This was great, this was how I wanted to feel, this was the grandest thing that had ever happened. I went into the Coupole to get something to eat, and then to shut myself afterwards in my room, confident, supremely alone.
The restaurant was very full, I had to share a table with a girl. I looked down at her, excusing myself, and she glanced up with a flash of a smile, not answering or taking any notice. She wore an orange béret and she was eating macaroni, spilling it, twisting it round on her fork.
So I saw Hesta for the first time.
I remember I ate macaroni, too. I had never liked it before, but I glanced sideways at her plate, and somehow she made it look good, so that I felt that there was nothing in the world I wanted more than macaroni. She spread herself at the table, taking up more room than she needed. I sat on the edge of the seat. I felt I had no right to be there. It was too late to make some excuse and move away. The table was narrow, very cramped for two people who did not know each other.
It seemed silly not to be talking. Yet it was obvious that if I started some form of conversation it would only be because I was a man and she was a girl, and I had looked at her and seen that she was pretty. She did not seem to be aware of me at all, so I left it and went on eating macaroni. We handed butter and bread to each other without speaking. People passed up and down in front of our table. A boy with long hair wandered about with a portfolio under his arm. He seemed to be looking for a free meal. I felt that his pictures would be bad. The girl stretched out her hand and reached for her half-bottle of Evian. Her fair hair had slipped a little from under her orange béret. I thought suddenly that it was fun to be living alone in Paris and writing a book. She finished her macaroni and began peeling a tangerine. I had a tangerine, too. She spat a pip on to my plate by mistake, and then she spoke for the first time.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘It’s quite all right,’ I said.
We went on eating our tangerines. She was making a mess of hers, not breaking it into filters, but sucking it noisily, getting the juice all over her fingers.
‘They’re awkward things to eat,’ I said.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. There did not seem much reason to go on with the conversation.
I pretended to be interested in something that was happening at the other end of the restaurant. I wrinkled up my eyes and stared thoughtfully, and then broke into a smile, acting very hard. I don’t believe she noticed anything of this. When I glanced at her to see she was looking in the opposite direction. I gave it up as a bad job and offered her a cigarette. To my surprise she took one. I spoilt it, though, by bringing out a lighter that did not work. There was not even a flicker of a spark. She reached for a match as though she had expected this, while I went on jabbing at the wretched flint, blackening my thumb.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said kindly,‘I always use a match myself.’
That did not help me, though, what she did; that was not the point. I had not made the beginning I had wished. I ought to have leant towards her carelessly, with a suggestion of confidence, my left hand flaring the lighter to her cigarette, then shutting it with a snap, and calling to the waiter for my bill. Instead of this I sat meekly, accepting a light from her match, wondering what I should say.
She was friendly now, there seemed to be a bond between us because she was smoking one of my cigarettes.
‘You are an artist, I suppose?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No; as a matter of fact, I’m trying to write a book.’
She looked at me gravely.
‘That must be very difficult,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
I was sorry I did not appear as though writing were easy to me. Perhaps she did not think I took it seriously.
‘I’ve been working on it all the winter,’ I went on hurriedly; ‘I guess I’m too critical to let things slide along anyhow. I tear up a whole lot before I am satisfied.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
I did not see why she accepted that as natural. After all, plenty of writers just fired straight ahead. I felt as though I wanted to go on talking to her about my book; I would have liked her to sit there and ask me questions. Still, I had to get her things over first.
‘What do you do?’ I asked.
‘I study music.’
‘Oh! that’s great.’
‘Yes - I like it,’ she said.
‘Music and writing have much in common,’ I said, trying to get back to myself again, ‘and I should think Paris is about the best place to do both. What do you say?’
‘Paris is quite nice,’ she said. ‘Nice’ seemed to be the wrong word.
‘No, you mean it’s vital, terrific,’ I said;‘you mean there’s something about Paris that gives you a mental slap all the time, and you can’t just sit still and do nothing. You’ve got to work, to keep up with the pace, the sting in the atmosphere.’
Suddenly I felt like talking a great deal. ‘And it’s not only over here in Montparnasse you feel it,’ I went on, ‘it’s the other side too, the electricity in the air. There’s nothing dead or used about it, everything is glowing, everything is alive. You stand in the Place de la Concorde, like any common tourist, and you look up the Champs-Élysées to the Étoile - that long slope, the line of traffic - why, it gets you, it does something inside you, you want to throw back your head and shout.’
She smiled vaguely, as though I were a fool.
‘I prefer the country,’ she said.
‘Oh! sure,’ I said, ‘the country’s all right; I love a day out in the country, but not to live, not for any length of time. Why, it’s the same, it doesn’t change, but here in Paris it’s different every day, there’s a throb of excitement all the time, a suggestion that any moment a tremendous thing is going to happen. If I lived out in the country I’d have to dash up every second in case I was missing something.’
She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.
‘You’re mad,’ she said briefly, dismissing me. It seemed as though my words had gone for nothing.
‘Where do you live?’ I said.
‘I’m staying at a pension de famille in the Boulevard Raspail,’ she answered; ‘it’s fairly comfortable, but they are rather strict about hours. They don’t like you getting back late. Not that I mind much, as I don’t go out a lot, not in the evening. It’s too cold, anyway.’
‘Just the feeling that they minded would be enough for me,’ I said; ‘I wouldn’t let myself be tied at all. I’ve got a room in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. Not much of a place, but I can do as I like.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s marvellous,’ I went on, ‘not being stuck at some job that can’t be left. You see, with writing I can choose my own time. I can work or be slack, just as it pleases me. I get away any time I like and come and have a drink.’
‘I should find that rather distracting,’ she said.
‘Oh! Lord, no, not a bit of it,’ I answered, laughing; ‘once you get the hang of it you can empty your mind at any moment. Then when you go back you just pick up the thread where you left off.’
I could not make out whether she was impressed or not. She was looking at me, but her eyes seemed to drift a little way beyond. I thought if I went on talking she would go on looking at me like that. It was the grandest thing. I tried to make my voice as monotonous as possible, so as not to wake her up out of her dream.
‘It’s no good waiting until ideas come,’ I said softly, ‘otherwise I’d just sit around and wait all day. I have to force myself, as much as a bricklayer forces himself to lay bricks. And I dare say it’s the same with your music, you have to work your fingers at scales and arpeggios, you don’t wait until some melody comes floating out of the air. You hammer away . . .’
She did not seem to notice what nonsense I was talking. She just gazed in the distance, through me as it were, and I knew that in a moment I would not be able to go on talking, but I would have to prop my elbow
on the table and lean against my fist and stare at her, losing myself. It was not fair to look as she did. It was not fair to think we had sat through the whole of our lunch without speaking. Nobody in the world could talk more nonsense than I at that moment.
‘You loving the country,’ I said, ‘I expect you’re absolutely right about that; you don’t have the look of belonging to this sort of rush and scramble, you ought to have things made easy, you ought to - I don’t know what you ought to do. Listen, aren’t you glad the winter’s over?’
She laughed then, she seemed to wake up and take notice once again.
‘What’s that got to do with all you’ve been saying?’ said she.
‘A whole lot,’ I said, ‘but I can’t explain; maybe you wouldn’t understand, anyway. Gosh! I feel grand today. I felt grand when I woke up this morning. I leant out of my window and it wasn’t raining, and there was a patch of sunlight on the pavement opposite, and a girl without a hat running along with a dog. The air smelt good, fresh and sweet, somehow, and the striped blinds of a café were fluttering in the wind. The puddles in the street were blue, same as the sky.’
‘Those are nice feelings,’ she said. I saw then that ‘nice’ was a word of hers. ‘In the Boulevard Raspail it’s difficult to breathe in that way,’ she went on. ‘I share a room with another girl, she’s Austrian, she sleeps with her mouth open and dark hair spread all over the pillow. She likes the window shut very tight while she dresses, in case anyone should look in, passing by in a tram. That’s silly, isn’t it?’
‘Very silly,’ I said.
‘So I miss the fun of getting up in the mornings like you,’ she said.
I could see the Austrian girl lying spread-eagled in an untidy bed, her hands tossed awkwardly, her face putty-coloured and flabby, and this girl waking and sitting up very straight, her eyes solemn like a child, gazing at a square patch of sky through the window which she could not reach.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but you get away from the pension, out in the street, and you walk along with the wind catching at your hair, and people passing you, laughing and talking, and an old woman selling flowers, and then surely you smile because you can’t help it, and you feel fine.’
‘I like the way you describe things,’ she said; ‘it’s funny, but it’s nice. I know what you mean about smiling and an old woman selling flowers. It’s being happy for no reason. Do you put all that in your book?’
‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘my book is very serious, there wouldn’t be any point. I guess it would look silly written on paper.’
‘I suppose it would,’ she said.
‘D’you know, I can’t remember when I last talked like this,’ I said, ‘but it seems a long while ago.’
‘I expect you get out of the way of it; always writing your book, you don’t have time for people.’
‘No, it’s not only that. The fact is, I don’t know anyone.’
‘That’s isn’t very nice for you,’ she said.
‘I haven’t exactly thought whether it was nice or not,’ I told her, ‘it just happened that way. Maybe it’s all wrong, maybe I ought to go about a bit, see places and do things.’
‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ she said.
‘It’s all right for you,’ I said, ‘you aren’t lonely ever, you can always talk and go around with girls.’
‘Oh! girls . . .’ she said, and shrugged her shoulders, ‘I haven’t much use for them, I’d rather be by myself.’
‘I wish it was real spring, and not just the beginning,’ I said; ‘it’s still cool to be out of doors a long time. If it was real spring, and you hadn’t anything else to do, we could get a train out to Versailles; we could walk a bit in the gardens.’
‘I like Versailles,’ she told me, not committing herself.
‘There’s a whole crowd of places to see,’ I went on, ‘round and about Paris. Even if you’ve seen them once, you can always see them again. Gosh! I think Paris is wonderful. I wish I were rich though, I wish I had a car.’
‘Perhaps you’ll get a lot of money for your book,’ she suggested.
I did not want to talk about my book so much as I had before.
‘Oh! I don’t know about that,’ I said, ‘but if I had a car I could drive you right out in the country if you liked; you’d be able to stroll around. Why, Fontainebleau Forest will be looking splendid soon, the trees and everything.’
‘What about your work?’ she said.
‘It’s not so important I can’t leave it now and again,’ I told her. ‘Why, it’s bad to get stale, to get in a rut. That’s a fatal thing to do. Do you study your music every day?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You should take a holiday now and again and go to it fresh,’ I said.
‘Well, I don’t stick at it solidly for hours on end, I have my lessons at stated times, and then I go back and practise. I come out to lunch, like I’m doing now; then sometimes I have shopping to do, one or two things to get, or I wander about or I go into a cinema.’
‘I’ve not been inside a cinema all the time I’ve been in Paris. I guess I never thought about it before. We might go this afternoon? ’
‘No - I’ve got my music.’
‘Listen, you can chuck it for once.’
‘No, I have a lesson.’
‘That’s too bad. You’re mighty conscientious, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know.’
She called the garçon for her bill.
‘I wish you’d let me pay this,’ I said. She looked at me in surprise. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said.
‘No, honestly I mean it,’ I went on.
‘Certainly not; thank you very much all the same,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you’re annoyed with me for suggesting it,’ I said; ‘maybe you think we haven’t known each other very long.’
‘Oh! it’s not that. I don’t want to be churlish. But I like to be independent.’
She was gathering up her things, her bag and her music-case. She was more aloof now than ever. I did not seem to know her at all.
‘I’m sorry about the music lesson,’ I said, ‘but I do hope I shall see you here lunching again. Do you ever go up to the Dôme or the Rotonde for a drink?’
‘I go there sometimes,’ she said.
‘I’ve never seen you there.’
‘Well, it’s big.’
‘I’d have noticed, though.’
She was good when she stood up. She was small, and thin. She wore a sort of brown suit. She pulled her orange béret over one side, showing her left ear.
‘Would you be at the Dôme tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’d give you some tea, or coffee or something.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
‘If you’re not there tomorrow perhaps you’d be there the day after, or some time during the week?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s fine. Why, if it goes on keeping warm like this, we could go out to Versailles one day.’
She smiled vaguely, looking over my head.
‘I shall be late for my lesson,’ she said, and then she held out her hand and shook mine gravely, politely, as though we were two people in a drawing-room.
‘Good-bye,’ she said, ‘and good luck with the book.’
Then she turned and walked away down the long allée between the tables and turned the corner, and so out through the swing doors of the Coupole, her back very straight and slim.
I sat there thinking I might have walked with her as far as her music place. Perhaps it was quite a long way. I called the garçon and paid my bill and hurried out into the street, but I did not see any sign of her, and I did not know which way she would have gone. The sky had clouded over a little since the morning, but it was not cold.There were a good many people sitting outside the Dôme. I saw a fellow in a straw hat. Well, anyway, I had got to go back to my room and work. This was the day when I had promised myself to start really serio
usly. The winter was gone; it was March; there was not any excuse, and I felt fine, too. I ought to sit down and work until about eight o’clock in the evening. This gentleness, this little breeze, this kick in the air, had given me the grandest feeling. I had awakened in the morning knowing I would be able to work at last, and I had not changed at all since then. The air was marvellous. I was not hungry. I was not cold. It was fun talking to that girl. I’d go to the Dôme tomorrow about four o’clock. It would be fun if she made a point of going there often, at a certain fixed time, so if I got away from work I should know where to find her. It would be great if she went there every day, if we always had a certain table by the brazier. The garçon would know, he would keep it for us. I’d tell her about my book. She could talk about her music too. Maybe she would be able to get away into the country after all, one Sunday, surely. She’d like the forest at Fontainebleau. Especially if she was fond of the country. She really ought to see it.
Still, here I was back in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. It was a good thing I was so close to the Boulevard Montparnasse. I should not care much to live anywhere else.
I went upstairs to my room, and I leant out of my window. There was still a clean sweet smell, the clouds had not made any difference. A chair-mender came along the street, halting every now and then, blowing his thin bugle, gazing up towards the windows. A chained dog in a yard somewhere started to bark. He hated the noise. I could hear the grinding of a tram away on the boulevard. Then I shut the window and sat down at the table, searching for my pen, fumbling amongst my papers. There was a whole lot of stuff that ought to be written. I lit a cigarette, and began to concentrate, stabbing at the blotting paper with my nib, drawing little figures. It was queer, though; somehow I did not feel so much like working after all.