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Françoise Sagan
A little sun in cold water

And I see her and I lose her

and mourn

And my sorrow is like the sun

in cold water.

Paul Eluard

Part one
Paris

Chapter 1

Now it happened to him almost every day. Unless the day before he got drunk to the point that he got out of bed in the morning, as if in a shaky fog, went to the shower, unconsciously, mechanically dressed, and fatigue itself then freed him from the burden of his own "I". But more often it happened something else, painful: he woke up at dawn, and his heart was pounding from fear, from what he could no longer call anything other than fear of life, and he waited: anxieties, failures were about to speak in a recitative in his brain, Calvary of the day that has begun. The heart was pounding; he tried to sleep, he tried to forget himself. In vain. Then he sat up in bed, grabbed the bottle of mineral water that stood at hand without looking, drank a sip of the tasteless, lukewarm, vile liquid - just as vile as his own life had seemed to him for the past three months. “Yes, what is the matter with me? What?" he asked himself with despair and fury, for he was selfish. And although he often had to observe nervous depression in other people he sincerely respected, such weakness seemed to him insulting, like a slap in the face. From a young age, he did not think too much about himself, the external side of life was quite enough for him, and when he suddenly looked into himself and saw what a sickly, weak, irritable creature he had become, he felt superstitious horror. Could this thirty-five-year-old man, who sits up in bed at the light of day and shudders nervously for no apparent reason, is this really him? Could it be that three decades of a carefree life, full of fun, laughter, and only occasionally overshadowed by love sorrows, led to this? He buried his head in the pillow, pressed his cheek against it, as if the pillow was supposed to give a blissful sleep. But he never closed his eyes. Either he felt cold and wrapped himself in a blanket, then he choked from the heat and threw everything off himself, but he could not tame his inner trembling, something similar to melancholy and hopeless despair.

Of course, nothing prevented him from turning to Eloisa and making love. But he couldn't. For three months he did not touch her, for three months there was no question of this. Beauty Eloise! ​​.. It is curious how she puts up with this ... as if she senses something painful, strange in him, as if she pities him. And the thought of this pity oppressed more than her anger or possible betrayal. What he wouldn't give to want her, to rush to her, to escape into this always new warmth of the female body, to rage, to forget - only not a dream anymore. But that's exactly what he couldn't do. And a few timid attempts, which she ventured, finally turned him away from Eloise. He, who loved love so much and could give himself to her under any circumstances, even the most strange and absurd, found himself powerless in bed next to a woman he liked, a beautiful woman and, moreover, he really loved.

However, he exaggerated. Once, three weeks ago, after a famous party at Jean's, he took possession of her. But now it has been forgotten. He'd had too much to drink that evening - for his own reasons - he vaguely remembered only a rough fight on the wide bed and the pleasant thought when he woke up that the point had been won. As if a brief moment of pleasure could be revenge for painful nights without sleep, for awkward excuses and feigned swagger. Of course, not God knows what. The life that used to be so generous to him - at least he thought so, and this was one of the reasons for his success - and suddenly receded from him, as the sea recedes at low tide, leaving alone the rock on which it has been caressing for so long. . Imagining himself in the form of a lonely old man of the cliff, he even laughed with a short, bitter laugh. But really, he thought, life was leaving him like blood flowing from a secret wound. Time no longer passed, but disappeared somewhere. No matter how much he kept repeating to himself, no matter how much he convinced himself that even now he had a lot of enviable things: a winning appearance, an interesting profession, success in various fields - all these consolations seemed to him as empty, as worthless as the words of church akathists... Dead, dead words.

In addition, the party at Jean's showed how much disgusting physiology was in his experiences. He left the living room for a moment and went to the bathroom to wash his hands and comb his hair. Then the soap slipped out of his hands and fell on the floor, under the washstand; he bent down, wanted to pick it up. The soap lay under the water pipe, the pink bar seemed to be hiding there; and suddenly this pinkness seemed obscene to him, he stretched out his hand to take it, and could not. It was as if it were a small nocturnal animal lurking in the darkness, ready to crawl up his arm. Gilles froze in place in horror. And when he straightened up, covered in sweat, and saw himself in the mirror, some detached curiosity suddenly woke up in the depths of his consciousness, and a feeling of fear fell into place. He squatted down again and, taking a deep breath, like a swimmer before a springboard, grabbed a pink remnant. But he immediately threw it into the shell, as one throws away a sleeping snake, which they have mistaken for a dry twig; for a full minute afterwards he splashed cold water in his face. It was then that the thought came that the blame for everything should be considered not the liver, not overwork, not “present times”, but something completely different. That's when he admitted that "it" really happened: he was sick.

But what to do now? Is there a more lonely being in the world than a person who has made the decision to live cheerfully, happily, with complacent cynicism, a person who has come to such a decision in the most natural way - instinctively - and suddenly left empty-handed, and even in Paris, in nineteen hundred and sixty seventh year of our era? Seeking a psychiatrist seemed humiliating to him, and he resolutely rejected the idea out of pride, which he was inclined to regard as one of the best qualities of his nature. So, there was only one thing left - to be silent. And continue this existence. Rather, try to continue. Besides, while maintaining his former blind faith in life with its happy accidents, he hoped that all this would not last long. Time, the only ruler he recognized, had taken away his love pleasures, his joys, his sorrows, even some of his glances, and there was no reason to doubt that he would cope with "this thing." But "this thing" was something faceless, nameless, he didn't know what it was, in fact. But perhaps time has power only over what you yourself have realized.

Chapter 2

He worked in the international department of the newspaper and spent the whole morning at the editorial office that day. Bloody, unthinkable events were taking place in the world that aroused a tickling sense of horror in his brethren, and this irritated him. Not so long ago, just three months ago, he would have gladly gasped with them, expressed his indignation, but now he could not. He was even a little annoyed that these events, which took place in the Middle East, or in the USA, or somewhere else, seemed to be trying to divert his attention from the real drama - his own. Planet Earth was spinning in chaos - who now could have the desire or find time to inquire about his pitiful problems? But did he himself spend few hours listening to the gloomy confessions and confessions of losers? Did he not accomplish the notorious feats of salvation? And what? People walk around with eyes shining with excitement, and only he suddenly lost his head, like a lost dog, became as selfish as other old people, as worthless as they are. Suddenly he had a desire to go up the floor to Jean and talk to him. It seemed to him that of all his acquaintances, only Jean was able to distract himself from his worries and sympathize with him.

At thirty-five, Gilles Lantier was still handsome. "Still" - because at twenty he was distinguished by a rare beauty, which, however, he never realized, although he cheerfully used it, captivating both women and men (the latter - disinterestedly). Now, fifteen years later, he has lost weight, acquired a more masculine appearance, but in his gait, in his movements, something of a victorious youth remains. Jean, who in former times simply adored him, although he never told him so, and did not admit it to himself, his heart trembled when Gilles entered. That thinness, those blue eyes, that black hair that was too long, that nervousness... Really, he was getting more and more nervous, and a friend should have taken care of them. But he still couldn’t make up his mind: Gilles had been a symbol of happiness and carelessness for him for so long that he didn’t dare to talk about it, just as you don’t dare to encroach on a long and firmly established image ... What if it crumbles to dust ... and Jean , who from time immemorial has been round, bald, twitchy with life, will you have to make sure that there are no born lucky people in the world? Jean had already lost many illusions, but with this illusion, perhaps, in view of her naivety, he was especially sorry to part. He pulled up a chair, and Gilles sank cautiously into the seat, for there was nowhere in the room to turn around, because of the file folders heaped on the desks, on the floor, on the fireplace. Jean handed him a cigarette. From the window there was a view of the gray and blue roofs, the realm of gutters, pipes and television antennas that Gilles had admired until recently. But now he didn't even look in that direction.

- Well, how? Jean said. - How do you like it, huh?

Are you talking about murder? Yes, you can say, deftly concocted!

And Gilles fell silent, lowering his eyes. A minute passed, Jean, wanting to delay the explanation, put the folders on the table in order and at the same time whistled, as if a whole minute of silence was natural during their meetings. Finally he made up his mind - natural kindness prevailed over everything else, he remembered how attentive and affectionate Gilles was with him in those days when his wife left him, Jean, and suddenly felt like the last egoist. For the past two months, something wrong has been going on with Gilles - Jean felt it, but for two months he avoided heart-to-heart conversations. Nothing to say, good friend! But now that Gilles had given him the right, or rather frankly forced him to launch an attack, he could not resist a little staging. We are all like this after thirty: any event, whether it affects the whole world or only the world of our feelings, requires some theatricalization in order for it to benefit us or reach us. And so Jean crushed a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. Looking intently into Gilles' face, he cleared his throat and said:

- Well, how?

- What how? Gilles replied.

He wanted to leave, but he already knew that he would not leave, that he himself forced Jean to start questioning and, worse than that: he even felt better at heart.

- Well, how? Things don't stick?

- Do not stick.

- It's been two months already? Right?

- Three months.

Jean determined the term at random, just wanted to show that Gilles' state of mind had not gone unnoticed, and if he still hadn't talked about it, it was only out of delicacy. But Gilles immediately thought: “He is pretending to be a shrewd person, a cunning one, but he himself was mistaken for a whole month ...” But he said aloud:

Yes, I've been sick for three months now.

– Specific reasons? Jean asked and with a sharp movement brought the lighter to the cigarette.

At that moment, Gilles hated him: “If only he would leave this tone of a police official, a sort of highly experienced subject who cannot be moved to pity. If only he didn’t break comedy. ” But at the same time he wanted to speak out - an irresistible, warm wave picked him up and led him to frankness.

- There are no reasons.

- Now this is more serious, - Jean threw.

- Well, it all depends ... - objected Gilles.

His hostile tone immediately brought Jean out of the role of an impassive psychiatrist; he got up, walked around the table and, putting his hand on Gilles' shoulder, muttered affectionately: "Well, nothing, nothing, old man," and from this Gilles, to his great horror, had tears in his eyes. He's definitely not good for anything. He stretched out his hand, picked up a ballpoint pen from the table and, pressing the head, began to concentrate and withdraw the pen.

"What's wrong with you, old man?" Jean asked. - Maybe you're sick?

- No, not sick. I just don't want anything in the world, that's all. Seems like a fashionable disease, right?

He even tried to smirk. But, in fact, he was by no means relieved by the fact that his state of mind turned out to be a widespread and officially recognized phenomenon in the medical world. It was rather embarrassing. For that matter, he would rather be considered a "rare case".

“Well, then,” he said with an effort. “I don’t want anything else at all. I don’t want to work, I don’t want to love, I don’t want to move - just to lie in bed all day alone, covered with a blanket over my head. I...

- And have you tried?

- Certainly. It didn't take long. By nine o'clock in the evening I was already drawn to commit suicide. The sheets and pillows seemed dirty to me, my own smell was disgusting, my regular cigarettes were just disgusting. Is that okay in your opinion?

Jean grunted something incomprehensible: these details, indicating a mental breakdown, jarred him more than any obscene details, and he tried for the last time to find a logical explanation.

What about Eloise?

What about Eloise? Tolerates me. As you know, we don't really have much to talk about. But she really loves me. And, you know, I'm out of breath. And not only with her, but in general. Well, almost. Even if something works out, I'm bored. So that...

- Well, it's not scary. It will get better.

And Jean tried to laugh, to reduce the whole matter to the wounded pride of a weakened cockerel.

“You need to consult a good doctor, take vitamins, breathe clean air - and in two weeks you will start chasing chickens again.”

Gilles looked up at him. He even went berserk.

“Don’t bring it all down to this, I don’t give a damn about it, you understand? Don't give a damn! I don't want anything, you know? Not only women. I don't want to live. Are there vitamins for such cases?

There was silence.

- Would you like some whiskey? Jean asked.

Opening a drawer, he took out a bottle of Scotch and handed it to Giles; he mechanically took a sip and, shuddering, shook his head.

“Alcohol doesn't help me now. Unless you get drunk half to death and fall asleep. Alcohol doesn't turn me on anymore. And, in any case, it is not in him that we must look for a way out, right?

Jean took the bottle from him and took a long sip.

“Let's go,” he said. - Let's stagger a little.

They went out. Paris was delightful to tears in the throat with its early spring blueness. And the streets were still the same, the same, and the same bistros were on them, the same restaurant "Sloop", where they usually went with all the brethren to celebrate some event, and the same bar where Gilles ran secretly to telephone Maria in the times when he loved her. My God, just remember how he was then shaking in a stuffy telephone booth and how he read and reread, without understanding, the inscriptions on the wall, and the phone kept ringing and ringing, and no one picked up! How tormented he was, how he tried to let loose upon himself when, after hanging up the phone, he ordered a glass of water from the hostess at the counter, drank it in one gulp, how his heart ached, it ached with melancholy, with rage, but he lived then! And although he was enslaved in that terrible time, although he was trampled underfoot, it was an almost enviable fate compared to his present vegetative existence. Let him be hurt, but at least it was clear what the cause of this pain was.

- What if we go somewhere? Jean said. - Take two weeks on a business trip for reporting.

“Reluctantly,” replied Gilles. – When I think about planes, about schedules, about unfamiliar hotels, about people who need to be interviewed ... No, I can’t ... And even fiddling with a suitcase ... Oh no!

Jean looked askance at him and for a moment wondered if his friend was playing a comedy. Gilles, it happened, liked to play, especially since everyone usually fell for this bait. But now such sincere fear was written on his face, such genuine disgust that Jean believed.

“Or else let’s spend the evening with the girls, like in the good old days.” It's like you and I are village guys who decided to take a walk in the capital ... No, this is nonsense ... And how is your book? Your report about America?

- About fifty such books have already been written, and much better than mine. Do you really think that I can write at least two interesting lines when nothing interests me?

The thought of the book finally finished him off. Indeed, he intended to write a book of essays about the United States, since he knew this country well, he really dreamed of writing - he even made a plan. But now - and this was the real truth - he could not write a single line or develop any idea. But what, after all, is the matter with him? Why is he punished? And by whom? He was always brotherly to his friends, and even gentle with women. He never knowingly harmed anyone. Why, at thirty-five, did life hit him like a poisoned boomerang?

“I’ll tell you now what’s wrong with you,” Jean’s voice buzzed beside him, a soothing, unbearable voice. You are overtired, you...

“Don’t you dare say what’s the matter with me,” Gilles suddenly yelled across the street, “don’t you dare say, because you don’t know!” Because I myself, you hear, I myself do not know this! And most importantly, - finally losing patience, he added, - get rid of me!

Passers-by looked at them; Gilles suddenly blushed, grabbed Jean by the lapels of his jacket, wanted to add something, but turned abruptly and, without saying goodbye, quickly walked towards the embankment.

Chapter 3

Eloise was waiting for him. Eloise was always waiting for him. She worked as a fashion model in a large fashion house, did not do very well in life and enthusiastically settled with Gilles two years ago, on the evening when he was especially tormented by the memories of Mary and he could no longer endure loneliness. Eloise went from brunette to blonde to redhead, changing her hair color every three months for reasons of photogenicity, which Gilles could not understand. Her eyes were very beautiful, bright blue, a beautiful figure and always in a good mood. For a long time, in a certain sense, they got along excellently with each other, but now Gilles was thinking longingly how to spend the evening with her, what to say to her. Of course, he could leave the house alone - under the pretext that he was invited to dinner, she would not be offended, but he was not at all tempted by another meeting with Paris, with the street, with the darkness of the night, he wanted to hide in a corner and be alone .

He lived on the Rue Dauphine in a three-room apartment, which he never furnished properly. At first, he enthusiastically nailed shelves, made wiring for a stereophonic radio, chose a place for a bookcase, for a TV - in a word, he enthusiastically acquired all sorts of fashionable innovations that, as is commonly believed, make human life pleasant and enrich it. And now he looked with annoyance at all these things and was not even able to take a book from the shelf - it was he who stuffed himself with literature all day long! When he entered, Eloise was watching TV, not letting go of the newspaper so as not to miss some stunning broadcast, and when she saw Gilles, she jumped up and immediately ran to kiss him with a cheerful smile - this haste seemed to him unnatural and ridiculous, too in the spirit of "your little wife." He went to the bar—or rather, to the rolling table that served as the bar—and poured himself a whiskey, though he was not at all thirsty. Then he sat down in the same armchair as Eloise, and also stared with an interested look at the TV screen. Breaking away for a moment from the exciting spectacle, Eloise turned to him.

- Was it a good day?

- Highly. And you have?

And she looked back at the screen, seemingly relieved. There, some young people were trying to make a word out of wooden letters, which the announcer scattered in front of them with a sweet smile. Gilles lit a cigarette and closed his eyes.

“I think it's a drugstore,” said Eloise.

- Sorry?

- It seems to me that the word they need to make is “pharmacy”.

“Quite possibly,” Gilles agreed.

And he closed his eyes again. Then he tried to take another sip. But the whiskey had already warmed up. Gilles set the glass down on the floor, covered with beaver.

“Nikola called, asked if we would like to have dinner with him at the club tonight. How do you think?

"We'll see," said Gilles. “Because I just got back.

“But if you don’t feel like going out, we have veal in the fridge. You can have dinner and watch a detective on TV.

Great, he thought. - A rich choice: either have dinner with Nikola, who will explain for the hundredth time that if our cinema had not been so corrupt, he, Nikola, would have created a masterpiece long ago. Or sit at home and watch the stupidest show on TV, eating cold veal. Horror!" But before that he went out in the evenings, he had friends, he had fun, met new people, and every night was a holiday! .. Where are his friends? He knew very well where his friends were - just reach out to the phone. They just got tired of calling him for three months to no avail - that's all. No matter how much he sorted through the names in his memory, wondering who he would like to see now, there were no such people. Only that bastard Nicola is still clinging to him. The reason is clear: there is nothing to pay for a drink. The telephone rang, but Gilles did not move. There was a time when he immediately grabbed the telephone receiver, sure that he was called by love, adventure or some kind of luck. Now Eloise was on the phone. She called from the bedroom:

- It's you, Jean is calling.

Gilles hesitated. What to say?

Then he remembered that during the day he had been rude to Jean, and rudeness always looks both ugly and stupid. In the end, after all, he himself climbed to Jean with his troubles, and then left him in the middle of the street. He picked up the phone.

Is that you, Gilles? Well, what do you have?

"I'm sorry it happened today," he said, "I, you see...

We'll talk about serious things tomorrow. What are you doing in the evening?

“Yes, I guess I... I guess we’ll stay at home today and eat cold veal.”

It was a real, barely veiled call for help, followed by a short silence. Jean then said softly:

“You know, you don’t have to sit at home. Today in "Bobino" premiere. If you want, I have tickets, I can...

“No thanks,” Gilles replied. - I don't want to leave the house. Let's have a big party tomorrow.

He did not think about any revelry at all, and Jean knew it. But it was already too late for the theater: Jean would have to go to change clothes, leave the house again, and this obviously far-fetched project of revelry suited him. He agreed, just in case he said with tenderness not accepted between them: “See you tomorrow, old man!” – and hung up. Gilles felt even more alone. He returned to the living room and sat down in a chair. Eloise, as if spellbound, did not take her eyes off the screen. Gilles suddenly exploded:

“Are you able to watch this!”

Eloise did not express the slightest surprise, but only turned a meek, humble face towards him.

“I thought it was better, you don’t have to talk to me then.”

He was taken aback from amazement, not knowing what to answer. And at the same time, her words sounded so humiliated that he felt the dull horror he knew so well: someone was suffering because of him. And he realized that he was unraveled.

- Why do you say that?

She shrugged.

- Yes, it is. It seems to me... I have the impression that you want to be alone, you want to not be pestered. Here I am watching TV...

She looked at him pleadingly, she wanted him to say: “No, no, you better come and talk to me, I need you,” and for a moment he had a desire to say this in order to please her. . But that would be a lie, another lie - what right did he have to say that?

"I haven't been feeling very well these last few days," he said in a weak voice. - Do not be mad at me. I don't know what's wrong with me.

“I'm not angry,” she replied. “I know what it is. At twenty-two, the same thing happened to me - a nervous depression. I cried all the time. My mother was terribly afraid for me.

Well, this is to be expected! Comparisons! Everything has always been with Eloise.

- And how did it end?

The question was asked in a vicious, mocking tone. Indeed, how can one compare his illness with the ailments of Eloisa? It's just insulting.

- It just went away - all of a sudden. For a month I took some pills - I forgot what they are called. And one day I suddenly felt better ...

She didn't even smile. Gilles looked at her almost with hatred.

- It's a pity you forgot what these pills are called. Maybe you can ask your mom on the phone?

Eloise stood up and, going up to him, clasped his head in her hands. He looked intently at her beautiful calm face, at her lips, kissed by him so many times, at her blue eyes full of sympathy.

- Gilles! .. Gilles! .. I know that I am not very smart, and I can hardly help you. But I love you, Gilles, my dear!..

And she cried, buried in his jacket. He felt sorry for her, and at the same time terribly bored.

“Don't cry,” he said, “don't cry, please. Everything will be settled ... I'm completely unscrewed, tomorrow I'll go to the doctor.

And as she continued to sob softly like a frightened child, he gave her his word that he would definitely go to the doctor tomorrow, cheerfully ate his portion of cold veal and tried to have a little chat with Eloise. Then, as they got into bed, he kissed Eloise affectionately on the cheek and rolled over on his side, praying in his heart that dawn would never come again.

Thirty-five-year-old journalist Gilles Lantier excelled in life. He has an attractive appearance, a good job and a beautiful mistress, Eloise, with whom he lives in a three-room apartment. However, Gilles increasingly feels fear of life. Negative experiences especially often visit him in the morning, when Lantier wakes up. Gradually, the bouts of hopelessness intensify. Once Gilles was visiting his friend. When he went to the toilet to wash his hands, he noticed that he felt a feeling of deep despair at the sight of a small bar of soap. Gilles tries to touch him, but fear overpowers him.

Lantier works in the international print department. Every day he has to deal with numerous catastrophes and bloody events taking place in the world. More recently, Gilles was horrified when he learned about this or that incident. However, now even this information cannot distract him from his own experiences. Gilles' psychological problems are noticed by his colleague Jean. He advises a friend to go on a business trip or travel. But Gilles feels that this will not help him either. The journalist turns to the doctor, who also offers him to go somewhere for a while.

Taking into account the advice of a friend and a doctor, Gilles goes to a village near Limoges, where his sister Odile lives. But even here the journalist does not feel relieved. Once Odile persuaded her brother to go with her to visit. The protagonist meets Natalie Silvener, the wife of a local high-ranking official. Natalie is a very beautiful woman who is used to being the center of attention. She wants to conquer the Parisian in order to once again prove to herself that her beauty can do anything.

Gilles is not in the mood for a love relationship, and he immediately makes it clear to his new acquaintance. Natalie does not give up and the next day she comes to Odile's house herself. Beauty managed to achieve her goal. A passionate romance begins between Natalie and Gilles. The journalist feels that he has regained a taste for life. Meanwhile, in the newspaper where Gilles works, a leadership post has been vacated. Faithful friend Jean proposes the candidacy of Gilles. Lantier is forced to interrupt his vacation and return to Paris, where he is confirmed in his position. But a career has already ceased to have any meaning for Gilles. He feels truly in love with Natalie.

Madame Silvener leaves her husband for a young Parisian. The life of lovers is gradually getting better. However, the new relationship is cracking. Lantier notices one very unpleasant flaw in his girlfriend: Natalie is too powerful a woman. Gilles falls into depression again. Inviting his friend Jean to his home, Lantier tells him about the reason for his new experiences. Colleagues did not suspect that Natalie was in the next room and heard everything. The woman goes out to her friends and pretends not to know the topic of conversation. She then packs up and leaves the house to rent a hotel room, where she takes a lethal dose of sleeping pills. In a suicide note, Natalie says that no one is to blame for her death, and only Gilles has always been her only love.

Gilles Lantier

The protagonist of the novel managed to thoroughly get tired of life, despite the fact that he is only 35. Gilles has no financial difficulties, but there are enough psychological problems in his life. The author considers his weakness of character to be the reason for the internal trouble of the hero. Gilles goes through life by touch. The desire to analyze himself and his existence really comes to him only at the age of 35. At this age, Lantier concludes that he lived wrong. He has a comfortable apartment in which he feels ostracized, a prestigious job that has long begun to annoy him, and a beautiful mistress whose beauty leaves Lantier indifferent.

An encounter with Natalie briefly revives Gilles. However, the weak character of the protagonist leads to the fact that he again finds himself hostage to a new relationship. Eloise was to blame for not taking part in the life of the protagonist. Natalie is guilty of excessive authoritarianism.

Natalie Silvener

The character of the main character is as bright as her appearance is spectacular. The red-haired beauty was not accustomed to defeat. But in an effort to win the heart of Gilles, she is driven not only by the desire to achieve her own. Natalie is in love. Married life has long become too insipid for her, and a stormy romance with a young Parisian inspires hope for a new bright romantic relationship. Natalie never focuses on mercantile interests. After moving to Paris, she took a job to make her life more meaningful and not financially dependent on her lover. The main character is very smart and erudite.

Huge shortcomings of Natalie were lust for power and uncompromisingness. These qualities spoil the life not only of others, but also of Madame Silvener herself. She is so confident in her impeccability that she considers herself entitled to make comments to others and point out. Natalie wants to be not just a wife, but also a mother. The main character refuses to understand that Gilles is not a child for a long time and at the age of 35 she no longer needs maternal care. Natalie does not try to find out the relationship with her beloved, because she is not capable of compromise.

Finding a foothold in your environment is the mistake of many. Someone is looking for her in passionate love, someone - in children, and someone - in a career. Gilles Lantier is also trying to find his foothold. The meeting with Natalie led him to the false conclusion that what he really lacked in life was only spiritual intimacy. Eloise is beautiful and sexy, but she is not a kindred spirit. Natalie is more than just a lover. She wants to actively participate in the life of a loved one. Very little time passes, and Gilles realizes that a new love does not bring him anything but annoyance and another depression.

Even by the end of the story, the main character could not understand that the fulcrum must be sought in oneself. Beautiful women and material wealth come and go. Neither a lover nor a true friend can fill the inner void. The only person with whom Lantier will have to live for the rest of his days is himself.

Analysis of the work

The title of the novel is A Little Sun in Cold Water. Francoise Sagan chose titles for her works that could cover all the content and express the author's attitude towards it. Cold water is the bleak existence of Gilles. Natalie is a little sun in this water.

However, knowing Sagan's tastes, fans don't expect a happy ending. The lovers found each other, the main character received a promotion, but happiness did not work out. The sun that warmed the cold water is getting bigger every day. Eventually, the water starts to evaporate. This is exactly what happens with Lantier. First, Natalie brought him back to life, and then decided to appropriate this life.

The novel is devoted to the theme of life crises, love mistakes, betrayals, not so much from the point of view of morality, but from the author's position.

Another book by Francoise Sagan is an example of how a bad example of a parent's life is contagious for children.

The denouement of the novel can be called unexpected. Already shortly before the final, the reader assumes suicide. However, according to the public, the weak-willed depressive Gilles, who has not found a way out of the psychological crisis, will become a suicide. Instead, the strong and independent Natalie takes her own life.

Now it happened to him almost every day. Unless the day before he got drunk to the point that he got out of bed in the morning, as if in a shaky fog, went to the shower, unconsciously, mechanically dressed, and fatigue itself then freed him from the burden of his own "I". But more often it happened something else, painful: he woke up at dawn, and his heart was pounding from fear, from what he could no longer call anything other than fear of life, and he waited: anxieties, failures were about to speak in a recitative in his brain, Calvary of the day that has begun. The heart was pounding; he tried to sleep, he tried to forget himself. In vain. Then he sat up in bed, grabbed the bottle of mineral water that stood at hand without looking, drank a sip of the tasteless, lukewarm, vile liquid - just as vile as his own life had seemed to him for the past three months. “Yes, what is the matter with me? What?" he asked himself with despair and fury, for he was selfish. And although he often had to observe nervous depression in other people he sincerely respected, such weakness seemed to him insulting, like a slap in the face. From a young age, he did not think too much about himself, the external side of life was quite enough for him, and when he suddenly looked into himself and saw what a sickly, weak, irritable creature he had become, he felt superstitious horror. Could this thirty-five-year-old man, who sits up in bed at the light of day and shudders nervously for no apparent reason, is this really him? Could it be that three decades of a carefree life, full of fun, laughter, and only occasionally overshadowed by love sorrows, led to this? He buried his head in the pillow, pressed his cheek against it, as if the pillow was supposed to give a blissful sleep. But he never closed his eyes. Either he felt cold and wrapped himself in a blanket, then he choked from the heat and threw everything off himself, but he could not tame his inner trembling, something similar to melancholy and hopeless despair.

Of course, nothing prevented him from turning to Eloisa and making love. But he couldn't. For three months he did not touch her, for three months there was no question of this. Beauty Eloise! ​​.. It is curious how she puts up with this ... as if she senses something painful, strange in him, as if she pities him. And the thought of this pity oppressed more than her anger or possible betrayal. What he wouldn't give to want her, to rush to her, to escape into this always new warmth of the female body, to rage, to forget - only not a dream anymore. But that's exactly what he couldn't do. And a few timid attempts, which she ventured, finally turned him away from Eloise. He, who loved love so much and could give himself to her under any circumstances, even the most strange and absurd, found himself powerless in bed next to a woman he liked, a beautiful woman and, moreover, he really loved.

However, he exaggerated. Once, three weeks ago, after a famous party at Jean's, he took possession of her. But now it has been forgotten. He'd had too much to drink that evening - for his own reasons - he vaguely remembered only a rough fight on the wide bed and the pleasant thought when he woke up that the point had been won. As if a brief moment of pleasure could be revenge for painful nights without sleep, for awkward excuses and feigned swagger. Of course, not God knows what. The life that used to be so generous to him - at least he thought so, and this was one of the reasons for his success - and suddenly receded from him, as the sea recedes at low tide, leaving alone the rock on which it has been caressing for so long. . Imagining himself in the form of a lonely old man of the cliff, he even laughed with a short, bitter laugh. But really, he thought, life was leaving him like blood flowing from a secret wound. Time no longer passed, but disappeared somewhere. No matter how much he kept repeating to himself, no matter how much he convinced himself that even now he had a lot of enviable things: a winning appearance, an interesting profession, success in various fields - all these consolations seemed to him as empty, as worthless as the words of church akathists... Dead, dead words.

In addition, the party at Jean's showed how much disgusting physiology was in his experiences. He left the living room for a moment and went to the bathroom to wash his hands and comb his hair. Then the soap slipped out of his hands and fell on the floor, under the washstand; he bent down, wanted to pick it up. The soap lay under the water pipe, the pink bar seemed to be hiding there; and suddenly this pinkness seemed obscene to him, he stretched out his hand to take it, and could not. It was as if it were a small nocturnal animal lurking in the darkness, ready to crawl up his arm. Gilles froze in place in horror. And when he straightened up, covered in sweat, and saw himself in the mirror, some detached curiosity suddenly woke up in the depths of his consciousness, and a feeling of fear fell into place. He squatted down again and, taking a deep breath, like a swimmer before a springboard, grabbed a pink remnant. But he immediately threw it into the shell, as one throws away a sleeping snake, which they have mistaken for a dry twig; for a full minute afterwards he splashed cold water in his face. It was then that the thought came that the blame for everything should be considered not the liver, not overwork, not “present times”, but something completely different. That's when he admitted that "it" really happened: he was sick.

But what to do now? Is there a more lonely being in the world than a person who has made the decision to live cheerfully, happily, with complacent cynicism, a person who has come to such a decision in the most natural way - instinctively - and suddenly left empty-handed, and even in Paris, in nineteen hundred and sixty seventh year of our era? Seeking a psychiatrist seemed humiliating to him, and he resolutely rejected the idea out of pride, which he was inclined to regard as one of the best qualities of his nature. So, there was only one thing left - to be silent. And continue this existence. Rather, try to continue. Besides, while maintaining his former blind faith in life with its happy accidents, he hoped that all this would not last long. Time, the only ruler he recognized, had taken away his love pleasures, his joys, his sorrows, even some of his glances, and there was no reason to doubt that he would cope with "this thing." But "this thing" was something faceless, nameless, he didn't know what it was, in fact. But perhaps time has power only over what you yourself have realized.

He worked in the international department of the newspaper and spent the whole morning at the editorial office that day. Bloody, unthinkable events were taking place in the world that aroused a tickling sense of horror in his brethren, and this irritated him. Not so long ago, just three months ago, he would have gladly gasped with them, expressed his indignation, but now he could not. He was even a little annoyed that these events, which took place in the Middle East, or in the USA, or somewhere else, seemed to be trying to divert his attention from the real drama - his own. Planet Earth was spinning in chaos - who now could have the desire or find time to inquire about his pitiful problems? But did he himself spend few hours listening to the gloomy confessions and confessions of losers? Did he not accomplish the notorious feats of salvation? And what? People walk around with eyes shining with excitement, and only he suddenly lost his head, like a lost dog, became as selfish as other old people, as worthless as they are. Suddenly he had a desire to go up the floor to Jean and talk to him. It seemed to him that of all his acquaintances, only Jean was able to distract himself from his worries and sympathize with him.

Sagan Françoise

Françoise Sagan

A little sun in cold water

Translation by N. Nemchinova.

To my sister

And I see her, and I lose her, and I mourn, And my sorrow is like the sun in cold water.

Paul Eluard

* PART ONE. PARIS *

Chapter one

Now it happened to him almost every day. Unless he got so drunk the night before that he got out of bed in the morning, as if in a shaky fog, went to the shower, unconsciously, mechanically dressed, and fatigue itself then freed him from the burden of his own "I". But more often it happened something else, painful: he woke up at dawn and his heart was pounding from fear, from what he could no longer call anything other than fear of life, and he waited: anxieties, failures, Calvary were about to speak in recitative in his brain. the day that began. The heart was pounding; he tried to sleep, he tried to forget himself. In vain. Then he sat up in bed, grabbed the bottle of mineral water that stood at hand without looking, drank a sip of the tasteless, lukewarm, vile liquid—just as vile as his own life had seemed to him for the past three months. "But what is the matter with me? What?" he asked himself with despair and fury, as he was proud. And although he often had to observe nervous depression in other people he sincerely respected, such weakness seemed to him insulting, like a slap in the face. From a young age, he did not think too much about himself, the external side of life was quite enough for him, and when he suddenly looked into himself and saw what a sickly, weak, irritable creature he had become, he felt superstitious horror. Is this thirty-five-year-old man who sits up in bed at the light of day and, for no apparent reason, shudders nervously, is this really him? Did three decades of a carefree life, full of fun, laughter, and only occasionally overshadowed by love sorrows, lead to this? He buried his head in the pillow, pressed his cheek against it, as if the pillow was supposed to give a blissful sleep. But he never closed his eyes. Either he felt cold and wrapped himself in a blanket, then he suffocated from the heat and threw everything off himself, but he could not tame his inner trembling, something similar to melancholy and hopeless despair.

Of course, nothing prevented him from turning to Eloise and making love. But he couldn't. For three months he did not touch her, for three months there was no question of this. Beauty Eloise! ​​.. It is curious how she puts up with this ... As if she senses something painful, strange in him, as if she pities him. And the thought of this pity oppressed more than her anger or possible betrayal. What would he not give to want her, to rush to her, to withdraw into this always new warmth of the female body, to rage, to forget - only not a dream anymore. But that's exactly what he couldn't do. And a few timid attempts, which she ventured, finally turned him away from Eloise. He, who loved love so much and could give himself to her under any circumstances, even the most strange and absurd, turned out to be powerless in bed next to a woman he liked, a beautiful woman and, moreover, he really loved.

However, he exaggerated. Once, three weeks ago, after a famous party at Jean's, he took possession of her. But now it has been forgotten. He drank too much that evening - for which he had his reasons - he vaguely remembered only a rough fight on a wide bed and a pleasant thought when he woke up that the point was won. As if a brief moment of pleasure could be revenge for the painful nights without sleep, for awkward excuses and feigned swagger. Of course, not God knows what. The life that used to be so generous to him—at least he thought so, and this was one of the reasons for his success—suddenly receded from him, as the sea recedes at low tide, leaving a lone rock on which it has so long caressed. Imagining himself in the form of a lonely old man of the cliff, he even laughed with a short, bitter laugh. But really, he thought, life was leaving him like blood flowing from a secret wound. Time no longer passed, but disappeared somewhere. No matter how much he told himself, no matter how much he convinced himself that even now he had a lot of enviable things: a winning appearance, an interesting profession, success in various fields, all these consolations seemed to him just as empty, just as worthless as words of church akathists... Dead, dead words.

In addition, Jean's party revealed how disgustingly physiological there was in his experience. He left the living room for a moment and went to the bathroom to wash his hands and comb his hair. Then the soap slipped out of his hands and fell on the floor, under the washstand; he bent down, wanted to pick it up. The soap lay under the water pipe, the pink bar seemed to be hiding there; and suddenly this pinkness seemed obscene to him, he stretched out his hand to take it, and could not. It was as if it were a small nocturnal animal lurking in the darkness, ready to crawl up his arm. Gilles froze in place in horror. And when he straightened up, covered in sweat, and saw himself in the mirror, in the depths of his consciousness some kind of detached curiosity suddenly woke up, and a feeling of fear fell into place. He squatted down again and, taking a deep breath, like a swimmer before a springboard, grabbed a pink remnant. But he immediately threw it into the shell, as one throws away a sleeping snake, which they took for a dry twig; for a full minute afterwards he splashed cold water in his face. It was then that the thought came that the blame for everything should be considered not the liver, not overwork, not "present times", but something completely different. That's when he admitted that "it" really happened: he was sick.

To my sister

And I see her, and I lose her, and I mourn, And my sorrow is like the sun in cold water.

Paul Eluard

PART ONE. PARIS

Chapter one

Now it happened to him almost every day. Unless the day before he got drunk to the point that he got out of bed in the morning, as if in a shaky fog, went to the shower, unconsciously, mechanically dressed, and fatigue itself then freed him from the burden of his own "I". But more often it happened something else, painful: he woke up at dawn and his heart was pounding from fear, from what he could no longer call anything other than fear of life, and he waited: anxieties, failures, Calvary were about to speak in recitative in his brain. the day that began. The heart was pounding; he tried to sleep, he tried to forget himself. In vain. Then he sat up in bed, grabbed the bottle of mineral water that stood at hand without looking, drank a sip of the tasteless, lukewarm, vile liquid - just as vile as his own life had seemed to him for the past three months. “Yes, what is the matter with me? What?" - he asked himself with despair and fury, as he was proud. And although he often had to observe nervous depression in other people he sincerely respected, such weakness seemed to him insulting, like a slap in the face. From a young age, he did not think too much about himself, the external side of life was quite enough for him, and when he suddenly looked into himself and saw what a sickly, weak, irritable creature he had become, he felt superstitious horror. Could this thirty-five-year-old man, who sits up in bed at the light of day and shudders nervously for no apparent reason, is this really him? Could it be that three decades of a carefree life, full of fun, laughter, and only occasionally overshadowed by love sorrows, led to this? He buried his head in the pillow, pressed his cheek against it, as if the pillow was supposed to give a blissful sleep. But he never closed his eyes. Either he felt cold and wrapped himself in a blanket, then he suffocated from the heat and threw everything off himself, but he could not tame his inner trembling, something similar to melancholy and hopeless despair.

Of course, nothing prevented him from turning to Eloisa and making love. But he couldn't. For three months he did not touch her, for three months there was no question of this. Beauty Eloise! ​​.. It is curious how she puts up with this ... As if she senses something painful, strange in him, as if she pities him. And the thought of this pity oppressed more than her anger or possible betrayal. What would he not give to want her, to rush to her, to withdraw into this always new warmth of the female body, to rage, to forget - only not a dream anymore. But that's exactly what he couldn't do. And a few timid attempts, which she ventured, finally turned him away from Eloise. He, who loved love so much and could give himself to her under any circumstances, even the most strange and absurd, found himself powerless in bed next to a woman he liked, a beautiful woman and, moreover, he really loved.

However, he exaggerated. Once, three weeks ago, after a famous party at Jean's, he took possession of her. But now it has been forgotten. He drank too much that evening - for which he had his reasons - he vaguely remembered only a rough fight on a wide bed and a pleasant thought when he woke up that the point had been won. As if a brief moment of pleasure could be revenge for painful nights without sleep, for awkward excuses and feigned swagger. Of course, not God knows what. The life that used to be so generous to him - at least he thought so, and this was one of the reasons for his success - suddenly receded from him, as the sea recedes at low tide, leaving a lonely rock on which it has so long fawned. Imagining himself in the form of a lonely old man of the cliff, he even laughed with a short, bitter laugh.