A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  I have to say that, as badly as I treated Lucienne, I did love her with all my heart. I thought of her constantly when she wasn't with me, and was racked with jealousy. But as soon as she would return, something strange would happen to me: I would feel compelled to torment her. It was beyond my control; after reducing her to tears, I wasn't even capable of behaving nobly and comforting her. There was something monstrous in my heart at the time, something extraordinarily unyielding. In fact, I recall an incident that demonstrates how unfeeling I was, at least in appearance. While at school, I struck a friend so awkwardly one day that he fell and hurt himself quite seriously. Taken to the headmaster's office (I was then fourteen), I was duly accused and offered the chance to apologize for what I'd done, in which case the matter would be dropped. That I would not do. Three teachers, the headmaster, and a woman who'd joined them spent an hour badgering me to make me say I was sorry, but I maintained a stony silence. Exasperated, they locked me in a little courtyard. As soon as I was alone I burst into tears, but not in any ordinary way. For the next three hours, I did nothing but cry, my body racked with spasms, impervious to everything around me, and when I finally stopped, I could no longer stand on my own two feet. I fell to the ground and had to be carried home like a dying man. In a sense, that was my revenge, for I remember that in spite of the condition I was in, I could detect the teachers' unease. I spent the next four days at home in bed, and only returned to school two weeks later. With such a harsh, headstrong nature, it's easy to see how trivial the things I forced Lucienne to endure must have seemed to me, and what reserves I could draw on to keep from revealing what I really felt for her. Lucienne was very sensitive. She'd grown increasingly worried and fearful since leaving her family. She almost never spoke; she'd become spineless, as though she had no will of her own. I constantly reproached her for cringing, but my reproaches only made things worse. She was like a whipped dog. She no longer dared to speak or act, terrified I would lose my temper, when in fact if I lost my temper at all it was because she did nothing. The more I bullied her, the more I terrified her, the more satisfied I felt. I wanted to make a slave of her, a being who no longer had any personality. And yet she rebelled one day, just before leaving me. It would be impossible to relate how shocked, and then how furious, this made me. For a moment I was pale and stunned. Then I started to insult her. Her impassive demeanor so infuriated me that my shouting grew increasingly violent. I found myself digging my fingers into the palms of my hands with all my might to control my urge to strike her. I was livid with rage, unable to find words more insulting and hurtful than those I'd already used, which only made me angrier. She remained imperturbable. Suddenly, rather than bursting into tears, she had a fit of nerves. Cruel as it is to say this, I cannot describe my relief at that moment. Seeing that pitiful body racked with convulsions, I felt as though a warm shower was rushing over me, soothing my own nerves. Everything around me took on a new clarity. I was alive again. I stopped talking and, with no tenderness whatsoever, like a stranger, I put her on the bed and began massaging her temples with cool water. I was calm and detached, but above all preoccupied with stopping my ministrations before she realized I was administering them. Such was that miserable love. And yet, I don't think I'm wicked. All of that was pride, the harshness of a young man. I loved her, and to prove this, I merely want to cite one fact. It sometimes happened that Lucienne spoke entire sentences as she slept. She dreamed a great deal every night, and remembered all her dreams the next morning. One night I was awake and heard her say in her sleep: "No, no, you're not nice. I can assure you, sir, that I'll care for him. And in fact he knows me better than you [she was talking about a black cat]. You'll never have the patience to raise him. They need to be given their milk regularly, otherwise they die. Let me have him, I beg you. If you take him, he's going to be very unhappy. He loves me so. No . . . no ... I beg you . . . leave him ..." I understood she was dreaming that a stranger wanted to take a cat she imagined she owned and that she was suffering at the idea of this separation, probably just as she imagined her own father—and this was no doubt the source of her dream—was suffering. She began whimpering softly, as though in pain. I took pity on her then, and got up noiselessly. It so happened that there was a cat in the hotel we were living in at the time. I put on my overcoat and started down the darkened staircase in search of the cat. Naturally, I couldn't find him. I went up to the sixth floor and peered into all the corners, lighting my way with matches. Then I went back down to the ground floor. Although everyone was in bed, I noticed a faint light coming through the door of the office. The maid who was on night duty opened the door. The cat was with her. I took him, went back up to our room, quietly closed the door and went back to bed. Lucienne was sleeping peacefully. I woke her gently and showed her the cat, which was purring. She didn't understand at first, but then, as she remembered her dream, her face lit up with a ray of pure joy, which filled me with happiness. This may seem a ridiculous anecdote, but it seems to me that it was truly out of love that I got up in the middle of the night and went to look for a cat in our hotel.

  The hours after Chambige left were terrible ones. Long afterward, I felt my happiness was in the hands of this man, and that he could shatter it whenever he wanted. It was only several years later that I learned, quite by accident, that Lucienne was now happily married. Our relationship remains a painful memory. Although this all happened fifteen years ago and has long since been forgotten, I felt as worried today as I did in those early days. Reading the newspaper this morning, I learned that Chambige was about to be arrested. My peace of mind evaporated. I'm afraid he's going to appear at my door, not wanting to be alone in his fall from grace, and tell Madeleine everything, make a scandal, even tell the judge, to show how fine a nature he has, and how kind he was to the man who caused him such heartache.

  I think of my wife. This morning I found her even more beautiful and desirable than ever. I don't know if you've ever felt disgusted with yourself when, alone in bearing a shameful secret, burdened with vice and ugliness, you suddenly find yourself face to face with the pure, intact person who shares your life. How fine that person seems, then, and how unworthy we feel! What a tremendously powerful feeling of regret we have for the harm we've done her! We swear never to do it again, and if, by the grace of God, we've managed to avoid the consequences of our actions, what happiness we feel as we embrace our loved one! But then the happiness fades, boredom sets in, and we need something new. Being a man is so dangerous! We are so sincere in regretting our lost happiness, when we're miserable! And yet we compromise it so carelessly, so thoughtlessly! If I could make a vow, it would be to have enough self-control never to risk anything again, to succumb to no temptation, to remain worthy of the woman I love. Even as I make that heartfelt vow, I reflect that Chambige is still alive and that later today, or perhaps tomorrow, he will reveal everything.

  December 8th

  My resolve abandoned me, and for once I rebelled. I was beginning to lose patience. Madeleine was heaping more ridicule on me by the day. There was no reason for this to stop. Perhaps I acted in a fit of temper. I don't know. I don't want to know. Here is what happened. When I came home late this afternoon, I went into our bedroom. Almost immediately, I noticed a bouquet of magnificent orchids on the mantelpiece. Their presence didn't surprise me; what drew my attention was the basket decorated with ribbons they were in. Suspecting something was so far from my thoughts that I forgot about them for the next few minutes. I sat down. It was only out of idleness that I looked at the basket again. A seed of doubt planted itself in my mind. I drove it out, for it seemed utterly impossible that those flowers would be in this room if they were in any way compromising. The more I looked at them, however, the more it seemed they came from another world. Gradually, they began to symbolize lust and falsehood in my eyes. I couldn't take my eyes off them. "It simply can't be that she bought those flowers!" I thought. I am no stranger to this reflection. It is common among husbands whose wives
regularly turn up wearing dresses and jewels they can't afford. "But if she hadn't bought them herself, she wouldn't have dared put them in our room," I added, to reassure myself. I got up and tried to find the florist's name. Picking up a crumpled piece of cellophane, I smoothed it out. The basket came from Jolibois. Without planning my movements, because I was preoccupied, I moved it, placing it squarely in the middle of the room, and then, mimicking what I'd done so often as a child when I was jealous of a gift a cousin had received, I put it on a chair in front of the door, so that Madeleine would knock it over when she came in. I had just sat down again when I heard the sound of voices in the hall. I leaped up. To prevent my wife from noticing what I'd just done, and above all to avoid making her angry, I ran to the basket. I was just about to replace it on the mantelpiece when Madeleine came in, surprising me in the ridiculous posture of a visitor caught touching something that doesn't belong to him, which increased my ill humor. As soon as the door was closed, I asked her curtly, "What are these flowers called?" "They're orchids." "Were they given to you?" "No." Did you buy them?" "No." "Well, where did they come from then?" "What does it matter to you?" "I really think I have the right to know where these flowers came from." "What about me, don't I have the right to have the flowers I like anymore?" Madeleine asked this with the utmost sincerity. I was beginning to get irritated. "I'm asking you to tell me where these flowers came from." "It doesn't concern you." This is a phrase I'm accustomed to hearing from Madeleine. She feels very strongly that she owes no one an explanation regarding objects which incarnate pleasure, or beauty, anything which is a part of her ideal, and gets irritated if I dare to question her. One would have thought that by wanting to know where the flowers came from, I was trying to penetrate the innermost reaches of her soul. The flowers were presumed to be so foreign to me that she'd left them in our room without even thinking I might ask where they were from. She had even displayed them ostentatiously on the mantelpiece, but my repeated questions suddenly made her aware of her folly. "I want you to tell me who gave you these flowers," I said, angrily this time. Madeleine lost her composure. She regretted her flippancy; fear was gaining her. All the same, she hadn't resolved to give me a straight answer. I found something beautiful in this determination to reveal nothing. My wife could have confessed, and although I always pretend not to believe complicated explanations and accounts that require the narrator to travel far back in time to make his story plausible, she would eventually have convinced me. The fact is she didn't want to. She could have said any name, but how would she then have explained the reasons for such a tribute? And if this tribute from an infatuated man was as harmless as all that, how would she have managed to defend herself, when she never reacts to any injustice? If accused of stealing an apple as a child, she would have denied it, because she'd picked it up off the grass and therefore hadn't stolen it. But if finally forced to admit that she'd eaten the apple, it would never have occurred to her to exculpate herself by telling the truth, which was that she'd found it. Her denials about the orchids were just as vehement, and all the more obstinate because she sensed appearances were against her. A sort of pride, however, prevented her from coming to her rescue with explanations. "Are you going to tell me who gave you those flowers?" "No, no, absolutely not ..." When being questioned by a man, she is so oblivious to his state of mind that even when his voice begins to betray his impatience, she replies as curtly as she did to his first question, even raising her voice if he raises his, while not varying her replies in the slightest, and this until she bursts into tears. "If you don't tell me, I'll ask the florist," I said, staying calm while reserving myself the trump card of naming Jolibois. The threat made a deep impression on Madeleine. If there is one thing she finds distasteful, it is checking where someone has been, not because she finds such verifications shameful, but rather because they compromise her pride with the people one interrogates. She likes to leave a good impression everywhere, and often wonders what people say about her after she's gone. In her eyes, going back to question a tradesman would be humiliating. She probably admired the man who'd sent the flowers for his gesture, and was horrified at the idea it might lead to her husband going to interrogate the florist. She began to tremble. "You won't go to the florist," she said, "you wouldn't do anything so wicked; if you do, you'll never see me again." She still had no intention of explaining anything, for she had done nothing wrong. But she was behaving exactly as if guilty of some wrongdoing. That was when I failed to be generous, and decided instead to be cruel. I knew perfectly well that Madeleine was virtuous, but as appearances were against her, I quite automatically chose to take only those appearances into account. I was playing—with a touch of sincerity, I might add—the role of the husband who's sure of his facts and finally has proof of his wife's infidelity. I'd been casting about for such a pretext for some time now. Subconsciously, I'd been waiting for a reason to lose my temper. Even as my blood began to boil, I sensed I'd been given a unique opportunity to have the upper hand, because something had happened which, though my conscience might excuse it, was no less serious for my choosing to ignore it. "If you don't tell me right now who gave you these flowers, I'm going to Jolibois." This time the effect was considerable. Madeleine no longer had the energy to conceal the truth. Nonetheless, she hesitated a few seconds. Finally she murmured, "Belange." She looked at me, crushed, then burst into tears. "Ah! Yes! Now I understand everything. I understand why you go out. I understand why you never have any time to spend at home with me." I was now acting only out of jealousy, whose violence I stoked with my bitterness. "Women like those sorts of gentlemen. It's only natural. They have such refined souls, they understand your sensitivities so well." Like a man coming back to life, my words flowed freely now. Events had proved me right. I'd always known this would happen spontaneously, that the day would come when the truth burst out into the open and confronted Madeleine. That day had come. I could walk away without hesitation or suffering, since she was the one who'd behaved badly. I could leave her, swearing I never would have gone if she hadn't been unfaithful to me. Yes, I could swear this, and even believe it in perfect good faith. I was almost sincere. I went so far as to inject a tender note into the words I spoke. "Since you wanted it this way, since you preferred a stranger's love to mine, have it your way! You'll be happy, that's all I want." Unbelievable as this may seem—though the remark was no more vile than the others—I even added: "Later, you'll regret it. You'll see that you'll regret choosing another man over me." In spite of everything, my voice betrayed some emotion. The truth lay close to the surface, and if I didn't get carried away, it was because I sensed I would regret it later. Later, but not now. Today, there were these flowers. They were here. A man had given them to Madeleine. Madeleine had accepted them.

  As I spoke, Madeleine looked at me anxiously. Despite her anguish, she never thought of trying to exculpate herself. When I've made scenes in the past that were more violent though the offenses were less serious, she's accepted my insults as though she really deserved them, with tears in her eyes. She would listen without hearing what I was saying, aware only that I was filled with rage, and that she was the cause of this rage. I began pacing up and down, no longer talking to Madeleine but to myself. "Well naturally she has a lover, a very sensitive lover, that's what she's wanted all her life. At heart, she's happy. Why would I stop her from being happy? I have no right to do that. She doesn't love me." From time to time I would interrupt myself to address her sharply, "Isn't that right, you don't love me?" And still she said nothing, as though it were true she didn't love me.

  When I realized abruptly that I was repeating myself, and that my anger might be starting to ebb, I said, "Since that's the way it is, it would be best if I left." I took out a suitcase and threw some shirts into it. Seeing it my hands, Madeleine suddenly grew frightened. But she didn't move. Something in her prevents her from acting until the last possible moment. I walked toward the door. It was only then that Madeleine, who had been watching
without saying a word, threw herself at me like a madwoman, sobbing. This wasn't the woman who'd heard me out, but a different, shaken, woman who seemed to be saying, "Enough of this wickedness. You know I'm incapable of betraying you." She even seemed to be smiling behind the tears, as though to show me how ridiculous this was and say: "Just look at me, will you! Can a wife like me possibly be unworthy of her husband?" I had before me a creature terrified by the consequences of her actions. It was impossible not to realize this. I sensed then how fragile the evidence was on which I'd rested my case, and how harsh my words had been. I had gone too far. Making no further attempts to mask my voice and give myself the airs of an offended man, I tried to disengage myself, saying, "Let go of me. You can see I have to go." It was obvious it no longer made any difference what tone of voice I adopted; it was the real me Madeleine now clung to. But she didn't let go. She babbled aimlessly, though without making any attempt to justify herself, still convinced I had nothing to reproach her for. I managed to open the door. Madeleine's choking sobs made me realize she was no longer herself, but a creature in pain. This changed the nature of my effort to leave her: I'd become like a priest trying to take his leave of a condemned man. I was suffering tremendously, though no longer because of Madeleine. Her tears and distress had stripped her of her personality. I felt myself relenting, and said, "But I'm not leaving. I'm going to go spend a few days in Versailles. I'll be back. I do know that you're honest, and that those flowers mean nothing." For a moment, I nearly went back into the bedroom, then caught myself. "You have to make a start," I thought to myself. "After that, she'll be much nicer to you. The worst of it is over now." Once again I tried to disengage myself, and to my surprise suddenly found I was free; nothing was holding me back. Madeleine stood before me, unrecognizable. I smiled. "The fact is, I had to go to Versailles today anyway; I hadn't told you yet because I didn't want to hurt you." Meanwhile, I was enraged that she wasn't trying to stop me anymore, that she was setting me free. I wanted to scream my contempt at her, but was crushed by this unexpected freedom, by her renunciation. "Can't you see that I'm leaving?" I asked angrily. Madeleine didn't reply. She seemed indifferent to anything I might do. I was slowly overcome with a deep disgust with myself.