La Prisonnière
(Cahier 3, 19r-21r, 23r-27r (1908); Cahier 50, 41r-45r (1910-1911); Cahier 53, 14r-15r (1915))
Esquisse I
I.1
This band of daylight was still quite dark but I never needed anything more than that to know whether the day was going to be fine or overcast. And I did not even need to raise my eyes and look over the top of the curtains. The first noises from the street, the rumbling of wagons on the roads, the ringing calls of the tradesmen came to my ears dilated by the heat and aerated by the wind of a stormy yet fresh day, ringing in my ears with the hope of a fine day, the joy of the wind, the lightness of brief showers, the charm of autumn, of springtime, going through a whole happy gamut according to the day outside, which gave me a desire deep within myself for an indolent estuary in Brittany, where the wind would lift up the sea and disperse the sound of church bells without the day ceasing to be sweet and the gorse to flower, to pass from on high through Saint-Gothard and to descend into the spring of Florence and Orvieto already fully in bloom. How on the other hand [interrupted]
I.2
And I did not even need to see the colours of the day over the top of
my curtains to see what the weather was like. The first noises from the
street carried up to me the atmosphere in which they had reverberated.
Most often during these days of winter they came to me chilled by the
rain, obscured by fog, sometimes cut up by the cold with a promise of icy
sunshine which made me want to go and see it from the banks of the bare
Somme interweaving the shadowed vines on the golden porch of Notre-Dame of
Amiens; on other occasions softened, aerated, strewn and dispersed in the
coolness of a stormy yet fresh day, bringing with it a hope for beautiful
weather lightly freshened by brief rains, then the simple calls of a
passing tram, coming to me so charged with sweetness, so disordered by the
wind, so lightly moistened with rain, touched already by the sun which I
would have liked [interrupted]
Well before I had turned my eyes towards it my mind was travelling in
countryside for which each specific day is a season and a climate to it
alone and fills one with nostalgia; and nothing but the noises from the
street, the first rumblings of wagons, even if they came to me chilled by
the rain, made husky by the fog, aerated by the breeze, or vibrant with
sunshine [interrupted]
I.3
This narrow ray of daylight, brighter today, darker yesterday, presented me with the sleepy or exalted mood like the weather outside. But I had no need to see it. My head still turned to the wall, the first noises of the street brought to me along with them their atmosphere, the tiresomeness of rain in which they are chilled and which rid my heart of all desire, or launches it towards the season or the climate from which this weather seems to have been detached, the light of the icy air in which they vibrate and where I would like if I can to arrive by train in time to see on the banks of the frozen Somme Amiens cathedral growing warm at midday, the despondency of the fog that smothers them, the softness and the gusts of a mild and stormy day, in which the warmth brightens them, the wind aerates and disperses them, in which a light shower merely merely moistens them for an instant, soon dried out in the sunshine by a puff of wind and evaporated by a ray of light; when I hear in the distance the rumbling of the first tram about to pass beneath my window and the still distant ring of the conductor's bell, I know when it is coming close, when it is drawing away by the distant ring of the conductor's bell, I see it streaming under the rain divesting my heart of all desire or wish to depart into the azure.
I.4
This narrow ray, above my curtains, according to whether is was brighter or less bright, informs me of the weather outside, before even telling me, and informing me of its disposition. But I had no need even of that. Still turned towards the wall, and even before it had shown itself, from the sonorousness of the first tram as it approached and from the ring of its bell, I could tell whether it was rolling despondently through the rain or it was making its departure into the azure. Because not only each season but each type of weather presents to it its own atmosphere like an individual instrument upon which it would execute the tune that was always equivalent to its rumbling and its bell; and this same tune would not only reach us differently if it bounded and radiated in the empty and sonorous air of a winter's day, luminous and icy, rather steering itself among the scents in the air already mingled with the warmth of a summer morning, readying itself for the solidification of midday, but about to assume a colour, a meaning, that will convey a completely different sentiment, if it muffles itself like a drum in the fog, becomes fluid and sings like a violin in the immense and buoyant atmosphere where the wind is ready and waiting to receive this colourful and airy orchestration, makes its streams run or if it pierces with the gimlet of a fife the blue ice of a sunny yet cold weather, the first noises from the street bring me the tediousness of rain in which they shiver, the light of the frozen air in which they vibrate, the despondency of fog that diffuses them, the softness and the gusts of a stormy yet mild day, where they are barely moistened by a shower, quickly dried out by a breeze or evaporated by a ray of sunshine. But especially, on those days, if the wind in my chimney creates an irresistible call that makes my heart beat faster than might a young girl's by the rattle of the carriages going to the ball where she has not been invited, the noise of the orchestra coming to her through the open window, I would want to spend the night in a railway carriage, to arrive in the early morning ready to take a cup of coffee in some small town in Normandy, Caudebac or Bayeux, which would appear to me under its ancient name and steeple, as if under the traditional head-dress of the peasant women of Caux, or the lace bonnet of Queen Mathilde, at the shore of a stormy sea, and to leave straight away for a walk, pursued by the spray as far as the church, pink and lacy, like a seashell between the curved roofs of the houses, a fishermen's church miraculously protected from the waves which appear to be flowing still in the transparency of its stained-glass windows, in which they lift up the azure and purple fleet of William and his army, and to be thrown apart in order to come together again between their circulating and green billows, this submarine crypt of silence, suffocating with humidity and purple where one can see the miraculous Christ which drifted ashore on the waters close to D. but where one small pool still stagnates here and there in the hollow of a stone fount. And the weather has no longer any need other than the colours of the day, the sonorousness of the noises in the street to reveal itself to me and call me to the season and the climate for which it seems to be the envoy. To feel the calm and the sluggishness of the communications and exchanges that reign in the little interior city of nerves and blood vessels that I carry within me, I know that it is raining and I would like to be in Bruges or beside an oven glowing like a winter sun, the pullets, the water fowl, the pork roasting for my lunch just like in a painting by Breughel. Already crossing through my sleep I felt that entire small population of my nerves, awoken and active well before me, I rubbed my eyes, I looked at the time to see if I would have the time to get to Amiens to see, beside the frozen Somme, the cathedral, its statues sheltered from the wind by the cornices set into the golden wall, the midday sunshine designing upon it a whole vine of shadows. I jumped out of bed, I see in the mirror that I am making countless grimaces of pleasure and I start to sing, because the poet is like the statue of Memnon, all it needs is a ray of light from the rising sun to make it sing. But on foggy days I would like to wake up for the first time in a château that I would never have seen like this, get up late shivering in my nightshirt, happily going over to scorch myself in front of the huge fire in the chimney piece, beside which the frosty winter sun comes in to warm itself on the carpet, and I will see through the window a space that I am not familiar with, and between the wings of the château which look very beautiful, a vast courtyard where the coachmen are grooming the horses that will shortly convey us through the forest to see Les Étangs and Le Monastère while the lady of the manor who has just come down asks everyone not to make a noise so as not to wake me up. Sometimes a spring morning has strayed into the winter, when the harsh voice of a goatherd sparkles more purely in the blueness than the flute of a Sicilian shepherd, I want to pass through a snowy Saint-Gothard, to descend into Italy all in bloom. And already touched by the ray of morning sun, I jumped out of bed, made countless dances and gesticulations that I check in the mirror, I joyously call out words which express nothing but pleasure, and I sing, because the poet is like the statue of Memnon. All it needs is a ray of light from the rising sun to make it sing.
I.5
It was enough for me to catch sight of the narrow ray above my
curtains to discover what the weather was like according to a certain
shade of darkness or brightness that it showed upon its appearance; but
that was not even necessary [interrupted]
But I did not even need to see it. My head still turned to the wall, the
noises from the street, according to whether they came to me suffocated by
the humidity or vibrant like an arrow over the rectilinear trajectories of
coldness, the rumbling of the first tram that I sensed chilled in the rain
or setting off into the azure, invested in me the mood of the day. And
perhaps they found themselves preceded by the scent, or some less
definable emanation, more rapid and more permanent, which established
between the essence of the organism and the atmosphere such an immediate
harmony that I sometimes did not know if the weather was fine other than
when, during my sleep, a ray of sunlight come through my closed curtains
had come to touch deep within me a statue of Memnon that was set to
singing, no longer wishing to be silent, and which finally caused me to
awaken; just as they say in the army with a musical reveille. And everyone
recognizes by the sonority of a noise that reaches him of a carriage if it
is bounding through the emptiness of a fine winter's morning, rather than
making its way through the scents that are mingling already in an early
morning in springtime and which is already beginning to prepare itself for
the solidification of midday. But for a same reason the atmosphere of each
day is like an original instrument upon which a same sound executes its
identical tune which assumes a character and expresses a different
sentiment according to whether it transposes it into the muffled
resonances and drums of the fog or the shrill bagpipes of fine weather.
The bell of the tram that fluidifies so as to sing like a violin in these
windswept and cool days in which the sinuous atmosphere is sprinkled and
moistened by the gentle streams of the breeze, became sharp like a gimlet
so as to pierce with its fife the solid, transparent and bluish ice of a
frosty and windy air, to the extent that to my ears alone it illuminated
and described the spectacle of the street, ready to receive on fine days
this colourful and light orchestration in which could be found and which
intersected so many popular compositions of the fountain repairer, the
water carrier and the goatherd. This first ray of sunlight, even if the
curtains are hermetically fastened, even if my eyes were closed, easily
finds the means to enter instantaneously and touch in me a statue of
Memnon which begins to sing, and even if I had gone back to sleep, to tear
me away from my dream, making for me what they call in the army a musical
reveille.
Each day was attached to a certain sort of weather, to a season, to a
climate which allowed me to refer to the sonorousness of the rumbling of
the first tram that passed and the atmosphere being like a different
instrument upon which a same noise executed its identical tune, straight
away I recognized if the ring of its bell [interrupted]
The different days each replaying a same noise through its special
atmosphere as if on a new instrument, at the ring of the conductor's bell
I heard whether it had fluidified itself to sing like a violin in the very
light and cool gusts of a windy day or if, sharp like a gimlet, it pierced
with its fife the solid, transparent and bluish ice of a sunny morning in
winter. And even before the bell reverberated, only by hearing the
approach of the heavy vehicle could I say whether it was chilled by the
rain, or was setting off towards the azure.
I.6
In the morning, my head still turned towards the wall and before having seen the colour of the ray of daylight above the wide curtains at the windows, I knew already what the weather would be like; the first noises from the street had informed me - according to whether they had reached me deadened and deviated by the humidity or vibrating like arrows in the sonorous and empty space of a cold, pure morning -, the rumbling of the first tram that I had perceived chilled by the rain or setting off towards the azure. And perhaps the noises themselves had been preceded by some more rapid and penetrating emanation - a smell perhaps - which even during my sleep placed my organism in harmony with the day, diffused a sadness that I might conjecture had come from outside to combine with the snow or set in motion so many hymns in honour of the sun, so that these ended up by bringing about my awakening, a musical reveille, as they say in the army. When I rang (Esther somewhere) Françoise brought me my mail but only when, making up my mind to interrupt my own solitude, I had rung my bell. Because on account of my state of health I had ordered that nobody was to enter my room, whatever might have happened, unless I called, which always made Albertine compare me to Assuérus. She had been taught Esther at her convent and liked to say to me laughing:
Death is the price for any daring soul
Who comes before him not being bidden
From this fatal law there is no refuge
Nor rank, nor sex is the crime of any consequence
I myself...
I am subject to this law like any other
And without warning, to speak to him he must
Seek me out or at least have me summoned.
I looked in the Figaro to see if I could find an article -
the only thing I had written for many years - that I had sent to the paper
and which had not appeared. Put here the little barometric figure which is
in the brown exercise book then see on the left hand page.
Created 04.02.21