first read a book of yours. The power you have over people! Last night I wept - real tears - on re-reading Fragility. (Did I tell you I had had an adorable binding made for it in green morocco? The only beautiful thing in the desert of ugliness and mediocrity in which I live. A hundred and fifty francs. Half my month's pocket money....) There are days when I cannot pick up a newspaper without finding your name in it, cannot
open my mouth without mentioning you (I pronounce your name more often than a woman pronounces the name of her lover), cannot think without feeling your thoughts intermingled with mine. You are not so much a man as an element in which my life is steeped, as though in air or water. No one else has the 'feel' of you as I have. No, no one, I won't have it! I'm not jealous of the people you love - not even the 'fine ladies' - but of those who love you. Allow me at least the unique position of having loved your work more than anyone. I know it almost by heart, so much so that sentences of yours often spring to my lips or my pen, expressing my thought better than I myself could have done: you speak, and it is myself I hear. This is no doubt the effect of your talent, which conquered me from the very first, but it also has to do with the sort of affinity one notices between oneself and certain persons from whom one might appear to be separated by an abyss. Throughout my life, so joyless and at times so tormented, this mysterious fellow-feeling has uplifted and sustained me. How I have matured through reading you! You have turned over people's souls as one turns over the soil, revealing their own riches to them. For four years, your work has been as it were a mouthpiece for one who has no literary talent, just as your happiness has been a requital for one who is unhappy. Being as eager as you to live life to the full, and yet knowing only self-denial and yearning in this wretched life of mine - wretched and absurdly paradoxical since I have acquired a culture which remains unexploited - fettered as I am by loneliness and lack of money, I had, so to speak, delegated to you all this fervour, all this appetite for life. Far from envying you, as so many others do, I had, if I may say so, something of the feeling of parents whose own lives have been a failure and who live to see their children succeed (so you see you are my son, in spite of your thirty-three years!). Walled in as I was, I was glad that someone should triumph over all obstacles and barriers. That was my recompense. If at any time you had ceased to be yourself, or ceased to be happy, you would have proved yourself unworthy of my trust, you would have betrayed me - me and many others, for I know there were many who felt as I did.

  I am proud that you write what you write. I am proud that you live as you live. That a man of your kind should be a success with the public (which is almost unheard of) reconciles me to the world: it means that all is not lost. I could not bear it if you were not loved, and it's now three years since I said to my best friend: 'If you hadn't loved Costals (as a writer), I wouldn't have given much for our friendship.' I am always terrified that you may do something that is not quite 'the thing'. Whenever I read an article of yours in a newspaper I always get the sort of shiver of apprehension my mother apparently used to get when I was a toddler and a neighbour warned her: 'Dédée's playing by the pond.' But what you write is always what I expected, just as, when I met you, you were as I had imagined you. O God, let this miracle never cease! It's a wonderful feeling, you know, to be able to put such trust in a free man.

  When I met you! How can I forget your kindness, your straightforwardness, your courtesy! You, the inaccessible Costals! A very big and very famous brother, but a brother all the same. The ideal comrade, with whom one is on an equal footing, provided one holds one's head up a little. I was half afraid you would give me the sort of reception which a writer with your ... all-conquering reputation might give to a young female admirer come to visit him, and anything at all suggestive of physical desire on either side would have humiliated me. Even today I would give you my life, but I cannot imagine myself giving you a kiss. Although religion no longer has any hold over me, something has remained of my very devout and scrupulous childhood (never reading a book on the sly, and never wanting to). Your reserve was an exquisite discovery for me: 'reserve' equals 'power', in a man as much as in a woman. And moreover, it proved to me that in your eyes I was not like all the others. Everything you did for me - advising me what to read, finding me that job in Paris, which I lost through my own fault - showed me how kind you were, something one could not have guessed from your books. (Kind when you choose, be it said. There are things about you that upset me a little, as you know. Although of course you have special prerogatives.)

  In a month's time, I shall be going to Paris for a few days on business connected with my mother's estate. Tell me you will be there then.

  Yours with a solemn hand-clasp,

  A.H.

  Forgive the length of this letter. I can't help myself. But I promise not to write again for a fortnight.

  This letter remained unanswered.

  2501 - Girl, 28, blonde, pretty, Catholic, 20,000 frs. savings, would marry gent, in good situation.

  2529- Girl, 25, bronzed, slim, very pretty, good legs, no private means, typist provincial town, would marry gent, with steady job. Seeks above all tenderness.

  2530- Aristocratic lady, 40, only daughter, mildly intellectual, living in chateau, 200,000 frs. dowry, would marry distinguished Catholic gent, even without means, pref. nobleman.

  2550-Girl, 21, daughter naval officer, orphan, attractive, light-brown hair, hazel eyes, small, slim, good figure, living Finisterre, no financial prospects.

  2554-Widow, 49, lively, affectionate, sensitive, warmhearted, rich inner life, distinguished, excellent health, ideal housewife, superior in every way, income 25,000 frs., house- owner, wishes communicate view marriage sincere respectable gentleman similar financial position in order achieve peace and security in mutual trust and affection. Serious. Give exact address.

  2563 - Artistic girl, personal qualities, warm-hearted, plucky, independent, living alone, desires marriage nice young man.

  2565 - Marchioness, very tall, blue-green eyes, natural blonde hair, good figure, attractive, elegant, distinguished, accustomed fashionable society, good jewellery, would marry good-looking gent. American type.

  2574 - Decent, healthy girl, living country with mother, seeks marriage.

  2576a - Working girl, brunette, 29, gentle, docile, conscientious, 600 frs. per month, slight curable T.B., would marry gent, under 45 really anxious make her happy. Means unimportant. Would leave provinces.

  Extract from Happy Ever After,

  monthly matrimonial gazette, October 1926.

  1899 - Bachelor, thirtyish, fine physique, 5ft 9ms., well educated, every endowment, would marry girl with substantial dowry.

  1907 - Clerk, 23, medium height, sportsman, would marry woman who could make him independent.

  1910 - Veterinary surgeon, 24, well-to-do, handsome, tall, fine eyes, Ramon Novarro type, seeks, view marriage, sentimental companion with at least 600,000 frs. dowry.

  1929 - Widower, 63, elegant, healthy, Belgian, liberal profession, decorated Order of Leopold, private income 4,000 frs., would marry widow or spinster of good physique, fairly stout, loving, not spendthrift, with minimum income 20,000. Has suffered.

  1930-Schoolmaster. Mayenne, 28, due promotion soon, would marry freethinking colleague with substantial means.

  1931 - Young man, 5ft 10ins., very smart, very good dancer, fine athlete, wishes meet blonde girl of independent means view marriage. Motor-car trips.

  1940 - Gentleman, university graduate, fiftyish, kind, considerate, disinterested, craving tenderness, seeks view marriage young person pref. under 23, genteel, distinguished, well educated, cultured, tender, devoted, character irreproachable, very pretty, good housekeeper, outwardly simple but really seductive, with minimum dowry 500,000 frs. and expectations if poss.

  1945-Colonial warrant officer, clean bill of health, slim, blond, curly hair, aquiline nose, oval face, sensitive, violinist, Tunisian outpost, would marry girl 17-20 with dowry who loves radiant sun, eternal azure of the land of mirages and infinite sands.

  1947-Mechanic, bachelor, 18, seeks view marriage correspondent who could help him set up in business.

  1950 - Captain, 33, horseman, promotion imminent. Officer Legion of Honour, fine physique, brown hair, distinguished, elegant, serious, good-humoured despite having suffered, very straightforward, wishes bring happiness to young person even with a child, tall, p
leasant, sentimental and ideal, perfectly educated. Catholic, in order build happy durable home based profound affection and high moral qualities. Situation and means immaterial.

  1958-Young man, 21, good-looking, modest means, seeks sister soul with fortune.

  1962-Viscount, only son, 27, certified noble ancestry dating back sixteenth century, no personal fortune at present but substantial expectations, perfect in every way, would marry person with very large fortune, religion and age immaterial, whose parents could provide occupation for son-in-law.

  1967 - Road mender, 29, no private means, Paris suburbs, hopes find young woman for marriage.

  Happy Ever After, October 1926.

  A man reading a page of matrimonial advertisements can give rein, one after another, to several of the different men that are in him: the laughing man, the lusting man, the thinking man; and inside the 'thinking man' there is also a man who weeps.

  The laughing man. Ah, yes! he will laugh himself sick. The high opinion most of these poor creatures have of themselves. The importance they attach to blond hair and Catholicism. The regulation height of the gentlemen. The 'expectations' of the young ladies - and what expectations! An inexhaustible mine of absurdity.

  On the second page of the journal, 'the editors are at the disposal of their readers to provide them with any help they may need for the success of their plans, and if need be to write direct to subscribers in any terms which may be desired, at a fee of 2fr. 50 per letter.'

  On the back page, a box advertising a 'lady detective and her sleuths, shadows, etc. ... ' Perfect! One must think of everything when setting up house. (But might not the lady detective be the editor of the journal herself, a Penelope ready to destroy what she has woven?) A good mark, too, for the advertisement for 'quick loans': we all know how expensive women are.