anything to say. Luckily Rita, at that moment, handed me a dish containing a very elaborate pudding which I pretended to admire. “What a wonderful pudding!” I said.
“It used to be your favorite.”
I helped myself and was aware that Rita held back a small distance from the table. I did not know whether she was doing this from aversion or from that special kind of coquettishness which simulates aversion. My mother, who had not touched the pudding, gazed at me fixedly and implacably the whole time I was eating it. Finally she made a sign to Rita which I did not understand. The girl went out and a moment later reappeared with a bucket in which was plunged a bottle of champagne.
“Now let us drink a glass of champagne to your health.”
I watched Rita as, with movements which bore witness to a long-established habit, she drew the bottle from its bucket, undid the silver paper and, almost without any sound or gush of foam, pulled out the big cork. She poured champagne into our glasses and then hurried out of the room, as though she did not wish to disturb the festive rite with her presence.
There was I, then, champagne glass in hand, standing opposite my mother, who had also risen to her feet and was holding out her glass toward me. “Many happy returns of the day!” I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.
My mother started laughing. “It’s I who ought to say that to you,” she said. “You’re forgetting that it’s your birthday, not mine.”
I could not help replying: “The real celebration is yours. I’ve given up painting, I’m coming back to live with you, and so—many happy returns of the day!” And I bent forward and clinked glasses with my mother, who, this time, pretended not to have heard what I said. Then, after drinking, she placed her glass on the table and said: “It’s not cold enough.”
“Why? It seems to me very good.”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been long enough on the ice.”
She took up her glass again and emptied it completely. Then she pressed a bell on the table. Rita reappeared. My mother made the same remark to her about the champagne not being cold enough, without receiving or, apparently, expecting, any reply. Then she added that we would have our coffee in the study. Luncheon was over.
We left the dining room and went into the study, a not very large room occupying a corner of the ground floor. I had never willingly gone into the study, in fact I avoided entering it because it was a kind of temple of a religion which certainly was not mine. Indeed in this room my mother, seated in a big, leather, gilt-studded chair in front of a large baroque table of carved oak, and against a background of bookshelves in which there were few books but many rows of files, devoted herself, either alone or in company with her men of business, to the ritual, so deeply moving to her, of the management of her affairs. That day, too, I followed her unwillingly: and, once we were in the study, I could not help asking her: “Why here? Couldn’t we go into the drawing room?”
My mother appeared not to hear me. She installed herself behind the table, beckoning to me to sit down opposite her in the armchair usually reserved for those who came to talk to her on business. Then she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a key, drew back slightly, opened a drawer and took out a long, narrow ledger which struck me as looking like a book to be used in church, or anyhow connected in some way with religion. However, as I suddenly recollected, it was the ledger in which a list of all our property was kept, tidily and in order. My mother closed the drawer, put down the ledger on the table in front of her, looked intently at me for a moment with eyes glassier than ever, and then said: “A few minutes ago you asked me if we were rich, and I preferred not to answer because the maid was present. All the same, I’m glad you asked me that question. And now I’ll give you all the information you wish—partly
“It used to be your favorite.”
I helped myself and was aware that Rita held back a small distance from the table. I did not know whether she was doing this from aversion or from that special kind of coquettishness which simulates aversion. My mother, who had not touched the pudding, gazed at me fixedly and implacably the whole time I was eating it. Finally she made a sign to Rita which I did not understand. The girl went out and a moment later reappeared with a bucket in which was plunged a bottle of champagne.
“Now let us drink a glass of champagne to your health.”
I watched Rita as, with movements which bore witness to a long-established habit, she drew the bottle from its bucket, undid the silver paper and, almost without any sound or gush of foam, pulled out the big cork. She poured champagne into our glasses and then hurried out of the room, as though she did not wish to disturb the festive rite with her presence.
There was I, then, champagne glass in hand, standing opposite my mother, who had also risen to her feet and was holding out her glass toward me. “Many happy returns of the day!” I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.
My mother started laughing. “It’s I who ought to say that to you,” she said. “You’re forgetting that it’s your birthday, not mine.”
I could not help replying: “The real celebration is yours. I’ve given up painting, I’m coming back to live with you, and so—many happy returns of the day!” And I bent forward and clinked glasses with my mother, who, this time, pretended not to have heard what I said. Then, after drinking, she placed her glass on the table and said: “It’s not cold enough.”
“Why? It seems to me very good.”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been long enough on the ice.”
She took up her glass again and emptied it completely. Then she pressed a bell on the table. Rita reappeared. My mother made the same remark to her about the champagne not being cold enough, without receiving or, apparently, expecting, any reply. Then she added that we would have our coffee in the study. Luncheon was over.
We left the dining room and went into the study, a not very large room occupying a corner of the ground floor. I had never willingly gone into the study, in fact I avoided entering it because it was a kind of temple of a religion which certainly was not mine. Indeed in this room my mother, seated in a big, leather, gilt-studded chair in front of a large baroque table of carved oak, and against a background of bookshelves in which there were few books but many rows of files, devoted herself, either alone or in company with her men of business, to the ritual, so deeply moving to her, of the management of her affairs. That day, too, I followed her unwillingly: and, once we were in the study, I could not help asking her: “Why here? Couldn’t we go into the drawing room?”
My mother appeared not to hear me. She installed herself behind the table, beckoning to me to sit down opposite her in the armchair usually reserved for those who came to talk to her on business. Then she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a key, drew back slightly, opened a drawer and took out a long, narrow ledger which struck me as looking like a book to be used in church, or anyhow connected in some way with religion. However, as I suddenly recollected, it was the ledger in which a list of all our property was kept, tidily and in order. My mother closed the drawer, put down the ledger on the table in front of her, looked intently at me for a moment with eyes glassier than ever, and then said: “A few minutes ago you asked me if we were rich, and I preferred not to answer because the maid was present. All the same, I’m glad you asked me that question. And now I’ll give you all the information you wish—partly
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