They were all feeling the overwhelming tiredness that overcomes members of the same family when they have been together for more than an hour. They were staving off a desperate desire to yawn, or go to sleep, which would vanish once they were outside. Even Alain longed to be in bed, forgetting that his wife would be there, too. But even her presence, with her tears and reproaches, would be better than this gloomy silence.
How impatiently they watched the hands on the clock slowly inching around! As soon as it got to ten o’clock they felt relieved and full of goodwill toward one another. Albert asked for more coffee, and drank it standing up.
“Good night, Mama, we don’t want to keep you up … Good night … Good night.”
She did not stop them. She was feeling tired herself. It was certainly a pleasure to see the children—these Sunday meals were a source of joy to her—but she did feel tired, especially tonight. She had caught a cold the previous day, and from time to time she shivered painfully. Then she felt stifled by the heat from the stove. She had once been used to living in the country for most of the year, in huge, cold rooms, and even here, when she was alone, she left all the windows open, in spite of the November rain; the smell of wet leaves, earth, and mist
wafted up to her from the grounds of Sainte Perrine. But the children complained about the cold, and since midday the radiators had been spreading that dry warmth and strong whiff of paint characteristic of Parisian flats every autumn when the first fires were lit.
Albert said, “I can’t take anyone with me. I’ve got to go and fetch the children. The car will be full.”
“Of course, old man, that’s fine! Good night, my dear fellow,” said Augustin cheerfully.
He kissed his mother again.
“Don’t forget me, my child. Why don’t you come during the day sometimes—the days are very long.”
“Of course I will, Mama,” he murmured with impatient affection, not listening to her. “Claire will look in, or I will, one of these days. Anyway, we’ll see you on Sunday, won’t we? See you then.”
As soon as they were outside they all went their separate ways. When Augustin and Claire were alone, she took his arm.
“Well?”
He shrugged. “Well, he won’t go, of course. How can he go without any money? He’s not going to leave Alix and the children on the streets. And he knows now that he can’t expect anything from us.”
This insane dream of Alain’s had brought them closer together than usual; they talked in a remarkably similar low, rapid, affectionate tone.
“What does Alix say about it?”
“What can she say? He wants a separation without any tears or arguments. This ridiculous departure is just a pretext. What did he say to you?”
“He says he doesn’t want to live in Europe any longer, that he can’t put up with his office job, that he hates it and is not suited to it. He may be right, but why can’t he just go off camping or fishing, instead of this? Abandoning his family, leaving them on our hands, no, absolutely not! We all have to manage our own lives! He’s responsible for Alix and the children. I think it’s outrageous that he’s trying to get rid of them by dumping them on us,” Augustin said angrily.
They fell silent as they walked in step together; their faces wore the same indignant expression. Each of them was thinking, “If it were only about money … but he’s asking for our time, our peace of mind, our happiness.” They would have to console Alix, calm down old Mme. Demestre. They loved them dearly, of course, as you do love your own flesh and blood. You want them to be happy, but you don’t want to be forced to look after them.
Huddled together under one umbrella, they went toward the metro station: rarely had they felt so close to each other. They had reached that state of perfect understanding between husband and wife that meant that each could speak without listening to the other, at the same time knowing instinctively that their words were a response not just to the other’s words but to their
most secret, hidden, unformulated thoughts. They were soothed by this brisk walk in the dark and the soft rain. Wearily, Augustin said, “I don’t want to talk about Alain anymore.”
They stopped and sniffed the breeze blowing in off the Seine.
Claire murmured, “Poor Alix.”
Then they went back to their own life: their plans, their worries, a chair in the flat that needed reupholstering, all those little preoccupations of daily life that unite married couples more strongly than love.
Meanwhile, their mother had closed the door after Alain and Alix, who were the last to leave. Alone, she went from one room to another, opening all the windows. How quiet it was! She did not usually hear the silence, but tonight, after her sons’ steps had faded away and all the young voices had gone, it overwhelmed her. It was that terrible silence of old age, when everything seems to come to an end at the same time: the noise of life lived beyond her four walls, the inner excitement of youth celebrating its joy …
She moved slowly around the room, feeling a sort of self-pitying but benign anger as she tried to disguise her frightful boredom. “Men are lucky,” she thought. “Even when they’re old they have things to interest them—politics, war and peace, world events—and they have clearer and more vivid memories. Women are left with nothing apart from knitting or a game of patience. Oh!
What happy sounds there used to be in this house: children’s voices, slamming doors, the sound of laughter and quarrels.” All she could hear tonight were the maid’s footsteps in the kitchen as her slippers brushed almost noiselessly across the floor, then a sigh, or the faint sound of a plate being placed gently on the sideboard, with a chink that echoed for a long time in the silence. She thought gloomily about her daughters-in-law. They had said this, done that … “Alix never says anything. She must make life difficult for Alain. Claire’s a good little thing, she gets along well with Augustin. But then who wouldn’t get on well with Augustin—the most intelligent and nicest of my children? Yet Claire herself … they never tell me anything. Do they think I wouldn’t understand? Well, it’s true, perhaps I wouldn’t understand …”
She let out a deep sigh; her head felt heavy and she kept shivering. She must have caught a chill. She rang the bell for the maid, querulously reminding her that her hot water bottle was never hot enough, nor was her bed properly made. Yet she did not move away from the open window, enjoying the feel of the wind ruffling her gray hair as she breathed in the smell of wet leaves. Then she went to bed.
Almost straightaway she felt the beginning of a fever. She had been ignoring her malaise since the previous day, but now it had taken hold. The first deep shudder, which seemed to come from the very marrow of her
bones, was followed by a burning wave, which she accepted patiently and almost with a sense of well-being; it warmed her up, her mood mysteriously lightened, and she recovered some of her lost liveliness and her sense of humor. She thought about her children, especially Albert. On hearing that his mother was ill, his first thought would be, “That’s all I need.” Poor boy! He assumed that family illnesses and all of life’s misfortunes were deliberately sent to him by fate. She smiled. She imagined the reactions of Augustin, Alain, and Mariette. “They hoped I’d leave them alone until next Sunday.” Her mind, which had become dulled through the passage of years, now grew alert, mischievous, almost lighthearted. She hadn’t always been a bad-tempered old woman—the children had forgotten that—and she thought about them, not as she usually did with admiration, respect, and incomprehension, but with that indulgent and ironic tenderness a mother sometimes feels for her children while they are still small, not yet quite human beings, as comical as puppies. They were helpless, touching … How comforting illness and fever can be, as they spread throughout the body and let wisdom and a clearer understanding flourish in their warmth.
Nevertheless, her teeth chattered as she endured the icy little waves that rippled through her; her elderly body was giving in to illness, accepting the rhythm of the fever. Soon her head seemed heavier and she felt a dull ache behind her eyes. She had difficulty breathing.
It was as if the air was trapped in her chest, inside her ribs, and, moaning with the pain, she made an effort to drag it up from deep inside her. She wanted to move the pillow so that she could rest her cheek on the fresh linen of the bolster, but it was hot and heavy. All at once she realized how weak and tired she was. She closed her eyes, and the treacherous fever rose up like a slow, relentless tide of ice and fire, drowning her. There was nothing left in her now, no thoughts, no regrets, no desires. The images of the children grew faint. All that remained was an ill-tempered body, feebly fighting its illness. How long the night can be!
By morning, her temperature had gone down. She arranged for her sons to be told. Each of them took an hour out of his day to go and see her, to sit by her bed, to say with dismay, “But yesterday you were perfectly fine!”
The doctor came in during the morning. He said they would have to wait; it was too early to give an opinion one way or the other.
The three daughters-in-law had taken up their positions, one by the bed, the others in the little parlor. Soon they sent their clumsy husbands away; the mother was left in the cool, calm hands of the wives, who gently tucked her in. Only Mariette went from one to the other with a drawn, frightened face. She went over to the bed to look at her mother, but her sisters-in-law reassured her with a gentle shrug.
“It’s a bad cold … It’s nothing.”
“It’s the time of year for it,” said Sabine.
“There’ll be a nurse here tonight, Mother.”
“What for?”
No one answered her. People don’t listen to the sick. The young women arranged the room for the night: they drew the curtains, dimmed the lamp, lit the fire, and arranged the medicine bottles on the mantelpiece, with their labels clearly visible.
Then they all went home. But it was an anxious and sleepless night for everyone. They had telephoned the doctor before going home, and he had promised to come back the next day.
“It’s flu, isn’t it?” Albert had asked.
“Yes … but it’s gone to her lungs. I could hear a rattle through my stethoscope. Well, we’ll have to see how things are tomorrow.”
Tomorrow … As they lay in bed, each of them closed their eyes, listened to the clock chiming, and gently stretched their legs between the icy sheets. It was a cold night. Occasionally Augustin would wake up with a start, muttering, “Wasn’t that the telephone?”
“No, go back to sleep. Don’t worry so much!”
At dawn he looked at his wife in the dim light coming through the shutters. She was sleeping peacefully, her wonderful dark hair spread over the pillow. “In spite of everything,” he thought, “I’m on my own. Claire sympathizes; she doesn’t suffer. But why should
she suffer? She’s looked after Mother well. She’s always made a point of saying, ‘Your mother’s not easy to look after.’ But now she’s sound asleep.”
He felt almost afraid, as he thought how far away from him she seemed, how unfamiliar. It was probably because of his dreams—a jumble of daydreams and nightmares that had sent him back to the years not so long ago when she had not been there. What was that idiot Albert doing? And Alain? He thought about them with irritation and scorn, yet he wanted to see them.
The second day went by very slowly. One by one they went into the room where the old woman was lying. She didn’t move. They said, “She’s sleeping,” and tiptoed away. But it seemed to them she was better. She woke up during the day and ate a little food; they all breathed more easily, although the women did not allow themselves to be distracted or deceived by hope.
The women! How useful, rational, and practical they were! They spoke quietly, saying, “Poor Mama.” They telephoned the doctor. They grieved as you would over the death of someone you are fond of but who is unimportant to you. When, at four o’clock, her temperature rose again, they were the first to say, “We must have a second opinion.”
The two doctors took a long time to arrive and, growing colder by the minute, the family waited in a mood of solemn impatience. It was late. None of them had had dinner. The sons were incredulous. “Mama, dying? Oh,
come now.” They needed time to take in the idea of her death. But how quickly the women resigned themselves to it! They adopted a mourning attitude; they were intent on dispelling any hope, sighing, “She never looked after herself properly.” “At her age, it’s serious if you ignore a cold.” “When my own mother died …”
They were troubled and upset, although they stayed very calm. What could be more natural, more to be expected, than the death of an old woman who was ill?
At last the consultant arrived. He listened to the patient’s chest, questioned the nurse, then announced, “Bronchitis … not too serious.”
He nodded at Albert and they left the room together. He said, “Look, it’s a bit worrying. I fear there may be complications with her heart. She’s getting pain and distress in the cardiac region. It’s worrying!”
“It’s not serious, is it?” asked Albert, bending his large, anxious face toward the doctor.
“If we manage to avoid complications in that area, I hope it won’t be serious, but … well, we’ll just have to wait, see how things are in the morning. I hope she may feel better in the morning.”
Albert listened and—gradually, slowly—the thought took shape in his mind, “She’s going to die … my mother’s going to die.”
[ II ]
THE EVENING DRAGGED ON SLOWLY. THE THREE
women sat knitting by the fire in the parlor; through the half-open door they could see the patient dozing; her cheeks were red and blotchy and her nose looked pale and pinched. The women watched her, shaking their heads. “Poor woman. She wasn’t so bad. A bit … bad-tempered, a bit spiteful … but at her age …”
They got up occasionally to go to the door and speak to the nurse.
“No change.”
“The doctor’s worried about her heart, isn’t he?”
“Yes. If it’s that, there’s nothing to be done.”
“How old is she? I wouldn’t want to live that long.”