It occurred to her that it had been a long time since anyone had complimented her on her eyes or her hair, or for that matter on any aspect of her appearance. Undoubtedly Antoine figured that his ardor precluded any need for compliments. But it really felt very satisfying to have this mature man sitting right across from her and admiring her despite her inaccessibility, rather than seeing her as an object of desire that he could possess at any moment…
“I was just wondering,” he said, “if You might happen to be free this Thursday evening. There’s going to be a lovely concert in the old La Moll mansion on the Île Saint-Louis. They’re scheduled to be playing that Mozart concerto for flute and harp that You were always so fond of, and Louise Wermer herself has agreed to perform. But of course, I suppose it would be pretty awkward for You?”
“Why awkward?”
“Well, I have no idea whether Antoine likes music, but more crucially, wouldn’t an invitation to him from me very likely rub him the wrong way?”
This was Charles all over, this invitation. He was inviting Antoine along with her partly because he was just plain polite, but also because he would rather see her in Antoine’s company than not see her at all. He would patiently wait for her and he would faithfully get her out of all her scrapes, whatever they might be. And she, in the meantime, had forgotten he even existed for six months, and it had taken her thinking he was at death’s very door to come out of hiding. What was this due to, how could he stand this horrible asymmetry in their relationship, how did he manage to keep his love alive on so few scraps, with his generosity and his tenderness receiving so little in return?
She leaned over towards him and asked, “Why do You still love me? Why?” Her voice was fierce, almost resentful, and he hesitated a moment before answering.
“I could tell You that it’s because You don’t love me, and in fact that would be an excellent reason, although surely incomprehensible to You, with Your constant search for pleasure. But there’s also something else about You that I’m so terribly taken with. It’s…” He paused for a moment, then went on: “I don’t quite know. Some kind of verve, the sense of somebody who’s headed somewhere, though God knows that You don’t have any desire to go anywhere. Some kind of greediness, though God knows that the last thing You want is material possessions. Some kind of perpetual bubbliness, and yet You seldom laugh. You know, people always seem overwhelmed by their lives, while You, somehow You’ve turned the tables on life, and it’s You who seem to be on top. Voilà. I don’t know else how to put it. Would You like a lemon sherbet?”
“It’s certainly good for one’s health,” observed Lucile dreamily. “Antoine has a publishing dinner on Thursday,” she said, which was perfectly true, “and so I’ll come alone, if You’d like that.”
He liked it very much; indeed, it was everything that he craved. They set their rendezvous for 8:30, and when he suggested meeting “at home”, she didn’t for a split second think of the Rue de Poitiers. Rue de Poitiers meant just a bedroom; it wasn’t a home, and never once had it been one, even if it had been Paradise and Hell all swirled together.
CHAPTER 24
The La Moll mansion had been built in the eighteenth century by some long-forgotten minor dignitary. Its rooms were enormous and its woodwork exquisite, and the candlelight, which was harsh and soft at the same time (harsh, because it brought out the soul — or lack of soul — behind a face; soft, because it blurred age away), made the size and the charm of the grand salon seem even greater. The orchestra was at the far end on some kind of low stage and, if she leaned over a little, just barely missing the reflected candlelight in the windowpane, Lucile could see the waters of the Seine flowing by, luminous and black, no more than twenty meters below her. There was a feeling of irreality for her about this evening, for the view, the decor, and the music were all so perfect. One year earlier, she might have yawned; she might even have hoped to see some unhappy guest take a tumble or hear the tinkle of a breaking glass, but this evening, something in her appreciated almost desperately the serenity, the precision, and the beauty that were being offered, all thanks to the upstanding La Moll family’s illegal trafficking in far-off French ex-colonies.
“Your concerto is coming up right now,” whispered Charles. He was sitting beside her, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the bright white of his tuxedo shirt, the perfect cut of his hair, his slender manicured hand with its little spots, holding a glass of scotch that he would share with her any time that she expressed the desire for a sip. He looked handsome this way, in this vacillating light; he seemed sure of himself, and even a bit boyish; he seemed happy. Johnny had smiled on seeing them come in together, and she hadn’t asked him why he had lied to her.
Now the old lady was leaning over her harp, smiling a little, and the young flutist was watching her, ready for a cue, and you could see his throat pulsating. It was a very elegant crowd and he had to be feeling intimidated. This was clearly a soirée à la Proust: it was at the home of the Verdurin family, young Morel was making his first appearance, and Charles was the wistful Swann. But Lucile felt there was no rôle for her in this splendid play — no more than there had been at Le Réveil, in that icy office three months earlier, no more than there would ever be for her, in her whole life. She wasn’t a courtesan, nor an intellectual, nor the mother of a family — she was nothing at all. And the very first notes sweetly plucked from the harp by Louise Wermer made her eyes well up with tears. And this music would grow even more tender, she knew it, even more wistful, even more irreversible — despite the fact that this last adjective would not admit of degrees of “more” or “less”. It was a detached, unearthly music for someone who had tried so hard to be happy, tried so hard to be kind, yet had only managed to make two men suffer, someone who no longer knew who she was.
The old lady was no longer smiling and the harp was playing so poignantly that Lucile, without any forethought, reached over and grasped the hand of the human being seated right next to her. This hand, this doubtless fleeting but very living warmth, this touching of two skins — this was the only thing that stood between her and death, between her and loneliness, between her and the unbearable suspense of the notes that were churning and swirling together, coming from flute and harp, coming from a timid young man and an aged woman, yet all at once perfectly matched in that stunning scorn for time that is evoked by Mozart’s music.
Charles kept her hand in his. Every once in a while he would reach over with his free hand for a glass of scotch and would offer it to Lucile’s other hand. And thus she drank a great deal that evening. And there was a great deal of music as well. And Charles’ hand grew ever more confident, and it felt slender and long and warm in hers. And who was that blond man who had sent her off to distant movie theaters in the rain, who had insisted on her taking a job, who had arranged for her to be given an abortion by quasi-butchers? Who was this Antoine who proclaimed that these amiable people, this exquisite candlelight, the plushness of these old sofas, and the music of Mozart were all rotten to the core? Of course he hadn’t spoken about these sofas or these candles or Mozart, but he had often said just that about these very people who, at this very moment, were offering her all this beauty, as well as this chilled and golden liquid that warmly flowed down her throat as smoothly as if it were water. Lucile was very tipsy, very still, and very happy, clinging to Charles’ hand. She loved Charles, she loved this soft-spoken and gentle man, she had always loved him, she never wanted to leave him again, and so she was shocked by his sad little laugh when she told him all this as they were driving back.
“I would give anything to believe You,” he said, “but You’ve drunk a lot this evening. It’s someone else that You love.”
And later, of course, when she saw Antoine’s hair on the pillow and his long arm extended across their little bed to the spot where she usually slept, she knew that Charles was right. But in realizing this, she felt a curious twinge of regret. For the first time…
And then came quite a few other times. There was no doubt that she still loved Antoine, but she no longer loved loving him; she no longer loved their shared life, its lack of spontaneity due to their lack of money, the overall dreariness of their days. As for him, he could tell how she was feeling, and in reaction he stepped up the pace of his professional activities, practically ignoring her totally. Those idle hours that she once would pass in such excitement waiting for him to come home were now becoming ever more empty because his awaited return was no longer a miracle but merely a habit. She would drop in on Charles now and then, never mentioning it to Antoine, for what use would it have been to pile jealousy on top of the resigned torment that already filled those yellow eyes?
And at night, they engaged more in combat than in lovemaking. The science that each of them had so carefully worked out to prolong the other’s pleasure was now almost imperceptibly turning into a crude technique allowing them to be over and done with it all the more quickly — and not out of boredom but out of fear. They each fell asleep reassured by their sighs and moans, forgetting how thrilled they once had been by them, long ago.
One evening when she had been drinking, for these days she was drinking a lot, she returned with Charles to his place. She barely realized what was happening. All she said to herself was that this had been bound to happen, and that she had to tell Antoine. She went back at dawn and gently woke him up. Nine months earlier, in this very same room, crazily in love with her, he’d thought he’d lost her forever — and it wasn’t Lucile but Diane who had bid him adieu. But now he had lost her forever, lost her for keeps… He must not have been pushy enough or strong enough or something of that sort, but he couldn’t figure it out and wasn’t even going to try any longer. For too many days, the stubborn taste of defeat and helplessness had been rolling around in his mouth. He nearly blurted out that her concern for him made no difference to him, that she’d always been cheating on him with Charles, with life, with her entire soul. But then he remembered those summer months, he recalled the taste of her tears on his shoulder that last month of August, and he bit his tongue.
For over a month, ever since Geneva, he had been expecting her to leave. It may just be that there are certain things that cannot take place between a man and a woman without wounding them permanently, no matter how open they are with each other, and perhaps the Geneva trip had been such a thing. Or perhaps their fate had been predetermined from the very start, from that first explosion of laughter they’d shared at Claire Santré’s. As he gazed at Lucile’s weary face, at the rings around her gray eyes, at her hand touching his sheet, he realized that it would take him a very long time to recover from this. He knew every tiny corner of this face, every curve of this body; this was not a geometry that one could easily expunge from one’s consciousness. They exchanged trite phrases. She felt shame but otherwise totally devoid of feelings, and doubtless, all it would have taken on his part was for him to exclaim, “Stay!”, and she would have stayed. But he didn’t do it.
“Well, anyway, you weren’t happy any more.”
“Neither were you.”
They exchanged a strange sad smile of apology in an almost perfunctory fashion. She rose and walked out, and only after she had closed the door behind her did he start to moan, “Lucile, Lucile,” and to hate himself. She walked all the way home, to Charles’ apartment, to loneliness, sensing that she was now forever banished from any kind of life worth living, and that this was the fate she deserved.
PART FIVE
Plus tard...
CHAPTER 25
They ran into each other again two years later, at one of Claire Santré’s parties. Lucile had finally married Charles; Antoine had become the director of a new publishing outfit, and it was in this capacity that he had merited an invitation. He was very much wrapped up in his work, and he was also rather fond of hearing himself talk. Lucile still exuded her old charm and cheerfulness, and a young Englishman named Soames was smiling at her a great deal. Antoine found himself seated next to her at dinner, whether by chance or by one last little joyful act of malice on Claire’s part, and delicately, they spoke about books.
“I say, where does the odd phrase la chamade come from?”, piped up the young Englishman at the far end of the table.
“According to Littré’s dictionary, it was a solemn drumroll sounded to announce defeat,” declared some savant.
“Oh, how terribly poetic!” exclaimed Claire Santré, clasping her hands together in delight. “Of course I know that Your language is richer than ours, my dear Soames, but You’ll have to admit that when it comes to poetry, France remains queen.”
Antoine and Lucile were only an arm’s length from each other, but just as la chamade meant nothing to either of them any more, Claire’s little quip did not evoke, on either of their parts, even the tiniest of titters.
Copyright © 2009 by Douglas R. Hofstadter
Published by Basic Books
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LCCN: 2009922415
ISBN: 9780786744596
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À Caroline
qui m’a tant donné
Translator, Trader
An Essay on the Pleasantly Pervasive
Paradoxes of Translation
Scaling Mount Sagan
MANY gritty folks climb greater and lesser mountains; a few scale the loftiest peaks there are. Thus when, for the first time in history, Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay conquered the tallest mountain on earth, it made perfect sense that each of them would eventually write a book about their epic alpinistic achievement. But if someone were to climb a little-known peak in a less grandiose mountain range (without having a harrowing close shave with death), most people would find it rather odd if the climber chose to write a book about this feat, no matter how arduous the struggle or sweet the victory.
Analogously, if, after twenty years of intense and anguished struggle, the Chinese translator of Finnegans Wake — by anyone’s lights one of the more Himalayan peaks of world literature — were to pen a joyous memoir recalling certain highlights of the exhausting oxygen-deprived upward trek and the final exultant planting of the Chinese flag at the volume’s summit, one might not be terribly surprised. Some people might even consider such an accomplishment more heroic than the ascent of Everest!
However, the dozen or so novels penned by Françoise Sagan constitute but a smallish mountain range in the French literature of the twentieth century, and Sagan’s 1965 novel La Chamade is not usually regarded as the apex of the Sagan chain. And yet here am I, writing an essay that chronicles and comments on the intellectual voyage that I made in the act of climbing this little-known literary peak — that is, in translating this rather obscure novel into English, or rather, into American English, or even more specifically, into my own personal brand of American English. Why? Why not simply do what most translators of novels do — just get the job done as well as possible, and stay humbly in the background? Why such hubris?
Hubris?
I MUST admit that when I go into a good bookstore and look at the myriads of books that have been translated from all sorts of languages and in which, in nearly every case, the tr
anslator’s name is exhibited only one time, on the title page (and that’s all), then the fact that I’m writing this long essay to accompany my rather small act of translation makes me feel like I’m some kind of exhibitionist. I can’t help asking myself, “Why aren’t you meek and humble, like all those hard-working translators are?”
But then I imagine what it would be like if I did come across a translator’s preface in, say, the French translation of Khaled Hosseini’s extraordinarily gripping novel The Kite Runner. Would I be taken aback and turned off, immediately realizing that the translator suffered from the grievous character defect of an enormous ego? No, on the contrary, I would see such a preface as simply icing on the cake of the novel itself, as giving me a lucky opportunity to reflect on the work of literature, both in English and in French, in a fresh new way, and my curiosity would be aroused. In short, I would warmly welcome such a thing.
This reminds me of when, as a teen-ager, I discovered that the marvelous and eccentric pianist Glenn Gould had written the liner notes for his famous recording of Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Goldberg Variations”. I was most excited to find out what this clearly brilliant individual had to say about Bach’s work of genius, movement by movement. As it happened, I found much of Gould’s prose to be convoluted, obscure, and even opaque at times, but obviously that was just a personal quirk of Gould’s and not an inevitable trap whenever someone writes about how they have interpreted a work of art.