A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  "I'm feeling better. . . I think I'm going to be able to get up," he said all in one breath. Taking advantage of his protests, the woman, who must have answered to the name Alice, drew nearer the bed. She neither knelt nor sat down, but stood towering over the sick man, looking at him with an obvious effort to appear compassionate. In spite of her intention, however, her features remained graceless due to a combination of deep-seated repulsion and that unpleasant expression people sometimes have when, although they are silent, they seem to be saying "I'm here!" Curti studied her face assiduously, then suddenly remembered who she was. A tremor shook his hands. The nurse drew near and tried but failed to cover them. Pulling sharply away from her, the patient lifted his trembling hands toward the young woman, who remained motionless while her companion, protective yet clearly shaken, moved closer to her. "Alice, my darling Alice!" babbled Curti. As he did so, the friend or relation of this strange woman turned first to me and then to the doctor, visibly trying to convey the message that our presence was not wanted. "Alice, Alice . . . ," repeated Curti, still trying to hold the young woman's hands in his own, and failing repeatedly, for whenever he held them he would drop them and search for them elsewhere. The truth slowly dawned on me. Curti had a mistress. Finding out in this way, seeing the liaison that had been so carefully concealed suddenly out in the open and the lovers no longer caring about keeping it a secret, made the scene seem all the more tragic. The death of a man is terrifying enough. But when his death becomes the instrument by which mysteries of his past life are revealed, when a host of demands, threats, and entreaties circle around the dying man's bed, and he no longer has the strength to defend or answer for himself, it is then we realize how insignificant the elements are out of which we create our happiness and sorrow. Secret's disappear, and no one thinks of reproaching the departed one for anything he might have done. Nothing remains but the miserable frailty of our beings. A week ago I would have been stupefied to learn of his affair, but now it seemed utterly unimportant. I could have learned the most wonderful, or the most abominable, things about Curti's life, they would no longer have made any impression on me. "Alice, Alice . . . ," he continued babbling, his voice weakening. Whether from shyness, fear, or indifference, the young woman made no attempt to show any tenderness toward the dying man, who clung to her as though she were the most precious creature on earth. It was almost as though it wasn't life he was leaving, but Alice, this ordinary girl for whom being here at all seemed to be a chore. It broke my heart that this man had reached the end of his days with no other love than the one he felt for this unknown woman. Suddenly, his hands dropped back into his lap. He took a few labored breaths, while his mistress continued staring at him. Sitting up straighter, he looked at his surroundings for a long while, then called for me. As I came closer, something quite unbelievable happened. Rather than stepping aside to allow me to reach the patient, the young woman, who'd had neither a loving gesture nor a heartfelt word to say since her arrival, remained where she stood. "Louis," murmured Curti, "go into my study. There is a paper in one of the desk drawers. Bring it to me." I did as he asked. When I returned, Curti had sunk back down into the bed. The young woman and her companion stared at me unblinkingly. Their eyes were locked on my own; they didn't quite dare lower their gazes to the envelope I now held in my hand. The scene was so shabby, so undignified, that I put the envelope on the bed without even waiting for Curti to awaken. As I did so, the doctor left and Sospel came back in through the same door. He had taken only a few steps into the room when Curti emerged from his torpor. "Louis," he said immediately, without even looking to see where I was. "The envelope is next to you," I answered, my voice betraying the irritation I felt at the young woman's attitude. "Give it to me," said Curti, who had it beneath his fingers but was incapable of grasping anything. To my surprise, Alice didn't move. As she was standing nearest the sick man, I had thought she would hand him the envelope. By remaining motionless, however, she wanted to show that she'd done nothing to make him hand it to her. Before I could do as he'd asked, the nurse slipped the envelope between her patient's fingers. Transfigured, looking as though he were performing the most important act of his life, he thrust it at Alice with a jerking, unsteady hand. For a moment, she hesitated to extend her own hand, then snatched the envelope, folded it, and passed it to her companion, who immediately stuffed it into one of his pockets. This scene had barely ended when Sospel left the room yet again, making me think there was something very bizarre about the way in which he constantly came and went, without ever saying a word. "Be happy, Alice . . . ," Curti said laboriously. "You have been my only happiness. I did all I could for you. Louis, come here . . . Where is Madeleine? You'll protect her, since I wasn't able to do anything for her? Where is she?" I was astonished by the last words he'd spoken. "This is what happens when death takes us by surprise, and we aren't ready to die," I thought. Weak and on the brink of death, a man who'd always struck me as being a model of scrupulousness now seemed empty and spineless. As recently as yesterday, I'd thought his only love in life was his daughter. Rather than opening his heart to me, he'd chosen to conceal everything until the final hour. Because of his weakness, he'd been reduced to making a man he's never esteemed the guardian of that which he holds most dear: Madeleine. He was about to disappear forever, and the person for whom he felt the most contempt was the very one he was relying on to watch over his child. He'd never given a thought to securing his daughter's future, choosing instead to put his trust in me. He'd used me the way you might use a relative you despise, but from whom you have no scruples in extracting any possible advantage. In a sense, he'd made me his associate. He'd said to himself, "Louis will take care of Madeleine, and I will take care of Alice." It was only when Alice's presence at his bedside revealed his secret life that he understood how unworthy of a father his conduct had been. His only concern, then, was that I not fail him. He saw he was at my mercy: that is his punishment, and it is also what makes his end such a tragic one. Watching him slip away, it struck me that what makes dying particularly distressing is the legacy of hundreds of confused situations, the friends waiting for promises they think the dying man is going to keep. Happy are those who've thought about death, who've anticipated it, and whose only legacy is a blameless life! But what painful exits the others have, as they lie helpless on their deathbeds watching people gather round who loathe one another, people they've made no provisions for, people who suddenly learn they weren't alone in being loved! By then, they are beyond the stage of being able to provide explanations for these unexpected complications. As they grow progressively weaker, their machinations become apparent, the details of their intimate life are revealed for all to see, until all that is left of them is their corpse. After the scene that had just taken place, M. Curti seemed similarly naked to me. There was nothing left of the man who'd organized his life, kept parts of it secret. He was already dead.

  As I stood looking down at him, filled with tremendous pity and sadness, Madeleine arrived. At the sight of all the people gathered around, she understood immediately what was happening, and flung herself on the foot of the bed, sobbing like a madwoman. Only then did M. Curti notice her. With a great effort, he lifted his hand and put it on his daughter's head. She looked up. She knew nothing; in her eyes, her father was still the only person alive who loved her more than anyone, the person she turned to for comfort when she found the future terrifying. Speaking in rapid-fire bursts, as though he could understand her, she asked, "What is it, Father? Answer me. Please, say something." Alice had moved aside and was observing the scene with obvious indifference. As for M. Curti, he had ceased recognizing anyone. Nonetheless, he was struggling to remain dignified, trying to maintain the customary distance between himself and the world around him by the only means still left to him.

  December 27th

  Since the death of her father, Madeleine has only spoken to me two or three times. She hasn't stopped crying, as it were. Today, for the first time, she seem
ed to understand what had happened. She asked me who the woman was who'd been at M. Curti's bedside. "A friend your father cared about a great deal," I replied. I dreaded having to tell her that her father had bequeathed this stranger everything the law allowed. And yet I did tell her, to avoid putting off the moment too long. To my great surprise, it didn't seem to sadden her.

  January 1st

  I spent a long time thinking about Madeleine. I really should be taking into account the fact that she's deprived of affection now. I alone can understand her, forgive her, protect her. Instead of doing so, I'm behaving as any man would with any woman. I hound her, knowing that she is defenseless, and that I am stronger. Although I sense that I'm behaving despicably, I can't control myself. I'm then filled with remorse. I want to ask her to forgive me, but she would be surprised rather than touched by such a departure from my usual behavior. And so I'm condemned to make her suffer, with no hope of acting otherwise. There are moments when I find myself casting about for a way to prove my love to her. Today, for instance, to try to comfort her a bit, I talked to her very confidently about the future. I told her that we were going through a difficult time, but that we were young and the day would come when we would both be happy. She looked at me with such genuine distaste that I was terribly hurt. Every fiber of her being cried out that I didn't know what I was talking about, that I was a poor fool who was incapable of being rational. She thinks some ulterior motive is at work when you talk to her about the future. For her, as for most young people, the future is something that will unfold outside of the world we know. It's an Elysium to which she alone will be granted entry, and she doubtless finds it presumptuous of me to have booked a place there. She must wonder if I need to be separated from her before I'll stop expecting more happiness in life than what I have now! And yet, what greater proof of my devotion could I give her? I decided never to discuss the future with her again, but what will become of her when she's lost me, when she has to face the world, alone and inexperienced, and defend herself against advances and propositions whose ulterior motives she'll never suspect, and in which she'll believe with all the fervor of her youth? The day she recognizes I was right and realizes how much I really loved her, it will be too late. She'll have given herself to countless men, and left behind a part of herself each time. I picture what her life will have become without affection, without a home, maybe even without money. My poor Madeleine, how she will suffer from being old, from not having the means to conceal her wrinkles with opulence, from being deprived of the witness to her beauty, so that she doesn't have to regret its loss alone! I picture her having become meticulous and orderly, qualities she scorns at present. I imagine her caring for all her possessions, not daring to wear a new dress for fear of damaging it. She will no longer tolerate any irritation. The tiny kitchen in which she prepares her meals herself will be spotless. She will have acquired the characteristics of those inconsequential women who have no one but themselves to think about. Until now, I've done everything in my power to combat this tendency, which always gets the upper hand in women whose lives aren't rounded out by the presence of a man. One day, when we were out with Hélène, she suddenly pointed a passerby out to us and said, "Look, do you see the man walking over there? He's a friend of mine." Filled with zeal, Madeleine took on the role of a counselor, "Go and say hello ... go on, Hélène. Don't worry about us. We'll wait for you." Was this not an early sign? I am the only thing preventing her from developing that complicity women have among themselves, which is so unattractive, so unrefined. Although at the moment she doesn't worry about a thing, I can picture her, oh yes, ferreting out addresses, trying to keep up her wardrobe at a discount, haggling with shopgirls, leading a petty existence. Although she doesn't like women and feels no compunction to socialize with them, I can picture her controlling those tendencies, forcing herself to get along with them, trying to make herself like the rest of them. What will remain of the woman I knew? Her freshness, her innocence, her extraordinary qualities, they all will have disappeared. She'll have become a poor, bitter, unloved woman, her home filled with charming knickknacks. One will sense she was let down by life. And yet it's not too late. The blows to our marriage have been glancing ones. If she agrees to stay with me, none of those evils I foresee for her need ever come to pass. She is unaware they even exist, however. Were I to describe them to her, she wouldn't understand. In fact, she thinks I'm the reason she leads a petty existence. What can we do when the person we love refuses to recognize our greater experience? We are left with the hope that they will be patient, that they won't have the courage to leave us, that they will gradually grow fond of us. Better the tribulations, which are only illusory, than moral mediocrity. That is why I've avoided a discussion. Were I to say to Madeleine, "You're free. I'll provide for your expenses, and you can enjoy yourself and do as you please," she would accept happily, and even, I think, refuse my offer of material assistance. But I mustn't do that, even if it means she suffers from my inertia. After all, as long as she stays with me, she's protected. But what will happen when I cease watching over her? Her father clearly understood the danger when, just before he died, he begged me not to abandon her.

  January 4th

  Today was no better. Madeleine avoided every opportunity of talking to me. Even worse, Sospel came to see me. To hear him tell it, Curti was a horrible sight on his deathbed. There are some people who take pleasure in relating the most macabre details. They give us lengthy descriptions of corpses, taking care not to omit that the beard had grown, or that a rictus had pulled the face off-center. What interests them are the dying persons gestures, his grimaces, his agony. I thought of Spigelman, too, and considered going to see him to attenuate the bad impression Madeleine and I made when he came to see us. But then it struck me that rushing to see him would only aggravate this impression. Besides, I'm in such a state that its better I not go anywhere.

  January 6th

  Whenever I've loved a woman, I've been tormented by the thought that she would belong to another man one day. As a result, anxiety ruled my love affairs. I never felt my love was strong enough to last a lifetime, and therefore knew from the start that I was going to be responsible for the inevitable breakup. Thus, I suffered in anticipation of an event I was going to precipitate myself, in spite of which I never considered putting an end to this dilemma by forcing myself to be faithful. I suffered, made women unhappy, picked quarrels with them and asked them to swear that, no matter what happened, they would always be mine. Although I knew at the outset these affairs were doomed, I abandoned myself as though they were going to last forever, and demanded to be loved in return with an intensity that matched the one I pretended to feel. Madeleine has been the only woman I've ever loved without thinking ahead to the day when another man would hold her in his arms. When I was with her, it was a great relief to know that I was the only man she would ever know, since I loved her so much that I'd given up my compulsive flirting for her. The possibility that the woman I truly loved could ever belong to another man never occurred to me. On that score, I was at ease. When I looked at Madeleine, I felt a pleasant sense of security, of complete possession. Since I'd decided to make this woman my companion for life, she was therefore going to be mine for all eternity. But now I'm more worried about Madeleine than ever before. In the past, despite my jealous tendencies, some remote voice told me that I was the architect of my own unhappiness, but now that voice has fallen silent. I have ceased being the instrument of my own misfortune, nor am I the master of my own happiness: my fate is in the hands of someone other than myself, and this has happened just as I'm starting to grow old. Is this an early warning of life's transience? In the heat of my wildest rages, I used to feel that I controlled their outcome, but now I realize that I'm just a plaything in the hands of another. I think this is a sure sign that age is creeping up on us. After a lifetime spent orchestrating our own joys and sorrows, it feels very strange to realize that this gift has been taken from us. Other people have be
come the masters of our destiny. In spite of our confidence, in spite of having chosen a companion when still young, we are forced to accept the fact that there is a sort of earthly justice. Although we entered into battle on equal terms, we've gradually grown weaker. Madeleine has just demonstrated this to me for the first time. If a woman hadn't loved me, if she'd made me suffer the way Madeleine is doing now, our liaison wouldn't have lasted. I would have broken it off very quickly. Now, however, I accept everything, I endure everything. The thought that Madeleine will belong to another man some day haunts me, invades my mind at the most unexpected moments. I know of no sensation more distressing. As recently as a few months ago, all I held against Madeleine were the innocent flirtations of her younger days. Despite everything she's put me through, that retrospective jealousy now seems a very childish torment, compared to what I'm apprehending!

  January 7th

  The days pass. An ever-growing sadness has taken hold of me. I feel as if every week is a week gained against some lurking unhappiness. How distressing it is to live the way were living, Madeleine and I! We've reached the stage of engaging only in polite conversation, from fear of a terrible scene: in my case from fear of making it, in hers from fear of having to defend herself. She went out shopping this morning. I stayed at home alone. I realized then that nothing interested me anymore, that everything was foreign to me. In an attempt to recapture something of our intimacy, I went into our bedroom. The familiar surroundings of my married life suddenly seemed to exist independently of me. I wasn't the person who slept in this bed, nor was I the person who looked at himself in this mirror. I fled to another room, only to find the same sense of isolation. Everything had suddenly grown old; it all seemed destined to be cleared out one day. Someone else would make the necessary adjustments. All was desperately immobile, distant, hostile. Often, we can go on for years without being aware of our existence, and then suddenly some sign or event will make us aware of our mortality. These may be warnings from heaven, intended to make death seem less terrible. Although nothing had changed in our life, my surroundings were sounding a warning. A current seemed to be running between the rooms, repeating that the old era had ended and a new one was about to begin, which wouldn't be as glorious as the first. In that deserted apartment, I felt as if I had just concluded the ascent of some summit, and was resting there before beginning my descent. In spite of my despondency, an aura of great calm surrounded me. Madeleine and I still lived here; I was still in the space the two of us shared. There was no sign of evanescence, everything was there in front of me as if it would be there for all time, and this lulled me into a sense of serenity which, although sweet, was like the calm before the storm.