Elective Affinities (21 page)

She had hardly exhausted the mansion and its environs before she felt obliged to start paying visits in the neighbourhood, and since they rode and drove very fast, the ‘neighbourhood’ meant quite a large tract of country round about. The mansion was inundated with return calls, and so that they should not be out when the return callers came definite appointments were soon being made.

While Charlotte was involved in settling affairs with the aunt and the future bridegroom’s secretary, and Ottilie and her staff of servants were seeing to it that, with such a crowd in the house, nothing should be lacking for their entertainment (trappers and gardeners, fishermen and shopkeepers were all kept busy), Luciane still continued to appear like a flaming comet drawing a long tail behind it. She soon began to find insipid the entertainment and conversation which commonly attended neighbourly visiting. She hardly let even the most elderly guest sit quietly at the card-table, and anyone she was in the least able to move – and whom was she not able to move with the charm of her importunity? – had to get up and join, if not in the dancing, at any rate in the games of forfeits and other lively party pursuits. And although all this, including the redemption of forfeits, centred upon Luciane herself, on the other hand no one, and especially no man, whatever sort of man he might be, went away quite empty; indeed, she succeeded in altogether winning over a number of older people of consequence by
discovering when their birthday or nameday fell and arranging a celebration of it. A skill quite her own in this sort of thing was very useful, so that, while everyone was favoured, each thought he was the most favoured of all, a weakness which the oldest man in the company was in fact most obviously guilty of.

If she seemed to have the fixed intention of winning over to herself every man of rank, reputation, fame or any prospect of these, of trampling wisdom and discretion under foot, and of gaining the toleration of even the quiet and thoughtful for her wild and whirling ways, she was still willing to pay plenty of attention to the young: every young person had his share, his day, his hour when she went out of her way to charm and captivate him. So she had soon had her eye on the architect; but he had so unaffected an air beneath his long black locks, he stood at a distance so erect and composed, he replied to everything so concisely and judiciously but without showing any inclination to be drawn further, that at last, half of set purpose, half because she could not help it, she resolved to make him the hero of the day and so win him too for her court.

It was not for nothing she had brought so much luggage with her (indeed a large quantity had also come after her arrival): she had provided herself with endless changes of clothes. If she took pleasure in changing three or four times a day into a succession of ordinary dresses such as would be seen anywhere in society, she also appeared sometimes in actual fancy-dress, as a peasant or a fishergirl, a fairy or a flowergirl. She did not shrink from dressing up as an old woman, so that her youthful face would look out all the more freshly from under her cowl, and she so confounded the actual with the imaginary that you really thought you were dealing with the
Saalnixe
.
^*

But what she chiefly used these fancy-dresses for was mimed tableaux and dances, in which she was a skilled performer. A young gentleman of her court had acquired sufficient dexterity at the keyboard to accompany her gestures with what little music was required: a brief discussion and they were in instant rapport over what he had to play.

During a pause in a lively party one evening somebody invited her, apparently on the spur of the moment though in fact at her secret instigation, to give them one of her performances. She affected surprise and embarrassment and had to be asked several times. She appeared undecided, left the choice to others, asked someone to give her a theme as if she were an improvisator, until at last the piano-playing gentleman, with whom she no doubt also had a prior arrangement, sat himself down at the keyboard, began to play a funeral march, and invited her to give them her Artemisia, a role she had so admirably perfected. She allowed herself to be persuaded and, after a brief absence, she reappeared to the sad caressing tones of the death-march in the figure of the royal widow, with measured tread and bearing before her a funeral urn. Behind her there was borne a large blackboard and a sharp piece of chalk fixed into a drawing-pen.

She whispered something to one of her admirers and adjutants, and he at once went up to the architect and invited and pressed him to take part in the performance, indeed to some extent physically pushed him into it: he was to draw on the blackboard the tomb of Mausolus and thus play a central role in the proceedings. However embarrassed he might outwardly appear – in his plain black modern suit he presented a strange contrast to all the gauze, crepe, valances, spangles, tassels and coronets – he was keeping himself tightly under control inwardly, which unfortunately only made him seem even odder. With the greatest gravity he stationed himself before the blackboard, which was being
held up by a couple of pageboys, and drew with much care and deliberation a tomb which, while it would have been more appropriate to a Lombard king than to the King of Caria, was so well-proportioned, seriously conceived, and ingeniously ornamented that its execution excited general delight and the finished work general admiration.

During all this time he had paid hardly any attention to the queen, devoting it all to the task in hand. When he eventually turned and bowed to her, and indicated he believed he had now carried out her commands, she held out to him the urn and intimated her desire to see it represented at the top of the tomb. He did as he was bid, though he did it reluctantly, since it could not be made to harmonize with the rest of his drawing. Luciane watched him impatiently until he had finished, for it had by no means been her intention that he should give her a conscientious performance: her desires and objective would have been better served if he had merely sketched in a few strokes something that might pass for a monument and then devoted the rest of the time to her. The way he had in fact acted had, however, brought her into the most embarrassing straits: for although she had tried to vary her postures and gestures to express her approval of the gradually evolving tomb, and had once or twice almost taken hold of him and pulled him round so as to establish some sort of communication with him, he had been so unresponsive and had borne himself so stiffly that she was again and again driven to resorting to the urn, pressing it to her heart and gazing up to heaven, until, because such performances necessarily grow more and more exaggerated, she finally came to look more like the Widow of Ephesus than the Queen of Caria. The representation consequently became somewhat protracted. The piano-player, who was normally patient enough, no longer knew what key he was supposed to be playing in, and he breathed a thankful prayer when he saw the urn at last standing on top of the tomb and, as the queen
was about to express her gratitude, he instinctively struck up a merry tune, so that, if the representation was thereby deprived of its solemn character, the audience was restored to perfect good humour and at once proceeded to applaud the lady for the wonderful expressiveness of her performance and the architect for the elegance and artistry of his drawing.

The husband-to-be especially was intent on engaging the architect in conversation. ‘I am sorry your drawing is so transient,’ he said. ‘But you will at least allow me to have it taken up to my room and discuss it with you.’

‘If you like I can show you some carefully done drawings of structures and monuments of this sort,’ said the architect. ‘This is no more than a fleeting sketch.’

Ottilie was standing not far off and she went up to the two men. ‘Do not neglect to let the Baron see your collection,’ she said to the architect. ‘He is a connoisseur of art and antiquities. I should like you to get to know one another better.’

Luciane came up and asked: ‘What are you discussing?’

‘A collection of works of art,’ the Baron replied, ‘which this gentleman owns and which he would like to show us some time.’

‘Let him bring it right away,’ Luciane cried. ‘You will bring it right away, won’t you?’ she added coaxingly and taking hold of him by both hands. ‘This may not be the right moment for it,’ the architect replied.

‘What!’ Luciane cried imperiously, ‘are you refusing to obey a command of your queen?’ and fell to raillery and cajoling.

‘Don’t be obstinate,’ Ottilie said in a whisper.

The architect took himself off with a bow that was neither a bow of agreement nor one of refusal.

He was hardly gone before Luciane set off again round the room like a tornado. She chanced to run into her mother. ‘Oh
how miserable I am!’ she cried. ‘I have left my monkey behind. They advised me not to bring him, but it’s only because my servants are too lazy to look after him that I am deprived of the pleasure of his company. But I’m going to have him brought here, somebody shall go and fetch him. If only I had a picture of him I’d be happy. I am going to have his portrait done and it shall never leave my side.’

‘Perhaps I can console you,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I have in the library a whole volume of the most marvellous pictures of monkeys. Would you like me to send for it?’ Luciane cried aloud for joy and the volume was fetched. The sight of these repulsive manlike creatures, made even more manlike by the artist’s brush, gave Luciane the greatest pleasure, but she was transported when she discovered a resemblance between each of these animals and people she knew. ‘Doesn’t that one look exactly like uncle?’ she exclaimed cruelly. ‘And that one like M—, the dealer in fancy goods? And that one like Pastor S—? And this one is what’s-his-name to the life! Monkeys are your real
Incroyables
^*
and I cannot understand why people want to keep them out of the best society.’

It was in the best society that she said this, but no one took it amiss. They had got so used to making so many allowances for the sake of her charm that at last her ill-breeding could get away with anything.

Meanwhile Ottilie was talking with the Baron. She was hoping the architect would come back: his collection, a more serious and tasteful one, would free the company from all this nonsense with the monkeys. It was in anticipation of this that she had entered into the conversation. But the architect was still absent, and when at last he did return he at once disappeared among the company without having brought anything with him and as if no one had expected
him to. For a moment Ottilie was – how shall we put it? – annoyed, indignant, taken aback; she had put in a good word for him and she would have liked the Baron to have passed an hour with him in a way he would have found pleasant, for, his boundless love for Luciane notwithstanding, he seemed to be suffering from her behaviour.

The monkeys had to give place to supper. Party games, more dancing even, finally a joyless sitting around punctuated with efforts to whip up again a mirth that was already extinct went on, this time as on previous occasions, until well after midnight. For Luciane was already accustomed to not being able to get out of bed in the morning or into it at night.

During this period there are fewer events noted in Ottilie’s journal, but she records more frequently maxims and aphorisms drawn from and applicable to life. But because most of them cannot have sprung from her own reflections, it seems probable that someone had passed on to her a book from which she copied what appealed to her. That much in them possesses a deeper and more personal meaning for her will be apparent from the red thread of which we spoke.

From Ottilie’s Journal

The reason we so much like to look into the future is that we would so much like to deflect to our own advantage the as yet undetermined events which hover there.

When we find ourselves in a great gathering it is hard not to think that chance, which brings so many together, ought also to lead our friends to us.

In however much seclusion you live, before you know it you are either a debtor or a creditor.

If we meet someone who owes us a debt of gratitude we remember the fact at once. How often we can meet someone to whom we owe a debt of gratitude without thinking about it at all!

It is natural to communicate yourself to others, but to receive
the communication of others without falsifying it requires culture.

We would not say very much in company if we realized how often we misunderstand what others say.

When we repeat what others have said, the reason we falsify it so much is probably that we have not understood it.

He who addresses others for very long without flattering them provokes antipathy.

Every assertion provokes its contrary.

Contradiction and flattery both make bad conversation.

The pleasantest company is that in which a cheerful mutual deference and respect prevails.

Human beings reveal their character most clearly by what they find ridiculous.

The ridiculous originates in the perception of an act which conflicts with custom or morality but does so harmlessly.

The sensual man often laughs when there is nothing to laugh at. His reaction to whatever stimulus he may receive never fails to reveal his inner complacency.

The clever man finds almost everything ridiculous, the wise man almost nothing.

A man of advancing years was criticized for continuing to concern himself with young women. ‘It is the only way of staying young oneself,’ he replied, ‘and that, after all, is what everyone wants.’

We are willing to acknowledge our shortcomings, we are willing to be punished for them, we will patiently suffer much on their account, but we become impatient if we are required to overcome them.

Certain shortcomings are essential for the individual’s existence. We would not like it if our old friends were to abandon certain of their peculiarities.

People say ‘He will die soon’ when someone does something contrary to his usual habits.