A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  January 25th

  I had a bed made up in my study, and slept there last night. For the first time ever, I kept to my resolutions. At the end of yesterday's scene, just as I was beginning to wonder whether I hadn't gone too far, Madeleine suddenly pulled herself together. One minute she was sobbing, the next she'd stopped. I've often noticed this ability my wife has to stop crying all of a sudden. She got up, her face serene beneath its tears, and passed in front of me, looking neither proud nor vengeful, but rather as if I'd had no part to play in her distress, and everything was finished between us. She went into her bathroom, and from the sounds I heard of objects being replaced on the glass shelf above the basin I deduced she was freshening her makeup. This only made me angrier. Furious, I retired to my study. I no longer wanted to see her, and took great pains to avoid her. That night, however, as I lay half-asleep on my sofa, it suddenly struck me that I'd been unfair. I was filled with remorse. For a second, I considered going to her and asking her to forgive me, but my sense that she would react angrily kept me from going to her. If you don't ask Madeleine to forgive you on the spot, you later find yourself facing a woman who seems unaware of the pain you caused her, a woman made of stone, indifferent to everything around her. These silent wars are so distressing to me, however, that when morning came I made up my mind to go knock at her door. Once in her room, I asked, "Madeleine, have you forgotten?" To my great surprise, she spoke sadly rather than bitterly, "I thought all night long, Louis. Now I understand that you're right. No matter what, we would have come to this point. We might as well get it over with now. We'll get a divorce. You'll have your freedom, and I'll have mine." Her words, spoken softly, as after a long period of reflection, made me tremble. Madeleine may be afraid of me when I'm angry, but I'm afraid of her when she's composed. "You mean to say you didn't understand that this was all a joke?" I asked. "Perhaps it was, but nonetheless it's true." What I found extraordinary about Madeleine just then was that she didn't seem at all surprised by my claim that yesterday's scene had been a joke. As I've said before, she doesn't take anything I say seriously. It didn't occur to her to reproach me for my unkindness. What matters to her are the consequences of events rather than the reasons for them. What did my explanations matter to her, since everything had now been decided! "Louis, we must part. It's the most sensible solution for us." She didn't make the slightest allusion to what had happened. It had already ceased to exist for her, and I sensed this so clearly that I lost all desire to ask her to forgive me. She wouldn't have understood why, and would have thought I was just acting. Yet I'm one of those men who likes to regret his mistakes and atone for them, in order to live again afterward. Whenever I've tried to follow that course of action with Madeleine, however, I've been stopped cold by her stony demeanor. She doesn't understand the nature of the happiness I aspire to in those moments. The mere fact of trying to make amends terrifies her, as though I were some monster. What I now found most frightening was that I had no means left with which to keep her: my heart was powerless. All I could do was ignore what she'd said and try to keep her by force, but you can imagine the astonishment with which she would have looked at a man who ordered her to leave one day, then begged her to stay the next! I have no doubt she would have told me I was insane. Prepared to brave even that, I said, "I don't want you to leave. I love you too much to let you go." Contrary to what I'd been expecting, she didn't seem surprised. "But it's what you wanted!" Madeleine couldn't fathom the idea that I no longer wanted what I'd claimed to want earlier. The moment had come when she was going to look at me with stupefaction. "But I changed my mind!" I hadn't been mistaken. As soon as I'd said this, Madeleine's expression turned to one of astonishment, though not as pronounced as I'd been expecting. It was apparent that she'd decided to play the game of pretending not to understand me, and that in the course of her nocturnal reflections, she'd decided to do what she thought best, without taking me into account. It's always distressing, in these situations, when your adversary fails to respond to your generous impulses merely out of a desire not to be hindered by any scruples. I was free to say or think what I wanted. Nothing mattered anymore. A decision had been made, and no matter what I did, it would stand. Madeleine was probably thinking that if she listened to me, we would never reach a conclusion; ending everything now precluded any discussion of my capriciousness. I was tense, and didn't know how to make myself seem believable. "It's better," she went on, "to end it all now, which is what you want." "But I don't want that anymore." I no longer knew what argument would make her yield. Until now, whenever I changed my mind about something I'd said, I did so in the manner of a young man who brings such grace to his about-faces that he can do what he pleases. But I sensed that such childishness wouldn't pass this time; out of the blue, I said harshly, "You'll do as I say. If I don't want you to leave, you won't leave." These words made no impression on Madeleine. "Don't get angry," she replied simply. "After all, you're the one who wanted it." Although she usually takes very little notice of what I say, it seemed that this time she'd taken my words to be final. I pointed this out to her with some irritation, "Not at all." A lengthy discussion ensued, in the course of which I tried to make her admit that she had never taken my threats seriously, and that if she was doing so now, it was because, at heart, she wanted to leave me. Upon hearing that insinuation, she, in turn, got angry. "Was it you or me who first spoke of this separation?" she asked curtly. As insane as it might seem, I answered that it was her. I have a peculiar trait: whenever I feel I'm gaining the upper hand with a woman, I refuse to acknowledge the truth. "What do you mean, it was me?" she asked, astounded. "Yes, indeed—it was you." I was also hoping to force a smile out of her, to make her say, as she usually did: "You're monstrously dishonest!"—which would have been a relief, because of the loving undertone in that sort of remark. I have often disarmed Madeleine this way: when I'm being so blatantly unfair, she realizes she's weaker than I am, because she hasn't the power to reason with me, and that is usually enough to restore the bond between us. But this time my dishonesty occasioned no reflection on her part which might have reunited us. And yet I sensed there was something on the tip of her tongue that she was deliberately holding back, precisely because we seemed on the verge of moving closer. Just as she doesn't let herself call me "darling" when she's sulking, she now was refusing to let herself call me a monster. "What next!" she cried. "You actually have the audacity to claim that I was the first to bring up leaving this marriage?" I think that dishonesty may well be the one form of injustice she finds most wounding. As obvious as it is, Madeleine reacts to it as though she alone had noticed it. But whereas before she would break into a quick smile at her own ardor in defending the truth, she now wanted to discuss the matter in detail. "You dare to claim such a thing?" "Yes, I do," I replied, in hopes that the unlikeliness of such an affirmation would disarm her. It was then that she showed me just how mistaken I'd been. "Well, my dear, this is the last time you'll ever amuse yourself at my expense like this." Her words made my blood run cold. The fact that my deliberate dishonesty was failing to produce the desired results enlightened me. The decisions Madeleine had made during the night had stood the test of the long day that followed. I was silent for a moment. Then, as if admitting I'd been wrong, I said, "You're quite right, Madeleine. I was the one who first mentioned it. Forgive me. It was a sort of trap I laid for you. I wanted to know what you would say if I made you such an offer." She looked at me with surprise for a second, then blurted out, "You're nothing but a vile actor, then!" As soon as she'd uttered this awkward insult, I felt myself filled with tenderness. I knew that it wouldn't be long now before her exasperation with me evaporated entirely. In spite of this, I couldn't resist provoking her a bit further. "No! I'm not a vile actor." "You're worse than that. I don't think any woman would put up with a man like you." I concealed my joy beneath a contrite air. I had a vague sense that I was regaining the upper hand. My hope now was that she would insult me, lose her temper, become increa
singly violent and angry. It was fulfilled. The more she berated me for having dared to put on such an act, the less capable she became of ever considering a divorce. What I'm most afraid of is her iciness, which usually conceals carefully pondered decisions. But this animation, this excitement, filled me with joy, not because I took it to be a sign of love, but rather because the more carried away Madeleine gets, the weaker she becomes. She raises her voice, grows tense, and it all ends in tears. As I was expecting, she suddenly began to cry. I approached her softly. She pushed me away listlessly. Her sobs never lead to a desire for revenge. A sort of willingness to submit to the man for whom she's made a spectacle of herself comes over her. Although she is terribly proud, and would be incapable of crying in the presence of a brother, she seems to think that losing her composure in my presence signifies I mean something special to her. I had suddenly become her husband again. The day she leaves me will certainly be the day when she doesn't shed a tear, when she has stayed calm and in control to the very end.

  January 26th

  Madeleine has barely spoken to me since yesterday. It isn't that she holds anything against me, but rather—and I can feel this—that she feels no need to say anything. Immediately after lunch, she goes out and doesn't come back again until the evening. Something strange has happened to me, too, which is that I no longer feel the need to make the first move as I used to. I'm waiting for her to change, while doing nothing to make this happen. And yet I'm entirely in the wrong. I remember what happened very clearly. I'm responsible for everything, and I hold this against her. Such duplicity is normal for me. My pride has always made it impossible for me to admit my mistakes. Rather than admitting to feeling guilty, I will doggedly try to find worse faults in someone else. I was utterly indifferent to the fact that Madeleine might be right on a few points; for me, she was in the wrong. Many a time, faced with the facts, I've been on the verge of admitting my imagination had misled me, only to suddenly advance another argument, neglecting all the previous ones in favor of the newest! In those instances, Madeleine never noticed that I was merely casting about for a pretext to stay angry, and defended herself just as vehemently against the new charges. When these would collapse and I would produce yet others, it never occurred to her to scream at me, as I would have done: "But what on earth do you want with me?" She spent entire evenings listening to my extravagant accusations and disputing the merits of each one until, worn out, I would admit to her that she was, in fact, perfect. After I'd reproached her for twenty distinct faults, the inanity of which she would point out to me in succession, she would still answer, "No, no, I'm not perfect at all, you're mistaken." She admitted she wasn't perfect, but I was always in the wrong.

  It suddenly struck me that the cause of my irritation these past few days was the fact that Madeleine actually toyed with the idea of leaving, that rather than giving her something to think about, my declarations made her realize that a separation was possible. That is what's been troubling me for the past week, without my realizing it or being able to admit it. I'm speechless with anger at the thought that she never said no to my generous offer. And yet I'm being unfair, for at heart she was right. How can a man who's thought out the consequences of his decision implore his wife (in her own best interests) to leave him, tremble at the thought that she might refuse, so convinced is he that she will only be happy without him, only to hold it against her when she yields to his wishes? My ardor, my tense supplications, had made her accept, and yet I was now holding it against her that she'd agreed to everything my love demanded I ask of her. A man like me was made to live alone, with neither friends nor affection. Yet God knows how fervently my heart wants to love. I'm unfair. The fact is I don't know what I want. I want her happiness with all my heart, even if it means she isn't with me, yet even as I yearn for that with every fiber of my being and every ounce of strength I have, I can't forgive her for having accepted.

  I decided today that Madeleine should do what she wants. I don't want to be a ball and chain. Let her be happy! Whatever it costs me to lose her, I'll put her happiness first. Since she doesn't love me, since it makes her suffer to be with me, well, then let her go make a new life somewhere else. This time my selfish feelings won't come as a surprise. I'll protect myself, I'll organize my life. I'll find new strength in solitude and renunciation. At lunch, I told Madeleine my plans. I told her that, having thought about it, it would be for the best if we parted. I said this with some awkwardness, for the memory of what followed a similar announcement a few days ago suggested she might burst out laughing. Nothing of the sort happened. Madeleine pays no attention whatsoever to the most flagrant contradictions. I could tell her that I hate oysters and then go out and order a dozen shortly afterward: she wouldn't notice. Last week, I criticized her for wanting to leave me after having urged her to do just that, and here I was starting all over again.

  But for Madeleine, life starts all over again every day. The past doesn't exist. I might as well have been setting her free for the very first time. And yet, I got the feeling that she was wary, not out of mistrust, but instinctively so. Although she wasn't calling up any particular memories, the impression the last scene had made on her was sounding an alarm. Something, but not experience, was preventing her from taking me seriously. When she went out after lunch, I felt a certain pleasure—I'm being unfair again—at seeing how much I dominate her. When I'd mentioned a separation a few days ago, a dramatic scene had ensued, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world, an idea one no longer pays any attention to. I've noticed that all of my ideas seem destined to end this way. At first, they upset everything; later on, Madeleine discusses them as though they were utterly insignificant. If I repeat myself, she seems to think it's just a peculiar mania of mine. What made her cry the first time leaves her indifferent the second. I found myself casting about for some other way of affecting her. The ease with which she dismisses me as a maniac is actually a consequence of the power I have over her, and of which she is unaware. As soon as she was gone, therefore, I turned my attention to finding a new strategy. Setting her free was no longer making any impression on her. It suddenly dawned on me that I had grown more distant from her than ever, that the more I spoke, contradicted myself and behaved irresponsibly, the more she thought I was unbalanced. I understood I was losing her, that the key to my happiness was in her hands now, that all of my efforts were in vain. I no longer had any influence on her: I felt utterly destroyed. Every one of my thoughts seemed ridiculous to me. I had no idea how to make her stay with me. What I'd said at lunch had confirmed her in the certitude that I was impossible to live with. I should have been sweet and kind to make her forget all of this. But that takes time; being forgiven takes time. My heart was overflowing with tenderness, and I hadn't time enough to express it. An overly abrupt change in me would have been counterproductive. I needed to win back the lost ground bit by bit, without her noticing. The thought that there might not be time enough made me terribly afraid. What I needed was a slow, gradual progression. If there is one thing that always trips me up, its the undue haste with which I express my feelings, my eagerness to please, to love, and be loved in return. I want to do it all immediately. Today, however, was a day that called for a great deal of tenderness, and circumspection.