dry goat cheeses our farmers love so much; bowls of lentils and potatoes; and finally coffee and brandy.
Since my housekeeper had gone to spend the day with her family to help with the meal, I went over to the Erard 's. Colette needed to go and visit one of her tenant s w ith Francois, in a place called Maluret, not far from the Moulin-Neuf. They invited me to come with them. Colette's little boy, who is now two, was to stay at home with his grandmother. Colette found it difficult to leave him. She feels a kind of anxious love for her child that is more a source of torture than joy. Before leaving, she gave Helene and the maid a thousand instructions, insisting in particular that the child mustn't be allowed to run along the river's edge. Helene nodded in her usual tender, reasonable way.
"Don't let yourself worry so much, I beg you, Colette. I'm not asking you to forget poor Jean's accident, my darling, I know that's impossible, but don't let it poison your life and your son's life. Think about it. What sort of a man will you make of him if you raise him to be afraid of everything? My poor child, we can't live life for our children, even though we may want to sometimes. Everyone must live and suffer for himself. The greatest favour we can do for our children is to keep our own experiences secret. Believe me, believe your old mother, my darling." She forced herself to laugh to lighten the seriousness of her words.
Colette's eyes, however, were full of tears. "But I wanted to have a life like yours, Mama," she whispered.
Her mother knew what she really meant was: "I wanted to be happy like you."
Helene sighed. "It was God's will, Colette."
She kissed her daughter, took the baby in her arms and went inside. I watched her walk away, through the garden , proud and beautiful still, despite her greying hair. It is astonishing how she has managed to keep her light, confident bearing all these years. Yes, confident; the confidence of a woman who has never chosen the wrong path, never run, out of breath, to a secret meeting, never stopped, never faltered beneath the weight of a guilty secret ...
Colette seemed to be thinking the same and put it into words. "Mama is like the evening of a beautiful day . . ." she said, taking her father's arm.
He smiled at her. "Now, now, my darling ... Your evening will have the same grace and serenity. Come on, hurry up now, we have a long way to go."
The whole way there, Colette seemed more cheerful than she'd been since Jean had died. Francois was driving. She was sitting next to me, in the back of the car. It was a lovely warm day, with just a hint of autumn in the air. Beneath the blue sky, colder and crisper than in August, only a scattering of crimson leaves and the occasional breeze foretold the end of summer. After a while, Colette began to laugh and talk excitedly, something she hadn't done in a very long time. She recalled the long outings she'd been on with her parents, along this very road, when she was a child.
"Do you remember, Papa? Henri and Loulou hadn't been born yet. Georges was the youngest and he was left at home with the maid, which made me feel so happy and proud. What a treat! Goodness, I'd had to wait for it, though, sometimes as long as a month. Then we'd get the picnic baskets ready. Oh, all those lovely cakes ... They just don't taste th e s ame any more. Mama kneaded the pastry, her arms covered in flour up to the elbow, remember? Sometimes friends came along, but we often went alone. After lunch, Mama made me lie down on the grass to rest, while you read. That's right, isn't it? You read Verlaine and Rimbaud, and I so wanted to run about . . . But I'd just lie there, half listening, thinking about my toys, about the long afternoon that was drifting away, and savouring the . . . the perfect happiness I felt then."
As she talked, her voice grew deeper and lower, and you could tell she'd forgotten her father and was talking to herself; she fell silent for a moment,
Since my housekeeper had gone to spend the day with her family to help with the meal, I went over to the Erard 's. Colette needed to go and visit one of her tenant s w ith Francois, in a place called Maluret, not far from the Moulin-Neuf. They invited me to come with them. Colette's little boy, who is now two, was to stay at home with his grandmother. Colette found it difficult to leave him. She feels a kind of anxious love for her child that is more a source of torture than joy. Before leaving, she gave Helene and the maid a thousand instructions, insisting in particular that the child mustn't be allowed to run along the river's edge. Helene nodded in her usual tender, reasonable way.
"Don't let yourself worry so much, I beg you, Colette. I'm not asking you to forget poor Jean's accident, my darling, I know that's impossible, but don't let it poison your life and your son's life. Think about it. What sort of a man will you make of him if you raise him to be afraid of everything? My poor child, we can't live life for our children, even though we may want to sometimes. Everyone must live and suffer for himself. The greatest favour we can do for our children is to keep our own experiences secret. Believe me, believe your old mother, my darling." She forced herself to laugh to lighten the seriousness of her words.
Colette's eyes, however, were full of tears. "But I wanted to have a life like yours, Mama," she whispered.
Her mother knew what she really meant was: "I wanted to be happy like you."
Helene sighed. "It was God's will, Colette."
She kissed her daughter, took the baby in her arms and went inside. I watched her walk away, through the garden , proud and beautiful still, despite her greying hair. It is astonishing how she has managed to keep her light, confident bearing all these years. Yes, confident; the confidence of a woman who has never chosen the wrong path, never run, out of breath, to a secret meeting, never stopped, never faltered beneath the weight of a guilty secret ...
Colette seemed to be thinking the same and put it into words. "Mama is like the evening of a beautiful day . . ." she said, taking her father's arm.
He smiled at her. "Now, now, my darling ... Your evening will have the same grace and serenity. Come on, hurry up now, we have a long way to go."
The whole way there, Colette seemed more cheerful than she'd been since Jean had died. Francois was driving. She was sitting next to me, in the back of the car. It was a lovely warm day, with just a hint of autumn in the air. Beneath the blue sky, colder and crisper than in August, only a scattering of crimson leaves and the occasional breeze foretold the end of summer. After a while, Colette began to laugh and talk excitedly, something she hadn't done in a very long time. She recalled the long outings she'd been on with her parents, along this very road, when she was a child.
"Do you remember, Papa? Henri and Loulou hadn't been born yet. Georges was the youngest and he was left at home with the maid, which made me feel so happy and proud. What a treat! Goodness, I'd had to wait for it, though, sometimes as long as a month. Then we'd get the picnic baskets ready. Oh, all those lovely cakes ... They just don't taste th e s ame any more. Mama kneaded the pastry, her arms covered in flour up to the elbow, remember? Sometimes friends came along, but we often went alone. After lunch, Mama made me lie down on the grass to rest, while you read. That's right, isn't it? You read Verlaine and Rimbaud, and I so wanted to run about . . . But I'd just lie there, half listening, thinking about my toys, about the long afternoon that was drifting away, and savouring the . . . the perfect happiness I felt then."
As she talked, her voice grew deeper and lower, and you could tell she'd forgotten her father and was talking to herself; she fell silent for a moment,
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