Violette Leduc’s ‘The Lady and the Little Fox Fur & the Art of Distance

“I think that I shall never know
Why I am thus, and I am so.”
—A Fairly Sad Tale, Dorothy Parker

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The author of The Lady and the Little Fox Fur, Violette Leduc, was famously in love with and rejected by Simone de Beauvoir—author of the seminal feminist text, The Second Sex. Leduc wrote of this crushing blow, “She has explained that the feeling I have for her is a mirage. I don’t agree.” She finally met Beauvoir in 1945 after months of stalking her at the Café de Flore. It is after this that Leduc became her protégé. 

Originally released in French as La Femme au petit renard (1965) with Éditions Gallimard, The Lady and The Little Fox Fur was published in 1967 by Peter Owen Publishers (trans. Derek Coltman). 

My first experience with The Lady and the Little Fox Fur was two years ago. It was a time of immense personal stress and mental breakdowns, which begs the question: 

Why—in such peril—would I pick up a book in which the main protagonist describes time as “a necklace” with each bead “a gleam on her grave”? 

The macabre is both a crutch and a comfort to me, and macabre is precisely what our unnamed narrator exudes. Violette Leduc is a master at metaphor; an absolute whizz of the finest calibre. Each turn of phrase is pried from the jaws of a clam shell, polished, and sent to soak in the inkwell. 

“Every time a foot was raised and she caught a glimpse of it, she saw her life callously leaving her, she felt it was doing what children do: sucking her blood.”

The art of distance is a delicate task that only the sharpest eye can undertake. Ignorant to her name, we are forced to tail the narrator as she seeks confirmation for her own existence. Violette Leduc operates under the assumption that her dear readers can set aside their discomfort in the unknown to properly appreciate the story she tells, and it is one many can relate to. Aren’t we all guilty of identifying so strongly with our belongings and interests that the loss of them is also the loss of ourselves? 

It was certainly true of the author, who as Deborah Levy reports in the introduction to Leduc’s La Bâtarde, was the “illegitimate daughter of a domestic servant” who was seduced by the “consumptive son of her employer”. Known as “The Bastard” by her mother, is it at all surprising she produced such an existential novella? 

When our narrator goes out in search of an orange to soothe her dry throat, she happens upon a fox fur in one of the bins. This is a key turning point in both the story and the character’s life. Referring to the dustmen as “secret people” who “searched the silence with their hooks”, our unnamed narrator feels as though she has stolen something that belongs to people who exist. 

“To find something, no matter how ignorant or how learned one may be, is to dip one’s finger into cerulean blue.”

People who are lost often need something or someone to look after, whether that be a house, a car, a child, or an animal. In her little fox fur, the narrator invents an entire life. This reminds me of my childhood, in which I would give sprawling narratives things such as one eraser I adored (that I subsequently lost in the ball pit of a Wacky Warehouse). These momentary rushes push us to be more than spectators to our lives. 

Perhaps this is the mirror to Violette Leduc’s search for herself. Her many affairs appear unsatisfactory, not to mention her relentless—but unsuccessful—pursuit of Simone de Beauvoir, to whom she once wrote:

“I am a desert talking to myself.”

This loneliness, this fracture, is what makes The Lady and the Little Fox Fur such a powerful novella. Though, it is not without fault. The lack of distinction between private thoughts and words spoken is confusing. One could argue that this only furthers the sense of listlessness felt by the narrator, but that would only hold up if this was the author’s intention. I fear that Leduc was not objective in her writing of the story—falling victim to the fierce despair that clearly inspired it. One should be able to gain control of their inspiration, not let it run off untempered and histrionic.

Leduc’s novel was of course originally written in French, so there are questions to be asked about what is lost in translation. The French language is rich and buttery (like truffle oil), therefore it is safe to assume that the untranslated version is exquisite. I am reluctant to give credence to my criticisms about the use of certain participles because of the fact that this is a translated book.

Overall, The Lady and the Little Fox Fur explores what it means to exist in a life that feels stale and unloved. In the wider media, Leduc’s novella reminds me of one of my favourite films—Krzysztof Kieślowski’s The Double Life of Véronique. The significance of objects is heavily present in that film; (i.e.) a starry bouncy ball, a gold ring, and a marionette. The titular Véronique is at a loss with her life, and like the unnamed narrator in the novella, wanders aimlessly through the city.

If you have questioned your purpose, felt unloved, or have felt that desperate, suicidal emptiness present in the late hours, then you need this novella. But make no mistake; while the narrator finds a kind of salvation, there is none for the reader. This has no bow-tied ending. The story trails off like sloppy sex; roll over and sit with the leftover echoes, the throbbing pangs.