“It was you who said it. I remember it perfectly.”
“You had drunk a lot, you know: you have built it up.…”
I dropped the subject. What did it matter? What does matter is that he does not want to give Noëllie up. I know it, and yet I cannot bring myself to believe it. Curtly I told him that I had decided not to go skiing. I have thought it over thoroughly and I am glad I made that decision. I used so to love the mountains with him in the old days. To see them again in these conditions would be a torment. I couldn’t bear going there with him first and then leaving, defeated, thrust out by the other woman and yielding the place to her. I should find it no less revolting to come after Noëllie, knowing that Maurice was regretting her absence, comparing her figure with mine, my sadness with her laughter. I should pile up blunder upon blunder and he would only feel more eager to get rid of me.
“Spend the ten days with her that you have promised, and come back,” I said.
It was the first time in this whole business that I had taken the initiative, and he seemed quite flabbergasted. “But, Monique, I want to take you with me. We have had such splendid days in the snow!”
“Exactly.”
“You won’t go skiing this winter?”
“Just at present, you know, the joys of skiing don’t mean very much to me.”
He argued with me, he pressed me, he looked wretched. He is used to my sadness of every day, but to deprive me of skiing—that crams him with remorse. (I am unfair: he is not used to it—he drips with guilty conscience, he takes pills to go to sleep, he looks like death warmed up. I am not touched by that; indeed I even rather resent it. If he tortures me, knowing what he is at and torturing himself at the same time, then he must be disgustingly fond of Noëllie.) We argued for a long while. I did not give way. In the end he looked so exhausted—drawn face, rings under his eyes—that I sent him to bed. He sank down into sleep as though into a refuge of peace.
Wednesday 16.
I watch the drops of water running down the window-pane—a moment ago the rain was beating upon it. They don’t go down straight: they are like little creatures that for mysterious reasons of their own slant off to the right or the left, slipping between other motionles drops, stopping and then starting again as though they were in quest of something. It seems to me that I no longer have anything whatever to do. I always used to be busy. Now everything—knitting, cooking, reading, putting on a record—everything seems pointless. Maurice’s love gave every moment of my life a meaning. Now it is hollow. Everything is hollow—things are empty: time is empty. And so am I.
I asked Marie Lambert the other day whether she thought me intelligent. She looked me straight in the eye. “You are very intelligent.…”
“There is a but,” I said.
“Intelligence withers if it is not fed. You ought to let your husband find you a job.”
“The kind of work I could do would bring me nothing.”
“That is very far from certain.”
Evening.
I had an inspiration this morning: the whole thing is my fault. My worst mistake has been not grasping that time goes by. It was going by and there I was, set in the attitude of the ideal wife of an ideal husband. Instead of bringing our sexual relationship to life again I brooded happily over memories of our former nights together. I imagined I had kept my thirty-year-old face and body instead of taking care of myself, doing gymnastics and going to a beauty parlor. I let my intelligence wither away: I no longer cultivated my mind—later, I said, when the children have gone. (Perhaps my father’s death was not without bearing on this way of letting things slide. Something snapped. I stopped time from that moment on.) Yes: the young student Maurice married felt passionately about what was happening in the world, about books and ideas; she was very unlike the woman of today, whose world lies between the four walls of this apartment. It is true enough that I tended to shut Maurice in. I thought his home was enough for him: I thought I owned him entirely. Generally speaking I took everything for granted; and that must have irritated him intensely—Maurice who changes and who calls things in question. Being irritating—no one can ever get away with that. I should never have been obstinate about our promise of faithfulness, either. If I had given Maurice back his freedom—and made use of mine, too, perhaps—Noëllie would not have profited by the glamour of clandestinity. I should have coped with the situation at once. Is there still time? I told Marie Lambert that I was going to have it all out with Maurice and take steps to deal with the position. I have already taken to reading again a little and to listening to records: I must make a greater effort. Lose several pounds, dress better. Talk with Maurice more openly, refuse to have silences. She listened to me without enthusiasm. She wanted to know which of us was responsible for my first pregnancy, Maurice or I. Both of us. Or I was, if you like, in that I trusted in the calendar too much; but it was not my fault if it let me down. Had I insisted upon keeping the child? No. Upon not keeping it? No. The thing decided itself. She seemed skeptical. Her idea is that Maurice harbors a serious grudge against me. I countered that with Isabelle’s argument—the beginning of our marriage would not have been so happy if he had not wanted it. Her reply seems to me very far-fetched: so as not to admit his disappointment Maurice staked everything on love—he went all out for happiness, and once his enthusiasm faded he rediscovered the resentment that he had repressed. She herself feels that her argument is weak. His old grievances would not have sprung up again with such strength as to separate him from me if there had been no new ones. I asserted that he had none whatever.
To tell the truth Marie Lambert rather annoys me. They all annoy me because they look as though they know things that I don’t. It may be that Maurice or Noëllie pass around their version of the affair. It may be that the people I know have experience of matters of this kind and they apply their patterns to me. It may be that they see me from the outside, as I cannot manage to see myself, and that for that reason everything is plain to them. They are tactful with me, and I feel them holding things back when I talk to them. Marie Lambert approves of my having given up the skiing, but only insofar as it prevents me from suffering; she does not think it will make any difference to Maurice’s attitude.
I told Maurice that I understood all my faults. He stopped me—with one of those irritated gestures that I am getting so used to. “You have nothing to blame yourself for. Don’t let’s always be going over and over the past.”
“What else do I possess?”
That heavy silence.
I possess nothing other than my past. But it is no longer pride or happiness—a riddle, a source of bitter distress. I should like to force it to tell the truth. But can one trust one’s memory? I have forgotten a great deal, and it would appear that sometimes I have gone so far as to distort the facts. (Who was it who said, “There is nothing changed”? Maurice or I? In this diary I wrote that it was he. Perhaps because I wanted to believe it.…) To some extent it was out of hostility that I contradicted Marie Lambert. In fact I have more than once felt resentment in Maurice. He denied it, on my birthday. But there are remarks and tones of voice that still ring in my mind: I had not wanted to attribute any importance to them, and yet I do in fact remember them. When Colette made up her mind to make that “imbecile marriage” it is obvious that although he was vexed with her he was also indirectly attacking me—he held me responsible for her sentimentality, her need for security, her shyness and her passive attitude of mind. But above all it was Lucienne’s leaving home that hit him hardest. “It was to escape from you that Lucienne left.” I know that’s what he really thinks. To what degree is it true? With a different kind of a mother, less anxious, less perpetually there, would Lucienne have put up with family life? Yet I had thought things were better between us during the last year, that she was less tense—perhaps because she was about to leave? I can no longer tell. If I have failed with the bringing up of my daughters, my whole life has been a mere failure. I cannot believe it.
But as soon as doubt so much as touches me, how my mind reels!
Does Maurice stay with me out of pity? If so I ought to tell him to go. I could not bring myself to it. If he stays, perhaps Noëllie will lose heart and turn to Vallin or someone else. Or perhaps he will come to understand once more what we have been for one another.
What exhausts me is the way he is kind one day and surly and unaffectionate the next. I never know which is going to open the door. It is as though he were appalled at having hurt me and yet afraid of giving me too much hope. Should I settle down definitively into despair? But then he would quite forget what I was once and why he had loved me.
Thursday 17.
Marguerite has run away again and they can’t find her. She went off with a girl who is a real tramp. She will go on the streets, steal things. It’s heartbreaking. Yet my heart is not broken. Nothing touches me anymore.
Friday 18.
I saw them again yesterday evening. I was prowling about L’An 2000, where they often go. They got out of Noëllie’s convertible; he took her arm; they were laughing. At home, even when he is being pleasant, he has a grim expression: his smiles are forced. “It’s not an easy position.…” When he is with me, he never forgets it for a moment. With her, he does. He laughed, unconstrained, careless, easy. I felt like doing her an injury. I know that is female and unfair; she has no duty toward me—but there it is.
What cowards people are. I asked Diana to introduce me to the friend Mme. Valiin had talked to about Noëllie. She looked embarrassed. The friend is no longer so sure of her facts. Vallin goes to bed with a young woman attorney, very much in the swim. Mme. Vallin did not mention her name. It is reasonable to suppose that it is Noëllie, who has often appeared in court for the publishing house. But it may be someone else.… The other day Diana was perfectly definite. Either it is the friend who is frightened of stirring up trouble or it is Diana who is afraid that I will. She swore it was not so—she only wants to help me! No doubt. But they all have their own ideas of the best way of setting about it.
Sunday 20.
Every time I see Colette I overwhelm her with questions. Yesterday it almost made her cry. “I never thought you coddled us too much; I liked being coddled.… What did Lucienne think of you during the last year? We weren’t very intimate—she sat in judgment on me, too. She thought us too soft-centered; she acted the tough girl. Anyhow, what does it matter what she thought? She’s not an oracle.”
Of course. Colette never felt herself ill-treated because of her own free will she complied with what I expected of her. And obviously she cannot think that it is a pity that she is what she is. I asked her whether she did not get bored? (Jean-Pierre is a worthy soul, but not much fun.) No: it was rather that she can hardly cope with all she has to do. Keeping house is not as easy as she had thought. She no longer has time to read or to listen to music. “Try to find it,” I told her; “otherwise one ends up by growing completely stupid.” I said that I really knew what I was talking about. She laughed—if I was stupid, then she was quite happy to be stupid too. She loves me dearly: that at least will not be taken away from me. But have I crushed her? Certainly I foresaw a completely different kind of life for her—a more active, richer life. At her age mine, with Maurice, was far more so. Has she lost her vitality, living in my shade?
How I should like to see myself as others see me! I showed the three letters to a friend of Colette’s who goes in for graphology a little. It was chiefly Maurice’s hand that interested her. She said pleasant things about me: much less about Noëllie. But the results were falsified because she had certainly grasped the meaning of the consultation.
Sunday evening.
I had a sudden spurt of happy surprise just now, when Maurice said to me, “We’ll spend Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve together, of course.” I think he is offering me a compensation for the skiing I have given up. What does the reason matter? I have determined not to hold aloof from my pleasure.
27 December—Sunday.
It was rather pleasure that held aloof from me. I hope Maurice did not notice it. He had booked a table at the Club 46. Magnificent supper, excellent cabaret. He was lavish with his money and his kindness. I had on a pretty new dress and I smiled, but I was in an unbearable state of distress. All those couples.… These women, all well-dressed, well-jeweled, well made up, their hair well done—they laughed, showing their well-tended teeth, looked after by excellent dentists. The men lit their cigarettes for them, poured them out champagne: they exchanged affectionate looks and little loving remarks. Other years it had seemed to me that the bond that joined each him to each personal her, each her to each personal him, was positively tangible. I believed in unions, because I believe in ours. Now what I saw was individuals set down by chance opposite one another. From time to time the old illusion came to life again: Maurice seemed welded to me—he was my husband just as Colette was my daughter, in a way that could not be undone: a relationship that could be forgotten, that could be twisted, but that could never be done away with. And then there was no current between him and me anymore—nothing passing whatever: two strangers. I felt like shouting, It’s all untrue, it’s all playacting, it’s all a farce—drinking champagne together does not mean taking communion. As we came home Maurice kissed me. “That was a good evening, wasn’t it?”
He looked pleased and relaxed. I said yes, of course. On December 31 we go to the New Year’s Eve party at Isabelle’s.
1 January.
I ought not to be delighted at Maurice’s good temper: the real reason for it is that he is going away for ten days with Noëllie. But if at the cost of a sacrifice I rediscover his affection and cheerfulness, whereas so often he is unyielding and surly, why, then I gain by it. We were a pair once again when we arrived at Isabelle’s. Other pairs, more or less limping, more or less patched up, but united for all that, surrounded us. Isabelle and Charles, the Couturiers, Colette and Jean-Pierre, and others. There were excellent jazz records; I let myself drink a little, and for the first time since—how long?—I felt cheerful. Cheerfulness—a transparent quality in the air, a smooth flowing in the passage of time, an ease in breathing: I asked no more of it. I don’t know how I came to be talking about the Salines de Ledoux and describing them in detail. They listened to me and asked me questions, but suddenly I wondered whether it did not look as though I were imitating Noëllie, trying to shine as she does, and whether Maurice would not think me ridiculous once again. He seemed rather tense. I took Isabelle aside. “Did I talk too much? Did I put on a ludicrous act?”
“No, no!” she protested. “What you told us was very interesting.”
She was dreadfully concerned at seeing me so upset. Because I was wrong to be uneasy? Or because I was right? Later on I asked Maurice why he had looked vexed.
“But I wasn’t!”
“You say that as though you were.”
“No. Not at all.”
Perhaps it was my question that vexed him. I cannot tell anymore. From now on, always, everywhere, there is a reverse side to my words and my actions that escapes me.
2 January.
Yesterday we had dinner with Colette. The poor child had taken a very great deal of trouble, and nothing went right. I looked at her through Maurice’s eyes. Her apartment certainly lacks charm. She scarcely possesses any ideas of her own, even for her clothes or her furniture. Jean-Pierre is very kind; he adores her—a heart of gold. But it is impossible to know what to talk to him about. They never go out; they have few friends. A very dismal, very narrow existence. Once again, and with terror, I asked myself, Is it my fault that the brilliant fifteen-year-old schoolgirl has grown into this lifeless young woman? It is a metamorphosis that happens often enough, and I have seen plenty like it: but perhaps each time it was the parents’ fault. Maurice was very cheerful, very friendly all through the evening, and when we left he said nothing about them. I imagine that did not stop him from thinking, however.
I thought it strange that Mauric
e should spend all yesterday at home and the evening at Colette’s with me. A suspicion came into my mind, and I have just telephoned Noëllie’s apartment: if she had answered I should have hung up. I got her secretary. “Maîtresse Guérard will not be back in Paris until tomorrow.”
What an utter simpleton I must be! Noëllie was away, and there I was, acting as the stopgap. I choke with rage. I feel like flinging Maurice out—finishing with him for good and all.
I went for him furiously. He replied that Noëllie had gone because he had decided to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve with me.
“Oh no! I remember now: she always spends the holidays with her daughter, at her husband’s place.”
“She had only meant to stay four days.” He gazed at me with that sincere look that comes so easy to him.
“In any case you worked this out together!”
“Obviously I spoke to her about it.” He shrugged. “A woman is never happy unless what she is given has been violently wrenched from another. It is not the thing in itself that counts: it is the victory won.”
They had settled it together. And it is true that that spoils all the pleasure these days have brought me. If she had reacted strongly he would certainly have yielded. So I am dependent on her, upon her whims, her magnanimity or her mean-mindedness—upon her interests, in fact.
They leave tomorrow evening for Courchevel. I wonder whether my decision was not utterly mistaken. He is only taking a fortnight’s holiday instead of three weeks (which is a sacrifice, he pointed out to me, seeing how passionately he loves skiing). So he is spending five days longer than he had planned with Noëllie. And I lose ten days alone with him. She will have ample time to get around him entirely. When he comes back he will tell me that everything is over between us. I have put the finishing touches to my own destruction! I tell myself this with a kind of heavy inertness. I feel that in any case I am done for. He is kind and tactful with me; perhaps he is afraid that I will kill myself—which is out of the question: I do not want to die. But his attachment to Noëllie does not lessen.
The Woman Destroyed Page 18
