I
It is her eyes in particular. Ever since her eyes have made a part of my life, I have known what nostalgia for Brittany means, and the infinite mournfulness with which it permeates a human being.
She is like the rest of her race, short-legged, round, thick-set, and her gestures conceal rather than reveal her hands. She talks in a singsong and ends with a sigh. Her name is Marie, as though she were a little nurse-maid of eighteen at thirty francs a month. Oh, it's not the room she takes up. But for her blue-thistle gaze and the plaint of her body, you'd scarcely know she was there.
Seven o'clock. I am already on the street with bent head, insensible to the allurements of the shops, driven blindly on with cheeks inflamed by the wind.
The great porte-cochère, the steps three at a time, two pulls at the bell, long, breathless minutes; finally the door opens, cautiously. Marie behind the door squeezes herself up on tiptoe against the wall to let me pass.
It is almost a sacrilege to speak in a raised voice as I do and bring in so much of the outside air. "Is dinner ready, Marie, is everything ready?" Since Marie never answers, I go straight into the kitchen. Goodness, nothing done. Well, I'll have to get at the supper myself. There's still a good half-hour left, I believe.
As I hastily remove my wraps, I feel the dull pang that assails you at the sight of disorder.
There, I have the water boiling now and the cooking is well under way. I didn't know I was so quick and capable. After all, Marie's only a child.
Marie bustles about. I see her two reddish, porous, spatulate hands pounce on things, I hear the clash of utensils. Her person becomes many persons, she jostles me, moves hither and thither like a distracted tortoise, bends almost double to pick up a strainer.... To be sure the kitchen is tiny.
I speak to her as one speaks to a child. "Do you understand me, Marie? Don't be afraid, I am not unkind." The lifeless fixity of her face suddenly comes undone, her features contract. Marie was dulled by the monotonous gloom of an asylum in a distant quarter of the city. She slightly raises the heavenly blue of her eyes without fastening them on anything. I see her tenacious hatred wake up and stir. A single flash. Then her red-rimmed eyes flutter and fall; she is in order again, in the vague sort of order characteristic of things inaccessible and forlorn.
I realize she cannot understand me. To her I mean constraint, uprooting, exile, that unusualness which throws simple people out of their orbits. And though she has never been accustomed to anything else than maltreatment, neglect, and beatings, I understand.... I try to be gentler, to smile when I turn toward her, for in the end visible kindness should make itself seen.... And it would be so good to reclaim this nature, to explain everything to her, beginning at the beginning.
I recall the scene of yesterday evening. We were at table. She brought in the smoking soup-tureen at arm's length. Her heavy tread rolled like a cannon-ball upon our delight in being together, then she retreated to the kitchen like a dog slinking to its kennel. A crash of china. I jumped up.
"Something broken?"
"No, madam."
"But, Marie...."
"No, madam, no, madam...."
I was close beside her and this time looked deep into her eyes. I saw the freckles on her white skin, and there emanated from her the amazing innocence of an accused child. Her voice came from her palpitating throat with a quiver in it.
"No, no, no."
Poor Marie. I felt remorseful. "I beg your pardon, Marie, we were mistaken."
Nevertheless I didn't budge, as if I were at length going to learn why one human being can be so terrorized by another.... She too stood motionless. I did not notice that her attitude was rather peculiar. I put my hand on her shoulders. "My little Marie...." At this she staggered and trod heavily on breaking china. Her face was imploring....
Hidden under her bell-shaped Breton petticoat which touched the floor lay my pretty gray china cup shivered to bits.
She behaved the way girls brought up by Sisters always do. She crouched against the wall, her forehead hidden in the crook of her arm. Her bosom as pinched as a wasp's went up and down precipitately, and the tears began to flow.
I stopped gathering up the pieces to console her gently.
"It's not your fault, Marie ... come, don't cry, don't cry."
Marie close by is bending over the sink rubbing it with a brush round and round always on the same spot. The water slaps on the tile floor and squirts over my dress. Her movements have something eternal about them and the appearance of never-ending complaint.
There is nothing to say. Whatever I do, she remains dumb, and the more I try to reach her, the more she avoids me.
But what does Marie matter? I force myself to get back to my own affairs. And quickly. He will come in, there will be his gaiety, the joy flashing in our voices, the day's doings to tell of, and our dear union only a fortnight old....
Marie is there; nothing can efface her. My irritation against her boils up, then turns against myself. It is not pity I feel but rather an intolerable impotence. I hurl myself with all my force against the eclipsed expression of the Breton girl, and each time it hurts.
Marie....
And I used to think that to love was to feel yourselves alone. On the contrary, it is to feel yourself to be many.
No, no, love is not the emotion of two people. No, as soon as one feels love one wants to love everyone, win over everyone, shine on everyone, even on this ignorant head. What sin have I committed that a single welcome should be denied me? She does not smile; that's my fault. What is lacking in my love that I should face the vexation of a culpable failure? My pity for Marie and my love for him are one, because I have only one heart. And since my heart is repulsed, is it impure?
Marie has resumed her feeble, beaten-down existence. She has set aside the brush, her blue eyes look beyond the walls, she wipes her wet hands on her apron—her hostile hands, which are peculiarly hers.
What can one do? But there must be something she believes in, there must be something one can do to move her, there must be some word to say to uncover the tomb of her heart.
I stopped. For a moment I left my work....
Where find the ultimate words of love, the final words—simple and difficult—when one does not even know the word to make one poor inferior Marie blossom out?