Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan Page B

Dupuis entertaining?"
    "Well, they usually behave abominably, but they are funny."
    She was watching a fly on the floor. Anne's eyelids were long and heavy; it was easy for her to look condescending.
    "Don't you ever realise how monotonous and dull their conversation is? Don't those endless stories about girls, contracts and parties bore you?"
    "I'm afraid," I answered, "that after ten years of convent life their lack of morals fascinates me."
    I did not dare to add that I also liked it.
    "You left two years ago," she said. "It's not anything one can reason about, neither is it a question of morals; it has something to do with one's sensibility, a sixth sense."
    I supposed I hadn't got it. I saw clearly that I was lacking in this respect.
    "Anne," I asked abruptly, "do you think I am intelligent?"
    She began to laugh, surprised at the directness of my question.
    "Of course you are! Why do you ask?"
    "If I were an idiot, you'd say just the same thing," I sighed. "I so often find your superiority overpowering.''
    "It's just a question of age," she answered. "It would be a sad thing if I didn't feel a little more self-assured than you."
    She laughed. I was annoyed:
    "It wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing."
    "It would be a catastrophe," she said.
    She suddenly dropped her bantering tone and looked me straight in the face. I at once felt ill-at-ease, and began to fidget. Even to-day I cannot get used to people who stare at you while they are talking, or come very close to make quite sure that you are listening. My only thought then is to escape from such proximity. I go on saying 'yes', while gradually edging away; their insistence and indiscretion enrage me. What right have they to try to corner me? Fortunately Anne did not resort to these tactics, but merely kept her eyes fixed on me, so that I could no longer continue to talk in the light-hearted vein I usually affected.
    "Do you know how men like Webb end up?"
    I thought: 'And men like my father.'
    "In the river," I answered flippantly.
    "A time comes when they are no longer attractive or in good form. They can't drink any more, and they still hanker after women, only then they have to pay and make compromises in order to escape from their loneliness: they have become just figures of fun. They grow sentimental and hard to please. I have seen many who have gone the same way."
    "Poor Webb!" I said.
    I was impressed. So that was the fate in store for my father? Or at least the fate from which Anne was saving him.
    "You never thought of that, did you?" said Anne, with a little smile of commiseration. "You don't think much about the future, do you? That is the privilege of youth."
    "Please don't throw my youth at me like that! I use it neither as an excuse, nor as a privilege. I just don't attach any importance to it."
    "To what do you attach importance? To your peace of mind? Your independence?"
    I dreaded conversations of this sort, especially with Anne.
    "To nothing at all," I said. "You know I hardly ever think."
    "You and your father irritate me at times: 'You haven't given it a thought . . . you're not worth much . . . you don't know.' Are you satisfied to be like that?"
    "I'm not satisfied with myself. I don't like myself, and I don't try to. At moments you force me to complicate my life, and I almost hate you for it."
    She began to hum to herself with a thoughtful expression. I recognised the tune, but did not know what it was:
    "What's the name of that song, Anne? It gets on my nerves."
    "I don't know," she smiled again, looking rather discouraged. "Stay in bed and rest, I'll continue my research on the family intellect somewhere else."
    I thought it was easy enough for my father. I could just imagine him saying 'I'm not thinking of anything special because I love you, Anne.' However intelligent she was, Anne would accept this as a valid excuse. I gave myself a good stretch and lay down on my pillow. Anne was dramatising the situation: in twenty-five years my father would