Promise at Dawn Page 9

  Some years ago, during a performance of Faust at the Metropolitan in New York, I sat next to Rudolf Bing in his box. I sat there silently, my arms folded on my chest, my eyebrows twisted into a Mephistophelian knot, an enigmatic smile on my lips while, on the stage, an understudy was doing what he could with my part. I found something piquant in the thought that I was sitting next to one of the greatest operatic experts in the world and that he did not know. If, on that occasion, Mr. Bing felt some surprise at my diabolical and mysterious facial expression, here is the explanation, and I beg him to forgive me for not revealing my true identity to him.

  My mother adored opera, she had for Chaliapin an almost religious awe and admiration, and I have, therefore, no excuse. Often, when I was eight or nine, catching one of those tender and yet, it seemed to me, reproachful expressions on her face, I ran to my treasure island in the barn, and there, drawing a deep breath and assuming the proper heroic pose, my mouth twisted into a diabolical snarl, I burst forth with a magnificent “Ha! ha! ha! blokha” destined to shake the world. But alas! My voice had gone to live with another.

  If only once, just once, it had been granted me to appear before my mother in her royal box at the Paris Opéra, or even, more modestly, at La Scala of Milan, while a dazzled audience applauded me in my triumphant performance of Boris Godunov, I know that her artistic longings would at last have been fulfilled. But it was not to be. The only moment of triumph I had managed to give her was in 1932, when I won the ping-pong championship of Nice, in my eighteenth year. I won it once, but I have always been beaten since.

  The singing lessons were discreetly abandoned. I heard one of my coaches refer to me as ‘“the child prodigy”: he claimed that he had never in his life seen a youngster so completely devoid of ear, voice or talent.

  Even now I often put on my record player the record of Chaliapin singing my part in “The Flea” and listen somberly to my real voice that had left me for another man. And yet I was prepared to give it everything I had in me, and I think we could have been very happy together.

  Forced to admit at last that I possessed no special gift or hidden talent whatsoever, my mother decided, as so many parents have done before, that there was only one solution left open to us: diplomacy. Once this idea had taken root in her mind her spirits rose considerably, and since it appeared to her only natural that I should have the best the world had to offer, the least I could do was to become Ambassador of France—she would never have settled for less.

  The love, or rather the adoration, which my mother had for France has always been a source of considerable astonishment to me. I hope that I am not being misunderstood: I myself have always been a great Francophile. But it was not my fault: I was brought up in such a way that I had no choice. Try to listen, as a child, to the legends of France told you in the depths of the Lithuanian forest; look at the beauty of that mythical country reflected in your mother’s eyes; identify it once and for all with her smile of happiness and with her loving whisper, while she holds you in her arms; listen, sitting by a crackling fire, while the snow, outside, silences the world as if to help you hear better; listen, in that deep silence, to France being told you as if it were “Puss in Boots” or “Red Riding Hood”; listen to Jeanne d’Arc, and then open your eyes in wonder and hear voices every time you meet a shepherdess; gather your army of lead soldiers on the nursery floor and tell them that “from the top of these pyramids forty centuries are watching you”; take the Bastille at the head of your troops, and give the world liberty by attacking the nettles and the thistles with a wooden sword; learn to read by reading the fables of La Fontaine, and come to feel that French is your mother tongue—and then try to forget, try to see with your own eyes, try to get rid of the fairy tale. Even a prolonged residence in France won’t help you to achieve this.

  It goes without saying that the day came when that highly imaginary and theoretical vision of France as seen from the depth of a Lithuanian forest collided violently with the tumultuous and contradictory reality of my country. But it was already too late, much too late: I was stuck with the fairy tale.

  In the whole course of my life, I have heard only two people speak of France in the same tone: my mother and General de Gaulle. Both physically and otherwise they were as unlike as it is possible to be. But when, after the fall of France, I heard De Gaulle’s call to arms on the 18th of June, 1940, it was the voice of the old lady who sold hats at Number 16, Grand Pohulanka, as much as the General’s immortal words, to which I rallied without hesitation.

  From the age of eight, whenever we hit on difficult times—and we seldom hit on anything else—my mother would come and sit opposite me, her face weary and a haunted expression in her eyes. She would smoke a cigarette, look at me for a long time with a knowing and satisfied eye, and state with calm assurance: “You are going to be an Ambassador of France; your mother knows what she is saying.”

  All the same, one thing puzzles me. Why didn’t she ever make me President of the Republic while she was at it? Perhaps there was more reserve, more caution in her than I gave her credit for. More likely, in that romantic world of Anna Karenina and aristocratic officers in which she secretly lived, a President of the Republic did not truly belong to the “best people” and an Ambassador in his dress uniform cut a more distinguished figure in her eyes.

  More and more often I sought refuge in my secret hide-out among the sweet-smelling logs, and, after pondering for a while all the fabulous things that my mother expected from me, I would cry bitterly, silently; I just didn’t know how to go about it.

  Then I would climb out, with a heavy heart, trot back home and learn yet another of La Fontaine’s fables: it was all I could do for her for the time being.

  I am unable to tell exactly what sort of idea my mother had of the diplomatic career and diplomats generally, but one day she came into my bedroom with a preoccupied look. She sat down, waited a moment silently, and then embarked on a long discourse, the gist of which, for want of a better title, I can only call “the art of giving presents to ladies.”

  “Remember that it is far more effective to call in person with a small bouquet than to send a larger one by messenger. Never trust women that have several fur coats—they always expect another—have nothing to do with them, unless it is absolutely necessary. Always choose your gifts thoughtfully: if the woman is not very cultured, if she has no literary leanings, give her a good book. On the contrary, if she is intelligent, modest and truly interested in culture, give her some item of luxury, a bottle of scent or a beautiful shawl. Be careful, when you give her something to wear, to remember the color of her eyes and hair. With small objects—clips, rings, earrings—see that they go well with her eyes. If it is a dress, or a coat, choose it to go with the color of her hair. Women whose eyes and hair are the same color are easy to dress and will cost you less. Above all . . .”

  She looked at me with a deeply worried expression: “Above all, you must never accept money from a woman. Never. I would rather die than learn that you had. Swear that you will never accept money from a woman; swear it on your mother’s head.”

  I raised my hand and swore solemnly. It was a point to which she constantly returned and always with that worried and uneasy air.

  “You may accept presents as long as they are objects, a fountain pen, for instance, a wallet, even a Rolls-Royce if she insists, or a house, but money—never!”

  Nothing was ever neglected in my training as a man of the world. She read aloud to me La dame aux camélias, and when tears came into her eyes, and her voice broke so that she had to pause in her reading, I knew whom she saw as Armand, in her mind. Among other pieces of edifying literature which she read aloud to me, with her strong Russian accent, I remember particularly the works of MM. Déroulède, Béranger and Victor Hugo. She was not content merely to read poetry, but faithful to her past as a “dramatic artist” she declaimed, standing in the salon under the glittering chandeliers, with gusto, gesture and feeling. I remember
a certain rendering of Victor Hugo’s tragic evocation of Napoleon’s defeat, with its sinister line: “Waterloo, Waterloo, Waterloo, field of gloom. . . .” which gave me goose flesh: perched nervously on the edge of my chair, I watched and listened as she stood there, the book in one hand, the other raised in a most impressive manner toward the ceiling; her power of evocation sent cold shivers down my spine; my eyes wide, my knees pressed closely together, I stared at the “field of gloom” and I am sure that Napoleon himself, had he been present, would have been most impressed.

  Another important item in my French education was, naturally, the “Marseillaise.” We sang it together, my mother seated at the piano, and I standing beside her with one hand pressed to my heart, the other outstretched and pointing to the barricade, gazing defiantly into one another’s eyes; when we came to “Aux armes, citoyens!” she brought both hands crashing down on the keyboard, while I raised a clenched fist with a somber and threatening expression on my face; having reached “Qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons,” she gave the keyboard a last punishing blow and sat with her two hands suspended in the air, while I, stamping my foot and assuming an implacable and determined look, imitated her gesture, fists clenched and head thrown back, and thus we remained for a moment, staring at each other, until the last chord had ceased to vibrate between the four walls of the salon.

  1“The Flea.”

  CHAPTER 14

  My father had left us almost immediately after I was born; whenever I mentioned his name, which was seldom, my mother and Aniela exchanged a quick glance and hurriedly changed the subject. I soon came to the conclusion that there was something embarrassing and even painful about the whole business, and learned to avoid it altogether.

  I knew that the man who had given me his name had a wife and children, that he traveled a great deal and had gone to America. I met him several times. He was rather stout, had beautifully kept hands and kind eyes. With me he was always slightly uneasy and a little sad, though very nice, and when he looked at me with his gentle and, it seemed to me, reproachful eyes, I would lower my own guiltily—he always gave me the impression that I had done him a bad turn.

  He really entered my life only after his death, and in a way that I shall never forget. I knew that he had died during the war in a German gas chamber, disposed of as a Jew, together with his wife and two children aged, I believe, fifteen and sixteen. It was only in 1958, however, that I learned of a particularly revolting detail connected with his tragic end.

  I had come from Bolivia, where I was in charge of the French Embassy, to Paris, where I was to receive the Prix Goncourt for my novel The Roots of Heaven. Among the many letters which I received on that occasion was one that gave me certain details about the death of the man I had known so slightly.

  He did not die in the gas chamber, as I had been told. He died of fright, on his way to execution, a few yards from the entrance. My correspondent had seen it all with his own eyes: he had been acting as doorman or as receptionist—I don’t know what to call him, what the official title was that went with this sort of job.

  The man wrote me, thinking, no doubt, that it would please me to know that my father had escaped the gas chamber, that he had fallen stone dead of a heart attack before he could enter it.

  I sat for a long time with the letter in my hand. I didn’t feel anything and my head was completely empty. I put the letter in my pocket, walked out to the staircase of the N.R.F. publishing house, where I had come to collect my mail, and I leaned against the banister for I don’t know how long, in the clothes which had been made in London, with my title of Chargé d’Affaires of France, my Cross of the Liberation, my rosette of the Legion of Honor, and my Prix Goncourt.

  Albert Camus happened to pass by, and seeing that I was unwell took me into his office.

  The man who died of fear on his way to the gas chamber was little more to me than a total stranger, but on that day he truly became my father, and I want him to be known as such.

  I continued to recite the fables of La Fontaine, the poems of Déroulède and Béranger, and to read a book entitled Edifying Scenes of Great Men’s Lives, a fat volume in a pale blue binding with an engraving in gold representing the shipwreck of Paul and Virginie. My mother adored the story, which she considered to have a particularly inspiring moral tone. She often read aloud to me the noble passage in which Virginie, on the deck of the sinking ship, prefers to drown rather than take off her clothes in front of Paul. My mother never failed to sniff with satisfaction each time she read it to me. I listened politely, but already felt very skeptical. I was of the opinion that Paul didn’t know how to go about it, and that was all there was to it.

  So that I might learn how to maintain with dignity the important position awaiting me, I was made to study another fat volume, entitled Lives of Illustrious Frenchmen. This masterpiece too was read aloud to me, and my mother, having conjured up some admirable deed of Pasteur, Joan of Arc or Roland de Roncevaux, would lay the book down on her lap and give me a long look of admiration and love. The only occasion on which I saw her show any sign of rebellion was when she came upon certain unexpected corrections made by the authors in their treatment of history. They described the battle of Borodino as a French victory. My mother brooded for a moment about this paragraph and then, her Russian soul taking for once the lead over her love for France, she shut the book and, in a shocked voice, stated firmly:

  “That is not true. Borodino was a great Russian victory. They seem to be overdoing it here.”

  There was nothing, on the other hand, to prevent me from admiring Joan of Arc and Pasteur, Victor Hugo and St. Louis, the Roi Soleil and the French Revolution—here I must say that in that wholly laudable universe which France was in my mother’s eyes, she viewed everything with the same approval, and, calmly putting in the same basket the heads of Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, Charlotte Corday and Marat, Napoleon and the Duc d’Enghien, she served it all up to me with an admiring smile.

  It took me a long time to free myself from the influence of those penny plain and tuppenny colored pictures, and to choose from the hundred faces of France the one which seemed to me most deserving of my love. For a long time, the most typically un-French part of me was precisely this refusal or inability to discriminate among them, this total approval given to the most contradictory and conflicting aspects of “my country, right or wrong,” this absence of hatred for my countrymen, of indignation at some aspects of our history, and my complete failure to harbor grudges and resent old scores. I had to wait until I was a grown man to get rid of my Francophilia and thus become truly French; it was only around 1935, and most especially about the time of Munich, that I finally began to share my countrymen’s dislike for one another, and their faith, cynicism, love, exasperation, rage. The longing to knock some of them on the head, and kick them on the shins, together with a certain nostalgia for the guillotine, at last allowed me to turn my back once and for all on the old nursery tale and to come to grips with the fraternal, difficult, contradictory and exhilarating reality of my country.

  Apart from this highly patriotic education I received, from the results of which I found it so difficult to free myself, nothing was omitted or neglected which could extend the range of my experience as a man of the world.

  When a theatrical touring company visited our town, an open carriage was ordered and my mother, looking very gay and beautiful under an enormous hat, wearing a lovely dress specially made for the occasion, pearls glittering in her ears and around her neck, took me to see The Merry Widow or The Girl from Maxim’s or some other Cancan of Paris. Dressed, as usual, in velvet and silk, a pair of opera glasses pressed to my eyes, I gazed critically at the scenes of my future life, when the time would come for me at last to drink champagne from the shoes of lovely women in the private rooms of garden restaurants on the banks of the Danube, and to be sent by my government to seduce the wife of some Balkan prince, and thus put a spoke in the wheel of a military alliance which was being p
repared against us.

  My mother frequently made the rounds of the junk shops and returned home with a selection of old picture postcards showing me what she called “the best places” of the world, which were awaiting my appearance.

  I soon became familiar with the interior of Maxim’s and it was agreed that I should take my mother there at the first opportunity. She looked forward to it with obvious delight. She had dined there once—it was all most respectable, she insisted—in the course of a trip to Paris which she had made before the 1914-18 war.

  But her favorite postcards were those, in color, showing military parades, with handsome officers, their swords drawn, following their kings; or great ambassadors in full ceremonial dress riding in open carriages to present their credentials at court; or admirable ladies of the time—Cléo de Mérode, Sarah Bernhardt and Yvette Guilbert. I remember her showing me some violet robed bishop with his mitre on his head, and saying with approval, “Those people know how to dress.” Naturally, she always brought home all the postcards of “illustrious Frenchmen” on which she could lay hands—excluded, however, were those who, though granted posthumous glory, had been something of a failure during their lives. Thus a postcard representing the unfortunate son of Napoleon, l’Aiglon, which had somehow found its way into our album, was promptly removed with this simple comment: “He was consumptive”; whether the reason for this banishment was fear of contagion, or whether she regarded the career of the poor Roi de Rome as an example not to be followed, I cannot say. The painters of genius who had during their lifetime met with nothing but poverty and lack of recognition and the poètes maudits—Verlaine, Rimbaud and Baudelaire—especially Baudelaire—great composers who had died mad or had otherwise met with a tragic fate, were refused admission because, to use a well-known English expression, my mother would stand no nonsense; she regarded success and fame as something that should be given you in your lifetime, preferably while your mother is still alive. The postcard she most frequently brought home was of Victor Hugo. She was willing to admit that Pushkin, whom she adored, was a greater poet, but he had been killed in a duel when he was only thirty-six, whereas Victor Hugo had lived to a very advanced age and had died in a splendid blaze of glory, with all of France in mourning. She approved of him immensely, and wherever I went in the flat there was always the noble face of Victor Hugo looking at me, and when I say everywhere, I mean it literally. From our domestic Panthéon of yellowing cards she had categorically rejected Mozart—“he died young”; Baudelaire—“you’ll understand why later”; Berlioz, Bizet, Chopin—“they were unlucky”; but, strangely enough, and in spite of her horror of illness, and especially of tuberculosis and syphilis, Guy de Maupassant had found sufficient favor in her eyes to gain admission—after a slight show of embarrassment, I must say, and after a brief hesitation. My mother had a marked weakness for him, and the only books I ever saw her buy for herself were a complete collection of his works. I always felt a little uneasy at the idea that Guy de Maupassant might have met her in the days before I was born—I sometimes feel I had a narrow escape.