Those calm interludes never lasted. If anything at all was troubling me, I vented my frustrations on her. Bit by bit, my demands became such that I wonder today how she ever accepted them. One day, I begged her not to kiss her father ever again. I don't recall the theatrics I employed to make her understand just how unbearable I found it that a man, be it her own father, should press his lips against her cheek. "But that's impossible!" she replied. Of course I knew my request was impossible, in spite of which I persisted in my demand, even swearing I would never see her again if she didn't obey. I was constantly resorting to blackmail. If she refused to yield, even on a trifling point, I would immediately threaten to leave for God knows what distant country. She would grow pale, and I could feel she was grappling with a terrible dilemma. Nonetheless, I would be prevented from reassuring her by the wickedness within me, by that harshness I have been unable to eradicate completely. With deliberate cruelty, I would refuse to give in. She would start to cry, and it was only after she'd calmed down that I would beg for her forgiveness.
The next day, however, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from repeating the whole scene all over again. After a delicious hour spent in her company, I would abruptly remember that she had refused to agree to ask her father not to kiss her anymore. A sort of blind rage would rise within me. Once again I would harass her mercilessly, until she broke down and cried.
Several months before meeting Maud Bringer, I had flirted with one of her friends, Simone Charavel, who was the sister of one of my friends. Unlike Maud, she was flirtatious and knowing. At sixteen, she was already inventing excuses to meet boys after school. Although the feelings I had for her were nowhere near as deep as those I later had for Maud, I tormented her in the same way. I cared less for her, and yet I suffered more. She would laugh at my pretentiousness. One day I told her, "You'll see the power I'm going to have over you, Simone: the day will come when I'll even forbid you to kiss your father." She burst out laughing. As I had so little hold over her, I began to lose interest. That was when I met Maud.
One day, after an incredibly violent quarrel, Maud failed to appear. All at once my boldness vanished. I was afraid of losing her, of having gone too far. I called her on the phone, using some vague pretext. I got her mother, who was short with me.
I spent the entire day keeping watch in front of her house. She never came out. I was panic-stricken, I had only one desire: to see her. I called again. This time, her brother answered. He informed me quite kindly that Maud was unwell and would not be out for three or four days. This reassured me, and I rushed home with the hope that she had sent me a note. But there was nothing. I spent the next few days in a highly anxious state. Despite feeling awkward at finding myself in the presence of a family I had so often maligned, I could no longer hold off from going to see her. After having made me wait a long time, she finally appeared. Her face was changed, thinner. She looked at me sadly and then, as I was saying nothing, she said, "Later on, when both you and I are free, we can see each other again. That will be much better for you, Louis, and for me." I was thunderstruck. In hushed tones, I begged her to forgive me. I had no idea what to do to win her back. But patient as she had been, her mind was now firmly made up. I hadn't seen her since that day. All I'd been able to learn about her was that she'd married.
When she suddenly appeared at the Merciers, I was deeply moved. She was no different from the young girl I had known. Upon seeing me, she showed no sign of turmoil. But somewhat later, seeing I was alone in a corner, she drew near. After having exchanged a few banalities, she asked me whether I remembered our past friendship. Then, trembling slightly, she added, "You mustn't think, Louis, that I still hold it against you. On the contrary, I have been reproaching myself, I was unfair to you." As she uttered these words, a painful sensation came over me. She spoke with feeling, as though still suffused with the past, but as I listened to her I was surprised to realize that her voice stirred no regrets in me. She was addressing the young man I had been, as if there were no distance separating me from him. It seemed to me that she could just as easily have spoken those same words a week after her monumental decision. She had preserved everything intact within herself. Her marriage had not erased anything. And what may be even sadder still is that she now thought she had been unfair, and was guilty at the idea that she had made me suffer, whereas I, who was the real guilty party, had forgotten everything.
October 16th
We had dinner at a restaurant. There was a time, several years ago, when Madeleine always felt a need to try and help those serving whenever she was being waited on. But she was so embarrassed when a well-schooled waiter refused to be assisted, and she blushed so furiously, that ever since she has remained utterly impassive when in the presence of any servant. Ever since that rebuke, she even seems to think it a form of distinction never to assist a waiter in any way, and indeed to hinder him in his work. I could, in fact, list thousands of similar details. They are the result of her upbringing. For example, she likes to give outlandish tips to people who are unaccustomed to receiving any at all, and whom I always fear will refuse her. She also has a tendency to address people by their profession. When we traveled to Nice, she said, "Conductor, save us two seats." It is quite possible that conductors don't take offense, but I am terribly embarrassed by this. Fortunately, she is always somewhat more restrained when indoors. In the street, however, it isn't unusual for her to approach a police officer and say, "Could you tell me, constable, where to find X street... ?" This trait of hers brings back memories of our stay in Nice.
Every "health resort" has its facade and its back streets, though the latter are far more visible than in a big city. Behind the row of hotels looking out over the sea, there will always be a rue des Belges, a rue des Serbes. Its here, in the wings, that the less well-heeled winter visitors take up residence. I would have preferred a good hotel in the city center, but Madeleine insisted we choose one of these rooming houses. When she married, it never occurred to her that her life was going to change, and she wanted the two of us to live just as she would have done had she come to Nice alone. What Madeleine liked were places where, by the affluence she displayed, it would be understood that she had come because she wanted the familylike atmosphere, and that although she belonged to "society" she preferred the peace of an out-of-the-way place to the bustle of a grand hotel. She seemed terribly amused by the lodgers' habits. She would let out astonished cries whenever a ritual differed from what she was accustomed to, as though in her mind the only difference between a boardinghouse and a grand hotel was not the luxury and exquisiteness of the service but the tranquillity, and that these new habits were in no way worse than her own, but merely different. And yet one could see, if only by her astonishment, that she did find them worse. She graciously obeyed the strict regulations, barely letting it show that she knew things were done differently elsewhere. The other lodgers all seemed taken in by this. They came to believe that we were intelligent and, leaving aside all financial considerations, that we preferred the lunches and dinners provided by Mlle Davis to those of the large hotels. Mlle Davis herself, in fact, kept this belief alive, never failing to recount how, the year before, a certain prince had left the Hotel des Anglais in disgust and come to take up residence at her establishment. To hear her tell it, all of her clients had, at some point, been far worse off elsewhere. After many a disappointment, they had finally found Mlle Davis.
I don't know why I've just remembered Madeleine used to tell me at that time that, if ever we had a child, we should buy it furniture, a bathtub, a bicycle, all made to his size. She greatly relished the idea that children should inhabit a world scaled down to their proportions. Needless to say, I found this ridiculous. I remember, too, the walks we used to take along the seafront. Madeleine, who has no insight and thinks the man standing before her is the noblest man on earth when in fact he is a scoundrel, would suddenly think herself equipped with superior powers of deduction when deciding the extent to which depravity
played a part in the matter of bathers disrobing. "You need only observe men," she would say, "as they parade about in their swimming trunks, wipe their legs a dozen times, touch their clothes without putting them on, to see with what regret they finally decide to get dressed." If, by pure chance, it happened that an indecent sight appeared before her eyes, she would invariably think it was deliberate. If, for example, she'd opened the wrong door and entered a room to find a man there, the thought would immediately cross her mind that, by failing to close his door properly, the man had been hoping someone would open it. I can still recall Madeleine's amazement when I pointed out a female bather to her. "You see," I told her, after having asked her to analyze what was and wasn't beautiful about the stranger, "you see, her elbows are sharply pointed, which is very ugly, but look at her feet, how lovely they are. Just like in Greek statues, the second toe is longer than the big toe." Madeleine was long astonished by this, for in her mind, to be beautiful, toes needed to be aligned in perfectly descending order of size.
October 18th
Last night, I made the mistake of taking Madeleine to the home of Désiré Durand, a friend, or rather an acquaintance, whose invitations one never refuses because it's so obvious he's included you to help make up a crowd. Going to this businessman's home is like going to an entertaining performance.
He greeted my wife and I immediately upon our arrival at the rue Pierre-Levée, and received us with such a show of spontaneity and familiarity that, as soon as I was alone with Madeleine, I gave her an ironic smile. Her face was stony, however, and she didn't seem to know what to make of my smile. "I don't understand," she said, "how you can accept such an invitation. You must not have much respect for me." Whenever Madeleine finds herself somewhere where people are enjoying themselves, she is immediately unhappy. The happiness of others offends her. She accuses the women of flirting, of drawing attention to themselves, of speaking ill of one another, and the men of being superficial, of thinking they are irresistible, of boasting about their good fortune. She doesn't say a word. She had dressed to go out as though she was going to be the only beautiful woman present, almost as if she would be the only female guest at a gentleman's luncheon; that is to say, with refinement and simplicity. She had pinned two large carnations to her bodice, but upon seeing the couples dancing and laughing when she arrived, she removed them and held them in her hand. Knowing as she did that she inevitably attracted attention, she was suffering from having made no apparent impression, in spite of being convinced, from certain signs that women alone are capable of discerning, that everyone had, in fact, noticed her. The truth of it is that she would have been deeply disappointed if I'd turned down the invitation. She had wanted to come, but had become withdrawn as soon as we'd arrived. Nonetheless, I did everything in my power to ensure she spent a pleasant evening, introducing her quite automatically into any conversation. She would say a word or two, then fall silent. Undeterred, I would immediately ask her a question, trying to draw her out so that she would be happy. Nothing gives me greater pleasure, in these situations, than the popularity she is capable of attaining, not because it feeds my own vanity, but rather because she is transformed when she pleases those around her. It pained me if a guest happened to treat her coldly. I would then be as nice as possible to her so that, seeing I loved Madeleine, he would be friendlier to her. Nonetheless, her face would remain stony. Whenever I sensed she was taking pleasure in someone's company, I would move away and, while pretending to be terribly interested in what the first person I met happened to be saying, I would watch her from a distance, anxiously scrutinizing her face for a smile, which would have filled me with happiness. If her interlocutor tried to break away, however, she merely stood there silently, pretending not to have noticed a thing. She is one of those women who never detains anyone, yet who is offended if she is left alone. I returned to her side. During the few moments we were alone together, a painful embarrassment overcame me.
Guests continued to arrive, barely able to move now in the crowded front hall and drawing room. Without saying a word to me, Madeleine suddenly moved into a corner of the room from where, facing the rest of the guests, she assumed the attitude of a superior being observing the miserable revels of humanity. I followed her. I put on a good-natured air, so that her attitude would not be misinterpreted. "This is pathetic," said Madeleine. "But what's pathetic?" I asked. "What does it matter to you if these people are like this? You have to accept them for what they are. It's of no importance whatsoever." Madeleine remained silent. Just then, I saw that Durand was motioning for me to join him from across the room. I wanted Madeleine to come with me, but she refused. I couldn't make up my mind, uncertain about whether or not I should leave her. "I'll be right back," I said automatically, "I don't want to be rude. But come with me." "I really don't want to." Madeleine had put on a martyred look. She added, "But if you want to go, don't let me stop you. Enjoy yourself. Don't worry about me." I moved away. "Ah! Dear friend, there you are at last," said Durand. "It just so happens that I wanted to introduce you to Madame Barrère, who has heard a great deal about you, and to Madame Chaumier." Without wanting to show it, the industrialist was behaving protectively toward me, like someone trying to make himself indispensable to the very person he is trying to cultivate. For example, it wasn't Ceccaldi who had obliged him by winning his court case for him, but rather he who had obliged Ceccaldi by allowing him to represent him.
There comes a point when wealth so overshadows all other qualities that, for some, a doctor becomes merely an anonymous little man whose knowledge is limited to giving advice and suggestions. In a sense, Durand had introduced me to these two women as the friend of someone to whom he was obliged. He finally wandered off with one of the two, leaving me alone with Mme Barrère. She was very pretty and seemed to take an immediate liking to me. Just then, I saw my wife looking at me with such a distressed air that I was thunderstruck. I left Mme Barrère abruptly and returned to Madeleine, who said only, "Let's go home. I need to talk to you." In the taxi taking us home, she didn't say a word. When I tried to kiss her hands, she drew away with such a disgusted air that I was dumbstruck. "What's wrong with you?" I asked, knowing full well that this was all due to my having talked with Mme Barrère. She didn't answer. She was suffering deeply. So this was the man to whom she had sacrificed her youth! Everything was slipping away from her. No one understood her. Her irritation with the party and the minor role she had played there had filled her with profound loathing for me. Suddenly she said: "I don't want to go home. It's too early." "But what do you want to do?" "I want to have fun. I'm no worse than all those women who spend their lives flirting. I want to enjoy myself. I'm still attractive, you'll see for yourself. . . " We went to a nightclub. As it was still early, the place wasn't very full; at eleven o'clock in the evening, the room looked somehow matutinal. "You order . . . ," said Madeleine. The kindness of the waiters, the busboys, the maitres d'hôtel, the admiring glances of a few of the patrons, had restored her, and she could feel her good humor returning. She drew deep, hungry breaths. As for me, however, I watched her anxiously. I knew from experience that this gaiety was artificial and concealed something. When Madeleine gets angry, she always starts by pretending not to care about anything other than some vague notion of freedom. It was as if she wanted me to know that she had a life of her own, and that if I was just like other men, well then, she was just like other women. But if you pay attention to her and are particularly considerate, she will forget all her grievances, at least for a time.
Late-night diners were beginning to arrive, and almost every man among them looked over at her. "You see," she said, "things aren't the same everywhere." With deliberate irritation, she clamored for cigarettes. She was happy. And yet, deep within her, I sensed an unspoken anger with me. "What if I asked you to leave me here alone?" she asked abruptly. I suppose I must have looked alarmed. "No, don't be afraid, you can stay. You're not bothering me. That woman can wait." She said this in an ironically sin
cere tone, as though the only thing in the world she wanted was for me to be happy with Mme Barrère. She was becoming increasingly tense. Instinctively, I knew not to contradict her, and so I let her continue with the hope that she would calm herself of her own accord. The orchestra played uninterruptedly, and a few drunken patrons had begun throwing paper streamers at one another. All at once, she turned to me and said, "You know, I'm still pretty. You'll realize it soon enough." Having said this, she got up abruptly. "The fact is, I've had enough. I'm going to my father's. That way you can do what you like, all on your own." In vain, I tried to calm her. As soon as the cold air struck her out in the street, she began to cry, then to whimper. The fact is that jealousy plays no part in these hysterical states she gets herself into. Madeleine feels no jealousy where I'm concerned. No, it was her pride that had been sorely tested during the party we'd been to. She took her revenge on me for the indifference with which she thought she'd been treated.
October 19th
I called Madeleine's father first thing this morning. He'd been about to call and ask me to come and see him. I feel something akin to respect for M. Curti. He has truly borne misfortune philosophically. He would never have behaved like his friend Diéghera, who, sensing his business was on the brink of failing, tried every possible measure to save it, as though his own life had been at stake, even going so far as to plead tearfully with strangers and ask them to intervene on his behalf, although doing so would have been detrimental to their own interests. Mind you, Diéghera himself would never have lifted a finger to help someone. His fear of going bankrupt was such that he lost all his dignity.
In fact, this Diéghera was a curious sort of chap. It sometimes happened that he offended his closest friends, and when their quarrels grew to unexpected proportions, there was no limit to what he would do to gain forgiveness. He would cover himself with apologies out of all proportion to the wrong he had committed, yet an hour later he would feel no qualms about behaving rudely toward the very person to whom he had just apologized so theatrically. A mere trifle would cause him to act like a man sentenced to death, who, led to the site of his execution, pleads with the executioner, his lawyer, the priest, and the onlookers to save him. Imagine, then, how he behaved when he went bankrupt. Well, M. Curti behaved entirely differently. He accepted his ruin like a disease, never for a moment thinking of blaming someone for what had happened to him. Just as, after a separation, we suddenly think of the man or woman we have left, it seemed to him he was a victim of his own imagination, that nothing at all had happened, that things could not go on this way, that, by some means he could not predict, everything would return to the way it had been. But when, after reflecting for a time, he took stock of how things really were, he was filled with a painful sense of his own impotence. Everything was well and truly finished.
A Winter's Journal Page 2
