Part 19 (2/2)
”No, no! I don't know anything really. I used to play a little before I got married, but I've forgotten everything. I do love music. You're very talented, Monsieur.”
He looked at her and said seriously, ”Yes, I think I am am talented,” with a sadness that surprised her. talented,” with a sadness that surprised her.
Then he played a series of light-hearted, humorous arpeggios.
”Listen to this now,” he said.
He started playing and speaking softly: ”This is the sound of peace, this is the laughter of young women, the joyful sound of spring, the first swallows coming back from the south . . . This is a German village, in March, when the snow first starts to melt. Here's the sound of the stream the snow makes as it flows through the ancient streets. And now there is no more peace . . . Drums, trucks, soldiers marching . . . can you hear them? Can you? Their slow, faint, relentless footsteps . . . An entire population on the move . . . The soldiers are lost among them . . . Now there should be a choir, a kind of religious chant, unfinished. Now, listen! It's the battle . . .” The music was solemn, intense, terrifying.
”Oh! It's beautiful,” Lucile said softly. ”It's so beautiful!”
”The soldier is dying, and at that very moment he hears the choir again, but now it's a divine chorus of soldiers . . . Like this, listen . . . it has to be both sweet and deafening at once. Can you hear the heavenly trumpets? Can you hear the bra.s.s instruments resonating, bringing down the walls? But now everything is fading away, softening, it stops, disappears . . . The soldier is dead.”
”Did you compose that piece? Did you write it yourself?”
”Yes. I intended to be a musician. But that's all over now.”
”But why? The war . . .”
”Music is a demanding mistress. You can't abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she's gone.” He saw Lucile staring at him. ”What are you thinking?” he asked.
”I'm thinking that people shouldn't be sacrificed like this. I mean none of us. Everything has been taken away. Love, family . . . It's just too much!”
”Ah! Madame, this is the princ.i.p.al problem of our times: what is more important, the individual or society? War is the collaborative act par excellence, par excellence, is it not? We Germans believe in the communal spirit-the spirit one finds among bees, the spirit of the hive. It comes before everything: nectar, fragrance, love . . . But these are very serious thoughts. Listen! I'll play you a Scarlatti sonata. Do you know this one?” is it not? We Germans believe in the communal spirit-the spirit one finds among bees, the spirit of the hive. It comes before everything: nectar, fragrance, love . . . But these are very serious thoughts. Listen! I'll play you a Scarlatti sonata. Do you know this one?”
”No, I don't think so, no . . .”
The individual or society? she thought. Well, Good Lord! Nothing new there, they hardly invented that idea. Our two million dead in the last war were also sacrificed to the ”spirit of the hive.” They died . . . and twenty-five years later . . . What trickery! What vanity! There are laws that regulate the fate of beehives and of people, that's all there is to it. The spirit of the people is undoubtedly also ruled by laws that elude us, or by whims we know nothing about. How sad the world is, so beautiful yet so absurd . . . But what is certain is that in five, ten or twenty years, this problem unique to our time, according to him, will no longer exist, it will be replaced by others . . . Yet this music, the sound of this rain on the windows, the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside, this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war, this will never change, not this. This is for ever . . .
He suddenly stopped playing and looked at her. ”Are you crying?”
She quickly wiped the tears from her eyes.
”Please forgive me,” he said. ”Music brings out the emotions. Perhaps my music reminded you of someone . . . someone you miss?”
In spite of herself she murmured, ”No. No one . . . That's just it . . . no one . . .”
They fell silent. He closed the piano.
”After the war, Madame, I'll come back. Please say you'll let me come back. All the conflict between France and Germany will be finished . . . forgotten . . . for at least fifteen years. One evening I'll ring the doorbell. You'll open it and you won't recognise me in my civilian clothes. Then I'll say: but it's me . . . the German officer . . . do you remember? There's peace now, freedom, happiness. I'm taking you away from here. Come, let's go away together. I'll show you many different countries. I'll be a famous composer, of course, and you'll be as beautiful as you are at this very moment . . .”
”And your wife, and my husband, what will we do about them?” she said, forcing herself to laugh.
He whistled softly.
”Who knows where they'll be? Or us? But, Madame, I'm very serious. I'll be back.”
”Play something else,” Lucile said after a brief silence.
”No, enough. Too much music ist gefahrlich ist gefahrlich . . . dangerous. Now, you must play the society lady. Invite me to have some tea.” . . . dangerous. Now, you must play the society lady. Invite me to have some tea.”
”There's no more tea in all of France, mein Herr mein Herr. I can offer you some wine from Frontignan and some cakes. Would you like that?”
”Oh, yes! But please, don't call the servant. Let me help you set the table. Tell me where the tablecloths are. In this drawer? Allow me to choose one: you know we Germans are very bold. I'd like the pink one . . . no . . . the white one embroidered with little flowers. Did you embroider it?”
”But of course.”
”The rest I leave to you.”
”That's good,” she said, laughing. ”Where's your dog? I haven't seen him lately.”
”He's away on leave: he belongs to the whole regiment, to all the soldiers; one of them took him with them, Bonnet, the interpreter, the one your country friend was complaining about. They left for three days in Munich but the new orders mean they'll have to come back.”
”Speaking of Bonnet, did you talk to him?”
”Madame, my friend Bonnet is not a simple fellow. Until now, he's been having some innocent fun, but if the husband starts getting frustrated, he's capable of getting really involved. Schadenfreude, Schadenfreude, do you understand? He could even fall in love for real, and if the young woman isn't faithful . . .” do you understand? He could even fall in love for real, and if the young woman isn't faithful . . .”
”There's no question of that,” said Lucile.
”She really loves that country b.u.mpkin?”
”Without a doubt. And don't think that all the women around here are the same just because certain young girls let themselves get involved with your soldiers. Madeleine Sabarie is a good wife and a good Frenchwoman.”
”I understand,” said the officer, nodding his head.
He helped Lucile move the card table over to the window. She put out some antique crystal gla.s.ses cut with large facets, the wine carafe with the gilt silver stopper and some small painted dessert plates. They dated back to the First Empire and were decorated with military scenes: Napoleon inspecting the troops, Hussars in gold brocade setting up camp in a clearing, a parade along the Champ-de-Mars.
The German admired the strong, bright colours. ”What beautiful uniforms! How I'd love to own a jacket embroidered in gold like that Hussar!”
”Have some cakes, mein Herr mein Herr. They're home-made.”
He looked at her and smiled.
”Madame, have you ever heard of those cyclones which rage in the South Seas? If I've understood what I've read, they form a sort of circle whose edges are made of wind and rain but whose centre is so still that a bird or even a b.u.t.terfly caught in the eye of the storm wouldn't be harmed; their wings would remain unruffled, while all around them the most horrible damage was being unleashed. Look at this house! Look at us about to have our wine from Frontignan and our cakes, and think of what's going on in the rest of the world.”
”I prefer not to think about it,” Lucile replied sadly.
Nevertheless, in her soul she felt a kind of warmth she'd never felt before. Even her gestures were more delicate, more adept than usual, and she listened to her own voice as if it were a stranger's. It was lower than normal, this voice, deeper and more vibrant; she didn't recognise it. Most exquisite of all was this sense of being on an island in the middle of the hostile house, and this strange feeling of safety: no one would come in; there would be no letters, no visits, no telephone calls. Even the old clock she had forgotten to wind that morning (what would would Madame Angellier say-”Of course nothing gets done when I'm away”), even the old clock whose grave, melancholy tones frightened her, was silent. Once again, the storm had damaged the power station; no lights or radios were on for miles. The radio silent . . . how peaceful . . . It was impossible to give in to temptation, impossible to look for Paris, London, Berlin, Boston on the dark dial, impossible to hear those mournful, invisible, cursed voices telling of s.h.i.+ps being sunk, planes cras.h.i.+ng, cities destroyed, reading out the number of dead, predicting future ma.s.sacres . . . Just blessed forgetfulness, nothing else . . . until nightfall, time pa.s.sing slowly, someone beside her, a gla.s.s of light, fragrant wine, music, long silences. Happiness . . . Madame Angellier say-”Of course nothing gets done when I'm away”), even the old clock whose grave, melancholy tones frightened her, was silent. Once again, the storm had damaged the power station; no lights or radios were on for miles. The radio silent . . . how peaceful . . . It was impossible to give in to temptation, impossible to look for Paris, London, Berlin, Boston on the dark dial, impossible to hear those mournful, invisible, cursed voices telling of s.h.i.+ps being sunk, planes cras.h.i.+ng, cities destroyed, reading out the number of dead, predicting future ma.s.sacres . . . Just blessed forgetfulness, nothing else . . . until nightfall, time pa.s.sing slowly, someone beside her, a gla.s.s of light, fragrant wine, music, long silences. Happiness . . .
13.
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