A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  December 15th

  Friends came to see us. I don't know why, but Madeleine didn't want Mme Borel to notice we were quarreling. It seems hard to believe she would have any such scruples, given the scene she made when M. Spigelman was here. As soon as M. and Mme Borel were shown in, however, Madeleine began addressing me amiably, as though we'd never had any disagreement. Having thought about it, I believe I understand why. Madeleine feels a sense of feminine pride when with her friend. The latter probably told her that all men are wicked and think only of themselves, that they are egotists, and Madeleine must have disagreed with her, not out of love for me, but rather because she has such high expectations. As a result, she doubtless finds it abhorrent to be near this woman now, after having contradicted her.

  Were Madeleine suddenly to develop a loathing for one of her friends, then meet another friend to whom she'd previously spoken of the first in glowing terms, she would, while with the second woman, forget her feelings about the first. This isn't because she fears the loss of a relation will lessen others' opinion of her, but rather because she finds it unpleasant that people know what she is feeling, whether or not this detracts from her image. I was so clearly out of sorts that I heard Jacques Borel ask his wife what was going on. He is terribly proud of being married at long last, and needs to invest the condition with such importance that he's acquired the habit of asking his wife to apprise him of everything, as though it were impossible for him to understand anyone else's explanations. This peculiar zeal reminds me of people introduced to a social circle they have long heard about and which they know in theory, but whose reality is a mystery to them, or of army recruits who are astonished to discover that the officers aren't more stern, but who retain the attitudes they'd prepared when expecting to face harsh discipline. But just as the last thing those soldiers would say is "It's not as bad as I'd expected!" Borel had no intention of telling his wife that our marriage was not all he'd thought. "What's the matter with you?" Madeleine asked, noticing my sullen expression. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if I revealed what was wrong. I think that Madeleine would have lost her self-control. Refusing to play along with her is the one thing she can't abide. One must yield to her desires. Although she was being pleasant with me, I knew it was only temporary. And yet, she expected me to play along with this act, even though she must have realized I knew it was just that: an act. And I'm supposedly the actor here! It would have been futile, however, to try to make her understand how capricious her behavior was. Things had to be this way at this particular moment in time, and nothing we'd said earlier was allowed to alter the equation. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to lose my temper on the spot, in front of everyone. I have become prey to a sort of nervous excitability, which terrifies me. I can no longer control myself. Whereas in the past I could tolerate anything, for some time now I've felt the need to show that I exist, that I'm a living being, that I have a personality. Basically, this is due to the fact that losing my temper is all I'm good for, that I'll never be able to control myself, and above all that I allowed myself to get carried away once before. What held me back before was my fear of shocking Madeleine, of allowing her a glimpse of an abyss whose existence she'd never even suspected. Those scruples are meaningless now that she's seen me raging out of control, which, by the way, failed to make the impression on her I'd expected. It was as if she'd always known the essence of my nature, even though I carefully concealed it, to the point of pretending to be indifferent when she claimed to be in love with Roger. I was made even angrier by the fact that the Borels seemed intent on making it obvious they'd come to see Madeleine and not me. Without taking any real notice of me, my wife smiled at me pleasantly from time to time. Finally, I couldn't control myself any longer. "I've had enough," I said violently. "Why don't you stop passing yourself off as an angel in front of your friends!" "But what's wrong, my darling?" she asked, sincerely interested. Her question infuriated me. "Enough!" I shouted. I then had the leisure of observing my wife. Her face registered no spite, no anger. I had expected cries, tears, but she merely seemed surprised. Rather than getting angry, she was treating my outburst as though she loved me. She looked at me sadly, and for a moment I even thought her eyes were filming over. I understood my words had hurt her, probably because of the Borels, for she wanted them to believe we were a happy couple. In fact, I had been mistaken in judging the reason for Madeleine's kindness. It wasn't at all that, in the presence of a woman who'd pointed out the ridiculous nature of dependence, she felt ashamed of belonging to a man. The reality was that she was repelled by Mme Borel's theories; at heart, she derived a great sense of comfort from appearing to be a cherished slave, from feeling dominated, advised, guided, from sensing she was exactly the woman I so wanted her to be. "It hurts me, Louis, when you're so unkind to me. It isn't nice." I hadn't the courage to go on. It was beginning to seem to me that such complex emotions could never be resolved. I craved light, air, a deep and simple love, and instead of that I was struggling in such a maze of emotions that there were moments when I believed that the mere fact I thought anything at all meant it was untrue. I no longer knew, or understood, anything. Ah, if Madeleine had only wanted! If she'd only wanted to love me with all her heart as I love her, if she'd only wanted to understand that life isn't very long, and that when circumstances bring two people together who aren't so very different, it's better to accept that fate than make a spectacle of oneself. Borel was listening to what we were saying. He was all but offering to act as mediator. Having spent part of his life listening to others recount their romantic entanglements without ever having any of his own, he was curious rather than genuinely moved.

  Finally the Borels left. I remained silent. I have no idea what I was waiting for. Madeleine, too, was silent. She came and went in the apartment as though I didn't exist. I found her indifference reassuring. It may be sad to say this, but I preferred that to another argument. At dinner, Madeleine had nothing more to say about her friends. Her face had resumed the expression she wore before their visit.

  December 17th

  I inflicted another scene on Madeleine, one so violent that for a moment I thought she was going to run out like a madwoman, without bothering to take her coat. Ever since the night she stayed at her father's, I have been extremely high-strung. I don't sleep well. I've completely lost my appetite. I'm constantly making plans to leave, though without much conviction. Whenever I'm away from her, I start to worry that she'll meet another man. But when I'm near her, all I want is to escape. What to do? She is so disagreeable! With the exception of the day the Borels came to visit, she has barely spoken to me. In the end, I snapped. This morning, when I told her what I wanted to do, she made this unfortunate reply: "You would think I'm standing in your way." At first I ignored what she'd said. I was filing papers. It's a task I enjoy, one that can make me forget the worst troubles. Then I went out for a walk. When I returned, I found Madeleine waiting to have lunch with me. I told her that it was a fine day, albeit cold. She made no reply. She stopped answering me so long ago that I ignored this minor point. We had lunch. While having our coffee in the living room, a ray of sun introduced a note so gay and yet so melancholy that I felt myself overcome by the urge to change surroundings for a few days. To avoid meeting with a disagreeable reply, however, I carefully avoided making any mention of this. I lit a cigar, and as Madeleine had just left the room, I sat and waited for her return, though for no good reason since I had nothing to say to her. I glanced through the morning papers and had a second cup of coffee. As our apartment faces south, the room was now being flooded with sunlight. Despite my melancholy, I was filled with a sense of physical well-being. Still unable to explain why, I awaited Madeleine's return. That was when it suddenly occurred to me that she wasn't in the apartment at all, but had gone out. It would be impossible to relate how angry this made me. All at once, my pleasure vanished. I was enraged. I was about to get up and run through the apartment looking for her when she rea
ppeared, idly, like a woman who left the room to go touch up her makeup and, to make her absence last longer, leafed through a book rather than returning immediately. Nothing more was needed to restore my equanimity. As Madeleine sat down, I got up and left the room unhurriedly, saying, "I'll be back." I didn't know what to do with myself. I went into my study and leafed mechanically through the papers I'd filed that morning. For a few seconds, I pulled back the curtains and watched the passersby below. I was in such good spirits that I caught myself thinking that, leaning on the windowsill, I looked a bit like one of those youths in romantic etchings who seem to be regretting their fiancée's departure. When the charm of that reflection had worn off, I returned to the living room. I'd noticed when leaving that Madeleine had sat down in such a way that her left hand, which dangled over the side of the armchair, was almost touching the floor. When I returned, the first thing to catch my eye was that her arm was still in the same place. Unreasonable as this may seem, I felt I was about to lose my temper yet again. I can't say why I found this immobility a provocation. Not moving a muscle like this seemed an unspoken challenge, as if by doing nothing Madeleine wanted to show me how little I mattered to her. Her eyes were closed. My exasperation as I scrutinized her was heightened by the fact that she seemed not to have heard the noise I made as I approached. If I had thrown a vase to the floor in the middle of the room, or, even better, into the big mirror above the mantelpiece, Madeleine would not have reacted any differently. It was only with the greatest of difficulty that I contained myself. My eyes were riveted on that inert arm. Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes and, in a supremely graceful gesture, raised the hand off the floor and carried it to her forehead. My peace of mind was restored. A movement of any kind was all I'd needed to enable me to resume adoring the body I'd despised a moment earlier. I sat down, and had just resumed reading the newspaper when Madeleine got up and went out. After reading for quite some time, I heard the front door close. This time, she really had gone. To assure myself of this, I went into our bedroom. She was gone. I have to say that, to my great surprise, her absence left me indifferent. Not for a moment did I think of getting angry. I now found it utterly natural that Madeleine had gone out, even without saying good-bye. I went back into my study, and stayed there until four o'clock. I then had tea brought in, after which, not knowing what to do, I decided to go see a friend. Upon reaching his house, however, I doubled back. This often happens to me. The fact is I need to have a goal in life, my day must have clearly defined objectives. I'll therefore plan to go see someone in perfect good faith, and leave the house as if I really intend to go there. Along the way, I'll even plan what I'm going to say. But once there, I'll abandon the idea. What I need is not so much to execute the plan as to be occupied by it. I therefore headed back the way I'd come. Passing by a florist, I thought of buying orchids to show Madeleine I held no grudge against her. But it struck me that this would be in bad taste, and that my wife would interpret it as a wicked or ironic gesture on my part. I'm like those people who, no matter how delicate their intentions, realize upon reflection that they may be misinterpreted. This fear is partly responsible for the fact that I appear so cold, and loathe displays of friendship. When I got home, I found Madeleine deep in conversation with a fashion designer. Ordinarily, I avoid sitting in on such conversations. This time, however, to play the gallant young man and try to please Madeleine by appearing interested, I approached the two women and pretended to listen attentively. To my great surprise, Madeleine said, "Leave us, Louis . . . You know nothing about these matters ... I'll be with you in a moment." Spoken with great amiability. Bursting with happiness, I went into my study. Was Madeleine going to return to the way she used to be? I was overjoyed by this change. But time passed. When I heard the front door close, I knew the designer had left, yet Madeleine still didn't come join me. All the same, I didn't want to force my presence on her. I resolved to wait a bit longer, but as time passed and she didn't come, I felt an increasingly violent rage building up within me. Finally, unable to hold myself back any longer, I went into our bedroom. Madeleine was there, and was now wearing a black dress. "You didn't come to me, then?" I asked. "Obviously not, since I'm here." "But you did say you would come?" "You say a great many things too, don't you?" These words filled me with joy. Had Madeleine decided to resume speaking to me? Had she forgotten everything? Happy as I was, I was careful not to let this show so as not to indispose my wife, whom it pleases to think that a man's contentment, however slight, is fatuous. "I was waiting for you, eagerly," I went on. "No doubt so you could say some more cruel things to me." There is one point on which Madeleine and I differ totally. After losing my temper, I feel deeply embarrassed if we return to the subject that provoked my ire. When Madeleine and I have patched things up in the past, what I've always found most distressing is the way she reviews every detail of our quarrel, albeit in a spirit of reconciliation. That was what she now began to do. My happiness vanished immediately, replaced by irritation. "No, Louis," she went on, "it's no use pretending the orchids were the only reason you lost your temper the way you did." "Let's drop the subject," I said, not even daring to utter the word "orchids." "What would you like us to talk about, then, if not that?" she asked coldly. Often, when a reconciliation is on the verge of being concluded and I'm looking forward to living again, to elevating myself, Madeleine will revert to the cutting tone of voice she used earlier. Although I know this about her, I was shocked by what she'd just said. "But there are a great many things we could talk about," I answered quickly. "Well then! If that's the way things are, let's not bother talking at all," she said even more harshly. Madeleine had put a pretty dress on to please me. She'd made an effort to put her resentments behind her. She'd been willing to slip back into the skin of the woman she used to be, and then, all of a sudden, she'd abandoned her resolutions. She is one of those women who never feels bound by her decisions or by the preparations she's made. At the last minute, and without the slightest regret, she can deprive herself of a pleasure she's been looking forward to for weeks. Anger filled me yet again. This time, however, its roots went far deeper: the bottomless abyss which separated us, her failure to understand me, and her inconsistency, which I didn't understand. "If that's the way it is," I said like a man who's lost his mind, "I'm leaving." "Go on, then, you might as well," she shot back. "Actually, no. I'm staying." I was all the more enraged because she now dominated the situation as a result of my awkwardness. Seeing her perfectly in control of herself while I choked with rage made me violent. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it with all my might. She cried out sharply, and as she did I suddenly saw in her eyes that she was the weaker. I squeezed even harder. When she fell to her knees in pain, I let her go. She ran off immediately, crying for help as though I were a criminal. Alone, I felt something like a sense of deliverance. Once again, I was the master. Hearing barely perceptible footsteps all around me, a silent scurrying, I stood motionless, drained, slightly troubled, not realizing exactly what had just happened and yet feeling an overwhelming sense of relief deep in my heart.

  December 20th

  A note arrived from Curti asking me to come see him immediately. Worried, I went off to the avenue de la Grande-Armée at once. Barely two weeks had gone by since I'd lunched with him, but he seemed completely changed. He received me in bed. His face looked rested, but there was something sad and distant in his expression. He was propped up on a pillow. A glass and a box of pills stood on a card table that had been set up at the head of his bed. "I was extremely unwell the day before yesterday," he told me wearily. "I had three attacks in succession, and they lasted much longer than usual. I thought the end had come. That night, my pulse was barely forty beats a minute. I'm feeling better now, but I have to face reality. The end isn't far off." I studied him more carefully. Even more so than when I'd arrived, I was struck by his eyes. Unlike the rest of his face, which was smooth, rejuvenated, even pinkish in spots, and seemed asleep rather than dead, as though resting after a ma
ssive effort, they darted anxiously from side to side, the pupils ringed by a colorless band. I can't explain why, but they made me think of two prisoners trying to escape. They no longer seemed connected to his face in any way. They were like the wildly spinning needle of a compass, terrified and powerless, desperate to escape from the surrounding flesh. As I looked at them, I realized Curti was right about his condition. I tried to reassure him, but he paid no attention to what I was saying. What I found particularly strange was that his eyes weren't appealing for help, nor did they attempt to latch onto anyone. They simply moved about, mysterious and astonished; one felt there was no sight on earth that would have affected their peculiar luster. They no longer wanted to be a part of Curti's body, and when they stared fixedly off to one side or another one could sense his fear. It was as though he was trying to see himself as he did this, to reassure himself he hadn't changed. As I sat down next to the bed, the nurse came in carrying an herbal infusion. At the sight of it, Curti made an indifferent gesture, as though he intended to refuse it, but at the same time he extended his hand to take the cup. When he'd finished drinking its contents (which he did with great care), he extended his hand to me in a very trusting, unguarded way. "My dear Grandeville, what do you think of my situation?" I replied that I thought he looked well enough, that his attacks had probably been brought on by overexertion of some kind, and that he needed only be more vigilant to ensure they didn't recur. He was deeply relieved by my words. "That's exactly what my doctor told me, in fact," he said. "And I've since remembered very clearly that the morning of my attacks, I was angry about something." "Come now, Monsieur Curti, you! Angry!" "Why certainly," he replied, with the merest hint of a smile. "You don't know everything about my life." I was astonished that he could say such a thing. To tell me that I didn't know everything about his life, when I thought I knew it so well, seemed insane. It was hardly to be believed. Nonetheless, I concealed my astonishment. "And I'm sure that fit of anger is what brought on the later attacks." Just then, the maid came in and, in hushed tones, told him Doctor Mariage was here to see him. It would be impossible to describe the burning intensity with which Curti's face lit up. His joy was painful to see. It revealed how desperately this sick man still clung to life. I got up to leave, but Curti insisted I stay, and I sensed this was because he thought the doctor wouldn't dare give him bad news in the presence of a third party. Looking slightly worried, Doctor Mariage entered the room. After taking Curti's pulse and listening to his heart, he seemed reassured. He was a large, ruddy man, with closely cropped blond hair. Every aspect of his appearance lent itself to creating an impression of sincerity. "I never hide anything from my patients," he seemed to say. Curti's eyes never left him, but the doctor pretended not to notice: not taking his patients' childish fears into account was one of the traits that added to his confident demeanor. Patients were made to think that they were insignificant; if their entreaties and apprehensions failed to attract the doctor's attention, it must be because he didn't find their condition particularly worrying. Doctor Mariage finally took his leave. As soon as he'd gone, Curti asked me, "Would you trust that doctor?" I answered that I would, which seemed to put his mind at ease. "What about Madeleine?" he then asked so abruptly that, for an instant, I thought he was asking whether she too would trust him. "I've never asked her about Doctor Mariage," I said. "That's not what I'm asking. I'd like to know how she is, whether she's happy. Above all, you mustn't tell her what's happened to me. It would cause her such anguish. There will be time enough to tell her when nothing more can be done." I told him that things were absolutely fine at home, then thought myself compelled to add it probably was best not to alarm Madeleine about her father's illness, which was sure to vanish as quickly as it had struck. In spite of this, Curti remained pensive. He knows perfectly well his daughter isn't happy with me. Until now, he's pretended to believe we're a happy couple. I now sensed, however, that he no longer thought it necessary to deceive me. Doubtless because he was aware of the seriousness of his ailment, he suddenly wanted to confide in me, and presumed I knew as well as he did that his daughter didn't love me. He wanted to talk to me about her, addressing me not as her husband but rather as the person who would replace him after he was gone. "She loves you as she loves me," he continued. "Less, certainly." I sensed him growing tense. "Why less? You mean a great deal to her." I couldn't understand where he was leading. My initial impression of him had been eradicated. Instead, I was now in the presence of a courageous man, who no longer feared death and was making a final attempt to put his affairs in order. "Louis, you mean a great deal to her. You're the first man she really loved. You've always guided her. Without your experience and your indulgence, what would she have become? Listen to me, Louis, I could disappear from one minute to the next. Promise me that, whatever happens, you'll always protect her. Promise me you'll never abandon her, never make her suffer, and that you'll forgive her for any pain she may cause you. Promise me that when I'm gone, you will take my place in her life. You will be her father. What I mean is that, no matter what she does, she will always be like a daughter to you. If need be, stop loving her as a husband. I love Madeleine so much, it would be terrible for me if I thought the day might come when you wouldn't be there for her, that there would be no one in the world to protect her as I would have done. Madeleine is a child. Listen, Louis, I want you to promise that on the day you stop being her husband, you will become her father." His words made it so plain Madeleine didn't love me that I was thunderstruck. "I promise," I replied with feeling. "I'm infinitely grateful to you. I know how wounding my words must sound, but I can assure you that when your kidneys and heart and liver are old and worn out, and there is nothing young or healthy left in your body, it becomes much easier to say these things. Life isn't long. We're all going to disappear one day. I believe the strong have a duty to protect the weak, to defend them, even if they are shown no gratitude for that protection. Imagine what would become of Madeleine without you. Men would prey on her. She's eager to live. She doesn't know what love is. Only you can guide her, can gradually make her understand, day by day, without her even being aware of it, that she's making mistakes. I even believe that only you love her enough to make her give up her unrealistic illusions without making her suffer unnecessarily. I'm asking you to love her more than a wife or a mistress. If I hadn't foolishly lost the better part of my fortune, I would have been able to provide for my child. What I'm most afraid of, you see, is that one day she will yield to temptation and you'll abandon her, leaving her alone to face the world. Promise me that will never happen." I knew Madeleine didn't love me, but that this should be so obvious to others made me terribly unhappy. Listening to Curti's words made me feel as though some harsh, crude light had been trained on my soul. For a moment, I resented him for talking to me this way. But seeing him before me, my bitterness disappeared. His revelations had made it clear to me that he had only a few days left to live. My fear of losing Madeleine vanished. It had struck me that, like Curti, I too was going to die one day, and that nothing mattered in this life except powerful emotions. To avoid being caught unprepared by death, we had to live each day in the fullness of those emotions. I took Curti's hand in mine and clasped it tightly. "Have no fear," I said fervently, "your daughter will never be alone. Even were she to find me repulsive, I would continue protecting her as though she'd pledged her eternal love to me."