November 13th
Joly came to see me this evening, much like the last time. Before he was shown in, Madeleine said triumphantly, "See what they're like, your friends. If that's what you call a friend, well then! You're easy to please." "He's only here to thank us," I said, without much conviction. "He already rang; surely he isn't going to go on thanking you forever. It's up to you to make him see that he's behaving badly." In her thirst for power, this was all Madeleine wanted. Just then Joly came in. His face was pale and he seemed flustered. He'd come to ask whether my doctor really was a top man, for he'd become pessimistic about his mother's illness. Something strange occurred then. After having taken so long to admit there might be some truth in Madeleine's insinuations, I now thought I detected a certain awkward love for my wife in my friend's words. She, however, had changed her tone completely and was speaking to Joly with genuine kindness, much as she'd done on his previous visit, but with heartfelt sincerity now. One of Madeleine's peculiarities is that she is totally independent in her feelings. If she changes her mind about someone, she'll immediately forget everything she said before. Seeing Joly so despondent, she'd abandoned her seductive manner and, and without taking into account the confusion this created, was now showing herself in a new and quite unexpected light. Like those people who walk at a brisk clip and are startled to see their companion lagging behind, she failed to understand that no one was following her. If it happens that someone then says to her, "But that's not what you thought a little while ago!" she'll get terribly angry, as though she'd been publicly accused of being a liar.
After Joly left, ushered out with the sweet words of my wife, who'd suddenly discovered he was a man of great compassion, I looked at her tenderly. I was astonished by the way she could be so natural, so attuned to life, so sincere about what she thought. I wanted to tell her I loved her. But I sensed this would displease her, for she didn't want to appear to agree with me now, and believe as I did in my friend's virtues. "I'd rather be alone," she said. "François isn't terribly engaging, but I felt sorry for him just now when he was talking about his mother."
November 14th
Raoul Sospel, Curti's sole friend, has an only child, Roger, who is the same age as Madeleine. It was for that reason, I think, that the two men became friends. Different as they are, they had in common the fact that each adored his child. Roger is a tall young man, hindered by excessive modesty and shyness. He has an extraordinary mix of purity and dissatisfaction with himself, of sincere verbal generosity coupled with an inability to see things through, a tendency to display the sort of dedication and sacrifice which almost always accompanies base sentiments. Impulsive and violent, he wants to please, only to offend as soon as he has succeeded. He can be arrogant when in the company of his more feeble, poor, and defenseless friends, which seems calculated to show how little importance he accords to everything he's been taught.
Madeleine has told me in the past that she was once deeply fond of this young man. I therefore found it very difficult to control myself when she announced she'd seen him today. Before we were married, they used to see a great deal of one another. Although there has never been anything more than a long-standing friendship between them, the idea of it has always made me uncomfortable. Many are the times I could have lost my temper on the subject of that young man, if I hadn't restrained myself! I can imagine the scenes.
I'm certain that when Madeleine saw him again it must have dawned on her that she could love him. He must suddenly have looked different to her. I imagine it was about six o'clock in the evening. In the fading light, Roger was also looking at her with newfound interest. Madeleine must have been surprised that she could have so completely forgotten a man she'd known so well. She scrutinized his face. Although he was truly a man now, she felt as comfortable by his side as if he'd been a member of her family. He had changed and yet he was the same. Roger, too, felt a similar sense of surprise, but rather than finding the strength and maturity Madeleine had perceived in him, what he saw was weakness and submission, coupled with a critical air against which, subconsciously, he defended himself. Unconcerned with my existence, the pair of them were like two completely new people who know and appreciate one another; they were now gazing into each others' eyes as though they'd never met, so powerful was the attraction between them. Whereas in the past Roger was never particularly thoughtful or considerate, he took extra care to be so today, because he wanted the change in him to be readily apparent. Madeleine accepted his gallantries as she would those of a stranger. She was moved by the fact that, beneath this new outward appearance, they shared a past, and everything they knew about one another.
When she came home, I noticed immediately that she was flustered. I pretended not to be aware of anything and said, "I've been waiting an hour for you, I didn't want to leave the house without having seen you. The thing is, I've got to go dine with Sabasse. I'll be back at half past nine. Listen, my darling, I'll eat almost nothing and we'll dine together when I return." Madeleine was only too pleased to be able to hold something against me. "Go, have your dinner with Sabasse, if that's what you want," she said. I decided to stay. After a moment, she picked up the phone and called her father, asking in a mechanical voice, "Has he gone?" "Who?" I asked. "Roger." "Ahh, so you saw him this afternoon," I added distractedly, as though I had forgotten that Madeleine must have met M. Sospel and Roger at her father's home. "You know perfectly well I did," she answered. I fell silent. Apparently the person at the other end of the line had said the young man was gone, for she replaced the receiver looking rather pleased. When away from those we love, there is something pleasant about hearing that they have resumed the normal course of their lives, that they are now slowly walking home and smoking a cigarette. For the next few minutes she was lost in thought, probably about what she'd just said, searching for a reason to see Roger again without making this obvious. "You know," she said, "we're going to have to invite him." Madeleine has such a fear of lying that it would never occur to her to see Roger in any way other than one she could admit to me. "He'll be able to go out with me," she went on, "since you never want to." As I'm often busy, she was sure I would accept. "But then again," she went on, "I don't know if he'd find that much fun." As I looked at Madeleine, I realized she was embarrassed at the idea Roger might think she was dominated by her husband. Lately, I've noticed her ill humor intensifies if she feels trapped in any way. "I need only ring him, after all," she must have thought, "and ask him to come fetch me here when no one is at home, and take me somewhere I could never go alone." Having formulated this plan, she was now waiting to announce it to me as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her scruples at initiating the contact with the young man had already vanished. The truth is Madeleine has a strange personality. Whereas she would rather die than appear obviously enamored of someone, she is capable of actively pursuing a man after only a few hours, without any discretion. I was annoyed. "I don't see why you're calling your father," I said. "What difference does it make to you if Roger has left or not?" "Would you rather I called him directly, perhaps?" "Do you have something in particular you need to tell him?" "No." "If you're so desperate to see him, then ask him to come here, or if you want to go out with him, ask Marguerite to go with you." I could see Madeleine wasn't at all happy with this last suggestion. Although in other circumstances she wouldn't even have bothered to reply, she now agreed with me. As soon as she senses she is wrong, she becomes conciliatory. She was soon on the telephone to her friend, but deliberately avoided discussing Roger. I asked her why. "Ah, you're right!" she said. "I forgot. And yet I meant to. Sospel is so anxious for me to look after his son a bit." After my initial wave of astonishment had subsided, her words made me terribly happy. I understood that I'd been a victim of my imagination, and that Madeleine's interest in Roger was not what I'd thought. Knowing the influence my wife had once had over his son, Sospel had asked her to take him under her wing, introduce him to some friends, which was quite natural g
iven the fact that Roger had been away from Paris for the last four years. Everything has an explanation. And yet, in spite of my relief, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about how very strange Madeleine was. To arouse my jealousy, instead of telling me the truth from the outset, she had deliberately concealed it from me in a very curious manner, pretending to be obedient, as though I'd caught her doing something wrong.
November 16th
Last night, Madeleine and I went to visit friends, where I knew we'd be seeing an art collector. On our way there, I said to her, "If Catifait [that is the collector's name] is there, you're going to have some fun. I've never met a more ridiculous or pretentious man." That was the impression he made on me when I was first introduced to him. This evening, however, Catifait was charming, and as the hours slipped by I saw everything I'd said about him melt away in the face of reality. Instead, he was extraordinarily kind, charmingly modest, and talked about his collections with regret that his passion deprived others of the same pleasure. As he described his rare pieces, one sensed not pride but rather embarrassment that he alone possessed such marvels. I've recounted this trivial incident to illustrate Madeleine's unpredictability. She's spent her life reproaching me for my bitterness, claiming I don't love anyone and envy everyone around me. Yet in the present situation, when she could easily have attacked me, she never breathed a word of my hasty judgment. After we'd left our friends, she told me she found Catifait charming, and seemed to have forgotten all about my earlier opinions. The fact is Madeleine has a very commendable quality: she pays no attention to things one says lightly. Whereas I will persist in drawing the worst possible conclusions from something unfortunate I've said, she won't even mention it: her indulgence for the dreadful emptiness of words is boundless. She doesn't listen to words. If I happen to insult her in some way, she'll pretend not to have heard me if she is well-disposed and answer instead as if I'd paid her a compliment. It's not that she's grown accustomed to the deplorable disorder of my conversation, but simply that she judges me by her own standards rather than in light of what I actually said. It may well be that one of the traits I find most objectionable in myself is my tendency to get carried away, my haste in passing judgment and deciding to like or dislike someone, only to change my mind immediately afterward and say the opposite. That's the sort of man I am, lacking clarity and greatness, unable to draw on a past filled with improbabilities, mistakes, and incoherent acts. The past horrifies me. How I long to have willpower, to be able to defend my opinions and remain in agreement with myself. I would like each of my actions, each of my words, to be the building blocks of an edifice I erect as the years go by. Instead, everything is vague, everything tends to make me regret something, everything is wicked when it should be good. When calling up some experience from my past to help me resolve a current problem, I sense there are a thousand other experiences which would lead me to the opposite conclusion, particularly when the matter in question is something I long for with all my heart.
November 18 th
This afternoon, Madeleine dragged me off to Marguerite's. I tried to refuse, but she was so insistent, claiming her friend had called to invite the two of us to tea and would be terribly disappointed if I didn't come, that I went along in the end. She didn't mention Roger, but I was certain she'd made arrangements behind my back for him to be there. If it seems surprising that Madeleine was so insistent I come along, the reason is she's incapable of lying. Whenever she feels she's at fault, she forgets about her own pleasure. Meeting Roger without me, with the knowledge that she'd planned it, would become hateful to her when the time came to go through with it. She can make elaborate plans to be free at a certain hour, but when that hour strikes it will seem to her that the entire world is going to know the truth. Her fear of being caught in a lie is probably so great that she'd rather renounce the pleasure she'd orchestrated with such care.
To our great surprise, when we arrived at Marguerite's we found she was alone. "I'm feeling so unwell," she said, "that I canceled everyone but the two of you. I did so want to see you." As often happens with people whose lives revolve around social engagements, this woman retreats into a shell on a daily basis, more so even than people who scorn society. Whether caused by inattention or hypersensitivity, she is easily, and frequently, upset. Something strange then happens, and has been happening almost every day for years now: she withdraws from the world, saddened and discouraged, until something happens to draw her back out again. She is filled with a deep sense of peace during the hour she spends scorning society's intrigues and pettiness, dreaming of simple pleasures and criticizing her own ambition to play a role and be influential. But these reflections of hers are like a doctor's advice to a man who eats too much. She views them as something external, a warning rather than a cry from her own conscience. Comfort soon returns, that same comfort the man who was frightened by his doctor's advice finds as he gradually forgets that advice and resumes living as he did before. It soon became apparent Marguerite was feeling low because of an unkind comment made about her which a friend had then repeated to her as though it were a pleasant remark. That friend had pretended to be astonished at her surprise and assured her she must be misinterpreting the remark, so that she was left feeling disappointed both in the person who'd first said it and the one who'd repeated it to her. Madeleine could see there was something unusual in her friend's expression.
After they'd exchanged a few banalities to which Marguerite replied as though nothing were amiss, Madeleine couldn't help but ask about Roger. "You should invite him, Marguerite, with a few friends. That boy needs companionship. Promise me you'll look after him as soon as you're feeling better. He's very fond of you, you know." Madeleine's words had a terrible effect on Marguerite. She had just been thinking that she would never invite anyone again, that she'd had enough of society, that she could very well live alone . . . and now she was being asked to do this favor. She hesitated for a moment. "There's no hurry about it," said Madeleine, who'd noticed her friend was put out. Just then, the two women caught each other's eye. As though a spell had been lifted, Marguerite suddenly came back to life. She now looked like those people who bear no grudge and, after having been insulted, carry on as though nothing had happened. "But naturally," she replied, "if that's what you want. I'll invite some friends too; it will be more fun that way." I guessed that Marguerite had understood my wife was hoping to meet Roger at her home, and in a show of that feminine wickedness Madeleine so despises, had taken up her cause. The abruptness of her manner, however, was clearly intended to bring this to my attention and create an incident between my wife and me as soon as we were alone.
Madeleine was unable to conceal her discontent when we left. "Women are Machiavellian," she said. I pretended to be astonished. "But Marguerite is so sweet." "Oh! You think so!" "What I mean is, there's nothing wicked about her." Madeleine is so oblivious that she expected me to be angry with her friend without knowing why. She wanted me to agree with her, and yet the underlying reason for her anger was that I'd been made a party to her innermost thoughts. She was still brooding a few minutes later. "So, you think its proper to drag people out, supposedly for a tea party, and then tell them that everyone's invitation has been canceled because of a supposed migraine." "Come now, it's not that serious," I replied. "She did it on purpose," added Madeleine. I realized then that Madeleine suspected her friend had never had a headache at all, and had only canceled the invitations to prevent Madeleine from seeing Roger. In a further refinement of cruelty, she had then let her come to savor her disappointment.
November 19 th
"Louis," Madeleine said in a playful tone of voice, "something amusing just happened. You know I saw Roger four days ago at his father's. He so wanted to see me again that I promised I would call him. He's such an old friend, what else could I do? I called him a little while ago and asked if he would take me to the Louvre. He used to paint, and it's so interesting to be with someone who can explain the beauty of the art." To emph
asize the technical and self-serving side of her phone call, she then added: "After all, one has to put this young man to some sort of use." I said nothing. This time, I didn't want my jealousy to be as apparent as it usually was. "And when will he come?" I asked with studied indifference. "Tomorrow, after lunch. I thought it best to go on a day when you were busy. That way he won't be stealing me away from you." "But it just so happens that I'm not going out tomorrow," I replied automatically. "I thought tomorrow was the day you were going to see Sabasse." "Ah, that's true, I'd forgotten. You're quite right. Go along to the Louvre. That's fine," I added, suddenly afraid Madeleine would sense my jealousy. I felt tense, my jealousy rising, and this condition was made worse by being unable to rail against such a trivial matter. If Madeleine looked at a man in the street, I would suffer in silence rather than make the slightest remark to her. I find all my reasons for being jealous ridiculous. And yet this time, the fact of having made a date with Roger struck me as something serious. Like all men who lack self-confidence, however, I couldn't be sure if it was serious. This visit to the Louvre was perhaps as insignificant as my wife was leading me to believe. What would she have thought of me if, in my error, I'd made some remark to her? She would have been justified in being unhappy, in complaining about me, and that I don't want, even if it means I must suffer. I smiled and changed the subject. Madeleine was relieved. In her own mind, to ease her conscience, she really had called Roger because she wanted to go to the Louvre. After a moment, however, I couldn't help but ask, "Do you really think such a visit will interest you?" Madeleine looked at me with astonishment. "I never claimed it would be interesting for me. I'm doing it to make Roger happy." "Ah! Fine," I answered distractedly. Madeleine could see I was irritated by her plans, but she pretended not to notice. Any scruples and regrets she has are always before the fact. As soon as she is with the person she is going to hurt by admitting to something, she is transformed and becomes amazingly agile. What always helps her in such situations is letting herself be extraordinarily influenced by the person she is with; thanks to a sort of forgetfulness about her actions, she truly believes she has done nothing wrong. As we were talking just now, she had genuinely lost sight of the reason for her phone call and saw only a date made for the purpose, as she claims, of going to the Louvre. Had I lost my temper rather than reacting with such equanimity, she would have been angry with me for misunderstanding her and ascribing evil intentions to such a harmless act. She is so convinced of her own innocence that she didn't even try to be friendlier than usual so I would forgive her. In fact, she was so sure of being in the right that she was acting genuinely irritated and complaining about the many things which social obligations force one to do in life. None of this was intended to reassure me or allay my fears; she was doing it for herself, as though to convince herself there really was no harm in what she was planning.
A Winter's Journal Page 5