Read Online The Ravishing of Lol Stein by Marguerite Duras - Free Book Online
Authors: Marguerite Duras
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children, her house, how she spent her time, about her past: Lol was not the most talkative person in the world either, but she spoke clearly enough, rationally enough to reassure anyone who might have been concerned about her present condition—but not her, not Tatiana. No, Tatiana was concerned about Lol in a different way than were the others: that she had so completely recovered her sanity was a source of sadness to her. One should never be completely cured of one's passion. And besides, Lol's had been an ineffable passion, that she was quite willing to admit, even today, in spite of the reservations she still has concerning the part it had played in Lol's breakdown.
"You speak of your life as though you were reciting from a book," Tatiana said.
"From one year to the next," Lol said with a vague smile, "I see nothing any different around me."
"Tell me something, you know what I mean, about how we were when we were young," Tatiana begged.
Lol racked her brain, searching for something, some detail out of her youth that might have enabled Tatiana to rediscover some vestige of that real friendship she had felt for Lol during their school years together. She found nothing. She said:
"If you want my opinion, I think people were wrong in their judgment."
Tatiana did not reply.
The conversation drifted into platitudes, slowed, became dull because Tatiana was watching Lol like a hawk, watching her slightest smile, her every move, and that occupied her entirely. Peter Beugner spoke to Lol about South Tahla, and about the changes that had taken place in the town since the women had been young. Lol had followed each detail of South Tahla's development, the construction of new streets, the plans for new buildings in the suburbs, she spoke of it as she spoke of her life, in a calm, controlled voice. Then again silence set in. They talked of Uxbridge. They talked.
Nothing about this woman betrayed the slightest hint, even fleetingly, of Lol Stein's breakdown, her strange mourning for Michael Richardson.
Of her insanity—which had been eradicated, leveled —nothing seemed to remain, no trace except her presence that afternoon at Tatiana Karl's. The reason for her presence was a streak of color on a smooth, unbroken horizon, but only a faint streak, for, quite plausibly, she might merely have been bored with herself and come to pay a call on Tatiana Karl. Still, Tatiana was wondering why, why she was there. It was inevitable: she had nothing to say to Tatiana, nothing to tell, she seemed only to have the vaguest recollection, virtually no memory at all, of their school days together, and her ten years in Uxbridge required no more than ten minutes to sum up.
I was the only one to realize, because of that immense, half-starved look she had given me while she had been embracing Tatiana, that there was a specific purpose behind her visit here. How was that possible? I had my doubts. In order to derive an even greater pleasure in remembering exactly how she had looked at me, I persisted in doubting. It was completely different from her expression at present. There remained no trace of it. But her indifference toward me now was too obvious to be natural. She studiously avoided looking at me. Nor did I say anything to her.
"In what way were people wrong?" Tatiana said at last.
Tense, not liking to be interrogated in this way, she none the less made this reply, profoundly sorry to disappoint Tatiana:
"About the reasons," she said, "they were wrong about the reasons."
"That I knew," Tatiana said, "I mean ... I suspected as much. Things are never as simple . . ."
Once again Peter Beugner changed the subject. Obviously he was the only one of us who could not bear to see Lol's face when she spoke of her youth. He began talking again, talking to her about what? about how beautiful her garden was, and her lawn, he explained that he had passed by her house and seen it, and what a marvelous idea it was to have planted that hedge between
"You speak of your life as though you were reciting from a book," Tatiana said.
"From one year to the next," Lol said with a vague smile, "I see nothing any different around me."
"Tell me something, you know what I mean, about how we were when we were young," Tatiana begged.
Lol racked her brain, searching for something, some detail out of her youth that might have enabled Tatiana to rediscover some vestige of that real friendship she had felt for Lol during their school years together. She found nothing. She said:
"If you want my opinion, I think people were wrong in their judgment."
Tatiana did not reply.
The conversation drifted into platitudes, slowed, became dull because Tatiana was watching Lol like a hawk, watching her slightest smile, her every move, and that occupied her entirely. Peter Beugner spoke to Lol about South Tahla, and about the changes that had taken place in the town since the women had been young. Lol had followed each detail of South Tahla's development, the construction of new streets, the plans for new buildings in the suburbs, she spoke of it as she spoke of her life, in a calm, controlled voice. Then again silence set in. They talked of Uxbridge. They talked.
Nothing about this woman betrayed the slightest hint, even fleetingly, of Lol Stein's breakdown, her strange mourning for Michael Richardson.
Of her insanity—which had been eradicated, leveled —nothing seemed to remain, no trace except her presence that afternoon at Tatiana Karl's. The reason for her presence was a streak of color on a smooth, unbroken horizon, but only a faint streak, for, quite plausibly, she might merely have been bored with herself and come to pay a call on Tatiana Karl. Still, Tatiana was wondering why, why she was there. It was inevitable: she had nothing to say to Tatiana, nothing to tell, she seemed only to have the vaguest recollection, virtually no memory at all, of their school days together, and her ten years in Uxbridge required no more than ten minutes to sum up.
I was the only one to realize, because of that immense, half-starved look she had given me while she had been embracing Tatiana, that there was a specific purpose behind her visit here. How was that possible? I had my doubts. In order to derive an even greater pleasure in remembering exactly how she had looked at me, I persisted in doubting. It was completely different from her expression at present. There remained no trace of it. But her indifference toward me now was too obvious to be natural. She studiously avoided looking at me. Nor did I say anything to her.
"In what way were people wrong?" Tatiana said at last.
Tense, not liking to be interrogated in this way, she none the less made this reply, profoundly sorry to disappoint Tatiana:
"About the reasons," she said, "they were wrong about the reasons."
"That I knew," Tatiana said, "I mean ... I suspected as much. Things are never as simple . . ."
Once again Peter Beugner changed the subject. Obviously he was the only one of us who could not bear to see Lol's face when she spoke of her youth. He began talking again, talking to her about what? about how beautiful her garden was, and her lawn, he explained that he had passed by her house and seen it, and what a marvelous idea it was to have planted that hedge between
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