3,500 francs, “and thirty-five hundred francs is not a sum one throws into the Loire.”
I also learn that two soldiers borrowed a ladder to cross the Loire. They got into the water holding onto the uprights. But one of them drowned.
I admired the blossoms of some rosebushes planted in front of the house on the other side of the courtyard. I genuinely admire them but say so also to be attentive, for I’m the guest, the supplicant.I learn that they grow thanks only to the care of an old gardener, a nice old man, but one who works very slowly and to whom she pays seven francs an hour.
I am, I admit, a little irritated by this numerical evaluation of every object, by this transcribing of the world into prices. It seems too simplistic to me to see only vulgarity and a poor education here. This is irresistible and persistent, like a tic; I think it must be some sort of disease.
Moreover, Madame Soutreux’s welcome has a tense, mannered kindness, a kindness without warmth. But after all, by what right could we demand that she give us her heart? She isn’t refusing us access to her courtyard. She will introduce us to the mysterious, benevolent ferryman; she agrees that we can leave our car in her yard provided, of course, it won’t be for too long (this goes without saying and seems fair). She also agrees to watch over a few things that are precious to us.
Besides, it is she who holds the secret of the Loire; she is the goddess of the Loire. And we wish to cross the Loire at all costs. To cross the Loire, I’m prepared for any concession, any indulgence. That is why I offer to swim across the river to fetch the 3,500-franc rowboat still on the other shore.
We ready our bundles for the crossing and for our new journey on foot.
But an artillery duel begins over our heads. The French mortar shells fall near Ouzouer and the Germans’ shells hit the evacuated villages on the other side of the river. A rocket lands in the courtyard.
We no longer think of crossing the Loire.
Madame Soutreux offers hospitality. She gives us permission to stay in her courtyard and sleep in the car.
We are strangers. We appeared suddenly at this house, far from the main road, reachable only by a crude, rutted track. It is an ancient farmhouse consisting of a ground floor, level with the courtyard, and a shed topped by a hayloft. Its transformation into a Sunday pied-à-terre for Parisians is very recent. Only a single room has been furnished, which Madame Soutreux uses as both a dining room and a bedroom. The walls of the other rooms have not yet been paperedand the doors not yet painted. In one of the rooms there is a bed frame.
Madame Soutreux does not inhabit this vast, barely furnished house alone. People are moving around the courtyard and inside the house who seem familiar with the place and “fully authorized.” The most mediocre observer would grasp immediately that they form a temporary group and that they are strangely dissimilar. Some are nearly unclassifiable. The majority of novelists rely on a base of stable, well-defined mores. Their characters move toward or away from the customary. But in France since 1914, prejudices have weakened as much as their premises. Mores and social relationships have lost all solidity. Weak personalities have become incoherent, and this very incoherence lends them an apparent originality.
For eight days we lived among people some of whom seemed nearly inexplicable to us. At least surprising enough for us to be unable to readily describe them. I’m saying that only a Balzac, if that, could have brought some coherence to this group while leaving them their individuality—and would the times have let him?
Only the Aufresnes are perfectly legible to us, and their feelings are the only ones here that are not as strange to us as those of a Martian or a moon man. Formerly the manager of a department in a department store, Aufresne had set up on his own. Heavyset, he is a common type of Frenchman
I also learn that two soldiers borrowed a ladder to cross the Loire. They got into the water holding onto the uprights. But one of them drowned.
I admired the blossoms of some rosebushes planted in front of the house on the other side of the courtyard. I genuinely admire them but say so also to be attentive, for I’m the guest, the supplicant.I learn that they grow thanks only to the care of an old gardener, a nice old man, but one who works very slowly and to whom she pays seven francs an hour.
I am, I admit, a little irritated by this numerical evaluation of every object, by this transcribing of the world into prices. It seems too simplistic to me to see only vulgarity and a poor education here. This is irresistible and persistent, like a tic; I think it must be some sort of disease.
Moreover, Madame Soutreux’s welcome has a tense, mannered kindness, a kindness without warmth. But after all, by what right could we demand that she give us her heart? She isn’t refusing us access to her courtyard. She will introduce us to the mysterious, benevolent ferryman; she agrees that we can leave our car in her yard provided, of course, it won’t be for too long (this goes without saying and seems fair). She also agrees to watch over a few things that are precious to us.
Besides, it is she who holds the secret of the Loire; she is the goddess of the Loire. And we wish to cross the Loire at all costs. To cross the Loire, I’m prepared for any concession, any indulgence. That is why I offer to swim across the river to fetch the 3,500-franc rowboat still on the other shore.
We ready our bundles for the crossing and for our new journey on foot.
But an artillery duel begins over our heads. The French mortar shells fall near Ouzouer and the Germans’ shells hit the evacuated villages on the other side of the river. A rocket lands in the courtyard.
We no longer think of crossing the Loire.
Madame Soutreux offers hospitality. She gives us permission to stay in her courtyard and sleep in the car.
We are strangers. We appeared suddenly at this house, far from the main road, reachable only by a crude, rutted track. It is an ancient farmhouse consisting of a ground floor, level with the courtyard, and a shed topped by a hayloft. Its transformation into a Sunday pied-à-terre for Parisians is very recent. Only a single room has been furnished, which Madame Soutreux uses as both a dining room and a bedroom. The walls of the other rooms have not yet been paperedand the doors not yet painted. In one of the rooms there is a bed frame.
Madame Soutreux does not inhabit this vast, barely furnished house alone. People are moving around the courtyard and inside the house who seem familiar with the place and “fully authorized.” The most mediocre observer would grasp immediately that they form a temporary group and that they are strangely dissimilar. Some are nearly unclassifiable. The majority of novelists rely on a base of stable, well-defined mores. Their characters move toward or away from the customary. But in France since 1914, prejudices have weakened as much as their premises. Mores and social relationships have lost all solidity. Weak personalities have become incoherent, and this very incoherence lends them an apparent originality.
For eight days we lived among people some of whom seemed nearly inexplicable to us. At least surprising enough for us to be unable to readily describe them. I’m saying that only a Balzac, if that, could have brought some coherence to this group while leaving them their individuality—and would the times have let him?
Only the Aufresnes are perfectly legible to us, and their feelings are the only ones here that are not as strange to us as those of a Martian or a moon man. Formerly the manager of a department in a department store, Aufresne had set up on his own. Heavyset, he is a common type of Frenchman
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