In the facts that the dialogue quietly brings to light there is no sugar-coating, no deprecation of or recoil from truth. The sordid outer limitations of the girl’s position, the insignificance of the man’s occupations are clearly stated. Yet the words hope, beauty, happiness, unhappiness, and, more persistently, “understanding” are woven into the fabric of their language without sentimentality or emotional fakery. The dialogue—like the dance so dear to the girl—is esthetically designed in terms of approach, retreat, pause, re-engagement as the two partners reach within themselves, as each opens the way toward the other. The attitudes they describe seem at first to exclude any possible involvement. The girl’s passionate refusal to come to terms with her situation is, in fact, a form of heightened dramatic suspense. The man’s indifference, solitude, and detachment is accompanied by a poetic receptivity to the present—to a gleam of sunlight in a public garden, to a passing conversation on a park bench. Hence the tension in the dialogue, its urgency, and the sense that, at the end, perhaps fleetingly, perhaps more durably—the conclusion is uncertain—an event has taken place. Between the girl and the man there has been a measure of understanding, an exchange of truth, unambiguous, untainted by self-pity, recrimination, or sentimentality. Each has approached the other with integrity. The quasi-ceremonial patterning of the dialogue in The Square creates a sense of the dignity inherent in the encounter and the exchange.
In form and mood, Moderato Cantabile (1958) is quite different from The Square, more fluid and musical, and apparently less coherent in its development. Again the situation chosen is basic in romance, but in this instance it has a macabre melodramatic appeal: a man brutally kills a woman in the street and then, desperately and in the sight of all, covers her dead body with kisses and caresses—a “true confession” episode. The originality of this short eight-part novel lies in Marguerite Duras’s use of this initial design to set the theme of a story concerned entirely with another couple—Anne Desbaresdes and Chauvin, a man encountered by chance on the scene of the crime. The simplicity and clarity of the narrative design, coupled with its surface incoherence, may at first appear disconcerting. But the incoherence and simplicity prove to be entirely deceptive. Marguerite Duras’s design has a good deal in common with Robbe-Grillet’s techniques in Last Year at Marienbad. Moderate Cantabile is the story of an auto-intoxication, a seduction desired and lived on two levels. At its origin the crime is witnessed, perpetually retold by the second couple and mutely relived, but only emotionally, not in actuality—an artist’s translation of a violent reality.
As in the case of the two protagonists in The Square, the outer facts concerning Anne Desbaresdes and Chauvin—the social facts that, in more conventional novels set the framework and determine the events—here emerge only incidentally. And they are incidental. Anne Desbaresdes, it is slowly revealed, is the wife of a wealthy provincial industrialist, who lives in a large house surrounded by a garden in the residential section of a small town by the sea. During her ten years of married life, not a breath of scandal has touched her. All we know of Chauvin is that he was formerly employed by Anne’s husband and once caught sight of her at a party given for the employees. But the scandal inherent in that ten-day adventure is not the banal scandal of a socially reprehensible affair. There is, in fact, no affair; only five confrontations in a bar, a hand placed on hers, a brief kiss on Anne’s ice-cold lips. The scandal is in Anne’s total alienation from society, the alienation of intoxication, and the revelation of an obsessive sexual desire lived to the limit of annihilation. Moderato Cantabile is a modern restatement of the incompatibility of individual passion with the orderly mechanism of social decorum.
What the novelist first exposes in the overture of the novel, in the music lesson scene, is the emotional center of Anne Desbaresdes’ life. With quiet, poetic humor Marguerite Duras weaves into the familiar situation—music teacher, recalcitrant boy, mother—two conflicting themes: the theme of quiet provincial living kept within orderly bounds, and the tremulous unbounded capacity for passion latent in Anne Desbaresdes’ shy yet delighted complicity with the stubborn little boy, her son, who so resolutely refuses to do as he is bidden. As the Diabelli Sonatina, with its “moderato cantabile” tempo, stops and starts sporadically, and then is played to the end, the sound of the sea, the throbbing of the engine, the mute exchanges between mother and son set up the dimensions of another, larger world. In a few brief pages Marguerite Duras gives Anne Desbaresdes an elusive poetic presence, in harmony with that outer world and incompatible with the restrictions and strictures of bourgeois respectability. The scream of the dying woman, drowning out the sonatina, is the signal of her temporary escape and passion, a fierce passion relentlessly lived beyond all human contact and aid.
Fascinating, in contrast to the stark violence of the theme, is the manner in which it is handled. “Moderato cantabile” suggests a tempo and lyrical mode that are in direct contradition with the violence of the crime, with the fierce desire that engulfs Anne and Chauvin, and with the strange new detached mode of perception Anne acquires in her state of intoxication. The description of the formal dinner, in the seventh section of the story, as Anne teeters between two worlds, an object of scandal in the eyes of her set, an object of wild desire for the man outside circling the garden railings—until she vomits up both the wine he poured and the “strange food” served at her table—is a fine example of a controlled musical interweaving of themes, of a formal simplicity and dignity that envelops and protects Anne’s “fall.”
The Diabelli Sonatina, in the narrative pattern, seems to emphasize, by contrast, the gravity and depth of the relationship between Anne and Chauvin, who between them play out the variations inherent in the shaping of the initial episode, the crime they have witnessed. Unlike the girl and the man in The Square, they do not speak in carefully constructed sentences and coherent paragraphs. They speak in snatches, hesitantly, restating fragments of the theme, their exchange of words revolving around a hidden center, which is their urge to relive the passion of the couple that has died. In their five encounters in the bar, Anne and Chauvin, like two musical instruments, must repeat and relive, in a kind of purity and eternity, the movements inherent in the initial design, until they confront the stark, sexual, destructive nature of their desire and the design is totally interiorized and completed: “‘I wish you were dead,’ Chauvin said. ‘I am,’ Anne Desbaresdes said.” Relinquishing the very core of her former life, her relation with her child, Anne has re-enacted to the end the tragic modulations of absolute passion which Marguerite Duras holds within the formal confines of melody and rhythm.
The strange, acute, yet different modes of perception reached through intoxication—another form of alienation—give Ten-thirty on a Summer Night (1960) its strange double structure. The poetic intensity and incongruity of vision that shape Maria’s encounter with Rodrigo Paestra underscore the contrapuntal development of her suffering as she witnesses the desire magnetically and visibly drawing Pierre toward her friend, Claire. A number of events, held in suspense, coincide to give the story its unique pattern. Maria’s acute apprehension of each moment of time imposes a distinctive tempo on the story. Suspense is an atmospheric component of the storm that hangs over the small Spanish town, halting all normal plans and activity. Suspense is inherent in the outer situation Maria discovers, the hunt for Rodrigo Paestra, who has killed his wife and his wife’s lover. It is because her life is held in suspense that Maria has the power to sense the suspense loose in the small town and feels the urge to intervene in Paestra’s fate and, vicariously, to partake of it.
Only two people were directly involved in The Square; two couples, essentially, in Moderato Cantabile. In Ten-thirty on a Summer Night, two groups of three are involved. Paestra, his wife and her lover; Maria, her husband Pierre, and Claire. And in both cases, the theme is murder. Paestra has already killed the lovers when the novel begins; at the end, Maria knows the love she and Pierre had shared is dead. Paestra�
��s lonely vigil on the rooftops deflects, as it were, Maria’s lonely vigil on the balcony; as he waits for his inevitable capture and death at dawn, so she waits for the inevitable moment of consummation of desire for which Pierre and Claire are waiting. At ten-thirty on that summer night, the three vigils come together in Maria’s perception. She sees Paestra’s figure dimly outlined against the chimney tops as the silhouettes of Pierre and Claire, entwined, appear on the balcony over her head. Her bid to save Paestra is a “barrage” against her fate, a useless, heroic struggle against fate. Here, more visibly than in Moderato Cantabile, in the baroque setting evoked, outer and inner events fuse, merge, and develop with a poetic inevitability. Death, love, desire, and violence mold the most banal of events: a man’s infidelity to his wife. Extraordinarily moving and pure is the account of Maria’s suffering, free from personal animosity with regard to Claire, humble in its recognition of the overwhelming authority of sexual desire. That, in time, all lovers are bound to live emotionally the modulations of suspense, is an abstract and commonplace statement. The story of Maria’s night of anguish and revelation is told in an atmosphere of intoxication and nightmare, visually reconstructed as in a film, each moment sharply etched in darkness or light, without any recourse to explanation, extraneous comment, or moral judgment. More markedly than in Moderato Cantabile, the intensely subjective yet quasi-impersonal vision of intoxication shapes the strange sequence of events that fills Maria’s night.
Mr. Andesmas (1962), like Ten-thirty on a Summer Night, is a story of suspense, but a suspense that evolves toward a disengagement from the passion of living—and thereby from time—that human relationships reveal. Thematically, the narrative is built on two contrasting moods and tempos: the gay mood of the village dance with its leitmotiv “When the lilac blooms my love . . .” the empty hours of solitary waiting on the terrace of the house above, punctuated by three encounters: the passage of a dog; the arrival of a child “not like the others” then the arrival of her mother, whose fate, like Valérie’s—the daughter Mr. Andesmas cherishes, with the singleness of mind typical of old age—is being sealed that afternoon. “There are moments here,” the epigraph says, “when the light is absolute, accentuating everything, and at the same precise, relentlessly shining on one object.” The object, Valérie, is in this case absent, except as she appears in the mind of others. Her father and Michel Arc’s wife—the woman abandoned for her sake—both vicariously live two distinct moments of Valérie’s fate, and simultaneously suffer their own. Like Anne and Maria, Mr. Andesmas and Michel Arc’s wife are dispossessed; they are like the child whose hands let go of her possessions, then pick them up again. But in this instance, the story being recounted indirectly, it is suggested by Mr. Andesmas himself, and differs from the others. He will not, like the child, like Michel Arc’s wife, close his hands again over some other treasure. Mr. Andesmas, in the slow hours of his solitude, passes into the realm of extreme old age and in part, lives his own removal from a duration inwardly apprehended; he in fact lives a form of his own death. The thematic pattern of the story, its clarity and serenity, offer a striking contrast to the tormented, baroque design of the two preceding works.
Seen in relation to one another, these four short novels of Marguerite Duras, published over a seven-year period, offer a remarkable range and variety in mood and situation. They share, too, a unique, elusive, poetic quality, the hallmark of Duras’s originality. All the characters she describes are, in a sense, living vicariously events which they both retell and relive in another key; someone else’s story, always relived in different modes, yet always the same. Desire and love, as in all romances, well up within them and fatally encounter the hard boundaries of a reality that inevitably circumscribes, limits, modifies, and destroys. As storyteller, within the limitations she sets herself, Marguerite Duras establishes, in terms of form and style an ever fluid interchange and relationship between the inner aspiration and the outer bounds, between the self and the desired other. Each story suggests a mode of being “in love,” and culminates in a recognition of the nature of human bonds. This recognition emerges from the depths of experiences suffered, and fully accepted by the central characters, possessed and esthetically dominated by the writer.
THE SQUARE
TRANSLATED BY
SONIA PITT-RIVERS & IRINA MORDUCH
One
THE CHILD CAME OVER quietly from the far side of the Square and stood behind the girl.
“I’m hungry,” he announced.
The man took this as an opportunity to start a conversation.
“I suppose it is about tea-time?”
The girl was not disconcerted: on the contrary she turned and smiled at him.
“Yes, it must be nearly half past four, when he usually has his tea.”
She took two sandwiches from a bag beside her on the bench and handed them to the child, then skillfully knotted a bib around his neck.
“He’s a nice child,” said the man.
The girl shook her head as if in denial.
“He’s not mine,” she remarked.
The child moved off with his sandwiches. It was afternoon and the Park was full of children: big ones playing marbles and hide-and-seek, small ones playing in the sand pits, while smaller ones still sat patiently waiting in their prams for the time when they would join the others.
“Although,” the girl continued, “he could be mine and, indeed, is often taken for mine. But the fact is he doesn’t belong to me.”
“I see,” said the man. “I have no children either.”
“Sometimes it seems strange, don’t you think, there should be so many children, that they are everywhere one goes and yet none of them are one’s own?”
“I suppose so, yes, when you come to think of it. But then, as you said, there are so many already.”
“But does that make any difference?”
“I should have thought that if you are fond of them anyway, if you enjoy just watching them, it matters less.”
“But couldn’t the opposite also be true?”
“Probably. I expect it depends on one’s nature: I think that some people are quite happy with the children who are already there, and I believe I am one of them. I have seen so many children and I could have had children of my own and yet I manage to be quite satisfied with the others.”
“Have you really seen so many?”
“Yes. You see, I travel.”
“I see,” the girl said in a friendly manner.
“I travel all the time, except just now of course when I’m resting.”
“Parks are good places to rest in, particularly at this time of year. I like them too. It’s nice being out of doors.”
“They cost nothing, they’re always gay because of the children and then if you don’t know many people there’s always the chance of starting a conversation.”
“That’s true. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you sell when you travel?”
“Yes, you could call that my profession.”
“Always the same things?”
“No, different things, but all of them small. You know those little things one always needs and so often forgets to buy. They all fit into a medium-sized suitcase. I suppose you could call me a traveling salesman if you wanted to give what I do a name.”
“Like those people you see in markets selling things from an open suitcase?”
“That’s right. I often work on the outskirts of markets.”
“I hope you don’t think it rude of me to ask, but do you manage to make a living?”
“I’ve nothing to complain of.”
“I’m glad. I thought that was probably the case.”
“I don’t mean to say that I earn a lot of money because that would not be true. But I earn something each day and in its way I call that making a living.”
“In fact you manage to live much as you would like?”
“Yes, I think I live about as well as I want to: I don’t mean th
at one day is always as good as another. No. Sometimes things are a little tight, but in general I manage well enough.”
“I’m glad.”
“Thank you. Yes, I manage more or less and have really nothing to worry about. Being single with no home of my own I have few worries and the ones I have are naturally only for myself—sometimes for instance I find I have run out of toothpaste, sometimes I might want for a little company. But on the whole it works out well. Thank you for asking.”
“Would you say that almost anyone could do your work? I mean is it the kind of work which practically anybody could take up?”
“Yes, indeed. I would even go so far as to say that simply through being what it is it is one of the ways of earning a living most open to everybody.”
“I should have thought it might need special qualifications?”
“Well, I suppose it is better to know how to read, if only for the newspaper in the evenings at the hotel, and also of course to know which station you are at. It makes life a little easier but that’s all. It’s not much of a qualification as you can see, and yet one can still earn enough money to live.”
“I really meant other kinds of qualification: I would have thought your work needed endurance, or patience perhaps, and a great deal of perseverance?”
“I have never done any other work so I could hardly say whether you are right or not. But I always imagined that the qualifications you mention would be necessary for any work; in fact that there could hardly be a job where they are not needed.”
“I am sorry to go on asking you all these questions but do you think you will always go on traveling like this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me for being so curious, but we were talking. . . .”
“Of course and it’s quite all right. But I’m afraid I don’t know if I will go on traveling. There really is no other answer I can give you: I don’t know. How does one know such things?”
Four Novels Page 2
