A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  This painful impression lifted as soon as Madeleine returned. She immediately brought the house to life; she came and went, gave orders, asked if there had been telephone calls for her. Although she thinks she is exceptionally sensitive, the fact is Madeleine doesn't perceive impalpable things. She realizes the day is fast approaching when this apartment will be nothing more than a memory, yet she continues living just as before. Tomorrow, were she forced to leave this home forever, her mind would immediately be occupied with ensuring she didn't forget anything, that everything was left in order. And when she daydreams in the midst of this uncertain home, one senses she will have no regrets about leaving. Her imagination is so great, and makes what will come next seem so marvelous, that expecting her to have regrets about something would be like asking her to prefer a single rose to an entire bed of flowers. Some people are attached to objects, even when these are quite ordinary. A trinket, a book, or an armchair will be far more precious to them than costlier replacements, because they have been their companions for years, spectators to their lives. Madeleine isn't attached to possessions for such reasons. What matters to her is their rarity, their exquisiteness, their price. Given the opportunity to exchange a ring she'd received as a child, and which she'd never taken off, for another ring, which happened to be a grander one, she wouldn't hesitate for a second. It would never occur to her that the ring which had been in contact with her flesh for all those years might be more precious than the other.

  January 11th

  A particularly unattractive feature of our nature is that, even in times of extreme distress, we can weigh the disadvantages of a separation with icy detachment. This may simply be because, regardless of how deep their attachment, couples nonetheless remain distinct entities. At the end of the day, certain things belong to us alone. There is our health. There are the thousands of little differences of opinion which arise at any given moment and which, in spite of our efforts to be as one with the person we love, maintain the illusion—unbeknownst to us—that we are in fact alone. In the throes of the most acute despair, the deepest sorrow, I can light a cigarette, think ahead to an appointment, consider the state of my business dealings, or remember the hour of a dinner engagement. That is the real me, the one I've been neglecting, and which is reminding me it exists. A surprising thing sometimes happens: it will abruptly supplant the other me, the one whose existence was entirely focused on another person. It happened today. As though I was going to feel no pain at losing Madeleine, I began to think very calmly about the future. My wife was no longer the center of my thoughts, which turned instead to what I would become without her. Before marrying, I led an unsettled life, and chance encounters sometimes ended with my bringing strange women home. I couldn't help myself, and yet I was always panic-stricken the next morning. Doctors are well aware that there is one disease in particular about which men are prone to the most extreme phobias. How many times have I heard them say they'd seen perfectly healthy patients who were terribly alarmed because of an imaginary or "insignificant sore" (as they put it). I was like those patients. Throughout the incubation period, and God willed that it be a long one, I trembled at the thought that I might have contracted the disease. But as soon as I was out of danger, some uncontrollable impulse would compel me to expose myself again, after which the same fear would possess me anew. I must say that, by freeing me from this phobia, married life has been a great relief. I thanked God for having preserved me intact until I met Madeleine, and throughout the years we spent together, if I happened to think back on my youthful follies, I would smile at the thought that they were dead and gone, never to return. Today, however, it dawned on me that were Madeleine to leave me, I was going to be exposed to those risks all over again. I was going to resume my acquaintance with those forgotten horrors. That nightmarish distress—which comes when, thinking we have escaped some evil, we suddenly realize we are still at its mercy—filled me. No longer thinking of Madeleine, or of the sorrow I'll feel when she's gone, I began to consider what sort of life I would have to lead to ensure I didn't become prey to the fears that haunted my past. I did this coldly, as though I'd never loved Madeleine. I promised myself to have physical relations only with women I knew, women I could be sure of, and not behave as unthinkingly as I had in my youth. An even baser thought occurred to me, which was that I could use this self-serving sacrifice to tell Madeleine that, even if she left me, my love for her would make it impossible for me to return to the life I'd led as a young man. Had she told me at that moment that she was leaving me, I would have forgotten the real reasons for my abstinence on the spot, and told her with utter sincerity that I was forsaking all others because of her. No woman would ever tempt me again, now that I had lost the one I loved.

  I decided today not to let myself be caught unprepared, therefore, and to start sketching a rough outline of my life without Madeleine. I imagined myself in dignified solitude. I wondered briefly whether I ought to keep my servants, or whether it might not be better to hire new ones, who wouldn't have been witnesses to my unhappiness. I even dreamed up a new demeanor. I would lunch alone, never speak harshly to the maid, rarely go out, and always have a slightly distant look on my face. What I find strange is that picturing this new attitude cheered me up greatly. It seemed to me that it didn't lack dignity, and I found myself beginning to embellish the melancholy freedom which lay ahead, to ennoble it so that it shone in comparison with the present. When I realize I spent an hour doing this, I blush with shame, but given the scant notice I paid these reflections when Madeleine came home, I can be forgiven for having indulged in them. When I saw her, my ridiculous plans evaporated; I suddenly realized how much I loved her and how ludicrous my plans for the future seemed when compared to the happiness she brought me. I find solitude horrifying. I need to have someone near me at all times. I need to devote myself, and please forgive me if what I'm about to say seems grotesque, but seeing her, so beautiful and so familiar, it occurred to me that if she'd demanded I brave the dangers I spoke of earlier to prove my devotion to her, I would have done so. I was captivated all over again. I'd forgotten everything I'd been thinking about earlier; nothing leaves my mind faster than the fruit of solitary reflections.

  January 22nd

  What's become of the time when Madeleine used to be jealous, or at least touchy? I vividly recall an incident that took place about three years ago. We were in a restaurant when, with no untoward intentions, I happened to look at a young woman Madeleine couldn't see from where she sat. A few seconds later, when the stranger crossed Madeleine's field of vision, she said abruptly, "You can do what you like when you're alone, but please don't make me look ridiculous when I'm with you." Madeleine is sometimes guided by a sort of sixth sense. Certain things exist for her, even if she hasn't actually seen them. She was absolutely convinced that I'd noticed the young woman; in fact, her certainty was greater than if she'd actually caught me looking at her. Taking no account of her lack of proof, she reproached me for my behavior as though I'd been caught in flagrante and gave me no chance to defend myself, so that I capitulated with the same contrite expression I would have worn if truly guilty. As it happens, I found myself in a similar situation today. We happened to cross paths with an attractive woman, one I'd stopped looking at by the time Madeleine noticed her. Trembling hopefully, I waited for her reproach. She said nothing, however, and seemed never to have noticed what had just occurred.

  January 23rd

  When meeting people for the first time, Madeleine is always somewhat cold and aloof. I like this about her. Today, however, a friend of Sospel's came to see me and I had the impression that Madeleine was being more amiable than usual. On the subject of Madeleine, I've noticed she isn't as generous as she used to be. She no longer feels the need to extend invitations, to provide. It's almost as if she's suddenly realized the value of money. Her perception seems to have deepened. She doesn't want to give orders anymore, nor be yielded to, nor even loved for her beauty. She is preoccupied. She
no longer loses her temper when forced to change her plans by someone who means nothing to her. She has grown more patient with the petty tribulations of daily life, whereas in the past the slightest contretemps would exasperate her. She has stopped claiming that she is wasting the best years of her life, stopped saying that the women she knows are all schemers. She always used to crave expensive gifts, and before even receiving them, would want other, more expensive ones. Now a trifle satisfies her.

  January 24th

  When I'm feeling discouraged, it dawns on me that nothing matters in life, that all our feelings, be they grand or vile, will end up being swept away in a similar fashion. In the past, when I felt this way I would tell myself, "One day, all this will change." I thought that again today, but rather than seeming a distant promise, it struck me that it could become a reality right then and there, if I wanted. "In order to be happy, I have to make myself happy now," I thought. It couldn't be put off any longer; my happiness had to begin immediately. I used to be blissfully happy for a few hours because of some resolution I'd made, but now I find that's not enough anymore. No matter how grandiose my resolutions, something is lacking. That is why I wanted today to be the day I've been anticipating for so long. I've been so agitated that I wake up at the slightest hint of something unexpected. I could have reasoned this way long ago and done what I did today, for it's a trifling thing to tell yourself that from now on you're going to be happy. Yet thanks to this simple decision I'd made, I suddenly felt a tremendous sense of relief, as though I'd finally found the key to happiness. Today I was going to be happy! Until now I'd done nothing but wait, but at long last I'd understood that I shouldn't wait any longer, that if I wanted to be happy I had to be happy right now. "I'm happy, I'm happy," I repeated several times. Almost immediately, however, something cast a doubt in my mind: the nature of the life I was leading. No matter how I tried to keep telling myself I was happy, I couldn't stop thinking about my many problems, about Madeleine, about the world I find so irritating and yet can't ignore, about my capital, which diminishes every year, about my health, about everything I wanted to do and never did, and which others did instead. In spite of my best efforts, I began to think the moment was badly chosen. But then, carrying my reflections further, I convinced myself that happiness had to be attainable even in the midst of overwhelming problems. There was no reason to think these would disappear in time; just as a lazy person will always find some excuse for his inaction, so there would always be a reason for my failure to act if I didn't do so immediately. I therefore told myself that I had to be happy with my lot in life, no matter what; otherwise, I would suffer till my dying day.

  This commendable resolution only lasted out the morning. After having been distracted by a trifling matter, I was unable to recover the initial force of my resolutions. Anger filled me, bred of disgust. I was incapable of adhering to my own rules! I was at the mercy of my own spiritual disorder. I found myself wishing for a catastrophe, which would have hurled me into the thick of life and made me forget all my preoccupations. I was so horrified by my own weakness that I would have welcomed fire, bankruptcy, wealth, anything at all as long as it distracted me from myself. I was nothing more than a pinwheel, and the slightest change in mood was enough to set me spinning wildly. Could it really be that a day, or even a few hours, was all it took to annihilate a careful, well-thought out, important decision, one whose necessity was so clear to me that I'd been prepared to upset everything just to see it through? No, this couldn't be. This simply couldn't go on. I needed willpower. My future, my happiness, my very being depended upon it. How I suffer when, deprived of all willpower, the will to act is the very thing I most desire! As the minutes tick by, a crushing sense of defeat overwhelms me, and what is most terrifying is that, rather than being moved to action by this sense of worthlessness, it paralyzes me further. I've observed that, for many people, these moments of despair actually provide the impetus they were lacking. With me, it's the opposite. They bring me further down. Everything I've been longing for strikes me as utterly insane. I no longer have the courage to move, even less to defend myself. I become a miserable wreck of a human being.

  Such was my state of mind, if you can call it that, when Madeleine came into my study. Gloomy disgust with life had made me stupid. I felt I was of no interest to anyone. The feeblest of men could have taken me by the hand and led me into a murky swamp crawling with frogs; I wouldn't have put up a fight. I found myself unable to speak, or use my hands, or touch my face, in spite of the fact that barely an hour earlier I'd been pacing up and down, full of life and light of heart at the thought that I'd finally discovered how to be happy, and had managed to accomplish this without being troubled by the doubts which past experience usually planted in my mind. For a brief moment, it really had felt as if something had begun which nothing in the world could destroy. But now, alone with Madeleine again, everything was gone, vaporized. All that remained was my usual self, as if those wild orgies of the will had never taken place. I no longer knew what to say. Given my exuberance a few moments earlier, I was astonished that Madeleine didn't notice anything. The fact that she suspected nothing of my private torments, that I was always and forever the same man in her eyes, whether I happened to be filled with self-love or self-loathing, made me realize that the man she thought I was didn't deserve to be loved. I had that man before me, and was thinking about him when, hearing her say she was going out, I answered, "If you want, you don't need to come back, you need never come back. If you want, you're free . . . free." Madeleine looked dumbfounded by what I'd just said. "But what's come over you?" "Nothing. I only wanted to tell you that, if you want your freedom, you can have it." As I said this, I felt I was defeating myself, exacting revenge on myself, crushing myself beneath the weight of my own self-disgust and yet, rather strangely, I also had a confused sense that my attitude was noble, somehow. "Are you speaking seriously?" asked Madeleine. Her question threw me for a moment. So there were two ways of speaking—seriously, or not—and I had chosen the former. Although I can't explain why, it struck me all at once that everything I'd just said had lost its impact. Like a dream in which our fate hangs on a single answer we give, I grew wary, for no reason. For the next few seconds, I was silent. Then I said, "I was being dead serious." "Really! You're truly serious?" she asked again. "I am speaking seriously," I repeated, prey now to that apprehension we feel when the person we're speaking to asks, "Is it true? Is it really true? You claim that's true? For the last time, you swear what you're saying is true?" and we continue saying yes, while vaguely dreading that these affirmations are going to have unspecified consequences. I suddenly sensed that merely answering her questions wasn't enough, and that by limiting myself to that it might seem I was being capricious, so I added, "I'll say it again, my dear Madeleine: you're free to go, if that's what you want. I can see you're not happy with me, that you find my presence unbearable. I realize you were made for something other than this. I've made a decision; I no longer want to be an obstacle to your happiness. I'll say it again: you're free to go, and if you want to make your own plans for the future, I won't stand in your way." I was convinced that Madeleine was thrilled by what I'd just said, and continued talking. Imagine my shock when I saw how sad my words had made her! Although I'd always thought that regaining her freedom was the only thing she wanted, she now seemed terrified this might really happen. The more insistent I became (in the course of a discussion, I constantly retract what I've just said, and end up affirming things which I began by only insinuating), the more authority I spoke with. Although I'd begun in a pleading tone of voice, when I saw how upset she was becoming I found myself ordering her to leave, telling her my mind was made up and it was impossible for me to go back on my decision. I pretended not to notice the effect my words were having on her. Madeleine had stopped asking if I was speaking seriously. Her expression made it clear she was afraid of the unknown, and that she was suffering terribly at the thought that I no longer wanted her and
she was about to find herself all alone in the world. Nonetheless I went on, feeling no remorse. I was relieved that she was suffering because of me. As I looked at her, I realized just how weak she was. The fear of losing me wasn't what had put her into this state, no, not at all: it was the fear of being alone, defenseless, short of money. You can scarcely imagine how afraid Madeleine is of the unknown, the unpredictable. The idea of being with another man is intolerable to her. Although she doesn't love me, she's incapable of being unfaithful to me, and yet I mercilessly continued telling her over and over again that we had to part. As I spoke, Madeleine made no reply, and didn't even seem to hear what I was saying. Her features, however, were slowly growing taut. Her face revealed everything that was going through her mind. As terrified as a child abandoned in the dead of night, the poor thing was thinking there was no one left to protect her, that men were going to hunt her from all sides, forcing her to flee, and she was imagining herself at their mercy when, exhausted, she fell to the ground. I sensed her turning to me in despair. Her eyes were pleading. She is so delicate, so refined, that she loses her composure at the thought of having to confront the unknown, the larger world. How many times have I heard her express her distaste for strangers, even when they're young and handsome! Madeleine has no friends, and to lose me would be to lose everything that connects her to life. Nonetheless, I cruelly continued urging her to leave me and start a new life, full of the confidence which comes when we know we won't be taken up on what we're saying. As I went on, Madeleine suddenly dropped into an armchair, murmuring, "You're so unkind! . . . You're so very unkind!" When reviewing our behavior after the fact, it's always easy to say, "I should have done this or that." But at the time, without the benefit of hindsight, we saw nothing. I've often noticed this at the theater. If there is a scene in which a man behaves brutally, I'll be genuinely repelled. Right now, however, I was even guiltier than that character, for even as I was being cruel, I was thinking that, in my place, another man wouldn't have behaved this way. I did, however, have an excuse known only to me, an excuse the audience couldn't know, one that would have allowed me to be a hundred times more cruel: the knowledge that my cruelty disappears in the face of genuine distress. I knew that I could end Madeleine's distress from one minute to the next. Today, however, doubtless provoked by my deep disgust with myself, it seemed to me that the moment hadn't arrived, that Madeleine hadn't suffered enough yet, that there would be time enough to change my tactics in a few minutes. In spite of this, for the first time ever I felt terribly afraid I'd overstepped the mark. This has never happened to me before. I can picture how dreadful it must be for a man who torments his wife, then fails to recognize the moment when he should stop, only to have her jump out of the window and kill herself. He was making her suffer with the calm certitude that he would know when to stop, that she would then forgive him and he would go on to make her happy. Now, because of his misjudgment, he would never be able to make it up to her. For the rest of his life, he'll carry the guilt of having caused the death of the one person he most loved in the world. Don't ask me why, but today I didn't think that moment had come. In spite of the fact that Madeleine was crushed, terrified at the idea that she was going to lose me, I didn't feel any need to reassure her. Instead, I continued to harangue her, going so far as to say that it was all over between us, that I had put up with enough, that I would never go back on my word, that I would rather die. Then all at once Madeleine burst into tears. For a moment, I thought that my excuse had lost its validity and the time had come for my customary about-face. But something wicked in me prevented me from acting. It seemed to me that I hadn't gone far enough, that I had to continue, especially as the windows were closed and I was standing close enough to Madeleine to catch hold of her in an instant. Although she was crying, she wasn't asking me to forgive her. Her pride irritated me intensely. "I'll continue," I thought, "until you beg me not to let you go." Just then, Madeleine looked at me between two sobs with such a humbled expression that I sensed she was begging me to leave her in peace. I wasn't moved, however. In fact, I had the distinct impression that no matter what happened, I wouldn't be able to stop myself. The basest, vilest aspects of my nature now had the upper hand. I was so angry with myself that I probably even took some comfort in my despicable behavior. Although I ran the risk of losing everything, I wanted to go to the limit, just to see what would happen. My will was urging me to plumb the depths of my wickedness. Earlier in the day, that same will had allowed me to feel happy, but now it was keeping me a prisoner of my own rage. I had abdicated too often in the past. I no longer wanted to. Abandoning myself to my instincts this way was deeply satisfying. If I could muster the strength to persevere, to crave one thing alone—albeit vile—without faltering, it seemed to me that a new life would begin, that I would emerge from myself and become another.