That’s what my admirer said when leaving, the first time he came to dinner at my place with Hamond the go-between.
For I do have an admirer.
The only term I can find for him is this old-fashioned one: he’s neither my lover, nor my flame, nor my gigolo . . . he’s my admirer.
“What a lovely intimate nook! . . .” That night I gave a bitter laugh behind his back . . . A shaded lamp, a crystal receptacle with water sparkling in it, an armchair by the table, the threadbare couch concealed by a skillful disarray of cushions—and a passerby, dazzled and superficial, can picture, within these dull-green walls, the secluded life, thoughtful and studious, of some superior woman . . . Ha, ha! He hasn’t seen the dusty inkwell or the dry pen or the book with uncut pages on the empty box of letter paper . . .
An old holly branch is curling up, as if it had fallen into the fire, at the rim of a stoneware vase . . . The cracked glass covering a small pastel (a sketch by Adolphe Taillandy) is waiting in vain to be replaced . . . My negligent hand has pinned together, and then forgotten, a scrap of paper around the light bulb that illuminates the fireplace . . .
A heap of five hundred postcards—scenes from Dominance—in their bands of gray paper, cover a fifteenth-century carved ivory, at the risk of crushing it.
All of this is redolent of indifference, of abandonment, of
“What’s the use?,” almost of departure . . . Intimate?
What intimacy huddles at night around a lamp with a fading shade?
I laughed and sighed with fatigue after my two guests left, and my night was long, irritated by an obscure feeling of shame deriving from the Big Ninny’s very admiration.
That evening, his naive faith, that of an infatuated man, shed light on my own self, just as sometimes an unexpected mirror at a street corner or on a staircase will suddenly reveal certain flaws, certain weaknesses in your face or figure . . .
But other evenings have gone by since then, bringing back Hamond with my admirer, or my admirer without Hamond . . . my old friend is conscientiously working at what he calls his dirty trade.
At times he presides over his pupil’s visits with the brilliant ease of an elder statesman—visits which I admit in all sincerity would be too much for me without his presence. At times he keeps in the background, though not for long; he lets us wait for him just the right amount of time, employing for my sake that parlor diplomacy which had been rusting in him . . .
I don’t doll myself up for them; I stick to my pleated blouse and my plain dark skirt.
I allow my face to relax in their presence, my mouth slack and closed, my eyes intentionally filmy; to my admirer’s obstinacy I oppose the passive demeanor of a girl whom her parents want to marry off against her will . . .
The only cares I take, for myself more than for them, is for those deceptive, summary surroundings in which I spend so little time; Blandine has condescended to dust the corners of the study, and the cushions of the armchair of the table retain the imprint of my repose . . .
I have an admirer.
Why him and not someone else?
I have no idea.
I look with surprise at this man who has succeeded in entering my home. Damn, how he wanted to!
Every element of chance served his turn, and Hamond helped him.
One day when all alone at home, I opened the door after the bell had rung timidly: how could I throw out that fellow who was waiting awkwardly, his arms laden with roses, alongside Hamond and his imploring look?
He has succeeded in getting in here; no doubt it was bound to happen . . .
Every time he returns I learn more about his face, as if I’d never seen it before.
On either side of his nose he has an already distinct crease which disappears under his mustache; he has lips of a somewhat brownish red, as often found in men who are too swarthy.
His hair, his eyebrows, his lashes are all as black as the devil, and it took a really bright sunbeam to teach me one day that, underneath all that black, my admirer has very deep-set eyes of a reddish gray . . .
When he stands up, he’s really a stiff big ninny, gauche, all bone.
Seated or semirecumbent on the couch, he seems to loosen up suddenly and acquire the charm of being a different man, lazy, relaxed, with felicitous hand gestures, and an idle way of leaning his neck back onto the cushions . . .
When I’m sure he’s not looking at me, I observe him, vaguely shocked at the thought that I don’t know him at all, and that this man’s presence in my home is as out of place as a piano in a kitchen.
How is it that, taken with me as he is, he’s never upset at knowing so little about me?
He obviously feels no need to and seems intent on merely reassuring me first and conquering me later.
Because, even if he has learned very quickly how to conceal his lust, how to soften his gaze and voice when addressing me (on Hamond’s advice, I bet!), even if, sly as a fox, he pretends to forget that he desires me, he doesn’t show any urge to discover me, either, to question me, to divine me, and I see him more attentive to the play of light on my hair than to what I’m saying . . .
How strange it is! . . .
Here he is sitting next to me, the same sunbeam sliding down his cheek and mine—and if it adds a touch of carmine to that man’s nose, mine must be dyed a bright coral . . . He’s absent, he’s a thousand miles away!
Every minute I want to get up and say,
“Why are you here?
Go away!”
But I don’t.
Does he think?
Does he read?
Does he work? . . .
I believe he belongs to that numerous, very commonplace category of people who are interested in everything but accomplish nothing.
No wit, a certain readiness of understanding, a quite adequate vocabulary enhanced by a beautiful, rich voice, and that promptitude for laughter and childish merriment noticeable in so many men: such is my admirer.
To be perfectly truthful, let me mention what I like best about him: a gaze that’s sometimes absent, questing, that sort of inner smile in his eyes which can be seen in sensitive people, whether violent or shy.
He has traveled, but just like everyone else: not very far, not frequently.
He has read what everybody reads, he knows “quite a few people” but can’t name three intimate friends outside of his elder brother; I forgive him for being so ordinary because his simplicity is devoid of all humility, and because he never talks about himself.
His eyes seldom meet mine, which I turn away.
I can’t forget the reason for his presence and his patience.
Yet, what a difference there is between this man sitting here on my couch and that wild animal with unruly desires which forced my dressing-room door!
I give no indication that I recall our first meeting, except that I hardly speak to the Big Ninny.