THE PRINCESS (II)
If I were to be asked about Ofélia and her parents, I should reply with decorous honesty: I scarcely knew them. Before the same jury I should testify: I scarcely know myself — and to each member of the jury I should say, with the same innocent look of someone who has hypnotized herself into obedience: I scarcely know you. But sometimes I wake from a long sleep and turn submissively towards the delicate abyss of disorder.
I am trying to speak about that family which disappeared years ago without leaving any traces in me, and of which all that remains is a faded and distant image. My sudden willingness to know was provoked today when a little chick appeared in the house. It was brought by a hand which wanted to have the pleasure of giving me some living thing. Upon releasing the chick from its box, its charm overwhelmed us. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, but the moment of silence I await all year came on the eve of Christ’s birth. Something chirping by itself arouses the most gentle curiosity which, beside a manger, becomes adoration. Well, whatever next, said my husband. He felt much too big and clumsy. Scruffy and with gaping mouths, the children approached. Feeling somewhat courageous, I gave in to feelings of happiness. As for the chick, it went on chirping. But tomorrow is Christmas, the older boy said self-consciously. We smiled, disarmed and curious.
But sentiments are like sudden water. Presently — just as water changes and loses some of its force when it attempts to devour a stone, and changes once more when we bathe our feet — presently there is no longer simply an aura and glow on our faces. Feeling good and anxious, we gathered round the distressed chick. Soft-heartedness leaves my husband cold and morose, something to which we have become accustomed; he tends to torment himself. For the children, who are much more serious, kindness is a passion. As for me, kindness inhibits me. Very soon the same water had changed, and we watched, ill at ease, entangled in our clumsiness as we struggled to be good. And now the water had changed, the expression on our faces gradually betrayed the burden of our desire, our hearts weighed down by a love which was no longer free. The chick’s fear of us also made us feel uncomfortable; there we were, and not one of us worthy of appearing before a chick; with every chirp it was driving us away. With each chirp, it was reducing us to helplessness. Its persistent terror accused us of thoughtless mirth which by now was no longer mirth, but annoyance. The chick’s moment had passed, and with increasing urgency it was expelling us without letting go. We adults quickly suppressed our feelings. But the children were silently indignant. They accused us of doing nothing for the chick or for humanity. The chick’s persistent chirping had already left us, the parents, uncomfortably resigned: such is life. Only we had never said so to the children, for we were ashamed; and we postponed indefinitely the moment when we should summon them and tell them straight that this is how things are. It became increasingly difficult, the silence grew, and they were slow to respond to our anxiety to give them love in return. If we had never discussed such things before, all the more reason why we should hide from them now the smile that came to our faces as we listened to the desperate squawks coming from that beak; a smile as if it were up to us to bless the fact that this is the way things are, and we had just given them our blessing.
As for the chick, it was chirping. Standing on the polished table, it dared not make a move as it chirped to itself. I never realized there could be so much terror inside a creature made only of feathers. Feathers covering what? Half a dozen fragile little bones put together for what purpose? To chirp terror. Mindful of our inability to understand each other and out of respect for the children’s revolt against us, we watched impatiently in silence. It was impossible to comfort the chick with words of reassurance, to console that tiny creature which was terrified just to have been born. How could we promise that everything would be all right? A father and a mother, we knew just how brief the chick’s life would be. The chick also knew, in the way that living creatures come to know; through profound fear.
Meanwhile, there was the chick with all its charm, an ephemeral, yellow thing. I also wanted the chick to experience the joys of life, just as we were expected to experience them, for its only joy was to make others happy. That the chick should feel it was superfluous, unwanted — one of the chicks is bound to be useless — and had only been born for the greater glory of God and, therefore, for the happiness of mankind. But in loving our dear little chick, did we wish it to be happy simply because we loved it? I also knew that only a mother determines birth, and ours was the love of those who take pleasure in loving; I rejoiced in the grace of having devoted myself to loving; bells, bells were pealing because I know how to adore. But the chick was trembling, a thing of terror rather than beauty.
The younger boy could stand it no longer:
— Do you want to be its mummy?
Startled, I answered yes. I was the messenger assigned to that creature which did not understand the only language I knew: I was loving without being loved. My mission might founder and the eyes of four children waited with the intransigence of hope for my first real sign of love. I recoiled a little, smiling and aloof; I looked at my family and wanted them to smile. A man and four little boys were staring at me, incredulous and trusting. I was the mistress of that household, the provider. I could not understand the impassiveness of these five males. How often I would founder, so that, in my hour of fear, they would look at me. I tried to isolate myself from the challenge of those five males, so that I, too, might expect love from myself and remember what love is like. I opened my mouth, I was about to tell them the truth: exactly how, I cannot say.
But what if a woman were to appear to me in the night holding a child in her arms. And what if she were to say: Take care of my child. I would reply: How can I? She would repeat: Take care of my child. I would reply: I cannot. She would insist: Take care of my child. Then — then, because I do not know how to do anything and because I cannot remember anything and because it is night — I would then stretch out my hand and save a child. Because it is night, because I am alone in another’s night, because this silence is much too great for me, because I have two hands in order to sacrifice the better of the two, and because I have no choice.
THE PRINCESS (II)
It was at that moment that I saw Ofélia again in my mind’s eye. And at that same moment I recalled that I had been the witness of a little girl.
Later, I remembered how my neighbour, Ofélia’s mother, had the dark complexion of an Indian woman. The dark shadows round her eyes made them very beautiful and gave her the sort of languorous appearance which caused men to take a second look. One day, when we were seated on a bench in the park, while the children were playing, she told me with that resolute expression of someone scanning the desert: ‘I have always wanted to take a course in confectionery.’ I remembered that her husband — who was also dark-skinned, as if they had chosen each other for their complexion — wanted to make a fortune in his particular line of business: he was the manager or perhaps even the owner of an hotel, I was never quite sure. This gave him an air of refinement but distinctly cool. When we could not avoid meeting in the lift, he tolerated an exchange of words with that haughty tone of voice which he had acquired in greater battles. By the time we reached the tenth floor, the humility his cold manner had forced from me placated him a little: perhaps he might even arrive home a little more amiable. As for Ofélia’s mother, because we lived on the same floor she feared we might become too intimate, and started avoiding me, unaware that I was also on my guard. The only intimacy between us had been that day on that bench in the park, where, with those dark shadows round her eyes and those thin lips, she had talked about learning how to decorate cakes. I did not know what to say and ended up by confiding, so that she might know that I liked her, that I, too, would like to take a course in confectionery. That one moment of mutual intimacy divided us even more, out of fear that any mutual understanding might be abused. Ofélia’s mother was even rude to me in the lift: the next day I was holding one of my children by the hand, the lift was going down slowly and, feeling oppressed by the silence which gave the other woman strength — I said in an affable tone of voice, which I myself found repugnant even as I spoke: