The Woman Destroyed

by Simone de Beauvoir

  “I don’t know. You have lied to me so much!”

  He flung his arms out in despair. “What do you want me to do to convince you?”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Tuesday 16 November.

  When he comes in and he smiles at me and kisses me, saying, “Hello, darling,” it is Maurice: these are his movements, his face, his warmth, his smell. And for a moment within me there is an immense sweetness: his presence. Stay there: don’t try to know—I can almost understand Diana. But I can’t help it. I must know what is going on. In the first place does he really go to the laboratory in the evenings? When does he go to her place? I can’t telephone: he would know it and he would be furious. Follow him? Hire a car and follow him? Or just find out where he is? It is base: it is degrading. But I have to get some kind of an idea.

  Diana says she knows nothing. I asked her to make Noëllie talk.

  “She’s too clever by far: she would never give anything away.”

  “You know about the affair through me. If you talk about it to her she will absolutely have to make some kind of an answer.”

  At all events she promised me to get information about Noëllie—they have contacts in common. If only I were to discover things that would completely destroy her in Maurice’s opinion!

  No point in badgering Luce Couturier anymore. Maurice will have had her told off by her husband. And he would tell Maurice that I had seen her again.… No, that would be a blunder.

  Thursday 18 November.

  The first time I went to check on Maurice at the laboratory the car was in the parking lot. The second time it was not. I had myself driven as far as Noëllie’s house. I did not have to search for long. What a stab in my heart! I had loved our car: it was a faithful animal belonging to the house, a warm and comforting presence; and suddenly there it was, being used for betraying me; I hated it. I stayed there, standing under the big outer door, stupefied. I wanted to appear suddenly before him as he came from Noëllie’s apartment. It would only have sent him into a rage, but I was so bewildered that I had to do something—anything at all. I took myself in hand. I told myself, He is lying so as to ease things for me. If he eases things for me that means that he values me. In a way it would be worse if he were quite brazen. I had almost succeeded in convincing myself when there was another stab at my heart—they came out together. I hid. They did not see me. They walked up the street to a big café. They went arm in arm, walking fast and laughing. I might have pictured them walking arm in arm and laughing a hundred times. In fact I had not really done so. No more than I really picture them in bed: I haven’t the courage. And anyway it’s not the same as seeing. I began to tremble. I sat down on a bench in spite of the cold. I trembled and trembled. When I got home I went to bed and when he came in at midnight I pretended to be asleep.

  But yesterday evening when he said to me, “I’m going to the laboratory,” I asked, “Really going?”

  “Of course.”

  “On Saturday you were at Noëllie’s.”

  He looked at me with a coldness that was even more terrifying than his anger. “You are spying on me!”

  There were tears in my eyes. “It’s a question of my life, my happiness. I want the truth. And you go on lying.”

  “I try to avoid scenes,” he said in an intensely irritated tone.

  “I don’t make scenes.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Every time we have things out he calls it a scene. And immediately, as I protested, my voice rose, and we had a scene. I talked about Rome again. He again denied it. Was she really not there? Or on the other hand was she in fact at Geneva? My ignorance is eating me away.

  Saturday 20 November.

  Scenes, no. But I am clumsy. I am bad at controlling myself, and I say things that vex him. I must admit that it is enough for him to have one opinion for me to have the other, imagining that he has it from her. In actual fact I have nothing against op art. But Maurice’s eager willingness to submit himself to this “optical sadism” annoyed me: it was obviously Noëllie who had told him about the show. I stupidly maintained that it was not painting at all, and when he argued, I went for him—did he suppose he was making himself younger by losing his head over everything that became fashionable?

  “You’re wrong to get cross.”

  “I get cross because you’re so desperately keen to be with it that you lose all sense of discrimination.”

  He shrugged, without making any reply.

  Saw Marguerite. Spent a good deal of time with Colette. But nothing worth recording.

  Sunday 21 November.

  Talking about her relationship with Maurice, Noëllie—at least according to Diana, whom I don’t altogether trust—only uttered dreary commonplaces. The situation was painful for everyone, but no doubt a balance would be reached. I was an admirable person, but men liked variety. What kind of a future did she envisage? She answered, “Time will tell,” or words to that effect. She was on her guard.

  Diana told me one story; but it is too vague for me to use. Noëllie was very nearly brought before the Bar Council because she had won the confidence of another attorney’s client, an important man who took his business away and entrusted it to Noëllie. This sort of thing is thought very bad among the lawyers, but it seems that Noëllie makes quite a practice of it. But Maurice would only reply, “Tittle-tattle!” I did tell him Noëllie’s daughter complained that her mother neglected her.

  “At that age all girls complain of their mothers: remember your difficulties with Lucienne. In fact Noëllie does not neglect her daughter at all. She is teaching her to manage by herself and to stand on her own feet, and she is quite right to do so.”

  That was a jab at me. He has often made fun of my hen-and-chicks attitude. We even had a certain number of disagreements over it.

  “It doesn’t worry the child that a man should spend the night in her mother’s bed?”

  “It is a big apartment, and Noëllie takes great care. Besides, she does not hide from her that since her divorce there are men in her life.”

  “Quaint confidences from a mother to a daughter. Frankly, don’t you find that a trifle shocking?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t see myself ever having a relationship of that kind with Colette or Lucienne.”

  He made no reply: his silence made it quite plain that he thought Noëllie’s ideas on the bringing up of children were quite as good as mine. That wounded me. It is only too obvious that Noëllie behaves just as she chooses, without the least care for the interests of the child. Whereas I always did the very opposite.

  “When all’s said and done,” I said, “everything Noëllie does is right.”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “Oh, don’t always be talking to me about Noëllie!”

  “How can I help it? She is part of your life, and your life is my concern.”

  “Oh, you can be interested in it and you can leave it alone.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “My professional life—that doesn’t seem to matter to you. You never talk to me about it.”

  It was an unfair counterattack. He knows very well that when he took to specializing he moved onto ground where I could not follow him.

  “What could I say to you about it? Your research is totally beyond me.”

  “You don’t even read my popular articles.”

  “I was never really very interested in medicine as a science. It was the living relationship with the patients that fascinated me.”

  “You might at least have had some curiosity about what I was doing.”

  There was bitterness in his voice. I smiled at him affectionately. “The thing is that I love you and prize you far beyond anything you can do. If you were to become a great scientist, famous and all that, I should not be in the least surprised—you’re certainly capable of it. But in my eyes it would not add anything to you, that I do confess. Don’t you understand me?”

  He smiled too. “
Of course I do.”

  This was not the first time he had complained of my indifference to his career; and up until now I have not been altogether sorry that it vexed him a little. All at once I told myself that it was a blunder. Noëllie reads his articles; she talks about them, with her head a little on one side and an admiring smile on her lips. But how can I change my attitude now? It would be terribly obvious. I found the whole of this conversation extremely disagreeable. I am sure Noëllie is not a good mother. So hard and cold a woman cannot possibly give her daughter what I gave mine.

  Monday 22 November.

  No, I must not try to follow Noëllie on to her ground, but fight it out on my own. Maurice used to be touched by all the little things I did for him, and now I am neglecting him. I spent today tidying our wardrobes. I finally put away the summer things, brought the winter clothes out of their mothballs and aired them, and drew up a list. Tomorrow I shall go and buy him the socks, pullovers and pajamas he needs. He also needs two good pairs of shoes; we’ll choose them together the next time he has a free moment. Well-filled cupboards with everything in its place are a great comfort to one. Plenty: security.… The heaps of delicate handkerchiefs and stockings and lingerie gave me the feeling that the future could not possibly let me down.

  Tuesday 23 November.

  It makes me sick with shame. I should have thought of it. When he came home to lunch Maurice had the face he wears on bad days. Almost at once he flung out, “You’re wrong to confide in your friend Diana. Noëllie has been told that she is conducting a positive inquiry about her among the lawyers and the contacts they have in common. And she tells everyone you have asked her to do it.”

  I reddened, and I felt ill. Maurice had never sat in judgment against me: he was my refuge. And here I was before him, pleading guilty. What utter misery!

  “I only said I should like to know what kind of person Noëllie was.”

  “You would have done better to have asked me rather than have stirred up all this gossip. Do you suppose I don’t see Noëllie as she is? You’re wrong. I know her faults as well as her virtues. I’m not a lovesick schoolboy.”

  “Still, I don’t imagine your opinion would be very objective.”

  “And do you think Diana and her little friends are objective? They are malignance incarnate. And you can be sure they don’t spare you, either.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell Diana to hold her tongue.”

  “You had better!”

  He made an effort to change the conversation. We talked civilly. But I burn with shame. I am lowering myself in his eyes—doing it myself.

  Friday 26 November.

  When I am with Maurice I cannot prevent myself from feeling I am in front of a judge. He thinks things about me that he does not tell me: it makes my head swim. I used to see myself so clearly through his eyes. Indeed I saw myself only through his eyes—too flattering a picture, perhaps, but one in which I recognized myself. Now I ask myself, Whom does he see? Does he think me mean-minded, jealous, blabbing and even disloyal because I make inquiries behind his back? It’s unfair. He forgives Noëllie so much—can’t he understand my restless curiosity about her? I loathe gossip; and I have stirred it up, but I have plenty of excuse for doing so. He never mentions that business, by the way: he is as kind as can be. But I realize that he no longer talks to me quite without reserve. And sometimes I think I read in his eyes … not exactly pity. Shall I say a very faint mockery? (That odd look he gave me when I told him about going out with Quillan.) Yes: it’s as though he saw right through me and found me touching and slightly ludicrous. For example, the time he came upon me listening to a Stockhausen record: in an indefinable tone of voice he asked, “What? Are you taking to modern music?”

  “Isabelle lends me records she likes.”

  “She likes Stockhausen? That’s new.”

  “Yes, it is. Tastes do evolve, you know.”

  “And what about you? Do you like it?”

  “No. I don’t understand it at all.”

  He laughed: he kissed me, as though my frankness comforted him. In fact it was a calculated frankness. I know that he knew why I was listening to that music and he would not have believed me if I had pretended to like it.

  Result: I can’t bring myself to talk to him about what I have been reading recently, although in reality I have liked a certain number of these nouveaux romans. He would immediately think I was trying to go one better than Noëllie. How involved everything becomes as soon as one begins to have hidden motives!

  Difficult, confused talk with Diana. She swears by everything she holds sacred that she never said she was getting the information for me. That was a supposition Noëllie must have thought up on her own account. She admitted having told a friend in confidence, “Yes, just at present I am interested in Noëllie Guérard.” But that really did not compromise me at all. She has certainly been clumsy. I asked her to drop the whole thing. She looked hurt.

  Saturday 27 November

  I must learn to control myself. But it’s so foreign to my nature! I always used to be spontaneous and completely open: serene, too. Whereas now my heart is filled with anxiety and bitterness. When he opened a magazine directly after leaving the table, I thought, He wouldn’t do that at Noëllie’s. And I couldn’t help it—I burst out, “You wouldn’t do that at Noéllie’s!”

  His eyes flashed. “I just wanted to glance at an article,” he said evenly. “Don’t bristle like that over trifles.”

  “It’s not my fault. Everything makes me bristle.”

  There was a silence. At the table I had told him about how I had spent the day, and now I could not find anything to say. He made an effort. “Have you finished Wilde’s Letters?”

  “No. I didn’t go on.”

  “You said they were interesting—”

  “If only you knew how unspeakably dreary I find Wilde, and how little I feel like talking to you about him!” I went to fetch a record out of the shelves. “Would you like me to put on the cantata you brought?”

  “All right.”

  I did not listen for long; sobs rose in my throat; the music was now merely a refuge. We no longer had anything to say to one another, haunted as we were by this affair that he did not want to discuss.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked, in a longsuffering voice.

  “Because you’re bored when you’re with me. Because we can’t talk to one another anymore. Because you have built a wall between us.”

  “It’s you who built it: you never stop going over and over your grievances.”

  I irritate him a little more every day. I don’t mean to. And yet there is a part of me that does. When he seems too cheerful and unconcerned I say to myself, This is too easy. And then any excuse is good enough for me to destroy his peace of mind.

  Monday 29 November.

  I was very much surprised that Maurice had not yet spoken about winter sports. Coming back from the cinema yesterday evening I asked him where he would like to go this year. He answered evasively that he had not thought about it yet. I smelled a rat at once. I am growing very good at catching the scent—in any case it’s not difficult: there are rats everywhere. I pressed him. Speaking very quickly, without looking at me, he said, “We’ll go wherever you like; but I must warn you that I also count on spending some days at Courchevel with Noëllie.”

  I always expect the worst: and it’s always worse than I had expected. “How many days?”

  “About ten.”

  “And how long will you stay with me?”

  “About ten days.”

  “That’s really too much! You are taking half our holidays away from me to give them to Noëllie!” Anger choked me. I managed to get out the words: “Did you two decide that together, without consulting me?”

  “No, I have not talked to her about it yet.”

  I said, “Fine! Keep it that way! Don’t talk to her about it at all.”

  Speaking quietly, he said, “I want those ten days wit
h her.” The words held a scarcely concealed threat—if you deprive me of them I will make our stay in the mountains hell. The idea that I was going to give in to this blackmail made me feel sick. No more concessions! It gets me nowhere, and it disgusts me with myself. One has to look things in the face. This is not a mere affair. He is cutting his life into two, and I don’t have the larger part. I’ve had enough. Presently I shall say to him, “Her or me.”

  Tuesday 1 December.

  So I was not wrong: he did manipulate me. Before reaching the point of the full confession, he “wore me down” as a bull is worn down. A suspicious confession that was in itself a maneuver. Is he to be believed? I did not keep my eyes shut for eight years on end. Then he told me that it was untrue. Or was it in saying that that he was lying? Where is the truth? Does it still exist?

  What a rage I sent him into! Was I really so very insulting? It is hard to remember the things one says, above all in the state I had reached. I wanted to hurt him, that’s certain: I succeeded only too well.

  Yet I started off very calmly. “I don’t want any sharing: you must make your choice.”

  He had the overwhelmed look of a man who is saying to himself, Here we are! It had to happen. How can I get myself out of this one? He adopted his most coaxing voice. “Please, darling. Don’t ask me to break with Noëllie. Not now.”

  “Yes, now. This business is dragging on too much. I have borne it too long by far.” I looked at him challengingly. “Come now, which do you like best? Her or me?”

  “You, of course,” he said in a toneless voice. And he added, “But I like Noëllie too.”

  I saw red. “Admit the truth, then! She’s the one you like best! All right! Go to her! Get out of here. Get out at once. Take your things and go.”

  I pulled his suitcase out of the wardrobe, I flung clothes into it higgledy-piggledy, I unhooked coat hangers. He took my arm: “Stop!” I went on. I wanted him to go; I really wanted it—it was sincere. Sincere because I did not believe in it. It was like a dreadful psychodrama in which they play at truth. It is the truth, but it is being acted. I shouted, “Go and join that bitch, that schemer, that dirty little shady lawyer.”