Melancholy

It has been several days since I last saw Madame Préjean, and I am beginning to worry. I look at the piles of documents covering my desk ; I really must tidy everything away. Afterwards, I shall go and visit my dear little neighbour. I sort, label, throw things away as well, and eventually manage to bring some order to it all. I only have a few steps to take to reach her home ; a shawl will be enough.

I knock at her door ; it takes her several minutes to answer. She opens it only slightly. Her chignon is little more than a tangled mass of hair held together by a few pins. She smiles at me, yet I can clearly see that she does not quite know what to do. I look at her, smile in return, and at last she lets me in.

“What has happened to you, my dear?”

“Nothing, nothing at all… I slept badly!”

“Are you quite sure?”

“You know me too well, Rose, for me to lie to you. The doctor calls it melancholy.”

“Tell me a little about what you feel.”

“When I wake, I keep my eyes closed. I know she is there, beside me, lying in wait. I must get up. I have things to do. I must fight her! I must, I must! I look around me ; daylight is breaking through. I bury my face in the pillow, I have no strength left. I must, I must — yes, I know! But I lose the battle. She slips into me like a thick fog. She spreads, stretches, settles herself in place. She weighs upon my lungs, squeezes my heart, and gathers heavily inside my stomach. My breathing becomes short and difficult. The wretched thing has not finished dragging me down. She clouds my mind as well. My thoughts try to force their way through that dense mist. They collide, intertwine, and lose themselves.”

“I open the curtains ; the sky is a single sheet of grey. Not the slightest breath of wind to chase away that uniformity. Even the master of the heavens himself seems trapped, hidden behind the thickness of the fog. The houses appear to disappear. I wash, put on indoor clothes, swallow a hurried breakfast, then take up a book. I read and reread the same page until the book slips from my hands. I cannot do it, I simply cannot. In frustration, I throw it across the room. I collapse into the armchair. It takes me several minutes to calm myself : today, just like yesterday, the day before, and all the days before that… housework, reading, sewing.”

“On other days, she becomes quieter. She is there, I know it, but she does not overwhelm me. On the landing, my little neighbour leaves for school, chatting with her mother. Her tiny voice makes me smile : today will be a good day. The sun is still absent, yet I find charm in those buildings and in nature itself, timid and still hidden beneath its soft blanket of mist. I devote little time to ordinary chores and settle myself upon the divan. I close my eyes and wander through the maze of my thoughts. They are there, fully present. Memory, however, is far more capricious : that is melancholy. Where does this illness come from, this affliction that touched my mother? That consumed her brothers and sisters? That appears in some as excitement and anger, and in others as surrender and despair? It paralyses me for several months every year, but it will never drag me to the depths again.”

“You are a fighter, my dear Solange. Today, melancholy has won ; tomorrow, it will be your turn. Live, go outside ; happiness lies in small things. Look around you! From this tiny apartment, you have made a cosy nest. You are a fighter, and if it returns too strongly, I am here, close by : come to me, or send the little girl with the tiny voice to fetch me. I shall not abandon you.”

“Thank you, Rose ; your visit has done me a world of good.”

“And above all, if the slightest problem arises, do not hesitate.”

“Goodbye, Rose!”

“Goodbye, Solange!”

It is raining now. My shawl offers little protection. It is my turn to have a chignon in complete disarray!