Bonjour tristesse

by Françoise Sagan

  One afternoon I had wrapped myself in bath towels to look like a Hindu, and was sitting cross-legged staring at myself in the mirror, hoping to achieve a Yoga-like trance, when there was a knock at the door. I thought it was the maid and told her to come in.

  It was Anne. For a moment she remained transfixed in the doorway, then she smiled:

  "What are you playing at?"

  "Yoga," I replied. "But it's not a game at all, it's a Hindu philosophy."

  She went to the table and took up my book. I began to be alarmed. It lay open, and every page was covered with remarks in my handwriting, such as 'Impracticable', 'Exhausting'.

  "You are certainly conscientious," she said. "And what about that essay on Pascal? I don't see it anywhere."

  At lunch I had been talking about Pascal, implying that I had worked on a certain passage, but needless to say I had not written a word. Anne waited for me to say something, but as I did not reply she understood.

  "It is your own affair if you play the fool up here instead of working, but it's quite another matter when you lie to your father and me. In any case I found it difficult to believe in your sudden intellectual activity."

  She went out of the room leaving me petrified in my bath towels. I could not understand why she had used the word 'lie'. I had spoken of Pascal because it amused me, and had mentioned an essay to give her pleasure, and now she blamed me for it. I had grown used to her new attitude towards me, and her contempt made me feel humiliated and furious. I threw off my disguise, pulled on some slacks and an old shirt and rushed out of the house. The heat was terrific, but I began to run, impelled by my anger, which was all the more violent because it was mixed with shame. I ran all the way to Cyril's villa, only stopping when I reached the door to regain my breath. In the afternoon heat the houses seemed unnaturally large and quiet, and full of secrets. I went up to Cyril's room; he had shown it to me the day we visited his mother. I opened the door. He was lying across the bed, fast asleep with his head on his arm. I stood looking at him and for the first time he appeared to me defenceless and rather touching. I called him in a low voice. He opened his eyes and sat up at once.

  "You, Cécile? What's the matter."

  I signed to him not to talk so loudly. Suppose his mother were to come and find me in his room? She might think . . . anyone might think ... I suddenly felt panic-stricken and moved towards the door.

  "But where are you off to?" he cried. "Come here, Cécile!"

  He caught me by the arm and laughingly held me back. I turned round to him, and saw him grow pale, as I must have been myself. He let go my wrist, only to take me in his arms and draw me over to the bed. The thought that it had to happen sometime flashed through my confused mind.

  I stayed with him for about an hour. I was happy, but bewildered. I was used to hearing the word love bandied about, and I had often mentioned it rather crudely as one does when one is young and ignorant, but now I felt I could never talk of it again in that detached and vulgar way. Cyril, lying beside me, was talking about marrying me and how we would be together always. My silence made him uneasy. I sat up, looked at him, and called him my lover. I kissed the vein on his neck, murmuring "Darling, darling Cyril!" I was not sure whether it was love I felt for him at that moment, I have always been fickle, and I have no wish to delude myself on this point, but just then I loved him more than myself; I would have sacrificed my life for him. He asked me when I left if I was angry with him. I laughed: how could I possibly be angry?

  I walked slowly back through the pine trees; I had asked Cyril not to come with me, it would have been too risky. In any case I was afraid something might show in my face or manner. Anne was lying in front of the house on a deck chair, reading. I had a story all ready to explain where I had been, but she said nothing, she never asked questions. Then I remembered that we had quarrelled, and I sat down near her in dead silence. I remained motionless, aware of my own breathing and the trembling of my fingers, and thinking of Cyril.

  I fetched a cigarette from the table and struck a match. It went out. With shaking hands I lighted another, and although there was no wind, it too went out. In exasperation I took a third, and for some reason this match assumed a vital importance; perhaps because Anne was watching me intently. Suddenly everything around me seemed to melt away and there was nothing left but the match between my fingers, the box, and Anne's eyes boring into me. My heart was beating violently. I tightened my fingers round the match and struck it, but as I bent forward my cigarette put it out. The matchbox dropped to the ground and I could feel Anne's hard, searching gaze upon me. The tension was unbearable. Then her hands were under my chin, and as she raised my face I shut my eyes tightly for fear she should read their expression and see the tears welling up. She stroked my cheek, and half reluctantly let me go, as if she preferred to leave the matter in abeyance. Then she put a lighted cigarette into my mouth and returned to her book.

  Perhaps the incident was symbolic. Sometimes when I am groping for a match, I find myself thinking of that strange moment when my hands no longer seemed to belong to me, and once again I remember the intensity of Anne's look, and the emptiness around me.

  5

  The incident I have just described was not without its aftermath. Like certain people who are very self-controlled and sure of themselves, Anne would not make concessions; and when, on the terrace, she had let me go, she was acting against her principles. She had of course guessed something, and it would have been easy enough for her to make me talk, but at the last moment she had given in to pity or indifference. It was just as hard for her to make allowances for my shortcomings, as to try to improve them, in both cases she was merely prompted by a sense of duty: in marrying my father she felt she must also take charge of me. I would have found it easier to accept her constant disapproval if she had sometimes shown exasperation, or any other feeling which went more than skin deep. One gets used to other people's faults if one does not feel it a duty to correct them. Within a few months she would have ceased to trouble about me and her indifference might then have been tempered by affection. This attitude would just have suited me. But it could never happen with her, because her sense of responsibility was too strong, especially as I was young enough to be influenced; I was malleable, though obstinate.

  Therefore she had a feeling of frustration where I was concerned, she was angry with herself, and she let me know it. A few days later we were at dinner when the controversial subject of my holiday task cropped up. I let myself go, and even my father showed annoyance, but in the end it was Anne who locked me up in my room, although she had not even raised her voice during the argument. I had no idea what she had done until I tried to leave the room to fetch a glass of water. I had never been locked up in my life, and at first I panicked. I rushed over to the window, but there was no escape that way. Then I threw myself against the door so violently that I bruised my shoulder. With my teeth clenched I tried to force the lock with a pair of tweezers, but I did not want to call anyone to open it. After that I stood still in the middle of the room and collected my thoughts, and gradually I became quite calm. It was my first experience of cruelty; the thought of it lay like a stone on my heart, until it formed the central point of my resistance. I sat on my bed and began to plan my revenge. Soon I was so engrossed that several times I went to the door, and was surprised to find that I could not get out.

  At six o'clock my father came to release me. I got up when he came in, and smiled at him. He looked at me in silence.

  "Do you want to talk to me?" he asked.

  "What about?" I said. "You know we both have a horror of explanations that lead nowhere."

  He seemed relieved: "But do try to be nicer to Anne, more patient."

  I was taken aback. Why should he expect me to be patient with Anne? I suddenly realised that he thought of Anne as a woman he was imposing on me, instead of the contrary. There was evidently still room for hope.

  "I was horrid," I said. "I'll apologise to her."


  "You're not unhappy, are you?"

  "Of course not!" I replied. "And anyhow if we quarrel too often, I shall just marry a little earlier, that's all!" I knew my words would strike home.

  "You mustn't look at it in that way, you're not Snow-White! Could you bear to leave me so soon? We should only have had two years together."

  The thought was as unbearable for me as for him. I could see myself crying on his shoulder, bewailing our lost happiness. I did not want to go too far.

  "I'm exaggerating, you know. With a few concessions on both sides, Anne and I will get on all right."

  "Yes," he said. "Of course!"

  He must have thought, as I did at that moment, that the concessions would probably not be mutual, but would be on my side only.

  "You see," I told him, "I realise very well that Anne is always right. Her life is really far more successful than ours, and has greater depth."

  He started to protest, but I went on:

  "In a month or two, I shall have completely assimilated Anne's ideas, and there won't be any more stupid arguments between us. It just needs patience."

  He was obviously startled. He was not only losing a boon companion, but a slice of his past as well.

  "Now don't exaggerate!" he said in a weak voice. "I know that the kind of life you have led with me was perhaps not suitable for your age, or mine either, for that matter, but it was neither dull nor unhappy. After all, we've never been bored or depressed during the last two years, have we? There's no need to be so drastic, just because Anne's conception of life is different."

  "On the contrary," I said firmly. "We'll have to go even further and give up our old way of life altogether!"

  "I suppose so," said my poor father as we went downstairs together.

  I made my apologies to Anne without the slightest embarrassment. She told me that I needn't have bothered; the heat must have been the cause of our dispute. I felt gay and indifferent.

  I met Cyril in the wood as arranged. I told him what to do next. He listened to me with a mixture of dread and admiration. Then he took me in his arms, but I could not stay, as it was getting late. I was surprised to find that I did not want to leave him. If he had been searching for some means of attaching me to himself, he had certainly found it. I kissed him passionately, I even longed to hurt him, so that he would not be able to forget me for a single moment all the evening, and dream of me all night long. I could not bear the thought of the night without him.

  6

  The next morning I took my father for a walk along the road. We talked gaily of insignificant things. I suggested going back to the villa by way of the pine wood. It was exactly half-past ten; I was on time. My father walked in front of me on the narrow path and pushed aside the brambles, so that I should not scratch my legs. When he stopped dead in his tracks I knew he had seen them. I went up to him; Cyril and Elsa were lying apparently asleep on the pine needles. Although they were acting entirely on my instructions, and I knew very well that they were not in love, they were nevertheless both young and beautiful, and I could not help feeling a pang of jealousy. I noticed that my father had become abnormally pale. I took him by the arm:

  "Don't let's disturb them. Come on!" He glanced once more at Elsa, who was looking particularly pretty with her red hair spread out, and a half-smile on her lips: then he turned on his heel and walked on at a brisk pace. I could hear him muttering: "The bitch! The bitch!"

  "Why do you say that? She's free, isn't she?"

  "That's not the point! Did you find it very pleasant to see her in Cyril's arms?"

  "I don't love him any more," I said.

  "Neither do I love Elsa," he answered furiously. "But it hurts all the same. After all, I've lived with her, which makes it even worse."

  I knew very well what he meant. He must have felt like dashing up to separate them and seizing his property, or what had once been his property. "Supposing Anne were to hear you?"

  "What do you mean? Well, of course, she wouldn't understand, she'd be shocked, that's normal enough! But what about you? Don't YOU understand me any more? Are you shocked too?"

  How easy it was for me to steer his thoughts in the direction I wanted! It was rather frightening to know him so well.

  "Of course I'm not shocked," I said. "But you must see things as they are: Elsa has a short memory, she finds Cyril attractive, and that's the end of it as far as you're concerned. After all, look how you behaved to her, it was unforgivable!"

  "If I wanted her ..." my father began, and then stopped short.

  "You'd have no luck," I said convincingly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for me to discuss his chances of getting Elsa back.

  "Anyhow it is out of the question," he said in a more resigned voice.

  "Of course it is!" I answered with a shrug of my shoulders, which was meant to convey that he, poor chap, was out of the running now. He said not another word until we reached the house. Then he took Anne into his arms and held her close to him. She was surprised, but gladly submitted to his embrace. I went out of the room trembling with shame.

  At two o'clock I heard a soft whistle, and went down to join Cyril on the beach. We got into the boat and sailed out to sea. There was nothing in sight, no-one else was out in that heat. When we were some way from the shore, he lowered the sail. So far we had hardly exchanged a word.

  "This morning ..." he began.

  "Please don't talk about it!" I said.

  He gently pushed me down in the boat. I could feel it swaying as we made love; the sky seemed to be falling onto us. I spoke to him, but he made no reply, there was no need. Afterwards there was the tang of salt water. We sunbathed, laughed and were happy. We had the sun and the sea, laughter and love: I wonder if we shall ever again recapture the particular flavour and brilliance of those days, heightened as they were for me by an undercurrent of fear and remorse?

  The time passed quickly. I almost forgot Anne, my father, and Elsa. Through love I had entered another world: I felt dreamy, yet wide awake, peaceful and contented. Cyril asked me if I was not afraid. I told him that I was entirely his, and he seemed satisfied that it should be so. Perhaps I had given myself to him so easily because I knew that if I had a child, he would be prepared to take the blame, and shoulder all the responsibility: this was something I could never face. For once I was thankful that my immaturity made it unlikely.

  But Elsa was growing impatient. She plied me with questions. I was always afraid of being seen with her or Cyril. She lay in wait for my father at every corner, and fondly imagined that he had difficulty in keeping away from her. I was surprised that someone who hovered so precariously between love and money should get romantic ideas, and be excited by a look or movement, when such things must otherwise have been merely routine for her. The rôle she was playing evidently seemed to her the height of psychological subtlety.

  Even if my father was becoming gradually obsessed with the thought of Elsa, Anne did not seem to notice it. He was more affectionate and demonstrative than ever with her, which frightened me, because I attributed it to his subconscious remorse. In three weeks we should be back in Paris, and the main thing was that nothing should happen before then. Elsa would be out of our way, and my father and Anne would get married if by then they had not changed their minds. In Paris I would have Cyril, and just as Anne had been unable to keep us apart here, so she would find it impossible to stop me from seeing him once we were home. Cyril had a room of his own away from his mother's house. I could already picture ourselves there together, the window wide open to the wonderful pink and blue sky of Paris, pigeons cooing on the bars outside, and Cyril with me on the narrow bed.

  7

  A few days later my father received a message from one of our friends asking us to meet him in St. Raphael for a drink. He was so pleased at the thought of escaping for a while from the unnatural seclusion in which we were living that he could hardly wait to tell us the news. I mentioned to Elsa and Cyril that we
would be at the Bar du Soleil at seven o'clock and if they liked to come, they would see us there. Unfortunately Elsa happened to know our friend, which made her all the more keen to go, I realised that there might he complications, and tried in vain to put her off,

  "Charles Webb simply adores me," she said with childlike simplicity. "If he sees me, he's sure to make Raymond want to come back to me."

  Cyril did not care whether he went to St. Raphael or not. I saw by the way he looked at me that he only wanted to be near me, and I felt proud.

  At six o'clock we drove off in Anne's car. It was a huge American 'convertible', which she kept more for publicity than to suit her own taste, but it suited mine down to the ground, with all its shining gadgets. Another advantage was that we could all three sit in front, and I never feel so friendly as when I am in a car, sharing the same pleasures, and perhaps even the same death. Anne was at the wheel, as if symbolising her future place in the family. This was the first time I had been in her car since the evening we went to Cannes.

  We met Charles Webb and his wife at the Bar du Soleil. He was concerned with theatrical publicity, while his wife spent all his earnings on entertaining young men. Money was an obsession with him, he thought of nothing else in his unceasing effort to make ends meet, hence his restless impatience. he had been Elsa's lover for a long time, and she had suited him quite well, because, though very pretty, she was not particularly grasping,

  His wife was a malicious woman. Anne had never met her, and I noticed that, her lovely face quickly assumed the disdainful, mocking expression that was habitual to her in society. As usual Charles Webb talked all the time, now and then giving Anne an inquisitive look, He evidently wondered what she was doing with that Don Juan Raymond and his daughter I was glad to think he would soon find out. Just then my father leant forward and said abruptly: