The Chandelier

by Clarice Lispector

  “But you didn’t tell me that it was a party, ma’am . . .”

  “Well,” she responded red and cold, “come in.”

  He came in but his demeanor was forced, leery.

  “Would you like me to go downstairs and put on my better clothes?” he asked.

  “But no!” she was almost shouting covering her ears, hurt, distressed, “but no!”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he came to her assistance taken aback, “it’s fine, the person who spoke isn’t here anymore . . .”

  With her eyes shaking with tears, her face swollen, she tried out a happier smile but the light was sparkling in her wet retina and she could see in front of her shining and trembling drops with a certain anxious visual pleasure.

  “But what’s happening?!” he asked growing horrified.

  “Well, nothing! . . . what could be happening? . . . a little light in my eyes, I was in the dark, what could be happening? well . . .”

  “In the dark . . .?” and he was seeming to approach something he would never understand.

  “Yes, yes, in the dark, with a headache!” she shouted, lying.

  He sat in a chair, his fingers crossed atop his leg. She stopped for an instant; she had nothing to say. He said:

  “Sit down.”

  She brightened:

  “Sit? . . . and who’s going to make dinner?”

  “Ah, right . . . Need some help?”

  “No, no, thanks,” she declined almost offended. But she couldn’t move without knowing how to leave him sitting there and go to the kitchen.

  “What time is it?” he inquired.

  “How should I know?” she retorted, remorseful.

  “That’s true . . .” — he pulled out his copper watch, looked at it: “it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . nine o’clock! three . . . three . . . three . . . to nine!” he said laughing without her knowing why.

  “Do you want dinner now?”

  He looked suddenly frightened, he shrunk his neck into his shoulders in a gesture of desperate ignorance.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know . . . it’s up to you, ma’am . . .”

  They looked at each other an instant longer. She went to the kitchen to make the steaks. Every once in a while she’d stop and hazard a movement toward the living room — she couldn’t hear anything. Little delicate drops of sweat were being reborn atop her upper lip, her body seemed to have thickened, the malaise of the dress that was growing old upon her body. A bit worried she fried two eggs, warmed up the small fried balls, the rice — listened to the living room, silence — took the tray to the table. She had prepared herself to say something lively but whatever she was going to say escaped her palely when she saw him sitting in the same position with his fingers crossed. Yet upon seeing the steaming plates, Miguel’s dry lips parted in a weak smile of hope and despondency. She gave herself a little jolt and said smiling, attentive:

  “To the table, to the table!”

  Miguel sat down, rolled up his pants with a hurried sigh, started looking all around, under the table.

  “What is it?” inquired Virgínia interrupting herself sharply.

  “Napkin . . .”

  Ah she’d forgotten! the flush heated her face and neck. He showed he was timid:

  “No need . . . I only asked because, you know, at those fancier dinners they always have them, isn’t that right?”

  Yes, yes, yes! She almost running to the kitchen, took the bottle of wine from the ice, grasped it with her inert hands, felt herself reanimated by the cold, touched it quickly to her hot lips. But he’d showed up at the kitchen door and was saying with a suddenly masculine air:

  “No ma’am! I won’t let you . . .”

  She was looking at him terrified . . . He stepped back surprised looking at her with the wine in her hand.

  “Ah,” he said, “I thought you’d gone to get a napkin . . . Because there was no need, any old scrap works . . .”

  They remained unmoving for an instant intent on each other.

  “The food’s getting cold,” he finally said as if removing the blame from himself, “the food’s getting cold.”

  She laughed:

  “But isn’t it? come on . . . And you still need to open that bottle, work a little,” she added flatteringly.

  “But you spent a ton of money, I can tell.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s true enough. Money was made to be spent.” — They fell silent. But why wouldn’t he take the wine bottle that was freezing her hands?

  “Don’t hesitate to split the expenses . . . if you want, ma’am.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Fine, fine, my motto is: don’t insist.”

  They started to eat silently; the food was good though the steaks had some gristle; the wine was hot and smooth and he drank almost all of it — by dessert his eyes were shining moist and suffering. She remained silent serving the dishes with ardor and a concentrated calm; she seemed impossible to be deterred. Then she made coffee and when they drank it, again his eyes looked full of mischief: what coffee! he exclaimed and she assented smiling deeply. He said to her at last, looking at the ground while lighting a cigar:

  “The dinner was very good.”

  She was looking at him quizzical, concerned. He quickly raised his eyes to her, lowered them fast but suddenly faced her with despair:

  “The thing is my wife found out that I come here!”

  Virgínia stared at him at first without understanding, asked almost stupid while her head was refusing to work and switch directions:

  “Why?”

  “They told her! what the devil can I do! people are talking . . .”

  At that she’d already understood, her face pale with surprise; several instants rushed by vacant, countless . . . and she was feeling a beginning of wrath that actually did her good, in some strange way it symbolized the dinner.

  “So why’d you come?” she finally flung at him hard and exasperated.

  “Sorry,” he murmured as if in a leap, abruptly mannered and with caution, “sorry, I always called you ‘ma’am’ and to hear this tone now . . . I never took that liberty, the world is my witness” — and suddenly some idea popped into his head, he opened his mouth with terror and stupefaction. — “Don’t you even think about getting me in trouble now! damn it, I’m a married man! I told you from the beginning, I never called you by your first name, I never touched your hand, don’t deny it, ok? don’t deny it!”

  Very white beneath the lamp that was now sparkling in an increase of mute energy, she was looking at him, her lips calm and colorless.

  “Forgive me, ma’am,” Miguel was going on frightened and already at the beginning of an awkwardness, “the dinner was good but just because I came here doesn’t mean anything, right? I myself offered right at the beginning to split the costs, right?” he was asking anxious and suddenly full of hope.

  “Right.”

  “Well then, well then!” he screamed less asphyxiated, “I knew you were reasonable, ma’am . . .” — he became more polite speaking with difficulty. — “You understand, ma’am, a married man isn’t free, it’s that old story of making a commitment . . .” — he laughed in a pale and disconcerted grimace. Both were still standing, each at one end of the table beside the places they had occupied at dinner. The silence was growing between them like an empty balloon filling more and more dangerously with air and strangely could not be interrupted, each attempted word would die empty in the face of its power. She remembered with a hard pleasure the ugly names she’d learned at the Farm — but something like modesty or already indifference was keeping her from pronouncing them and she waited for an instant watchful, scrutinizing herself imperceptible, blinking with speed. She thought once again that such a strong light was strange, her little sitti
ng room so enriched and mute. But how to use such facts as a way of life? they weren’t plausible, they seemed to lack the first reality; so what to attach them to? those were the true events themselves and she wasn’t getting any explanation from what was happening, no overview except the simple repetition of what was happening. Miguel was waiting with purposely inexpressive eyes, trying to maintain his earlier strength and not lose ground; some extraordinary thing was slowly happening in the room.

  “You are the lowest thing in the world, sir,” she said loud and simple as if singing.

  “But . . . what . . . ,” the man murmured flinching surprised, immediately attempting an offended expression.

  She sighed deeply.

  “Therefore would you please leave forever,” — she was speaking calmly and hearing with pleasure and attention her own words coming out long and exact; the fatigue from the dinner preparations was weighing on her body.

  “But . . . but I didn’t offend you, ma’am, did I?” he murmured.

  She looked at him without strength, absorbed:

  “Yes, yes . . .”

  “I did?” he was screaming extremely perturbed.

  “Oh no, you didn’t. I’m just tired. Farewell, farewell.”

  “I’d like to explain that I didn’t . . .”

  “No, farewell, farewell,” she replied.

  Surprised and already filled with displeasure he was departing while staring at Virgínia with martyred and humble eyes.

  “Listen, what’s this all about?” she suddenly screamed at him, taken by a light fever when he was already at the door, “you don’t have to leave upset with people!”

  “But isn’t that right? isn’t that right?” he was screaming hurriedly with his moist eyes blinking.

  “That’s right.”

  And since a moment of empty and pensive silence followed she concluded:

  “Farewell, farewell,” — and almost pushed him down the stairs as she closed the door.

  She’d spend the mornings sitting at the table looking at her fingers, her nails smooth and pink. Could everyone know what I know? would occur to her deeply. She was trying to distract herself by drawing straight lines without the aid of a ruler — but where was the charm of the work? unable to say quite why it seemed to her that she was failing at every instant. Sometimes she’d say a few words out loud and while she was hearing herself it seemed to her in an uneasy and delicious astonishment that she wasn’t herself and would surprise herself in a fright that was a lie too. And then in another weak and drunken astonishment, she was herself. She’d say in a small bored voice, shaking her head: well I’m not happy, I’m not happy at all. Or she’d come to live in an intimate exaltation, in an ardent purity whose beginning was an imperceptible fakeness. She also knew how to close her eyes and shut herself off with a brute power. She’d then crack open her eyelids with delicacy as if letting that power slowly drain — and make things out under a certain golden dusk light, wafting in a tremulous fire, brightened and filmy; the air between them was tense and cold, noises would sharpen into swift needles. Tired, she’d suddenly open her eyes all the way, set the power loose — in a mute bang things would dry out ashen, hard and calm, the world after all. Or she’d be reborn like someone trembling, a jolt of surprise. She’d dress with as much care as if about to find a crowd waiting at the door. She’d go out into the street, walk slowly down the sidewalk showing herself, her eyes watchful, the feeling that she was glowing ardent, serious. She was a hard insect, a scarab, flying in sudden lines, beating against windowpanes singing with stridency. And really, despite her modest appearance and her pale cheeks, some people would look at her with curiosity, often with more than a moment of attention. She’d get excited with secret brutality; suddenly it was so much the only truth that people would get ready, dress up, take on the attitude of their clothes, go into the street, mingle luminous and turn themselves off again at home — she was understanding the city with sureness and ardor. She’d feel proud of not being Esmeralda. For an instant here and there she was looked at as if she’d have a great destiny. Suddenly at a glance she’d think: this man knows something about me! but what did she care really? for something existing didn’t need to be known — that was the feeling, her eyebrows furrowed and then a quick calm would follow hesitant after whatever it was that had not quite become a thought. She’d go home tired as if leaving the party where she’d been crowned. She’d spend days reading; she read like a painted prostitute, full of keenness and of a boredom that burned her soul and quickly dried her out. What worried her most then was being able to go to bed so early. From the moment she woke up she’d start thinking about the instant of going to bed. The way the hours passed seemed to have transformed irremediably and she was living among them pushed by the duty they’d suggest. Nobody would stop her from going to bed at seven at night. The only reason she still ate dinner was because then she’d go to bed at five in the afternoon. She’d get herself completely together with calculation and care and then stay on the lookout breathing. In the afternoon she’d gone by tram to a pretty and calm street and met with horror the worst old lady from Upper Marsh, who had been in the city for a few months with her sick sister. The tram was going fast and she couldn’t see anything. The old lady had hardly started speaking, however, instead of the irritation she expected to feel some thing reduced her simply to herself in a quick weakening of desires. With humility she spoke with the old lady, easy with herself, almost giddy, even exchanging impressions about matters of apartments and shopping, censurable ways of leading life. Inexplicable already she then cozied up to the woman as if she were a girlfriend, suddenly showing herself to be feminine and busy feeling without displeasure on her bare legs the scratching of that long skirt; she was obscurely trying with sensual pleasure to win her friendship and sympathy. The old lady was withdrawing her thin face, somehow offended and dominated because she’d barely managed to open her mouth and speak, she who always had leaned over others with narrowed eyes, asphyxiating them with news.

  “You can well imagine what a big city is,” Virgínia was shouting surpassing the noise of the tram on the tracks, “it simply wears a person out! And apartments are so expensive, right? And sometimes so small! And I live in a relatively cheap building, thank God, but the others are a horror. I’m telling you: a horror! you can’t hear me because of the tram.” — The vehicle was halting for an instant at the stop and the old lady again attempting with dryness to take charge of the conversation was asking her if she lived alone. — “Yes, yes, but the building is of the best possible morality,” Virgínia was saying to her frightened. “Just think that in the city, from what I heard said in a boardinghouse where I lived, the girls with the best appearance are actually the worst possible — horrible, isn’t it?” she was laughing. “You really only learn stuff like that by living here.”

  When the old woman said goodbye with haste and coldness, frustrated in her own news, Virgínia squeezed her hand, effusive as if she were abandoned:

  “Best wishes, you hear? best wishes, ma’am, to you and your sister!” — the old lady went off with surprise, now charmed and smiling and Virgínia sat an instant with open eyes, watchful, thoughtful. Daniel . . . How Daniel would look at her judging; but judging what? she wondered. And whatever had happened was reducing itself thus to just a silence and a sensation that she understood she hardly could transmit to Daniel; therefore she didn’t want him beside her, she preferred to be alone — she huddled in the corner of the tram; alone was the way she could wear herself out; the most alive things didn’t have so much as a movement to dress them, it was impossible to fulfill them; if you tried not only could you not do it but they themselves would die confounded. And two people no matter how quiet would end up talking. When however three days a week would come she would rise with joy because at last she was caught.

  Sometimes a sharp desire wrapped in a wave of fresh and propelling happiness, a s
harp desire to sculpt would give a small shout of surprise in her heart. She’d open the small suitcase of the clay things, without hesitation plunge them into hot water in order to dissolve them and obtain material for new figurines. She would work in a happy concentration that lent her face the old nervous transparency. The figures however were in the same line as the ones erected back in childhood. Grotesque, serious and motionless, with a delicate and independent touch, Virgínia would obstinately keep saying the same thing without understanding it. She would bend her head and seem to continue to grow.

  With the passing of time a secret watchful life had been born in her; she would communicate silently with the objects around her in a certain tenacious and unnoticed mania that nonetheless was being her most interior and truthful way of existing. Before carrying out any act she would “know” that “something” would go against it or that a light wave would allow it; she had so much desire to live that she had become superstitious. She had entered her own reign. The rooms that smelled like tunnels, the things lightly dislocated from themselves as if they had just been alive. Superstition was the most delicate thing she had known; through the slipping of a second she could surpass that warm and mysteriously vehement affirmation that the thing, understand? is there, right there and therefore is like that, objects, that small pitcher for example, knows itself profoundly; and even that half-open window, the little table perched on the points of three legs beneath the roof, understand? knows itself profoundly; and then there’s also whatever isn’t present (and which helps, which helps, and everything moves forward) (even that (power)) (an instant that follows itself and from it is born the yes and the no) (but if you linger a bit longer you end up “knowing” that the instant is an instant and then it is mutely shredded) (you have to start over) (winding, rewinding, winding powers) (without letting certain things of the world get too close) (above all what’s past is past and is exactly just of that small instant we’re talking about and also that one, and also that one, and also that one) (but every one for itself) — and before you know it without a single word she’d already achieved. Anyway her whole being was propped up by a few words. But used with such meaning, with such a kind of blind and strange nature that, when she used them out loud or in thought or when she heard them, she didn’t tremble, didn’t recognize, didn’t realize; in her busy and detailed intimacy she was living without memory. Before falling asleep, concentrated and magical, she would say farewell to things in a last instant of lightly illuminated consciousness. She knew that in the half-light “her things” were better living their own essence. “Her things” — she was thinking without words, sly inside her own darkness — “her things” like “her animals.” She would feel profoundly that she was surrounded by things living and dead and that the dead ones had been alive — she was feeling them with careful eyes. Slowly she’d go sub-understanding, living with caution and consideration; without knowing she was admitting her desire to see in the extinguished and dusty light bulb more than a light bulb. She didn’t know that she was thinking that if she saw just the light bulb she’d be on the wrong side of it and wouldn’t grasp its reality — mysteriously if she went beyond things she would grasp her center. Though she thought “her things” as if saying “her animals,” feeling that their effort wasn’t in having a human nucleus but in staying on a pure extra-human plane. She was barely understanding them and her life was of reserve, enchantment and relative happiness; she’d sometimes feel curled up into herself — wasn’t most of her existence thing? that was the feeling; most of her constellation was living with its own unknown force, following an imponderable path. And in truth if there were any possibility of her not being intimately quiet, by virtue of that inexpressible impression she would be. Seated at the table, looking at her fingers alone in the world, she was thinking confusedly with a precision without words that was like light and delicate movements, like a buzzing of thought: thoughts about things exist in things themselves without attaching to whoever observes them; thoughts about things come out of them as perfume frees itself from the flower, even if nobody smells it, even if nobody even knows that that flower exists . . .; the thought of the thing exists as much as the thing itself, not in words of explanation but as another order of facts; quick facts, subtle, visible exactly through some sense, as only the sense of smell perceives the flower’s perfume — she was resounding. The quality of her thought was merely a circular movement. She was noticing a scratch on her finger and attentive to life forgetting everything as through slumber is forgotten whatever was thought an instant before sleep. Like someone whose body needed salt as an essential substance and then ate it with thirsty pleasure — she’d always felt a simple and avid pleasure in making an effort and saying to herself clearly: I see a chair, a box of powder, an open pair of scissors, a black drawer . . . The great still-life in which she was living. Nevertheless she felt she was mixing things up, arranging them at her pleasure and bothering them. Ah, if I had time, just a little time, she seemed to be saying to herself with her head bent and confused. Anyway she’d noticed: when she’d open her eyes wide she’d see nothing. Except the words, thoughts made of words. When she’d stare with gaping eyes at her seated grandmother she’d lose the notion of the grandmother and see nothing, not even a little old lady. The truth was so fast. You had to squint. It was occurring to her in strange and swift seconds of vision that her communication with the world, that secret atmosphere that she was cultivating around herself like a darkness, was her final existence — beyond that border she herself was silent like a thing. And it was that final interior life that was carrying forth without lacuna the thread of her most elf-like existence in childhood. The rest would stretch out horribly new, had created itself as if out of itself — that body of hers now and its habits. And that religion was so little rich and potent that it didn’t have ritual — its greatest gesture would exhaust itself in a quick and unnoticed glance, full of “I know, I know,” of a promise of fidelity and of mutual support in a closed and almost evil union; united and simple, no movement would symbolize it, it was the accepted mystery. Really however she didn’t know what was happening to her and her only way of knowing it was living it.