I'll Never Be Young Again (25 page)

In February the Seine was frozen, great cakes of ice floated on the surface of the water, blocked together, swirling majestically in the current of a stream, and it looked like the breaking up of an Arctic river, white and relentless, the ice lumps cracking and tossing against each other in strange confusion.

There was a certain exhilaration in this, that Paris should be in the grip of such a thing, the slow procession of crushed ice on the surface of the Seine. It was as if the idea of it had been thrown on to a vast canvas, a splash of grey and white, and the picture of it remained with me in the cramped space of my room, making me forget about the cold, remembering only the magnificence and strength of winter that burst unhindered, scornful of humanity, caring not at all. When the thaw came the streets ran with water, the rain falling from the leaden sky like a sheet aslant, spattering on to the cobbled stones, twisting round corners in a gust of wind, and a thousand-odd lights were reflected in the shining puddles, the striped blinds of a café, the black skirt of a priest, the rain dripping from a spout on to his broad hat, the purple coat of a woman bent under an umbrella. One day a watery sun showed itself for a few hours, and there was a break in the sky as large as a man’s head, a little patch of pale blue, and next day I was awakened by a bird singing, and a streak of sun making a pattern on the floor, and when I went out there was a woman at the corner of the street in a green shawl selling oranges, a girl without a hat running in a check dress with a basket on her arm; the doors of the cafés were open, letting in the fresh clean air, and the tight black buds on a tree had loosened during the night, softened and were round, little shoots of green coming into view, curling like feathers.

People did not hurry any more; they were no longer nipped and strained, they wandered along the boulevards looking into the windows, they sat down outside the cafés and read a paper, somebody laughed, somebody whistled, and trams flashed past bright in the sun, a child bowled a hoop followed by a little barking dog, and a girl strolled on the arm of a young man, a new blue hat on her head.

Then I knew that the old winter was gone, and this was a breath of something new, sparkling and dancing in the air. I wanted to capture it somehow and hold it close, this trembling joyous thing infinitely precious, and I went on walking with no purpose, listening to the clash of bells from a church as they struck
midi
, a troop of boys running from school, their satchels slung over their shoulders, girls chattering, linking arms.

White clouds were spun in the sky, and the fresh wet streets echoed the blue and the golden spots from the sun. An old man stood by a kiosk with a straw hat and a cane, and a little red flower in his buttonhole. Surely a most ridiculous old man.There was a sparrow at his feet, hopping about, nosing for crumbs, absurdly expectant, and from a window above a café a woman leant shaking a rug, pausing an instant looking along the street, her dark hair caught in a sudden frame of light. Then she turned away, back into the room, and the old man sauntered across the street, swinging his cane, his hat on the back of his head, and the sparrow lifted his wings suddenly and rose into the air, fluttering, dipping, losing himself above the roofs and was gone.

I strolled along with my hands in my pockets, smiling for no reason, singing a song.

I knew now that I should be able to write, that the words I had already written would count for nothing, would pass by as though they had never been, and that when I went into my room I should throw open the window and let this fresh sweet air lighten the dull walls, and I would sit down with a new strength, that had not as yet been part of me, rising from within, powerful, beautiful and true. I would work as I had never worked before, purified, possessed, a light coming to me, breaking through the dark and dusty channels of my mind.

This was great, this was how I wanted to feel, this was the grandest thing that had ever happened. I went into the Coupole to get something to eat, and then to shut myself afterwards in my room, confident, supremely alone.

The restaurant was very full, I had to share a table with a girl. I looked down at her, excusing myself, and she glanced up with a flash of a smile, not answering or taking any notice. She wore an orange béret and she was eating macaroni, spilling it, twisting it round on her fork.

So I saw Hesta for the first time.

 

I remember I ate macaroni, too. I had never liked it before, but I glanced sideways at her plate, and somehow she made it look good, so that I felt that there was nothing in the world I wanted more than macaroni. She spread herself at the table, taking up more room than she needed. I sat on the edge of the seat. I felt I had no right to be there. It was too late to make some excuse and move away. The table was narrow, very cramped for two people who did not know each other.

It seemed silly not to be talking. Yet it was obvious that if I started some form of conversation it would only be because I was a man and she was a girl, and I had looked at her and seen that she was pretty. She did not seem to be aware of me at all, so I left it and went on eating macaroni. We handed butter and bread to each other without speaking. People passed up and down in front of our table. A boy with long hair wandered about with a portfolio under his arm. He seemed to be looking for a free meal. I felt that his pictures would be bad. The girl stretched out her hand and reached for her half-bottle of Evian. Her fair hair had slipped a little from under her orange béret. I thought suddenly that it was fun to be living alone in Paris and writing a book. She finished her macaroni and began peeling a tangerine. I had a tangerine, too. She spat a pip on to my plate by mistake, and then she spoke for the first time.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s quite all right,’ I said.

We went on eating our tangerines. She was making a mess of hers, not breaking it into filters, but sucking it noisily, getting the juice all over her fingers.

‘They’re awkward things to eat,’ I said.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. There did not seem much reason to go on with the conversation.

I pretended to be interested in something that was happening at the other end of the restaurant. I wrinkled up my eyes and stared thoughtfully, and then broke into a smile, acting very hard. I don’t believe she noticed anything of this. When I glanced at her to see she was looking in the opposite direction. I gave it up as a bad job and offered her a cigarette. To my surprise she took one. I spoilt it, though, by bringing out a lighter that did not work. There was not even a flicker of a spark. She reached for a match as though she had expected this, while I went on jabbing at the wretched flint, blackening my thumb.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said kindly,‘I always use a match myself.’

That did not help me, though, what she did; that was not the point. I had not made the beginning I had wished. I ought to have leant towards her carelessly, with a suggestion of confidence, my left hand flaring the lighter to her cigarette, then shutting it with a snap, and calling to the waiter for my bill. Instead of this I sat meekly, accepting a light from her match, wondering what I should say.

She was friendly now, there seemed to be a bond between us because she was smoking one of my cigarettes.

‘You are an artist, I suppose?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No; as a matter of fact, I’m trying to write a book.’

She looked at me gravely.

‘That must be very difficult,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I was sorry I did not appear as though writing were easy to me. Perhaps she did not think I took it seriously.

‘I’ve been working on it all the winter,’ I went on hurriedly; ‘I guess I’m too critical to let things slide along anyhow. I tear up a whole lot before I am satisfied.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

I did not see why she accepted that as natural. After all, plenty of writers just fired straight ahead. I felt as though I wanted to go on talking to her about my book; I would have liked her to sit there and ask me questions. Still, I had to get her things over first.

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘I study music.’

‘Oh! that’s great.’

‘Yes - I like it,’ she said.

‘Music and writing have much in common,’ I said, trying to get back to myself again, ‘and I should think Paris is about the best place to do both. What do you say?’

‘Paris is quite nice,’ she said. ‘Nice’ seemed to be the wrong word.

‘No, you mean it’s vital, terrific,’ I said;‘you mean there’s something about Paris that gives you a mental slap all the time, and you can’t just sit still and do nothing. You’ve got to work, to keep up with the pace, the sting in the atmosphere.’

Suddenly I felt like talking a great deal. ‘And it’s not only over here in Montparnasse you feel it,’ I went on, ‘it’s the other side too, the electricity in the air. There’s nothing dead or used about it, everything is glowing, everything is alive. You stand in the Place de la Concorde, like any common tourist, and you look up the Champs-Élysées to the Étoile - that long slope, the line of traffic - why, it gets you, it does something inside you, you want to throw back your head and shout.’

She smiled vaguely, as though I were a fool.

‘I prefer the country,’ she said.

‘Oh! sure,’ I said, ‘the country’s all right; I love a day out in the country, but not to live, not for any length of time. Why, it’s the same, it doesn’t change, but here in Paris it’s different every day, there’s a throb of excitement all the time, a suggestion that any moment a tremendous thing is going to happen. If I lived out in the country I’d have to dash up every second in case I was missing something.’

She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

‘You’re mad,’ she said briefly, dismissing me. It seemed as though my words had gone for nothing.

‘Where do you live?’ I said.

‘I’m staying at a
pension de famille
in the Boulevard Raspail,’ she answered; ‘it’s fairly comfortable, but they are rather strict about hours. They don’t like you getting back late. Not that I mind much, as I don’t go out a lot, not in the evening. It’s too cold, anyway.’

‘Just the feeling that they minded would be enough for me,’ I said; ‘I wouldn’t let myself be tied at all. I’ve got a room in the Rue du Cherche-Midi. Not much of a place, but I can do as I like.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘It’s marvellous,’ I went on, ‘not being stuck at some job that can’t be left. You see, with writing I can choose my own time. I can work or be slack, just as it pleases me. I get away any time I like and come and have a drink.’

‘I should find that rather distracting,’ she said.

‘Oh! Lord, no, not a bit of it,’ I answered, laughing; ‘once you get the hang of it you can empty your mind at any moment. Then when you go back you just pick up the thread where you left off.’

I could not make out whether she was impressed or not. She was looking at me, but her eyes seemed to drift a little way beyond. I thought if I went on talking she would go on looking at me like that. It was the grandest thing. I tried to make my voice as monotonous as possible, so as not to wake her up out of her dream.

‘It’s no good waiting until ideas come,’ I said softly, ‘otherwise I’d just sit around and wait all day. I have to force myself, as much as a bricklayer forces himself to lay bricks. And I dare say it’s the same with your music, you have to work your fingers at scales and arpeggios, you don’t wait until some melody comes floating out of the air. You hammer away . . .’

She did not seem to notice what nonsense I was talking. She just gazed in the distance, through me as it were, and I knew that in a moment I would not be able to go on talking, but I would have to prop my elbow on the table and lean against my fist and stare at her, losing myself. It was not fair to look as she did. It was not fair to think we had sat through the whole of our lunch without speaking. Nobody in the world could talk more nonsense than I at that moment.

‘You loving the country,’ I said, ‘I expect you’re absolutely right about that; you don’t have the look of belonging to this sort of rush and scramble, you ought to have things made easy, you ought to - I don’t know what you ought to do. Listen, aren’t you glad the winter’s over?’

She laughed then, she seemed to wake up and take notice once again.

‘What’s that got to do with all you’ve been saying?’ said she.

‘A whole lot,’ I said, ‘but I can’t explain; maybe you wouldn’t understand, anyway. Gosh! I feel grand today. I felt grand when I woke up this morning. I leant out of my window and it wasn’t raining, and there was a patch of sunlight on the pavement opposite, and a girl without a hat running along with a dog. The air smelt good, fresh and sweet, somehow, and the striped blinds of a café were fluttering in the wind. The puddles in the street were blue, same as the sky.’

‘Those are nice feelings,’ she said. I saw then that ‘nice’ was a word of hers. ‘In the Boulevard Raspail it’s difficult to breathe in that way,’ she went on. ‘I share a room with another girl, she’s Austrian, she sleeps with her mouth open and dark hair spread all over the pillow. She likes the window shut very tight while she dresses, in case anyone should look in, passing by in a tram. That’s silly, isn’t it?’

‘Very silly,’ I said.

‘So I miss the fun of getting up in the mornings like you,’ she said.

I could see the Austrian girl lying spread-eagled in an untidy bed, her hands tossed awkwardly, her face putty-coloured and flabby, and this girl waking and sitting up very straight, her eyes solemn like a child, gazing at a square patch of sky through the window which she could not reach.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but you get away from the pension, out in the street, and you walk along with the wind catching at your hair, and people passing you, laughing and talking, and an old woman selling flowers, and then surely you smile because you can’t help it, and you feel fine.’