It often happens that Curti is brought together with men who are as powerful as he himself once was. He will never allude, then, to anything that might reveal his former position, and this in spite of his wife, Jeanne, whom he married much later, and who, unlike him, wanted everyone to know what her husband had been, even going so far as to allow a certain aura of confusion to hover over the past so that people might be led to think that it was not just Curti who had lost everything, but she too. Certain women feel quite at ease in the midst of this sort of confusion, which allows them to imagine that the riches a man possessed before they knew him had been stolen from them. For example, in spite of everything, Curti had managed to preserve a few vestiges of his former opulence, among which were several paintings of no commercial value. To Jeanne, these were sacred. But it happened that one day Curti promised one of the paintings to Diéghera, who liked it so much that each time he came to see his friend, before anything else, he would ask permission to go admire it. Jeanne was present when the gift was made. She hadn't said a word, and had even offered to wrap the painting. But as soon as Diéghera was gone, she flew into a violent rage. "How dare you!" she cried. "It's bad enough that you've deprived me of so many beautiful things; now you feel compelled to give away the miserable remains! You insist upon flaunting your generosity, to my detriment!" For as a sort of affectation, Curti—who was never particularly generous before—has now become extraordinarily munificent. He is incapable of refusing anyone anything. Compared to what he once had, his possessions are now so insignificant that it gives him pleasure not to be attached to any of them, to create the impression that he is even more generous than he appears, that he shares what he owns because what he has left no longer means anything. He always seems to be saying that worldly possessions are illusory, and this is partly sincere, for if his fortune was returned to him by some feat of magic, he would doubtless preserve the detached attitude he acquired when deprived of it. In fact, one of the consequences of his bankruptcy has been to teach him that he never knew the value of money. All of his indulgence is based upon that knowledge.
On his face, one reads that his bad luck was not such a cruel blow after all, since it allowed him to acquire a knowledge of life he would never have had without it. He takes great care now not to allow anything to reveal his former familiarity with wealth, and even strives to be ever more humble in his manner, to the great despair of his wife. Thus, when he says good-bye, if I ask him whether he would like me to send for a car, he replies that he would rather take the tramway, that he is used to it, that it bothers him to change his habits. Jeanne interpreted this as a ridiculous need for humiliation, and had soon decided it was in fact a manifestation of his desire to belittle her. She reproached him for having given gifts to his mistresses in years gone by. One of her more peculiar traits was that while she never reproached her husband for his past mistresses, she did resent the money he'd spent on them. Of modest origins herself, she was one of those women who are convinced that lavish gifts are a sure sign of love. A sort of fury would well up inside her whenever she thought of the women who had known Curti in his better days. When it happened that her husband would inadvertently speak of his youth, of the holidays he'd spent with his family in Florence, a mute rage would take hold of her, and she would cry out abruptly: "I want to go to Florence too; I don't see why I shouldn't go." "We'll go," Curti would answer. "We'll go, well then! Let's go. I've had enough of all these promises. Let's go, let's go ... " Her husband would always calm her with his patience. He never lost his temper. He occasionally yielded, and the two of them would actually set off for Florence. It would take too long to elaborate on those trips; what has to be said is that they were difficult. Curti would reproduce for his wife, but with vastly reduced means, what he had done in bygone days in grand style. While Jeanne persisted in trying to ascertain whether this was indeed the hotel her husband had once stayed in, he would try to make her understand how unimportant this was.
Curti is more himself when circumstances bring him together with someone who, like himself, has been a victim of fate. As with people who are engrossed by similar pursuits, the two men will speak to another with exaggerated politeness, taking care not to stray from that point at which it is pleasant to be entirely in agreement. Curti holds forth on the events which brought about his downfall, on the rules governing his existence he has since set, speaking in that sort of professional tone it is startling to hear, for example, in a doctor whom one is accustomed to frequenting socially and whom one then overhears one day delivering a medical opinion. That is when one understands that Curti hasn't forgotten, that deep within him lies a zone in which all of the past has remained intact. The abrupt seriousness which emanates from him allows one to glimpse, with some astonishment, that he harbors resentments, that he has enemies, that he suffers in a way which is peculiar to him, and which he never discusses. Jeanne was always delighted if she happened to be present at one of these conversations, for as with most women, she believed that if you want to, you will recover what you have lost. She would set out to make the two men accomplices, victims whose position would be strengthened if they would only join forces, and who should, without further ado, move heaven and earth to try and recover fortunes that no longer existed. In her mind, nothing was ever lost forever.
I said earlier that I feel something like respect for Curti. This is true. When I'm with him, I sometimes even feel the way young people do when speaking to celebrities. And yet its slightly different, in the sense that there is no shyness on my part, but rather a need to agree with and approve of everything he says, while manifesting a degree of independence in my opinions when questions of taste arise. The reason for my admiration lies in the great dignity Curti has shown in the face of adversity, in his modesty, his humility, and in the fact that he never speaks about his past glory. I have to add that my admiration includes a budding desire that Curti should perceive how greatly I admire his discretion.
When I arrived, I was afraid he was going to be angry and reproach me in some way. Instead of the severe look I was expecting, however, he smiled at me as soon as were alone together and said, "This has to be patched up. Its so childish to quarrel over such trifles." I felt awkward, the way you do when your interlocutor, out of tactfulness, appears unaware of the reason for something you have done, thus making it impossible to explain yourself. Curti spoke kindly, as though he had no idea why his daughter was angry with his son-in-law, and yet he had to know, since he'd sent for me. I was intimidated and didn't dare bring up Madeleine's outburst the night before, about which her father seemed to know nothing. And yet, I couldn't stop myself from saying, in that tone one adopts in man-to-man conversations, "But Madeleine is so sensitive, so fanciful, that she imagines things which don't exist." Curti took no account of this view. It was obvious that he thought his daughter was perfect, and not wishing to know the truth, he preferred not to understand. "Such ridiculous incidents," he continued, "cannot be allowed to come between you this way." Curti never sides with anyone, which is often the case with people who have passionate feelings and don't want to be disappointed. He grew increasingly friendly with me, to avoid learning anything which would have wounded him. Just then, Madeleine appeared. She had recovered, and looked rested. Seeing her, her father said, "There you are, that's good. You must be reasonable, Madeleine. You can't let yourself get carried away by such childish nonsense." By saying this, he was imperceptibly finding fault with the person he loved, the person he felt sure of, in order to avoid having to learn anything from me, his son-in-law, whose friendship he was both trying to win and pretending to consider meant more to him than the love of his daughter. As I smiled at her, Madeleine looked at me in that manner peculiar to people who are being reconciled with someone they don't love. "It was nothing," she said, "I was simply overwrought. Things always look better in the morning." "That makes me happy," said Curti, "but promise me, Madeleine, you won't do this again." In reality, Madeleine was indifferent. Once he
r anger had dissipated, sleep had eradicated everything. She was now just as she had been yesterday morning, albeit slightly embarrassed by her behavior.
When we got home, I was particularly attentive to Madeleine, but she pretended not to notice. As soon as we'd arrived, she felt compelled to make some disagreeable remarks to the maid, to show that her absence hadn't undermined her authority in any way. She grew ever more irritable. She had obeyed her father so as not to cause him any pain, but was furious at the thought I might think she'd come back home because of me.
October 20th
I asked myself whether a life devoid of any affection, of any goal, a life one fills with a thousand trifles intended to relieve its monotony, populated with human beings one seeks out in order not to be alone and whom one flees to avoid being bored by them, whether such a life isn't ridiculous, whether anything whatsoever wouldn't be preferable. I wondered about this while out walking this morning; the weather was superb. There was not a cloud in the sky. Summer seemed to be coming back. The sun gave off a gentle warmth. The tips of bare branches undulated softly in the blue light, and I, with no love, no woman I could talk to about how beautiful I found this morning, I felt old. Rather than letting my being be filled with happiness, I thought of myself. To console myself, I went so far as to imagine that I was perhaps the only man so alone and unhappy. And yet there is in me, as in everyone, a great desire to be loved. However, and this is what most saddens me, there is also a profound inability to please another, to be loved. I am made to live alone, but I cannot be alone. I need faces around me, friends. I have noticed that I am always happy in the minutes just prior to the moment when I am due to meet one of my friends. I feel, then, that I am like other men, and my despair lifts. An appointment with the most insignificant of acquaintances will light up my day as though that person were one of my dearest friends. As soon as we have exchanged polite greetings, however, I'll suddenly feel myself falling into a yawning abyss as I become obsessed with a single thought: getting away. And yet the mere thought of being alone again fills me with such horror that I haven't the strength to leave. People may bore me, I may find them ridiculous for one reason or another, but if they happen to leave me earlier than I'd planned, I suffer intensely. I then try every possible means to stay with them, even at the risk of seeming tactless. I offer to accompany them, to wait for them. I ask them if I'm really not intruding. And when they finally get rid of me, claiming they don't want to force such a thankless task on me, I sometimes catch myself letting out a cry of joy at being faced with the fait accompli.
October 23rd
I again saw the banker whose unfortunate advice made me lose over a hundred thousand francs. Spigelman's manners are charming. Whereas before our relationship was confined exclusively to business matters, there is now a real bond of friendship between us. Can this change be explained by his feeling that he is at least partly responsible for my losses? I don't think so. What he likes about me is my disdain for money. It may seem strange that a man whose life revolves around business would like someone to whom business means nothing. And yet that's how it is. For him, I am a likable figure from another world. His attitude toward me is always vaguely superior, even when he launches into extraordinarily polite attentions, for he likes to humble himself—not in the manner of an inferior or a petitioner, but rather with the air of a man who is yielding to the capricious or foolish behavior of others. My father used to have the same expression when he forgave me for one of my temper tantrums. It is an expression, however, that can be profoundly irritating if all one said was that a minister's speech was particularly fine. Nonetheless, he is fond of me. But when, for example, he does something especially kind for me, he always feels compelled to say that he did it for me, that normally he would never do such a thing, thereby seeking—very naively—to lend his gesture extra value. I think the reason he likes me is that he thinks I'm very wealthy and don't let it show. In different circumstances, I would find such a situation awkward. It is always disagreeable to feel that we would be a disappointment to someone if they knew the truth about us. But with him I have no scruples, nor am I worried in the least about having won his friendship by dint of advantages I don't possess. Every time he comes to see me, his first words are: "So, Monsieur Grandeville, have you been happy with the stock market?" "But I stopped taking any interest in it long ago." "Quite right, Monsieur Grandeville, that is the best way to succeed in business." I sense that he is dying to know the name of my stockbroker—who doesn't exist.
Yesterday, he came by to ask me—though this was presented as a piece of advice—to reopen an account with his bank. And yet he should understand that, where money is concerned, one easily becomes superstitious. There are people who find it impossible to stay on in a city where they have been unhappy. The great number of cities makes it easy enough for them to settle elsewhere. To my mind, the same holds true of bankers. This is something of which he is totally unaware. I tried to make him understand this, for I find it amusing to tease him a bit, but in vain. He enumerated a great many reasons, and always managed to find another whenever I told him my answer was still no. Nuances of any sort escape him completely.
As he was about to leave, Madeleine arrived. She addressed him with that tone she uses with people who are neither attractive, young, nor excessively rich, saying, "Good evening, Monsieur Spigelman," as though she were speaking right through the person standing before her and addressing some distant soul who was aware she knew how difficult it is for two beings to understand one another. Spigelman took her hand and smiled, revealing a gap-toothed mouth that gave his face a quality of immeasurable kindness, and motioning to me with his chin, he said to her, "He's a good fellow . . . he's the best of husbands." For I forgot to mention Spigelman's little oddity, which is a fatherly affection for the intimate life of couples, and unbounded joy when he succeeds in orchestrating marriages, principally between men and women who are separated by extremes, be they of age, character, or social standing. In these circumstances, he becomes genuinely good-natured, and his air of superiority is transformed into one of mischief.
October 24th
It seems to me that the peace I'm searching for is exceedingly difficult to find. What am I to make of this desire I have to lead a quiet life, when my emotions are so easily aroused? I have retreated from the world, but what sort of retreat is it if a mere trifle can fluster me? Not participating in life is no guarantee of happiness. I continue to endure vexations. People interest me more now than they did in the days when I was out and about a great deal. The older I get, the more vulnerable to wickedness I become. Early in my life, I felt untainted. And in fact I lived well beyond intrigues, ambitions, and human frailty. But now here I am, in the boredom of my monotonous life, lacking the courage to live, yet still taking part in all of this small-mindedness, though without enjoying any of the satisfactions life usually affords. I am like some old codger in his well-worn lair, my indirect suffering greater than any I ever experienced directly. What's left for me, if isolation doesn't bring me the peace I seek? I distanced myself from everyone, because I thought my resolution to live apart from them would last forever; it was, I thought, the greatest of all resolutions, of the sort one makes only once in a lifetime. Today, however, I realize that this sacred resolution of mine has gone the way of all the others. My life will have been a series of abdications. Now that there is nothing left for me to abandon, I have reached a pinnacle of sorts, from which I may well derive the most happiness: that point at which one realizes that desire is an endless chain. Retreat is a vanity like any other. One begins by judging one's peers from a great height, then from slightly lower, then from even lower still. Little by little, they creep into one's existence, not as adversaries or friends the way they once did, but by dint of minor incidents. Idleness makes these minor incidents assume the gravity important events once had. We suddenly notice that we're not living at all the way we'd hoped, but instead just as we did before.
October 28t
h
Early on, I used to imply that my passion for Madeleine was a thing of such beauty that the gods themselves smiled upon it. For example, if we'd planned to meet in the evening and the day had been a stormy one, thus making Madeleine fear she would have to go out in the rain, I would say, "No, no, it won't rain; it can't rain, because we're going out." Ever since one of my predictions turned out to be incorrect, however, I now take great care to avoid alluding to this celestial protection.
The other day, when discussing Curti, I forgot to mention one of his more charming traits, which Madeleine told me about. In the course of the walks he used to take with his daughter, it sometimes happened that, out of thoughtlessness, she would say something that hurt her father. He would let the remark pass, but the next day, or sometimes even several days later, he would repeat it as though it were coming from him, making his daughter laugh when she remembered what she'd said. There are, in fact, a great many things I've neglected to say about Curti which keep coming to mind, in particular this manner he has of becoming engrossed in trivial occupations, in the unimportant details of life. He is prodigiously attached to his habits, and nothing irks him more than the failure to observe one of these. As is often the case with people who find themselves relegated to a minor role after having led an eventful life, he derives great pleasure from dawdling, from tracking prognostications and checking on their accuracy the next day, reading weather forecasts, catalogues, interrogating servants to learn all of the reasons which caused an object to be moved to a new place.
A Winter's Journal Page 3