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Authors: Milan Kundera
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bottom. Her husband would come to sit at her bedside, grip her hand, and gaze into her eyes; she knew that he attributed her nervous collapse to History's horrors, and she thought with shame that she had deceived him while he, in this difficult time, was being good to her and trying to be her friend.
As for Magda—the maid who had been living in the villa for several years and about whom Grandmama, respectful of a sturdy democratic tradition, would say that she considered her more a member of the family than an employee—she came in weeping one day because her fiance had been arrested by the Gestapo. And a few days later the fiances name appeared in black letters oh a dark red poster among the names of others who had been shot, and Magda was given a few days off.
When she came back, she said that her fiance's parents had been unable to obtain his ashes and that they would probably never know the location of their son's remains. She dissolved in tears and continued to weep almost every day. She wept most often in her small room, where her sobs were muffled by the wall, but sometimes she would suddenly begin to weep during lunch; since her misfortune the family had allowed her to eat with them at their table (before that she had eaten alone in
the kitchen), and the exceptional nature of this favor reminded her at noon, day after day, that she was in mourning and being pitied, and her eyes would redden and a tear emerge and fall on the dumplings; she did her best to hide her tears and the redness of her eyes, lowering her head, hoping not to be seen, but they were noticed all the more, and someone was always ready to utter a comforting word, to which she would reply with great sobs.
Jaromil watched all this as an exhilarating show; he looked forward to seeing a tear in the girl's eye, to seeing the girl's shyness as she tried to suppress sorrow and how sorrow would triumph over shyness and allow a tear to fall. His eyes drank in that face (surreptitiously, for he had the sense of doing something forbidden), he felt himself invaded by a warm excitement and by the desire to cover that face with affection, to caress it and console it. At night, when he was alone and curled up under the covers, he imagined Magda's face with her big brown eyes, imagined caressing it and saying, "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,'' because he could find no other words to say.
At about that time Mama ended her medical treatments (she had cured herself with a week of sleep therapy) and began again to do the housekeeping and shopping even while constantly complaining of headaches and palpitations. One day she sat down and began to write a letter. The very first sentence made her realize that the painter would find her silly and sentimental, and she was afraid of his verdict; but she soon put herself at ease: she told herself that these words, the last she would ever address to him, required no answer, and this thought gave her the courage to continue; with relief (and a strange feeling of rebellion) she created sentences that were entirely herself, that were entirely as she had been before she knew him. She wrote that she loved him and that she would never forget the miraculous time she had spent with him, but that the moment had come to tell him the truth: she was different, completely different from what the painter imagined, she was really just an ordinary, old-fashioned woman afraid that some day she would be unable to look her innocent son in the eye.
Had she therefore decided to tell him the truth? Ah, not at all! She didn't tell him that what she called the bliss of love had been for her a taxing effort, she didn't tell him how ashamed she had been of her marred belly or about her scraped knee, her nervous breakdown, or her having to sleep for a week. She didn't tell him anything of the kind because such sincerity was contrary to her nature and because she finally wanted again to be herself and she could be herself only in insincerity;
As for Magda—the maid who had been living in the villa for several years and about whom Grandmama, respectful of a sturdy democratic tradition, would say that she considered her more a member of the family than an employee—she came in weeping one day because her fiance had been arrested by the Gestapo. And a few days later the fiances name appeared in black letters oh a dark red poster among the names of others who had been shot, and Magda was given a few days off.
When she came back, she said that her fiance's parents had been unable to obtain his ashes and that they would probably never know the location of their son's remains. She dissolved in tears and continued to weep almost every day. She wept most often in her small room, where her sobs were muffled by the wall, but sometimes she would suddenly begin to weep during lunch; since her misfortune the family had allowed her to eat with them at their table (before that she had eaten alone in
the kitchen), and the exceptional nature of this favor reminded her at noon, day after day, that she was in mourning and being pitied, and her eyes would redden and a tear emerge and fall on the dumplings; she did her best to hide her tears and the redness of her eyes, lowering her head, hoping not to be seen, but they were noticed all the more, and someone was always ready to utter a comforting word, to which she would reply with great sobs.
Jaromil watched all this as an exhilarating show; he looked forward to seeing a tear in the girl's eye, to seeing the girl's shyness as she tried to suppress sorrow and how sorrow would triumph over shyness and allow a tear to fall. His eyes drank in that face (surreptitiously, for he had the sense of doing something forbidden), he felt himself invaded by a warm excitement and by the desire to cover that face with affection, to caress it and console it. At night, when he was alone and curled up under the covers, he imagined Magda's face with her big brown eyes, imagined caressing it and saying, "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,'' because he could find no other words to say.
At about that time Mama ended her medical treatments (she had cured herself with a week of sleep therapy) and began again to do the housekeeping and shopping even while constantly complaining of headaches and palpitations. One day she sat down and began to write a letter. The very first sentence made her realize that the painter would find her silly and sentimental, and she was afraid of his verdict; but she soon put herself at ease: she told herself that these words, the last she would ever address to him, required no answer, and this thought gave her the courage to continue; with relief (and a strange feeling of rebellion) she created sentences that were entirely herself, that were entirely as she had been before she knew him. She wrote that she loved him and that she would never forget the miraculous time she had spent with him, but that the moment had come to tell him the truth: she was different, completely different from what the painter imagined, she was really just an ordinary, old-fashioned woman afraid that some day she would be unable to look her innocent son in the eye.
Had she therefore decided to tell him the truth? Ah, not at all! She didn't tell him that what she called the bliss of love had been for her a taxing effort, she didn't tell him how ashamed she had been of her marred belly or about her scraped knee, her nervous breakdown, or her having to sleep for a week. She didn't tell him anything of the kind because such sincerity was contrary to her nature and because she finally wanted again to be herself and she could be herself only in insincerity;
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