Farewell
The two friends were finishing dinner. From the café window they saw the boulevard, covered with people. They felt the caress of the warm airs that drift through Paris on calm summer nights, making a man raise his eyes towards the passersby, rousing in him a desire to get away, far away to some distant place, no one knows where, under green leaves; making him dream of moonlit rivers and glowworms and nightingales.
One of the two, Henri Simon, sighing deeply, said:
“Ah! I’m getting old. It’s sad. Once, on nights like this, I felt the devil in my bones. Today I feel nothing but regrets. Life goes so fast!”
He was already somewhat fat, aged perhaps forty-five, and very bald.
The other, Pierre Carnier, infinitesimally older, but slimmer and more lively, replied:
“As for me, my dear chap, I’ve grown old without noticing it in the least. I was always a gay dog, a jolly fellow, vigorous and all that. But when a man looks in his mirror every day, he does not see old age doing its work, for it is slow and regular, and changes the face so gradually that the transitions are imperceptible. That is the only reason why we do not die of grief after only two or three years of its ravages. For we cannot appreciate them. In order to realise them, we should have to go without looking at our faces for six months on end—then what a blow it would be!
“And women, my dear chap, how sorry I am for the poor things! The whole of their happiness, the whole of their power, the whole of their lives, lies in their beauty, which lasts ten years.
“Well, I have grown old without suspecting it, and thought myself almost an adolescent when I was nearly fifty. Not feeling within myself any infirmity of any sort, I went on my way, happy and carefree.
“The revelation of decay came to me in a simple but terrible manner, and prostrated me for nearly six months … then I resigned myself to my lot.
“I have often been in love, like all men, but once more than usual.
“I met her at the seaside, at Étretat, about twelve years ago now, shortly after the war. There is nothing so charming as the beach there, in the morning, at the bathing-hour. It is small, curved like a horseshoe, framed in the high white cliffs pierced with those curious holes known as the Gates, one very large, stretching its gigantic limb into the sea, the other opposite it, low and round; the crowd of women gathers together within the frame of high rocks, thronging the narrow tongue of shingle, covering it with a brilliant garden of bright frocks. The sun falls full upon the slopes, on sunshades of every hue, on the greenish-blue sea; everything is gay and charming, a smiling scene. You go and sit right at the edge of the water, and watch the ladies bathing. They come down the beach draped in a flannel wrap which they cast off with a pretty gesture as they reach the foamy fringe of the small waves; and go into the sea with swift little steps, sometimes interrupted by a shiver of delicious cold, a brief catching of the breath.
“Very few stand this bathing-test. There they can be judged, from the calf to the throat. Above all, when they leave the water, their weaknesses are plain to see; although the seawater is a powerful stimulant to flabby bodies.
“The first time that I saw this young woman under these conditions, I was ravished and seduced. She stood the test triumphantly. There are faces, too, whose charm comes home to us instantaneously, conquers us at sight. We think we have found the woman we were born to love. I suffered that sensation, that shock of emotion.
“I had myself introduced to her, and was soon caught as I had never been. She played havoc with my heart. It is a dreadful and glorious experience thus to submit oneself to a woman’s power. It is almost a torture, and, at the same time, an incredible happiness. Her look, her smile, the hair on the nape of her neck lifted by the breeze, all the tiniest lines of her face, the faintest movements of her features, ravished me, overwhelmed me, and maddened me. She possessed me with the whole of herself, her gestures, her attitudes, even the clothes she wore, which acquired magical powers. I thrilled at the sight of her veil on a piece of furniture, or her glove thrown down on an armchair. Her dresses seemed to me inimitable. No woman’s hats were as delightful as hers.
“She was married, but the husband came down every Saturday and went away again on the Monday. In other respects he left me quite indifferent. I was not in the least jealous, I do not know why; never has any human being seemed to me of less importance in life, or occupied less of my attention, than that man.
“How I loved her! And how beautiful she was, how graceful and young! She was youth, elegance, and freshness personified. I had never really felt what a pretty creature a woman is, how fine, distinguished, and delicate, fashioned of charm and grace. I had never realised the seductive beauty that lies in the curve of a cheek, in the quiver of a lip, in the round folds of a little ear, in the shape of the absurd organ we call a nose.
“It lasted three months, and then I went off to America, my heart crushed with despair. But the thought of her dwelt with me, persistent, triumphant. She possessed me from the distance as she had possessed me close at hand. Years passed. I never forgot her. The charming image of her remained before my eyes and in my heart. And my affection for her remained faithful, a calm affection now, a feeling like the loved remembrance of all that was most beautiful and seductive in my experience of life.
“Twelve years are so little in the life of a man! He never feels them pass! They go by one after the other, gently and swiftly, slow and hurried, each so long, and yet so soon finished! And they add up together so promptly, leave so little trace behind them, fade so utterly that when he turns to look at the time that has run by he sees nothing, and cannot understand how it has come about that he is old.
“It really seemed to me as though a mere few months separated me from that charming season on the beach at Étretat.
“Last spring I went to dine with some friends of mine at Maisons-Laffitte.
“Just as the train was starting, a stout lady got into my compartment, escorted by four little girls. I scarcely troubled to glance at this mother-hen with her brood, very wide and very round, her full-moon face framed in a ribbon-decked hat.
“She breathed hard, out of breath after walking fast. The children began to chatter. I opened my paper and began to read.
“We had just gone through Asnières when my neighbour suddenly said to me:
“ ‘Excuse me, monsieur, but are you not Monsieur Carnier?’
“ ‘Yes, madame.’
“Then she began to laugh, with the happy laughter of a contented woman, yet with a touch of sadness in it.
“ ‘You do not recognise me?’
“I hesitated. I certainly thought I had seen that face somewhere; but where? When?
“ ‘Yes … and no …’ I replied. ‘I certainly know you, but I can’t think of your name.’
“She blushed slightly, and said:
“ ‘Madame Julie Lefèvre.’
“I had never had such a shock. In a single instant I felt as though all were over with me! I felt that a veil had been torn from before my eyes, and that I was on the point of making frightful and heartrending discoveries.
“This was she! This fat, ordinary woman, she? And she had hatched out these four daughters since I had last seen her. The little creatures caused me more astonishment than their mother herself. They had come from her body; they were already big; they had taken their place in life. While she no longer counted, she, that marvel of fascinating exquisite grace. I had seen her only yesterday, it seemed, and now had found her thus! Was it possible? Violent grief oppressed my heart, and a protest, too, against Nature herself, an unreasoning exasperation at this brutal, infamous work of destruction.
“I looked at her in awe. Then I took her hand, and tears came into my eyes. I wept for her youth, I wept for her death. For I did not know this fat woman.
“She, also affected, faltered:
“ ‘I am greatly changed, am I not? But time goes by, doesn’t it? You see, I have become a mother, just a mother, a good mother. Farewell to the rest, it is all over. Oh! I thought you would not recognise me if we ever met. And you have changed also; it took me some time to be sure that I was not making a mistake. You’ve gone quite white. Think of it; it is twelve years ago! Twelve years! My eldest girl is already ten.’
“I looked at the child. And I found in her something of her mother’s old charm, but as yet a sense of immaturity, of something early and unformed. And life seemed to me swift as a passing train.
“We arrived at Maisons-Laffitte. I kissed my old friend’s hand. I had found nothing to say to her but the most appalling commonplaces. I was too overcome to speak.
“That evening, when all alone in my house, I looked for a long time into the mirror, a long, long time, and I ended by recalling myself as I had been, by seeing again, in my mind’s eye, my brown moustache and my black hair, and the youthful outlines of my face. Now I was old. Farewell.”