Chapter 13 Chapter 5 The poet is jealous (1) (2)

She cried so pitifully that Jaromil's anger finally subsided.Tears are the best solvent. He stroked her cheek. "do not Cry!" "You are my dear Xavi," she sobbed. "You come in through the window and lock that bad man in a cupboard, he'll turn into a skeleton, and you'll take me far, far away." They hug and kiss.The girl swears that she will never bear other people's hands on her, and he swears that he loves her.They made love again, and this time they loved each other tenderly, their flesh filled with tender souls. "You are my Xavi," she kept saying after making love, stroking his hair.

"Yes, I'm going to take you far away where you'll feel safe." He said he knew the place exactly, he had a pavilion waiting for her, under a peaceful sky, overhead Birds fly to bright futures, scented boats glide across the sky toward Marseilles; he has a resting place awaiting her, guarded by the patron saint of his childhood. "You know what? I'm going to introduce you to my mother," he said, with tears in his eyes. The family's mother, who lives on the ground floor of the villa, showed her growing belly as she was about to give birth to her third child.One day, the family's father stopped Maman and told her that it was totally unfair if two people occupied the same space as five; he suggested that she give up one of the three rooms on the second floor.Maman replied that it was impossible.The tenant said he intended to refer the matter to the relevant authorities, who would decide whether the villa's housing was allocated fairly.Maman objected that her son was getting married soon, and there would soon be three, maybe even four, on the second floor.

So when Jaromil told her a few days later that he wanted to introduce his girlfriend to her, Mamen did not express displeasure.At least the lodger would believe that she was being honest when she said her son was going to be married. However, when Jaromil admitted to Mamen that she already knew this girl, that she was the red-haired saleswoman in the store Mamen used to shop, Mamen couldn't hide her surprise and displeasure. "I'm sure you don't mind that she's just a saleswoman," Jaromil said aggressively. "I told you before that she was just an ordinary working woman."

For a moment, Maman couldn't accept the fact; the awkwardness in the store.The rough, unattractive girl turned out to be the dearest person in his son's life, but she finally restrained herself. "Forgive me if I appear surprised," she said.She is determined to endure whatever her son has in store for her. A harrowing three-hour visit arrived and ended on time.Everyone was nervous, but they all fought through the ordeal. "What do you think of her?" Jaromil asked his mother urgently as soon as the red-haired girl had left. "Oh yes, she looks nice. Why shouldn't I like her?" she replied, knowing full well that her tone didn't match her words.

"You mean you don't like her?" "I just told you I liked her." "No, I can tell from the way you talk that you're not telling me the truth." During the red-haired girl's visit, she did several stupid things (she reached out to Mama first, she sat down first, took a sip of coffee first), and she made many faux pas (she constantly interjecting), said a lot of inappropriate things (she asked Mamen how old she was), and while Mamen was enumerating these faults, she suddenly realized that Jaromil might find her narrow-minded (he thought too much attention to manners is a sign of bourgeois triviality), and she quickly adds:

"Don't get me wrong, I don't think those things are terrible. Go ahead and invite her into your home. She'll do her good by being exposed to our environment." But again Mama felt revulsion at the thought that she might have to face that redheaded, unattractive, hostile body constantly.She said reassuringly, "After all, you can't blame her. You have to imagine the environment she grew up in, and consider the place she works in. A place where you have to put up with everything and have to please Everyone. It's hard to say no to a boss if he wants to have a good time. A little teasing isn't taken too seriously in an environment like this."

She looked at Jaromil's face and saw that it was flushed.He was burning with jealousy, and Maman seemed to feel the jealousy herself. (Why not? When Jaromil first introduced this girl to her, she felt the same jealousy, so that they were like two connected pipes, flowing with the same caustic juice. ) Jaromil's face became frank and submissive again.Maman was no longer confronted with a strange, independent man, but with her dear child, a child in pain, a child who used to run to her for comfort.Maman was reluctant to leave this beautiful scene. Jaromil left the room, and after a moment of solitude, Maman realized that she was hitting her head with a fist.She kept whispering to herself, "Get over it, get over it, get over this stupid jealousy, get over it!"

Still, the damage has been done.Their ornate pavilions, their harmonious dwellings guarded by their childhood protectors, have been torn to pieces.A period of jealousy unfolds before the eyes of mother and son. His mother's remark about not taking the teasing seriously still lingered in his head.He pictured the boys in the red-headed girl's shop making nasty jokes; he imagined the contact between narrator and listener reaching an obscene climax when the punch line was about to be spoken; he was in agony.He imagined his boss brushing past her, surreptitiously touching her breasts, or slapping her ass, and he was furious.Such actions don't have to be taken seriously, for him, these actions mean everything.Once, when he visited her, he noticed that she had forgotten to close the bathroom door.He lost his temper because he immediately imagined that the girl was equally careless at her workplace, and a strange man inadvertently walked in while she was sitting on the toilet, and made her eat a meal. shock.

When he related these jealous fancies to the girl, she was able to calm him down with tenderness and reassurance.But as soon as he found himself alone in the room, those tormenting thoughts returned.He couldn't guarantee that what the girl told him was the truth.After all, wasn't he the one who seduced her into lying?Hadn't he been so furious at the thought of a general medical examination that she'd never dare to speak her mind to him again? Gone are the happy days of the early days when making love was a joy.He was grateful to her for bringing him out of the maze of virginity so easily and unmistakably.But it is the very reasons for gratitude in the past that are now analyzed by his anxiety.He thought again and again of the sensual touch of her hand that had excited him so terribly the first time he was with her.Now he examined it suspiciously; he told himself that she had never touched anyone like that before, it was impossible.Since within half an hour of knowing him, she dared to take such an obscene action to a complete stranger like him, it must be a mechanical and normal thing for her.

It's a terrible thought.True, he had accepted the idea that he was not the first man in her life, but only because the girl's words conjured up something painful and embarrassing in which she was merely a Victim of abuse.It aroused pity in his heart, and pity somewhat dissolved his jealousy.But if the girl has learned such obscene gestures in her relationship with the man, the relationship can never be entirely one-sided.After all, that action was so much fun.It contains a whole little bit of joyful sex history! This is a subject too painful to be discussed.At the very mention of her lover's name, he suffered great distress.Still, he tried in a roundabout way to track down the cause of the painful movement (he continued to experience it with his body, because the girl seemed to love that unique touch), and finally, he Comfort yourself with the thought that a great outburst of love is like a bolt of lightning, freeing the woman at once from all shame and prohibition.It was for this reason, precisely because of her innocence, that she gave herself as readily as a whore to her lover; Skillful tricks like a shameless slut.In a dazzling moment, the patron saint of love demonstrates all knowledge and skill.Jaromil found this idea beautiful and profound.From this point of view, his girlfriend seems to be a patron saint of love.

One day, a classmate said in a mocking tone, "Tell me, who is that peerless beauty I saw with you last night?" He denies her as quickly as Peter denied Jesus Christ.He said she was just an acquaintance he met by chance.He shook his hand in denial.But, like Peter, he remained faithful deep down.He did cut back on their walks together on busy streets, and was relieved when no one he knew saw them together, but he disapproved of his classmate and resented him.He was moved by the few shabby clothes the red-haired girl had.He sees the simplicity of her clothes as part of her charm (the charm of the rustic, the poor); and also as part of the charm of his own love, and he tells himself that it is not too difficult to fall in love with someone who is sophisticated, beautiful, and richly dressed: This love is a meaningless reaction to the mechanical stimulation of accidental beauty.But a great love seeks to create a lovable being out of an imperfect creature made more human by virtue of her imperfection. One day when he was professing his love for her (no doubt after a violent quarrel), she said: "I don't know what you're attracted to in me? There are so many prettier girls around." He explains, rather excitedly, that beauty has nothing to do with love.He claimed that he loved what others might find ugly in her.Overwhelmed with enthusiasm, he even began to enumerate.Her breasts were small and underdeveloped, he said, and she had large, wrinkled nipples that elicited pity rather than enthusiasm.He told her that her freckles, her red hair, and her thin figure were the reasons why he loved her. Tears welled up in the red-haired girl's eyes because she understood the physical facts (small breasts, red hair); but not the abstract conclusion. However, Jaromil was completely attracted by his point of view.The girl's tears for her own unattractiveness warmed and encouraged him.He was determined to give his life to wipe away these tears, to wrap her in his love.In the outburst of emotion, he even imagined that her former lover was one of those flaws that made her all the more lovable.It was a truly remarkable achievement of will and intellect.Jaromil realized it in the same way, and began to write a poem: Speaking of that girl is always in my heart, (the line is repeated as a refrain).He expresses a desire to possess her with all her blemishes, the wholeness and eternity of all of her beings, even those old lovers who have stained her flesh... Jaromil was full of enthusiasm for his creation, because in his opinion, instead of the glorious and harmonious pavilion, instead of the artificial place (where all contradictions are eliminated, where mother and son sit in harmony) at the same table), he had found another edifice—the edifice of an absolute, a stricter and truer absolute.For if there is no absolute purity and tranquility, there is absolute emotion in which everything irrelevant and impure is dissolved. He was very pleased with the poem, although he knew that no newspaper would print it because it had nothing to do with the joyous building of socialism.But he didn't write the poem for the newspaper, he wrote it for himself, for his girl.When he read it to her, she was moved to tears.But all the references to her ugliness, to the hands that tore her, to old age terrified her again. Jaromil didn't mind her uneasiness.Instead, he likes and appreciates her restlessness.He liked her talking about her doubts, pacifying them with lengthy explanations and repeated reassurances.To his chagrin, however, the girl did not share his fondness for the subject, and she soon diverted the conversation elsewhere. Jaromil could forgive the girl's small breasts (in fact, he had never been displeased with her because of them), and he could even forgive the hands of strangers who squeezed her body, but there was one thing he felt he had to consider: Her endless chatter.He had scarcely finished reading her a few lines of verse which embodied the essence of all his thoughts and beliefs, when she was chattering cheerfully about something quite different. Yes, he is willing to dissolve all her flaws with the water of his love, but on one condition: she must obediently lower herself into this bath of dissolution, she must fully immerse herself in this bath of love , without any thought deviation, she must be content to stay under the surface of the water submerged by his words and thoughts, she must belong to this world completely, whether it is body or soul. But she went on and on, talking about her childhood, about her family, a topic Jaromil felt particularly sorry for, because he didn't know how to express his dissent (this is a completely ignorant family, in fact This is a proletarian family).It was because of them that she kept jumping out of the bathtub he had prepared for her.In this bathtub he is filled with the water of love that tolerates everything. He had to listen to her again about her father (an exhausted old worker from the countryside), her brothers and sisters (the family was as big as a rabbit shed, Jaromil thought: two sisters, Four brothers, one of whom she seemed particularly fond of (his name was Jane, and he seemed to be some sort of eccentric fellow—he drove for an anti-communist cabinet minister before the February Revolution); no, This is not just a family, this is a loathsome, alien nest, the traces of which still linger in the red-haired girl, alienating her from him and preventing her from being fully his. The brother named Jane, who not only A brother, and above all a man, a man who had watched her for eighteen years, a man who knew her many personal secrets, a man who had shared a bathroom with her (how many times she must have forgotten to close the door!) , a man who lived with her during her transformation into a woman, a man who must have seen her naked many times... You must belong to me, and if I want, you must die on the rack, sick and jealous Keats wrote to his Fanny, and Jaromil came home again, to his childhood room, to write A poem to calm yourself down.He thought of death, that great embrace that makes everything still.He thought of the deaths of those strong men, of those great revolutionaries, and he couldn't help but write the excellent elegy that would be sung at the funerals of communist heroes. die.In that period of obsessive joy, death was also among the forbidden subjects.But Jaromil was sure to discover a special point of view that would free death from its usual gloomy atmosphere (after all, he had written some beautiful verses about death before; ).He felt he was capable of writing socialist death poetry. He was meditating on the death of a great revolutionary: Farewell like the sun / On top of a mountain,  … So he began to write a poem titled "Epitaph": Must I die?Then let me die by fire... In the realm of lyric poetry, any expression is at once truth.Yesterday the poet said that life is a vale of tears; today he said that life is a paradise; both times he was right.This is not paradoxical.The lyric poet doesn't have to prove anything.The only proof is the intensity of his own emotions. Lyric poetry is characterized by inexperience.The poet is ignorant of the world, but he arranges the words flowing from his life into a crystal-like structure.The poet himself is immature, but his poems have a prophetic foregone conclusion, before which he stands in awe. Ah, my love in the water.When Maman read Jaromil's first poem, it occurred to her (with a feeling like shame that Jaromil knew more about love than she did. Little did she know that he was in Magda Tried to spy on her in the bath. In Maman's view, the phrase "lovers in the water" was far more than ordinary meaning, indicating some mysterious category of love, something as elusive as a witch's announcement . We can laugh at the poet's lack of maturity, but there is also something amazing about him: his words glisten with that inner dew that gives his poems a lustrous sheen of beauty.These magical dewdrops need no real life events to inspire them.Instead, we suspect, the poet sometimes squeezes his heart as detachedly as a housewife squeezes lemons on her salad.In fact, Jaromil did not care much about the dock workers in Marseilles; but when describing his love for them, he was indeed moved by their situation, pouring his heart generously into words, making They present a lived reality. With his poems the lyric poet creates his self-portrait.But no portrait is entirely accurate, and the poet embellishes his true appearance. polish?Yes, he made the portrait more expressive because he was distressed by his dull appearance.He longed for an image of himself, and hoped that his poetry would give his appearance a firm outline. He tries to make his portraits compelling because his real life is unremarkable.The face depicted in his poems often has a kind of warmth.The fierce expression makes up for the lack of vivid activities in the poet's life. But if a poet's self-portrait is to be published, his poems must first be published.Several of Jaromil's works had already been published in the newspapers, but he was still not satisfied.In letters accompanying the script, he spoke to the unknown editor in warm, intimate tones, trying to induce him to write back and invite him to a meeting.Yet (and this is quite a shame), even after Jaromil's poems were published, no one seemed interested in seeing him in person, or dealing with him as a literary colleague: the editor never replied. He was also disappointed by the reaction to his poetry among his classmates.Perhaps if he had belonged to the great poets of his time—whose voices were carried by loudspeakers and whose photographs blazed in illustrated weekly papers—maybe then he might have been able to generate some interest among his college classmates.But the few poems that appeared on the back pages of the paper caused little sensation.To his fellow students who aspired to a brilliant diplomatic or political career, Jaromil had become an uninteresting eccentric rather than an eccentric interesting one. During this period, Jaromil was so eager for honor!He longed for it, like all poets.O honor, thy great majesty, may thy great name inspire me, may my poetry conquer thee, Victor Hugo prays.I am a poet, I am a great poet, and one day I will be loved by the whole world; it is important to remind myself of this over and over again, and to pray for my unfinished immortality, Isi Auden Self comfort. An excessive desire for praise does not discredit a poet's talent (as it might do a mathematician or an architect); He who, to the world, hopes that the faces which his poems bring to prominence in the picture, will be loved and adored, is a poet. My soul is a wonderful flower that exudes a wonderful and smelt fragrance.I'm talented, maybe even genius.Isch Volk wrote in his diary that Jaromil, disgusted by irresponsible newspaper editors, selected several poems and sent them to a prestigious literary magazine.How happy!Two weeks later he received a note saying that his poems were considered promising and inviting him to visit the editorial office. He prepared for the visit as meticulously as he had done for a date with a girl. Same with practice.He was determined to "introduce" himself to the editors with the deepest sense of language.Identify him according to his own wishes.Who is he as a poet and a man, what are his dreams, his origins, his loves, his hates?He picked up a pen and paper, and wrote down some of his views, viewpoints, and stages of development.So, one day, he knocked on the door and walked in. A thin man with glasses sat behind a desk and asked him what he was doing.Jaromil introduced himself.The editor asked him again what was the matter.Jaromil repeated his name louder and clearly.The editor said it was a pleasure meeting Jaromil, but he still didn't understand what was going on with him.Jaromil explained that he had sent some poetry to the magazine and that he had been invited for an interview.The editor said the poetry was being handled by a colleague of his, who was out at the moment.Jaromil replied that it was a pity, because he wanted to know when his poem was scheduled to be published. The editor is getting impatient.He got up from his chair, took Jaromil by the arm, and led him to a large cabinet, which he opened to show Jaromil the stacks of manuscripts that filled the shelves. "My dear comrade".He said, "We receive an average of twelve new authors' poems a day. How much does that add up to a year?" "I don't know." Jaromil muttered in embarrassment when the editor urged him to guess. "There are 4,380 new poets every year. Do you want to get out?" "Yes, I think so," Jaromil said. "Then keep writing," said the editor. "I'm sure we'll start exporting poets sooner or later. Other countries export artisans, engineers, or wheat, or coal, but our most valuable export is poets. Czech poets can be valuable to developing countries." support. In return for our poets, we shall receive electrical equipment or bananas." A few days later, Jaromil's mother told him that the janitor's son had been waiting for him at home. "He said you should go see him at Police Headquarters. He asked me to tell you that he congratulated you on your poetry." Jaromil blushed with excitement. "Did he really say so?" "Yes. Tell him, emphatically, as he leaves, that I congratulate him on his poetry. Don't forget." "I'm happy. Yes. I'm really happy," Jaromil said emphatically. "You know, I do write poetry for people like him. I don't write poetry for some snobby scholar. After all, a carpenter makes chairs not for other carpenters, but for the people." So, one day the following week, he stepped into the NSA building, informed the armed guards in the reception room, waited a while, and finally shook hands with an old classmate who rushed down the stairs to greet him warmly.They went into his office, and the janitor's son repeated, "Listen, I never thought I had such a famous classmate! I said to myself: It's him, it's him, it's him, and finally I said to myself , it must be him, it cannot be a coincidence, there is no such a name!" Then he led Jaromil into the lobby and showed him a large bulletin board with several pictures (police training dogs, training weapons, training skydiving) and several printed notices.In the midst of all this is a clip of a poem by Jaromil, outlined in red ink and lace, which occupies an important place on the entire bulletin board. "How is it?" asked the porter's son.Jaromil didn't say anything, but he was very happy.It was the first time he saw one of his poems stand on its own. The janitor's son took him by the hand and led him back to the office. "I bet you wouldn't think that people like us read poetry," he laughed. "Why not?" said Jaromil, deeply impressed by the thought that his poems were appreciated not by spinsters but by men with revolvers on their asses. "Why not? Today's police officers are a completely different type than the murderers in police uniforms of the bourgeois era." "You may be thinking that police work is incompatible with poetry, but you'd be wrong," mused the janitor's son. Jaromil elaborates on this idea. "At the end of the day, today's poets are not the same type as they used to be. They're not spoiled, cocky little butterflies." The janitor's son continued, "Our business is ruthless--let me tell you, my friend, how ruthless it can be--but once in a while we appreciate fine things. What I have to live with in a day's work is hardly bearable." Then (his shift had just ended) he invited Jaromil across the street for a few beers. "Believe me, security is never easy," the janitor's son continued after they sat down in the tavern.He took a swig from his beer mug. "Remember that Jew I talked about last time? Well, he turned out to be a real scumbag, I tell you. Luckily we've got him locked up tight." Of course, little did Jaromil know that the dark-haired man who led the Marxist youth group had been arrested.Although he had a vague sense that a manhunt was being made, he did not know that thousands of people would be arrested, even many Communists;Therefore, his reaction to his friend's report was only surprise, and he neither expressed approval nor condemnation.Still, there was a tinge of sympathy in him, and the janitor's son felt compelled to say firmly, "There is absolutely no room for sentimentality in our work." Worried that his friend was misleading him again, Jaromil walked a few steps ahead again. "I feel sorry for him, please don't be surprised. There's nothing I can do about it. But you're right, being sentimental will cost us dearly." "Very large," added the janitor's son. "None of us wants cruelty," Jaromil insisted. "Yes." "But if we don't have the courage to be cruel to those who are cruel, we commit the greatest cruelty," Jaromil said. "Exactly." The janitor's son agreed. "There is no liberty to the enemies of liberty. Cruel, I know, but it has to be." "Exactly," reiterated the janitor's son, "I could tell you a lot about this, but my mouth is sealed. It's my job. Listen, my friend, there are things I can't even Tell my wife. Even my own wife doesn't know some of the things I do here." "I understand," Jaromil said, envious again of his classmate's manly occupation, his secret, his wife, and even the idea that he kept a secret from her, which she could not object to.He is jealous of his friend's real life, with its brutal beauty (or the brutality of beauty), constantly surpassing Jaromil's existence (he doesn't know why they arrest the dark-haired man, he just knows they have to).Facing a friend of his own age, he realized again painfully that he had not yet penetrated into real life. While Jaromil was lost in these envious musings, the janitor's son looked him in the eye (and grinned stupidly) and began to recite the poem posted on the bulletin board.He memorized the whole poem very well without missing a single word.Jaromil didn't know how to react for a moment (the friend's eyes were fixed on him).He blushed (realizing that his friend had recited it very childishly), but his blissful pride far outweighed his embarrassment—the janitor's son loved his poem and memorized it!Therefore, his poems are like his emissary and avant-garde, and have entered the world of men independently and uninhibited! The janitor's son finished reciting the poem in a monotonous and low tone.Then he said that this year he had been studying at a specialized school in a villa in the suburbs of Chirag, and that the school occasionally invited some interesting people to speak to police students. "We are planning to invite some poets to a special poetry evening some Sunday." They ordered another beer, and Jaromil said, "That's a great idea, let the police arrange a poetry evening." "Why can't the police? What's wrong with that?" "Not at all," Jaromil replied. "On the contrary, the police and poetry, poetry and the police. Perhaps the two are more closely connected than one might imagine." "Sure, why not?" said the janitor's son, and expressed his pleasure in seeing Jaromil among the invited poets. Jaromil hesitated at first, but finally agreed happily.If literature would not stretch out its feeble, pale hand to him, now the strong, rough hand of life itself grips him. Let us keep the portrait of Jaromil before us for a while longer.He was sitting across the table from the janitor's son with a glass of beer in his hand.Behind him, in the distance, was the closed world of his childhood; before him, in the embodiment of a former classmate, was the world of action, a world entirely different, into which he both dreaded and desperately wanted to enter . This is the basic situation of immaturity.The lyrical attitude is one way of dealing with this situation: the exile from the safe walls of childhood yearns to step out into the world, but because he fears it, he constructs an artificial, vicarious world of poetry.Let his poems orbit him as the planets orbit the sun.He becomes the center of a little universe where there is nothing incompatible and where he feels as free as a baby in its mother's womb, for everything is constructed from the familiar stuff of his own mind.Here, he can obtain everything that is difficult to obtain "outside".Issie Volker, a timid young student, could lead the revolutionary masses to the barricades; here, in cruel poetry, the innocent Arthur Rimbaud flogs his "little mistress" for others.But those revolutionary masses and those mistresses are not constructed from the material of a hostile, incompatible external world, but are constituents of the poet's own life, the material of his own dreams, which do not disturb what he has constructed for himself. The unity of the universe. Issie Auden wrote a beautiful poem about a child happy in its mother's body, and he saw birth as a terrible death, a death full of lights and horrible faces.The baby desperately wanted to go back, back into the womb, back into the fragrant night. The immature man longs for the safety and unity of the world he occupied in his mother's womb.He is also always anxious (or angry) about the relative adult world, and he is like a drop in the ocean in this incompatible world.That's why young people are such ardent monists, absolute messengers; that's why a poet builds his personal poetic world; An absolute new world is forged in the concept; that is why such a person cannot tolerate compromise, whether in love or politics, and the rebellious student confronts history with a fierce cry of all or nothing. Ten-year-old Victor Hugo flew into a rage when he saw his fiancée Adele Fouché pull her skirts high above her ankles on a muddy sidewalk.In my opinion, stateliness is more important than skirts, he reprimanded her in a letter, adding, Please take my words seriously, otherwise I will slap the face of the impertinent fool whoever dares to look at you first! The adult world laughed at this solemn threat.The exposure of the lover's ankle and the laughter of the people deeply hurt the poet.A dramatic struggle between the poet and the world begins. The adult world knows full well that "absolutely" is a false notion, that no one is great, or eternal, and that it is perfectly normal for a sister to share a room with a brother.However, Jaromil felt pain!His red-haired girl announced that her brother was coming to Prague and was going to stay with her for a week; she asked Jaromil not to go to her apartment during this time.He was fed up and very angry; he couldn't be expected to give up his girlfriend for a whole week just because "someone" was coming to town. "你不公平！"红头发姑娘反驳说，"我比你小，可是我有自己的住处，我们总是在那里见面。为什么我们不能到你家里去？" 雅罗米尔知道姑娘是对的，因此他的愤怒不断上涨。他比任何时候都更加意识到他那缺乏独立的耻辱处境，愤怒使他不顾一切，当天他就对母亲宣布（用前所未有的坚定语气），他打算邀请年轻女友到家里，因为这里是他们可以单独相处的唯一地方。 他们彼此多么相似，母亲和儿子！对统一与和谐的一元论时期的怀旧使他们同样着迷。他想重新回到她那母性深处的芳香的黑夜，而她想要永远充当那个芳香的黑夜。当她的儿子逐渐长大，玛曼竭力想象空气一样把他包围起来。她接受了他的一切观点：她成了一个现代艺术的信徒，她开始信仰共产主义，相信她儿子的荣誉，指责那些随波逐流的教授的虚伪。她仍然希望象天空一样把儿子包围起来，仍然希望做儿子所做的事。 那么，她怎么能忍受一个陌生女人不相干的躯体侵入到这个和谐的统一里？ 雅罗米尔从她脸上看到了反对，这使他更加顽强。是的，他想寻求芳香的黑夜，他正在寻找旧日的母性世界，但是他已不再在他母亲身上寻找。相反，在寻求他失去的母亲的过程中，他的母亲成了最大的障碍。 她看出儿子的决心，于是她屈服了。一天晚上，红头发姑娘第一次发现她已经在雅罗米尔的房间里；如果他俩不是那样紧张，这本来会是一个很美好的时刻；玛曼看电影去了。可她的灵魂似乎仍然徘徊在他们的头上，在注视，在倾听。他们的谈话声比平常低得多。当雅罗米尔搂抱姑娘时，他感到她的身躯冰冷，意识到最好是到此为止。因此，他们没有象预料的那样快乐，整个晚上都在心不在焉地谈话，不断地望着那个通报玛曼就要回来的钟摆，从雅罗米尔的房间出来后必须通过玛曼的房间，红头发姑娘强烈地表示不愿见到她。因此在玛曼回来之前半小时她就赶紧走掉了，听任雅罗米尔处在很坏的情绪中。 然而，这次经历非但没有使他泄气，相反却只是使他更加坚定。他得出结论，他在家中的地位是不堪忍受的；这不是他的家，这是他母亲的家，他仅仅是一个房客而已。他被激得故意采取倔强的态度。他再次邀请红头发姑娘，用勉强的诙谐来迎接她，试图以此消除第一次曾压在他们身上的紧张不安。他甚至还在桌子上放了一瓶酒，由于他俩谁都不习惯喝酒，他们很快就喝得醉熏熏，完全可以忽视玛曼无所不在的身影了。 那一个星期，按照雅罗米尔的希望，玛曼总是很晚才回家。事实上，她超出了他的愿望，甚至在白天也出去，而他并没有要求她这样。这既非好意，也非让步，只是一个抗议示威。她的流放是为了向雅罗米尔表明他的残忍，她的晚归是为了对他说：你表现得仿佛你是这里的主人，你对待我象对待一位女仆，当我干完了一天的苦活，我甚至不能坐下来歇口气。 遗憾的是，当她在外面的时候，她不能很好地利用这些漫长的下午和晚上。那位曾经对她感兴趣的同事已经厌倦了没有结果的求爱。她试图（很少成功）与一些老朋友重新建立起联系。她到电影院去。带着病态的满足，她品尝着一个失去父母和丈夫，被儿子赶出自己家门的女人的痛苦情感。她坐在黑暗的电影院里，望着远处银幕上两个在接吻的陌生人，眼泪从她脸上慢慢地滚落下来。 一天，她比往常回来的早一点，打算摆出一副受了委屈的面孔，不理睬儿子的问候。她刚一走时她房间，几乎还没有关上门，这时热血一下子涌上了脑际。从雅罗米尔的房间，几步开处，她听见了同女人呻吟声混杂在一起的儿子的呼呼气喘的声音。 她木然地站在那里，接着她突然想到，她不能留在这个地方，听着爱的呻唤——这就等于站在他们旁边盯视（此刻在她想象中，她的确看见了他们，清清楚楚），这是无法忍受的。当她意识到自己的完全无能时，她气得麻木，越发狂怒，因为她既不能大叫，也不能跺脚，既不能砸坏家俱，也不能闯进去打他们；除了一动不动地站着听，她什么也不能做。 后来，她头脑里残留的一点神志清醒的感觉与毫无知觉的狂怒混合在一起，变成一个突然的、疯狂的灵感。当红头发姑娘在隔壁房间再次呻吟起来时，玛曼用一种充满焦虑关心的声音叫道，"雅罗米尔，我的天哪，你的女朋友怎么了。" 呻吟立即停止了，玛曼冲到药柜前，拿出一个小瓶子，跑回到雅罗米尔房间的门口。她往下推门柄；门是锁上的。"我的天啊，不要这样吓我。怎么了？那个姑娘好点了吗？" 雅罗米尔正抱着红头发姑娘的身躯，她在他怀里急得发抖。他咕噜着说，"不，没什么……" "姑娘的肚子疼吗？" "是的……" "开开门，我给她吃点东西就会好一点。"玛曼说，再次推上了锁的门柄。 "等一下。"儿子说，迅速地从姑娘身边站起来。 "这样痛！"玛曼说，"一定很厉害？" "等一下。"雅罗米尔说，匆匆穿上裤子和衬衫，把一床毯子扔在姑娘身上。 "一定是肚子，你看呢？"玛曼隔着门问。 "是的。"雅罗米尔回答，微微打开门，伸出手去拿腹痛药。 "你不愿让我进来吗？"玛曼说。一种疯狂驱使她走得更远；她没有让自己被推开，而是冲进了房间。她第一眼看到的是挂在椅子上的胸罩，四处散乱的内衣。然后她看见了姑娘。她在毯子下面抖缩，脸色苍白。仿佛真的刚经历了一次腹部绞痛。