every moment of joy or pain once they have struck me. One day, I’ll go and see the house where he lives.’
Months went by, however, and still she couldn’t bring herself to go. What good would it do? It was so childish . . . Most importantly, she mustn’t find more ways to feed a dream that was gradually becoming less damaging, only half real, half imagination. As she grew up, she had become more and more distanced from it, just as you forget a book you read and loved passionately when you were a child. You may still love it, but back then, you believed in it. Now you realise that it was nothing but poetry, fiction, an illusion, less than nothing . . . Nevertheless, she had to avoid recalling anything from behind the door she had closed for ever, be careful not to remember any concrete details – the shape of a face, a voice, a look that might suddenly recreate the dream, give it the depth, the force, the taste of reality. And so, nearly two years passed.
13
One day, Ada went to the Rue des Belles-Feuilles to deliver a dress. As she was coming back, she walked slowly, hesitantly, towards number 40, only a few steps away. Good Lord, why not? It was an innocent pleasure, and she had very few pleasures at all. Since chance had brought her so close to the one she had loved throughout her childhood (she realised now the absurd and unwavering nature of her feelings, which really were similar to love), why not get closer, look at the house, risk catching a glimpse of Harry? She walked slowly on, her heart pounding. Then she saw a grand house; it was not particularly large and had a stone balcony that ran beneath three high French windows. She vaguely remembered a painting from the French School in which windows like these opened out on to gardens in which women in pale-pink crinoline dresses danced in a pavilion with black and white paving stones.
And then, as if to complete the analogy, some young men and women came out on to the balcony and stood beneath the beautiful, leafy June trees that framed the house; she could hear an orchestra playing in the background, the joyous, soft sounds of a party. It was the time of year when balls and afternoon dances were held. Yes, they were dancing, having fun: she could seecouples through the open windows, others leaning against the balcony. Here was an entire world of pleasure and refinement that was foreign to her, a world she had never even dreamed of because it was so distant from her, so strange. How happy those young women were! It was getting late, nearly seven o’clock, and the light was particularly soft and pale, melting into the clear, warm dusk. Which one of the boys was Harry? Impossible to recognise him. She looked for the most handsome, the one with the best physique, and called him Harry in her heart.
One of the young girls leaned out over the balcony, dangling streamers over the edge. Ada was fascinated by the colour of her dress: green and silver. It was hot; Ada was thirsty and her mouth burned from the dust; she’d been walking for a long time. That colour – greenish water beneath a carpet of young leaves drenched in rain – quenched her thirst. She admired the beauty and happiness of those young women, but she didn’t envy them any more than she might envy the figures in a painting. Quite the contrary: she was grateful to them for giving her a little taste of the party, the music, the smiles, the luminosity of their fair hair in the June light.
‘I’d like to paint this,’ she thought. ‘It’s not exactly my style . . . I prefer darker, more squalid scenes, but perhaps just once . . . those dresses the colour of flowers, dusk in summer, and the clear light, so pale against the trees . . . It’s all so beautiful!’
From her bag she took out the sketchbook and worn-down pencil she always had with her and quickly drew the pose of the young woman with the ribbons leaning over the balustrade. Behind her stood a young man, watching her. Was it
Months went by, however, and still she couldn’t bring herself to go. What good would it do? It was so childish . . . Most importantly, she mustn’t find more ways to feed a dream that was gradually becoming less damaging, only half real, half imagination. As she grew up, she had become more and more distanced from it, just as you forget a book you read and loved passionately when you were a child. You may still love it, but back then, you believed in it. Now you realise that it was nothing but poetry, fiction, an illusion, less than nothing . . . Nevertheless, she had to avoid recalling anything from behind the door she had closed for ever, be careful not to remember any concrete details – the shape of a face, a voice, a look that might suddenly recreate the dream, give it the depth, the force, the taste of reality. And so, nearly two years passed.
13
One day, Ada went to the Rue des Belles-Feuilles to deliver a dress. As she was coming back, she walked slowly, hesitantly, towards number 40, only a few steps away. Good Lord, why not? It was an innocent pleasure, and she had very few pleasures at all. Since chance had brought her so close to the one she had loved throughout her childhood (she realised now the absurd and unwavering nature of her feelings, which really were similar to love), why not get closer, look at the house, risk catching a glimpse of Harry? She walked slowly on, her heart pounding. Then she saw a grand house; it was not particularly large and had a stone balcony that ran beneath three high French windows. She vaguely remembered a painting from the French School in which windows like these opened out on to gardens in which women in pale-pink crinoline dresses danced in a pavilion with black and white paving stones.
And then, as if to complete the analogy, some young men and women came out on to the balcony and stood beneath the beautiful, leafy June trees that framed the house; she could hear an orchestra playing in the background, the joyous, soft sounds of a party. It was the time of year when balls and afternoon dances were held. Yes, they were dancing, having fun: she could seecouples through the open windows, others leaning against the balcony. Here was an entire world of pleasure and refinement that was foreign to her, a world she had never even dreamed of because it was so distant from her, so strange. How happy those young women were! It was getting late, nearly seven o’clock, and the light was particularly soft and pale, melting into the clear, warm dusk. Which one of the boys was Harry? Impossible to recognise him. She looked for the most handsome, the one with the best physique, and called him Harry in her heart.
One of the young girls leaned out over the balcony, dangling streamers over the edge. Ada was fascinated by the colour of her dress: green and silver. It was hot; Ada was thirsty and her mouth burned from the dust; she’d been walking for a long time. That colour – greenish water beneath a carpet of young leaves drenched in rain – quenched her thirst. She admired the beauty and happiness of those young women, but she didn’t envy them any more than she might envy the figures in a painting. Quite the contrary: she was grateful to them for giving her a little taste of the party, the music, the smiles, the luminosity of their fair hair in the June light.
‘I’d like to paint this,’ she thought. ‘It’s not exactly my style . . . I prefer darker, more squalid scenes, but perhaps just once . . . those dresses the colour of flowers, dusk in summer, and the clear light, so pale against the trees . . . It’s all so beautiful!’
From her bag she took out the sketchbook and worn-down pencil she always had with her and quickly drew the pose of the young woman with the ribbons leaning over the balustrade. Behind her stood a young man, watching her. Was it
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