A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  November 21st

  After lunch, Madeleine couldn't conceal her anxiety. Roger was due at any moment. Because his visit was no secret to me, she felt no awkwardness about it, and yet I detected something like apprehension in her face. The truth might well be invisible now, but there was always the chance it would burst out one day. The day might come when, at the very moment Roger entered her house, his presence alone would suffice to reveal everything she'd done to see him again. The thought that this might occur in the home she shared with me was distressing to her. She briefly considered going downstairs and pretending—for the sake of Roger whom she would arrange to meet on the way—that she had thought he wouldn't come, so that in the evening she could say to me: "I got so bored waiting for him that I left, and bumped into him just as I was leaving the building." To keep from lying, she has this curious habit of feeling obliged to do in reality what she later plans to say she did. The thought of being cornered, her back to the wall, makes her prudent.

  Just then the maid announced Roger had arrived. Madeleine's scruples suddenly vanished. Not for a moment had she thought of asking me why I wasn't going out. Before having Roger shown in, she arranged herself in a flattering pose, sitting down and leafing through a fashion magazine with a distracted air. When he appeared, she greeted him with a phrase she knew people found charming: "You've become the very model of punctuality, Roger." She looked up only after having finished speaking, and was struck by how much more independent he seemed. Without knowing why, she wanted to be like a sister, or a mother, to the young man. She felt powerless to resist this new urge. Although she'd been dreaming of a lover when alone, now that he was standing before her she suddenly felt completely different, and had lost all desire to flirt with him. She was stripped of all sentimentality, as if time had moved forward only for her, while Roger remained the young man from her past. Madeleine was rather pleased by this development, for it made everything she had done harmless and everything she had said true, albeit after the fact and in spite of herself. It was clear to me that she was no longer attracted to him in any way. "You'll have coffee," she said, apparently in no hurry to go out. She was suddenly proud to be receiving him as a married woman, to be seen running a household. The hasty, anxious greeting she had prepared was replaced by something unexpected. This often happens with my wife. If she meets someone she knows in the lobby at the theater, for example, the play she has so been looking forward to will suddenly cease to exist for her. Roger seemed rather embarrassed, and looked over at me constantly. He found Madeleine charming, but didn't want this to be obvious; some men are like this, as are most women. Out of pride, or vanity, they don't want to reveal their desire. They conceal their feelings entirely, having never grown out of youth's natural modesty. They cannot bring themselves to declare their love, and if you try to make it easier for them, they deny everything. Nonetheless, he was here, and that was what now made him feel awkward, the way a woman would who goes to meet a man without any plausible reason. In a surly tone, he said, "I came on time, because the museums close at four." "If we want to see something, we ought to leave right away," added Roger, who suddenly found the offer of a cup of coffee disagreeable, because the intimacy it involved was not being sought by him but by another. Madeleine, increasingly a changed person, said, "The fact is I no longer want to go to the Louvre, not in the least." Obeying some mysterious force, she was greatly enjoying acting capricious with Roger, as if to show that years of marriage had not in any way altered her impulsive nature. The truth was that she really had lost all desire to go out and that, incredible as this may seem, she was proud of showing me how she treated the young man. "But then why did you ask me to come meet you to go the Louvre?" he asked her curtly, his manner deliberately showing me that my presence didn't disturb him in the least. "Because at the time, that was what I wanted. Aren't we allowed to want to do things, Roger? If I asked you to come back tomorrow, I hope that you would come ..." Now that she no longer felt attracted to Roger, Madeleine was so self-assured that she was having fun toying with him. Just as a very young child will hesitate to touch a strange toy, then grow bolder as he sees it won't hurt him, until finally he throws it to the ground, tramples it, and breaks it in an obscure desire to take revenge on something of which he had mistakenly been afraid, Madeleine was deriving great pleasure from toying with Roger, certain she wouldn't suffer when forced to admit that her power had been illusory. At the same time, it seemed to her that women were always happy when they behaved this way. As she mistreated Roger, she was imagining she would be able to exercise power this way throughout her life. Like people who find themselves, thanks to happy accidents of fate, living a life they dreamed of but never thought possible, she was getting slightly drunk on her own words, and on the part she was playing. Roger, who hadn't spent much time with her, must have been thinking this was the sort of person she'd become. A mute dislike of Madeleine was beginning to gain in him. Like most young men, he expected women to treat him with the same kindness a good friend would show. He found Madeleine's new attitude disconcerting. But while he reflected that this couldn't last much longer, that she really was being too nasty, Madeleine continued. As the maid was putting lumps of sugar into the coffee cups, Madeleine said with deliberate irony, as if suggesting sweet things were for children, "Plenty of sugar for Monsieur." "No! Not at all," said Roger quickly, "I don't take sugar." "Fine. Fine, then, Roger. We won't give you any sugar. That way you'll be happy. I'm not difficult." Roger's anger was increasingly apparent. Madeleine was beginning to annoy him.

  Throughout this exchange, I hadn't moved a muscle, pretending to read. What else could I do? It would have made Madeleine furious if I'd joined the conversation; besides, I would have been unable to hold my tongue. I love Madeleine so much that I sat there in silence watching her little production. As far as she was concerned, I could hold nothing against her which took place in my presence. She was doing nothing wrong. She always seems to be saying that these diversions have nothing to do with love; were I to forbid her from seeing Roger, she would pretend to think I'd gone mad.

  As soon as Roger had gone, Madeleine returned to the magazine she'd picked up an hour earlier as a mere prop, as if he'd really interrupted her in her reading. She was thinking of nothing and seemed truly engrossed by the clothes. She even began to hum. All of a sudden, however, she put down the magazine and fell silent. "What happened?" she asked. She looked at the time. It was three. Less than an hour ago, she'd thought she wouldn't be home before six. Yet here she was, looking at a clock that marked three o'clock, humming to herself and reading a ridiculous magazine. "But what happened?" she repeated. "I must be going mad." She rang for the maid. "Is it really three o'clock?" she asked again. "This can't be, I'm dreaming." She picked up the magazine again, looked at the cover, then resumed her humming. "I was reading this magazine!" she said to me. "Yes, I was reading this magazine. Really now, this is hardly to be believed!" This monologue went on for several minutes. In truth, it occupied only the surface of her consciousness. She reminded me of an actor speaking his lines while thinking about something else entirely, though the difference was she wasn't thinking about anything. She hadn't learned the lines she was reciting. I realized abruptly that she was now aware of her surroundings and was thinking of Roger. She regretted not having gone out with him. "It's stupid, really," she must have been thinking, "that I was so diplomatic, and this is the result, whereas I would have been so happy to go out with him." "What if I called him," she said to me. "What I did wasn't very nice." "Come now," I said, "leave the poor fellow alone." It was clear that her only desire now was to see Roger again. "He won't be back home yet, certainly not," she went on, speaking to herself and paying no attention to what I'd said. Had Madeleine known where to find him, I'm sure she would have gone out immediately. She wouldn't have thought herself ridiculous or flighty for doing so. She is one of those women whose pride, however great, never stops them from chasing after a man. They think it the right thi
ng to do to ensure the man they love, if left on his own, doesn't fall in love with another woman. The prospect of such an outcome must have been unbearable for her and made their separation even more distressing. She grew increasingly restless. She got ready to go out. But at the last minute, she was unable to stop herself from picking up the phone and calling Roger, without bothering to justify this. She needed him so desperately that as soon as he was on the line, she put on a soft voice to beg his forgiveness, and above all ensure he came right back, "Roger, be a dear. Come and get me, quickly. We still have enough time to see the primitives." But Roger, who'd been deeply disappointed, failed to understand what lay behind Madeleine's supplicating tone. Unable to see her face, he must have thought she was still playing capricious, willful games. "It's too late," I heard, "and besides, it wouldn't be any fun. Another time, if you like." "You must, Roger, I'm begging you. Do it to make me happy. There's time enough." It was three-thirty. Like many women, Madeleine never believes that closing times are real. If the two of us have errands to do together, for instance, she often arrives so late that I have to run, that she has to rush like mad, in spite of which we'll arrive in front of a shop with its shutters pulled down. "I promise you there's still time, Roger. You can't refuse me this pleasure." I suspect he still thought she was putting on an act, and rather than seeing her as she was, desperate and on the verge of tears, he imagined she was reclining lazily, testing her powers of seduction. Seeing that nothing was going to make him change his mind, and to make everything she'd just said palatable to me, before hanging up Madeleine added, "You're right. We'll do it another time."

  No sooner had she put the phone down than Madeleine was overcome by an urgent desire to go out, to leave the apartment. She was afraid that if she stayed, someone, I don't know who, might come and bore her. Her cheeks were aflame. She needed air, motion. She was suffering because of what had just happened, yet never for a moment did it occur to her that she was to blame. No matter what happens to her, she never thinks she is even partly responsible. Just as a bitter man who's committed a wrong will never blame himself, so it never occurs to her to tax herself with the slightest criticism. She is who she is. The stirrings of her conscience may make her uncomfortable, but they are never of an intensity sufficient to make her feel guilty. For Madeleine, feeling guilty would be a form of self-betrayal.

  November 25th

  Something unexpected happened today, and I have to admit that I was rather pleased by it. Roger vanished. He left a letter on his father's desk, in which he stated his intention to "make the most of life so that, having exhausted all possible pleasures, [he] could commit suicide with no regrets." Although nothing about my attitude hinted at my satisfaction, Madeleine guessed it. I've often noticed that circumstances which make others suffer sometimes make us happy in spite of ourselves. There is nothing to be done about it: were happy. But I've also noticed that the people who sense that happiness could just as easily be feeling it themselves. If not, how do they perceive it at all, since, as I just remarked, we conceal it so carefully that it's virtually impossible to detect. "Aren't you ashamed," asked Madeleine, "to be happy about such a tragedy?" "But I'm not happy," I replied. "You don't understand, do you," she continued, "that he means to kill himself. It means nothing to you, you have a heart of stone." "That's just a young man talking."

  Madeleine was panic-stricken. More than anything else had done, that letter showed me just how much Roger meant to her. In the face of a potential drama, she'd stopped bothering to hide her feelings, especially as subconsciously, she wanted to punish me for any advantages the situation might bring me. All my life I've yearned to be a man, and yet I have to admit that I've constantly found myself in the disagreeable position of being one of those people who profits from others' misfortunes. When I observe myself, I find I have their deceitful air, their doggedness, their tendency to retreat in the face of adversity, which, in the ensuing calm, is always succeeded by the need to take charge.

  November 26th

  I saw Curti again. He is changing before my eyes. I suddenly feel he's growing old. As naturally as could be, he told me about something that happened yesterday, never realizing what the episode revealed about him. He had gone to see some friends, and while there a Spaniard by the name of Guerrera, who hadn't heard Curti's name properly when they were introduced, insinuated that the Curti family made a rather bad impression in Madrid during the Gomez affair. Curti demanded an apology, which the Spaniard delivered with much gesticulating, declaring that he'd been deeply mistaken, and even swearing, with unbelievable thoughtlessness, that he'd said more than he'd intended to. He now wanted only to make amends to the man he'd offended, inviting him to Spain, swearing he couldn't leave him with such a bad impression, asking if he could see him again, perhaps spend the rest of the evening with him, and even declaring that he wasn't sorry about his faux pas since it had allowed him to further his acquaintance with the most marvelous man he'd ever met. Years ago, Curti would certainly have forgiven the fellow's blunder, but he now refused his apologies and coldly left. The illness ravaging him is not the only explanation for this change in him. From what Madeleine told me, an apparently insignificant incident touched off a revolt which, unbeknownst to him, had been brewing in him for thirty years, concealed by his deeply accepting, fatalistic nature. A few days ago, he read in the paper that while exploring in central Africa, one of his former friends, André Michaud, discovered the remains of an expedition that was lost in 1850. This relatively trivial news item led to the following scene. At a small party, he showed someone the clipping and said, "I used to know Michaud quite well. He was a strange, rather reckless fellow." Among the guests present was a man named Léger, who happened to be a recent friend of Michaud's and began talking about him. Curti was then completely overshadowed in the eyes of everyone present. His descriptions of Michaud were contradicted by Léger. More than ever before, he felt then just how dead his past was, and how little the things he had to say interested the people around him. They were all paying rapt attention to Léger, who'd had business dealings with Michaud a year ago.

  November 29th

  Although this rarely happens to me, today I felt the need to unburden myself and confide in a friend. Because Curti seemed so low the day before yesterday, so near my own state of mind, I turned to him. This is a man who's lost everything, who's suffered more than anyone from the world's ungratefulness and indifference, a man who conceals tremendous bitterness beneath a cheerful demeanor. And yet this man, with whom I feel a spiritual kinship which ought to make him my friend, failed to understand my sadness. I told him what I thought was wrong with the world. No voice came back to echo my feelings. To be consoled, above all one needs to be understood. But consolation without that deep-seated understanding, wrong-footed consolation which we must redirect ourselves, what an ineffectual thing! I realized just how great the gulf between us was when he told me, "You're young, you can expect a great deal from life" (whereas I expect nothing from life, and have never for a second thought my age had any part to play in my unhappiness).

  One might think that Madeleine is the reason I'm suffering so much. Not in the least. And if I'm so reticent to discuss my feelings, it's because revealing them at all horrifies me. There is nothing more craven than using one's general unhappiness to exaggerate the unhappiness caused by a particular situation. I think I understand now that Curti's apparent lack of sympathy for my troubles must have stemmed from his belief that they were caused by his daughter. Even if I'd understood this sooner, however, I wouldn't have tried to dissuade him, for I have no doubt he would have interpreted my explanations as a sign of my indifference toward Madeleine. Only in ourselves can we find consolation. I've now reached the point where I dread each day. As I move forward, I become increasingly afraid of the unknown, as though it were drawing ever closer with the passage of time, rather than staying at a safe distance as it used to.

  December 3rd

  The Comte de Belange teleph
oned to say that he would like to see us. I was surprised when Madeleine asked him to come by the same evening, for I had thought her totally preoccupied with Roger's fate. At six o'clock, she began considering what she would wear. When she is going to see people from her past, she likes to look her best, as though to show them that their absence hasn't stopped her from remaining beautiful, quite the opposite, and maybe even to make them regret they didn't come see her sooner. Her most pressing problems disappear when the time comes for her to get ready. The care Madeleine lavishes on her appearance is so important to her that it would never occur to her to sacrifice it to some private grief. Just as a worried man will meet a friend and cheerfully make plans for a pleasant evening he knows he won't enjoy, so Madeleine, when distressed, keeps up the appearance of being a happy woman with outsiders. She rang for the maid and gave an order in her customary tone of voice. Beauty is her defense. She suffers less when she is powdered, elegant, adorned, as if being well turned out somehow raises her above everyday concerns. In a sense, the care she takes with her appearance is a mechanism of self-defense.