Love in the Afternoon E-Book

Claude Anet

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

This daringly provocative novel about love caused a sensation when it was first published because of its outspoken observations about men’s and women’s most intimate relationship.
Here is the story of Ariane, a beautiful, innocent young girl, who falls passionately in love with a wealthy, sophisticated older man. Eager to win him, she boldly becomes his mistress but refuses him the satisfaction of knowing that he has taken her heart as well.
Taunting him with memories of the men in her past, carefully concealing her activities when they are apart, Ariane drives her lover to a jealous frenzy which brings their tempestuous affair to a sudden, dramatic climax.
This unusual and widely discussed novel, now a fascinating motion picture, was written by Claude Anet, noted French-Swiss novelist and playwright and author of Mayerling, as well as of many other famous works.

Leseprobe

Claude Anet

LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON

Copyright

First published in 1924

Copyright © 2021 Classica Libris

Original title

Claude Anet

Ariane

First Part

BY WAY OF PROLOGUE

1

From the Hotel De Londres to The Známenski School

A sky of almost oriental crystal, a lovely clear, luminous sky, blue as a Nichapore turquoise hung over the houses and gardens of the still sleeping city. In the dawn and its silence, all that could be heard was the call of the swallows pursuing each other across the roofs and the acacia bushes, the luscious cooing of a dove in the tree-top, and, far away, the harsh creak of the axles of a country cart approaching slowly over the uneven cobbles of the Sadóvaya, the main street and the most fashionable of the town. Near the huge, dusty and deserted cathedral square, a wooden fence enclosed the backyard of the Hotel de Londres. The flat, long, three-storied façade of the hotel, which ran parallel to the Sadóvaya, was built of grey stone, depressing as a rainy day in autumn, bare of balconies, pillars, columns or ornament.

The Hotel de Londres, the town’s leading hotel, was famous for its cooking. Gilded youth, officers, manufacturers and nobility patronised its celebrated restaurant, in which an orchestra composed of three skinny Jews and two Little Russians played, afternoon and evening, far into the night, assorted selections from Eugen Oniegin and Pique Dame, melancholy folk songs and gipsy tunes with broken rhythms. What parties were given in this fashionable restaurant, what brilliant suppers, what “orgies”—to use the phrase common to us all when we spoke of the gala nights of the Hotel de Londres!

The hotel dining-room consisted of two unequally large halls but there were no private rooms. So the people who wanted to sup away from the crowd took their bedrooms with a sitting-room on the first floor which Léon Davidovitch, the hotel porter, always kept free for his clientele.

This Léon, a Jew with narrow lifeless eyes, was the autocrat of the house and one of the best-known figures in the town. Provincial notables sought his friendship and stopped in the hall to exchange a few pleasant remarks with him. Léon was discreet; what is the price of the silence and good graces of the porter of a hotel as popular as this? How many pink notes and even twenty-five rouble notes had he not tacitly accepted, his pale face betraying not the slightest emotion, notes which the burning hand of a man wrought up with the idea of finding a bower for some amorous meeting had slipped into his? One must conclude that a great number of people thus thought to keep the secret of their happiness. Léon Davidovitch owned not less than three houses, proving that money in X—rolled in, was acquired without trouble, spent with joy and that life was as torrid as the fiery days of summer on the plains of the southern “government,” of which X—was the capital. Every man in the province who made money, whether in mines, factories, or agriculture, dreamed ceaselessly of unforgettable nights in the Hotel de Londres and of the French wines he would drink there in the company of charming women.

One of Léon Davidovitch’s three houses was situated in the suburbs, not far from the causeway where, by twilight and by night, the fine trotting horses, the pride of our province, drew couples fired to emulate the wind on that well-kept road. This house comprised no more than one floor above the ground floor. For the time being he had furnished the first floor and had installed there a crabbed old hag. Numbers of people had applied to rent it, for flats were scarce in the town which recently had developed with an amazing rapidity. The old crone’s reply was always the same: the flat was spoken for. Nevertheless, no tenant came, and simple souls asked each other why Léon refused a profitable lease. Others shook their heads. The fact was that often in the evening a carriage was seen standing in front of the house and often, far into the night, rays of light could be seen between the carefully closed shutters of the windows.

At the hour of morning on which this story begins, in the dawn of a warm day at the end of May, the great door of the Hotel de Londres was closed and the lights in the restaurant and the hall had long been extinguished. The wooden gate let into the main door of the yard opened with a squeak. A young girl appeared on the threshold and, for a moment, hesitated.

She was wearing the uniform of the best known of the high-schools of the town, a plain, brown dress with a pinafore of black glazed cambric. She had softened its severity by a white lace collar, which looked a little rumpled. Against the rules, the dress was cut slightly low, and displayed her long neck in all its delicate grace. On her lightly poised little head, she wore a hat of white straw with a wide brim turned down at the edges. Her head bobbed quickly to spy up and down the deserted street. After a moment’s hesitation the girl stepped down on to the pavement. Behind her appeared a second girl, a few years her senior, fair, slightly insipid, slightly heavy of carriage, clad in a black silk skirt and linen blouse beneath a light mid-season cloak.

The girl in the school uniform stretched, looked up towards the sky, drew in a great draught of pure air, and, laughing, cried:

“Scandalous! Olga! It is broad daylight.”

“I’ve wanted to go home for ever so long,” returned the other in a grumbling tone. “I don’t know why you stayed such a time… And I’ve got to be at the office by ten o’clock; I shall have a scene with that tyrant. Petrov. Besides, I’ve drunk too much champagne…”

The school-girl looked at her with pity, shrugged her left shoulder in a habitual gesture and made no reply. She walked at a rapid pace with a light and happy gait, making the high heels of her unprotected slippers clack on the asphalt of the side walk, her head high, looking about her full of pleasure at finding on her exit from a room full of smoke the unexpected splendour of a spring dawn. They crossed the vast cathedral square diagonally and separated after having arranged a rendezvous for the evening.

The school-girl followed a street to the left of the cathedral. Suddenly she heard the patter of footsteps hurrying behind her and turned round. A tall student in uniform, a pick and mattock embroidered in gold on the lace of his cap, was running to catch her.

She stopped. Her face tightened to an expression of hardness, her long eyebrows knitted, and the student who had his eyes fixed on her, immediately fell into confusion. In the depths of nervousness, he said:

“Forgive me, Ariane Nicolaevna… I waited until you were alone… I could not leave you so… After what has passed…”

In a dry voice, she broke in:

“What has passed, pray?”

The young man’s confusion reached its climax.

“I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t know how to tell you… It seemed to me… I’m in despair… You don’t want me, do you? I had rather know it at once… One cannot live like this,” he wound up, completely out of countenance.

“I do not want anything whatever of you,” answered Ariane Nicolaevna clearly. “Understand that once and for all: I shall never repent of what I have done. And remember, too, that I have forbidden you to approach me in the street… I am surprised that you have forgotten.”

Beneath the icy glance of the young girl, he hesitated for a moment, then, turning on his heel, departed without saying a word.

A few minutes later Ariane Nicolaevna arrived before a large wooden house. Shops occupied the lower floor. She climbed to the first and only floor, drew a key from her bag and cautiously opened the door.

The silence of the flat was only broken by the ticking of a tall clock hung on the dining-room wall. On tiptoe the girl went down a long passage and pushed open the door of a room in which a housemaid, half-dressed, slept on a narrow bed, her mouth wide open.

“Pacha, Pacha,” she said.

The servant wakened with a start, tried to rise.

“Call me at nine o’clock,” said Ariane, thrusting her back on the bed. “At nine, you understand. I have an examination this morning.”

“All right, Ariane Nicolaevna, all right, I shan’t forget… But it is broad day. How late you come home! For the love of God, I beg you to look after yourself. Let me come and undress you,” she added, making another effort to get up.

“No, Pacha, don’t disturb yourself. Sleep a little longer. Thank God, I can dress and undress by myself,” she said, laughing.

A few minutes later, everything was still in the big house in the Dvoranskaya.

At ten o’clock in the morning on the same day, in the famous school of which Madame Známenskaya, the history professor, was the head, Paul Paulovitch, assisted by two of his colleagues, conducted the final examination of the pupils.

In the huge room, bright and bare with large windows, a score of girls had collected. Scraps of low-voiced conversation passed between them, muttered comments, short remarks feverishly exchanged. Sharp eyes shone in pale faces; a few pupils hastily turned the leaves of a history manual; others eagerly followed what was passing on the dais.

The interrogation lasted five minutes on some subject picked at random, during which the next candidate for examination meditated, seated at a neighbouring table. Ariane Nicolaevna awaited her turn and twisted in her fingers the note she had just taken under the eyes of Paul Paulovitch.

A couple of hours of sleep had been enough to give her skin an almost infantile freshness. The clear, rather small, grey eyes were sheltered beneath the long arches of her eyebrows, which almost met at the bridge of a nose straight, clear-cut and regular. The delicately drawn mouth was closed. Ariane did not give herself over to meditation of the subject on which she was to be questioned but listened to the pupil who was standing in front of the examiners, uttering embarrassed replies. The grey eyes beneath the black eyebrows flashed, and it was obvious that Ariane was making an effort not to fly to her fellow-pupil’s aid.

An usher seated at one side looked at her watch and went out. Two minutes later she returned, escorting the directress. The examiners rose, offering their chairs. Madame Známenskaya thanked them with a gesture and took the usher’s chair, a little to the rear.

In the hall, a whisper had run from mouth to mouth. In low voices, the girls were communicating their impressions.

“There she is again!”

“She is always there when Ariane is being examined.”

“It is a scandal; she protects her.”

Meanwhile the mistress had scarcely seated herself before Paul Paulovitch timidly struck a few taps on the table and said to the pupil:

“I thank you.”

The girl came down from the dais and regained her place; her blushing features disappeared behind a handkerchief.

In a hesitating voice, the professor called:

“Koustnetzova.”

Ariane approached. With eyes lowered, the professor asked:

“What is your subject?”

“Lord Novgorod the Great.”

And without waiting to be questioned, Ariane opened her theme. She spoke with an astonishing aptness of expression. The most muddied questions became clear beneath her exposition; the most confused subject seemed easy. She classified each point according to its relative importance and without losing herself in details, drew a luminous picture in which each fact fell into its place in her scheme.

The examiners appeared to take the same pleasure in hearing her which is derived from the performance of a great artist in a concert. Paul Paulovitch never took his eyes from her and on the impassive countenance of the mistress could be seen the interest with which she followed the deft and precise speech of Ariane. In the body of the hall, all faces were turned towards the dais.

“Five and a cross,” said one.

“The prize for excellence and the gold medal,” whispered another.

“Look at Paul Paulovitch,” a third muttered. “It is obvious; he adores her.”

“I have known that for a long time,” replied a pale, serious child.

The five minutes sped, Paul Paulovitch interrupted Ariane Nicolaevna.

“That is enough, Koustnetzova; we are obliged to you.”

An hour later the examination was finished. While the pupils were leaving the hall, Ariane waited to exchange a few words with the directress. Their conversation drew out. They were now alone. At last, in a burst of tenderness, which astonished the girl, Madame Známenskaya leaned towards her and said:

“Wherever you may be, Ariane, don’t forget that I am your friend.”

In the hall, two girls were waiting for Ariane, their whispering broken by quickly stifled giggles. One was tall, thin and pale, with glittering eyes and jerky movements. The other was ugly, round-eyed and flat-nosed, but coquettish and fluttering. Both had somewhat bad reputations; they were sometimes seen wearing jewellery of which the origin was suspect, for they belonged to lower middle-class families of no substance. They accosted Ariane, and, walking along with her, caressed her, congratulated her, offered her a thousand compliments.

“Listen, Ariane,” said the taller, “why don’t you come and have supper with us this evening? We have got a party arranged. It’s at that new country house that Popoff has just bought.” (Popoff was the wealthiest merchant in the city, a man of ripe years and repellent aspect.)

“He has got it up in a most original way… Fancy, there isn’t a chair in the house. Nothing but divans. You really ought to see it.”

The little one broke in very excitedly.

“There will be an orchestra hidden in an adjoining room; the music can be heard, but the performers remain invisible. And then there is a very original novelty. The room is lit by candle ends, which go out little by little, one after the other.”

Ariane asked:

“And who sups on these divans? I don’t quite see myself at Popoff’s side.”

“Friends of his, very charming ones. As for that, why don’t you go to Popoff’s? He is madly in love with you, my dear, and dreams and talks of nothing but Ariane Nicolaevna. You really must come with us.”

“Thank you, no,” said Ariane, “Popoff is horrible.”

“But how amusing! And then you ought to hear him sing… He is astonishing; you would not think it was the same man.”

“He can sing without me,” answered Ariane, stopping, “for I won’t come to see his country house or his divans or his candle ends either tonight or tomorrow. Tell him so from me.”

“He will die of despair.”

“Vodka will console him.”

She left the girls, who went on their way, much upset by this refusal and talking animatedly.

The taller said:

“I suppose she wants us to go down on our knees to her; it’s absurd.”

The little one:

“Popoff won’t be pleased.”

Ariane entered a rather small garden, which was not much more than an avenue of trees and rose bushes the length of the street. There Paul Paulovitch was feverishly walking to and fro. He was a quiet inoffensive creature, dreamy and generous, terrified of everything and above all of being tête-à-tête with Ariane Nicolaevna, even though twice or thrice a week they met in this little garden after lectures. But each time Paul Paulovitch was paralysed by an emotion which scarcely left him the power of speech. On this particular day, Ariane, after escaping from her brief conversation with her two companions, seemed irritable, which only added to the professor’s confusion. Still he summoned up the courage to ask her to share a seat. She refused; she was already very late and would arrive home after lunch was over.

He accompanied her, complimenting her on her examination, repeating the flattering appreciation of one of the examiners: “A child of genius.”

Ariane, whose little head quivered lightly on her slender neck, drew herself up and muttered:

“Child! What impertinence! I’m seventeen.”

Then she relapsed into silence. Abashed, the professor ended too by holding his tongue. They were walking swiftly down streets in which there was little life. The heat, for the first time that year, was already strong and heralded the burning summer of the South.

In this way, they came into the Dvoranskaya in front of Ariane Nicolaevna’s house. Paul Paulovitch was paler than usual; he made an effort and began a sentence.

Ariane interrupted him:

“Do you know what I am thinking about, Paul Paulovitch? I appear preoccupied, but I am happy, unbelievably so. Do you guess why? No? Well, I will tell you… In a few minutes, I shall be in my bedroom. I shall find on my couch a lovely white dress, trimmed with Irish lace, cut low. And Pacha—you know Pacha? She adores me; everything I do is splendid in her eyes—Pacha will have laid white silk stockings beside the dress, and beside the couch, open white slippers. Then, Paul Paulovitch, I shall undress from head to foot; I shall hurl this terrible school uniform, this brown dress which I have not doffed for three years, to the ground. I shall dance on it; I shall stamp on it; I shall kiss Pacha… I am thinking of nothing but that. I am free! Rejoice with me!”

She held out her hands to him. Paul Paulovitch listened to her and his face betrayed the struggle between various sentiments. The girl’s happiness, her voice even, intoxicated him; so much so that he felt a dull grief in his soul.

Ariane had already left him and mounted the doorstep. At the door she turned:

“If you have nothing better to do, come and sup with me at the Alexander Garden tonight.”

She disappeared. Paul Paulovitch remained motionless on the sidewalk.

2

Aunt Varvara

At the moment when Ariane entered the huge dining-room a number of persons were seated at a long table at the head of which was placed Aunt Varvara. She was a woman of some forty years of age with an irregular face in which at first glance one saw no more than two large very beautiful black eyes, which were of themselves enough to justify the common opinion of the city that “Varvara Petrovna was an extremely attractive woman.” Her hair was dressed in coquettish fashion. A parting on one side divided her lightly waved brown locks. Her mouth was as well moulded as that of her niece, but her teeth were indifferent. Varvara Petrovna, well aware of it, took pains to smile with closed lips and with her luminous brown eyes. “She is irresistible,” her friends would say at these times. She had remained slender. “When Aunt Varvara goes down the street,” Ariane once said, “the people who follow her think they have got a girl in front of them.” Even in her house, she dressed with the greatest care, a rare thing in Russia. She shod herself with elegance; her hands were manicured, her underclothing fine, and, out of doors, she invariably wore a black cloth tailored suit, the masterpiece of a good Moscow tailor.

Varvara Petrovna’s life was the subject of inexhaustible interest to the inhabitants of the town. Of her past they recalled that she had abandoned her family as the result of certain obscure events, in order to take up the study of medicine in Switzerland; then, that she had returned to Russia in the position of zemstvo doctor to the borough of Ivanovo in our province.

It was just at that time that everyone was talking about her younger sister, the lovely Vera, with whom the famous novelist Lopovtsov, who was spending the winter in the town, had fallen violently in love. Just when the announcement of the girl’s marriage to the writer was expected, the latter departed hurriedly for the Crimea, and the former to Ivanovo. She hid herself with her sister. No one saw her for six months. Then she went off to Paris where a year later she married Nicholas Koustnetzov, an engineer, whose business took him frequently to France.

Shortly after her departure from Ivanovo, it was found that Varvara’s house sheltered yet another guest, a baby that Varvara said was the delicate child of a friend, which had been entrusted to her. This little girl had not been baptised at the village church, and, when it was eighteen months old, Varvara carried it off abroad, where she stayed for some time near her sister Vera, now married.

She returned alone. At this moment, an event occurred in Varvara’s life which considerably altered its course. It happened one night that she was summoned to the bedside of one of the biggest landowners in Russia, Prince Y—, who chanced to be spending a month on a neighbouring estate. She saved his life. The prince attached her to his train, took her round Europe and kept her at his side until his death, which occurred seven years later. Varvara Petrovna then returned to her native country with a fortune of a hundred thousand roubles, a pension of ten thousand roubles, and further rich with the wealth of experience gained in the course of the brilliant life she had led in the West. She purchased a house on the Dvoranskaya.