December 11th
Madeleine hasn't been the same since Roger disappeared, and since the scene I made. She seems unconnected to anything. When I speak to her, she barely answers. I don't know then if I should insist or say nothing more.
I saw in this morning's paper that Marcel Perceval had been named governor of a French colony. I was utterly indifferent to the news—although when you know the man there's cause for astonishment—and wouldn't bother to mention it at all if my old friend Loustalot hadn't come to see me. Upon hearing the news, this miserable fellow thought it marvelous that his closest friend had been honored with such a distinction, as a result of which he felt indirectly honored himself. He couldn't deny himself the pleasure of announcing it to me, in hushed tones, as though it were a secret. Everything this unhappy man ever dreamed of is being achieved by someone else, who happens to be his best friend. He was calm, almost lifeless, in the face of this wounding reality. A mute rage, born of impotence, was visible in his eyes.
Envy and ambition are eating away at him. He dreams of an event that will elevate him above his fellow men overnight. Such an event has never occurred, however, and as it never will, he has grown bitter. In his eyes, success is never merited. It's nearly impossible to convey what a schemer he is. He feels no qualms about writing to an influential friend quite out of the blue and, after having asked how he is, requesting some favor. He needs to know immediately whether you consider him a friend; he is so desperate for success that his greatest fear is wasting his time, being amiable for nothing. Whenever he sees a familiar face, all he cares about is whether the person can be useful to him in some way. But as he doesn't know exactly what he wants, the conversation inevitably dies away without his having known what to solicit. Then, as an afterthought, he will ask, "Do you have anything for me?" Asking such a question seems so natural to him that he blurts it right out, without even bothering to disguise it. Even when he meets a friend who's already done him a favor, he'll find it impossible not to petition him again.
It's not difficult to imagine how much envy Perceval's good fortune must have generated in such a mind. He was pale as we spoke. Even as he detailed his warm feelings for the governor, he was doing his best to downplay the latter's merits. Lighting a cigarette, I said to Loustalot by way of consolation, "It'll be your turn soon, you'll see." "I'd rather it were yours!" replied the unhappy man, who thought he'd detected a similar note of envy in my voice, and who, though indulgent with himself, forgave nothing in others. "How did he react to the news?" I asked, so that he wouldn't think I'd been made speechless with envy. "Very well. He didn't even seem to grasp the significance of the thing. In any case, I can tell you he's not a man to forget his friends now that he's made a success of himself. I believe he's capable of doing more for them than his peace of mind and security would suggest he should. You realize, of course, that the success of a good government official lies in his ability to resist solicitations." I have to admit that this pompous declaration filled me with a most unpleasant sensation, for when some of my friends do succeed, like Perceval, it seems to me that they behave just as I would have done in their place. I couldn't keep from saying, "Success only turns the heads of men who overestimate their worth."
Needless to say, Loustalot found it necessary to demonstrate, with the help of the pretext I'd supplied, that he was a closer friend of Perceval's than I was. "I see that you really don't know Perceval at all. I don't know anyone who would do what he's doing. He's not waiting for people to approach him. Why, you may be his new cabinet minister at this very moment, and not even know it." Such a supposition exasperated me. "But I have no such desire." "Don't say that. You would be delighted." I was indignant. Only a child would have believed it possible to be extended such an unwarranted mark of consideration. Although Loustalot was making me a part of Perceval's destiny, the truth was that he wanted only one thing: to be the governor's sole friend. His jealousy extended even to me, in spite of the fact that I had just made it perfectly clear I sought no privileged status. Perhaps my disinterestedness was what worried him the most, for he was so afraid of being forgotten that he hadn't the strength to be disinterested himself. At the same time, he was keenly aware of how appealing an attitude like mine could be. But how could he be sure it didn't conceal scheming maneuvers of my own? If instead I'd told him that I was hoping to be named head of Perceval's cabinet, a position to which he doubtless also aspired, he would have been relieved. At the moment, he wanted to be alone in knowing Perceval. Had that been the case, I'm sure he would have accepted no favors. He would simply have shown his idol that he shouldn't trouble himself, that petitioners, even those who seemed to have something to offer, should be brushed aside. He thought himself made to play the part of a woman protecting her influential and besotted lover from anything which might diminish his love for her, or tempt him to follow a different path. It was obvious that Loustalot's greatest ambition now was to become Perceval's only advisor, to protect him from pitfalls which he alone would be able to foresee. It was equally obvious that what he most wanted was to have a long meeting with Perceval. From what he just told me, however, it appears that he hasn't seen the latter in a week. He rushed there this morning, but the busy governor wasn't able to receive him. Ever since, Loustalot has been like a man on a bed of hot coals. I suspect he will neither eat nor sleep until he has managed to reestablish that connection. Few sensations are as upsetting as being kept at a distance from important events in which you could have been participating had you only risen an hour earlier that morning. When lady luck has smiled at you, however briefly, the mere fact of having been seen by her makes misfortune seem less brutal, and makes the happiness she brings others seem more bearable.
Just then, for a reason I can't remember, Madeleine came into my study. I told her the news without the slightest hesitation, having often observed the remarkable trait women have of never envying a man's success. She was, in fact, totally indifferent to the information. It never even occurred to her to be disappointed that I had been awarded no such distinction. Something in the way she looked at me, however, made me sense she thought me unworthy of such an honor. To please my wife, Loustalot thought it seemly to repeat his earlier remark that I might at this very moment be the head of Perceval's cabinet. Madeleine said nothing in reply, as though the possibility were too remote to merit her consideration. I was enraged that she could treat me with such scorn. Because Loustalot was there, I contained myself, but all I now wanted was for him to leave. At the risk of seeming rude, I suddenly said that I had business to attend to. From Loustalot's expression, I understood he thought I was angry with him for having brought me the news of Perceval's success.
Left alone with Madeleine, I found I didn't know how to begin my attack. I was irritated. Although I didn't want to admit it, Perceval's good fortune had put me in a foul humor. Without any warning, I began berating her. "Deep down," I said to her, "you admire Perceval. You think he's a remarkable man. Money and honors are the only things that matter to you. Yesterday it was Belange, today its Perceval, and tomorrow? Who will it be then?" When I'm angry, not only do I lose my self-control, the urge to show myself in the worst possible light also comes over me. I soon find myself saying things I would never dream of saying when in a normal frame of mind. "Oh, I understand. If you don't love me, it's because I never did anything to make myself important. What you want from a man is that some part of his distinction reflect on you." I was suffocating. Madeleine was unmoved by what I said, however. No matter how justified your reproaches might be, she is one of those women who always thinks you're being unfair. She sees only herself. And because no reproaches are ever entirely accurate, not only does she fail to grasp what led you to make them, she immediately points out their inaccuracies. A single point of error in any criticism suffices to convince her she is right. As I spoke, however, I wasn't lingering over such reflections. My anger was growing, fueled by a vague impression I had that Madeleine would have loved me if I'd been mo
re like one of those fatuous creatures I so despise. "That's the way life is, isn't it," I said, "women admire imbeciles, but when a man is deeply in love with a woman he cherishes, when he lives simply, and only, for her, he is considered ridiculous. Fine, then! Madeleine, I'm telling you here and now that this is all going to change. You're at my mercy now. I'm all you have. You're going to have to do what I want; otherwise, if you lose me, what will become of you?" Although I said this in the heat of anger, I noticed that, unlike the day when I'd made a scene about the orchids, Madeleine seemed sure of herself, and apparently afraid of nothing. I would have had to raise my voice further to upset her, and that was something I didn't have the heart to do. In spite of this I went on, increasing the intensity of my tirade to see if I wasn't closer to my goal than I thought, but to no avail. Finally, disgusted with myself and hoping this last word would accomplish more than the entire scene which had preceded it, I exclaimed as harshly as I could, "You might as well leave!" As simply as could be, she left the room. I realized then that she could have walked out earlier if she'd wanted to, instead of which she'd been submissive and heard me out. An abrupt change took place in me. My anger vanished. I ran after her to beg her forgiveness. But as I was doing everything in my power to convince her of my affection, she interrupted me and said coldly, "Enough of these charades." The silence of the past few days had slowly been building this abscess. What I'd vaguely been dreading had come to pass. No matter what I said now, she was going to look at me like a stranger. She had thought long and hard, and had decided that I—who adore her—was putting on an act. Never again would my words make her suffer, never again would she be angry with me. I was a man who was incapable of being sincere, and so she had cut me out of her world. I was so overwhelmed that it didn't occur to me to justify myself. A deeply tragic thought had struck me: everything was over between us. I couldn't even defend myself anymore, because once Madeleine thinks she is right, she is unassailable. I could have spoken the most touching words, the most deeply sincere, fallen to my knees and wept; now that she was convinced of my duplicity, she would never have believed me. I felt powerless. The most dazzling proof of my love would have left her indifferent, since she no longer believed in that love. Nonetheless I stayed with her a moment longer, with the wild hope that, seeing my distress, she might change. It was only when she picked up a magazine and began leafing through it that I left, without saying a word. My attitude must have seemed exactly that of someone playing a part. I had arrived in tears, full of warm feelings, and was now leaving after just one remark she'd made. She must have taken this as a confirmation of her judgment.
A Winter's Journal Page 10
