The Age of Reason

by Jean-Paul Sartre

  ‘Hullo, hullo!’

  She got up, came and put her arms round his neck and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She had darkened her eyelids.

  ‘You are hot,’ she said, stroking his neck.

  She looked him up and down, her head tilted slightly back, darting her tongue out between her teeth, with an air of vivacity and joy: she was beautiful. Mathieu gloomily recalled Ivich’s emaciated plainness.

  ‘You are very gay,’ said he. ‘Yesterday, on the telephone, you didn’t sound as if things were going at all well.’

  ‘No. I was being silly. But they are going well enough today, very well indeed, in fact.’

  ‘Did you have a good night?’

  ‘I slept like a dormouse.’

  She kissed him again, he felt upon his lips the rich velvet of her mouth, and then that smooth, warm, darting nakedness — her tongue. Gently he disengaged himself. Marcelle was naked under her dressing-gown, he could see her shapely breasts, and there was a taste of sugar in her mouth. She took his hand and drew him towards the bed: ‘Come and sit beside me.’

  He sat down at her side. She still held his hand in hers, squeezing it with little awkward jerks, and Mathieu felt as though the warmth of those hands was penetrating to his armpits., ‘It’s very hot in here,’ he said.

  She did not reply, she devoured him with her eyes, her lips were parted, and there was a humble and appealing look upon her face. He slipped his left hand across his stomach and stealthily felt in his right-hand hip pocket for his tobacco. Marcelle noticed the hand in transit, and uttered a little cry: ‘Oh! But what’s the matter with your hand?’

  ‘I cut myself.’

  Marcelle let go Mathieu’s right hand, and grabbed the other as it passed; she turned it over like a pancake, and eyed the palm.

  ‘But your bandage is horribly dirty, you’ll get blood-poisoning! And there’s mud on it, how did that get there?’

  ‘I fell down.’

  She laughed a shocked, indulgent laugh: ‘I cut myself, I fell down! Silly boy! What on earth have you been up to? Wait a minute, I’ll put that bandage straight for you: you can’t go about like that.’

  She unbound Mathieu’s hand and nodded: ‘It’s a nasty wound, how did it happen? Have you been fighting?’

  ‘Of course not. It was yesterday evening: at the Sumatra.’

  ‘At the Sumatra?’

  Broad, pale cheeks, golden hair; tomorrow — tomorrow, I’ll do my hair like that to please you.

  ‘It was some nonsense of Boris’s,’ he replied. ‘He had bought a dagger, and challenged me to stick it in my hand.’

  ‘And you, of course, promptly did so. But you’re completely dotty, my poor darling, those rotten friends of yours will make an utter fool of you if you aren’t careful. Look at that poor ravaged paw.’

  Mathieu’s hand lay inert between her two burning hands: the wound looked repulsive, with its black and pulpy scab. Marcelle slowly lifted the hand to the level of her face, looked at it fixedly, then suddenly bent down and laid her lips upon the wound in a transport of humility. ‘What can be the matter with her?’ he wondered. He drew her towards him and kissed her on the ear.

  ‘Are you loving me?’ asked Marcelle.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you were.’

  Mathieu smiled and did not answer. She rose and went to get her box of dressings from the wardrobe. She had her back to him, she was standing on tip-toe, and lifting her arms to reach the top shelf: her sleeves had slipped down her arms. Mathieu looked at the lovely arms he had so often caressed, and all the old desires awakened within him. Marcelle came towards him with a sort of cumbrous briskness.

  ‘Give me your paw.’

  She had poured some spirit on to a small sponge, and began to clean his hand. He felt against his hip the faint glow of that too familiar body.

  ‘Now lick that!’

  Marcelle held out to him a bit of sticking plaster. He put out his tongue and obediently licked the pink transparency. Marcelle applied the patch of plaster to the skin; she then picked up the old bandage and held it for a moment in her fingertips, eyeing it with amused disgust.

  ‘What am I to do with this loathsome object? When you have gone, I’ll go and throw it in the rubbish bin.’

  She deftly bound up the hand with a length of clean, white webbing.

  ‘So Boris challenged you, did he? And you made a mess of your hand. You silly old boy! And did he do the same?’

  ‘Not he!’ said Mathieu.

  Marcelle laughed: ‘So he made a pretty sort of fool of you!’

  She had stuck a safety pin in her mouth, and was slitting the webbing with both hands. She said, compressing her lips on to the pin: ‘Was Ivich there?’

  ‘When I cut myself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. She was dancing with Lola.’

  Marcelle stuck the pin into the bandage. There was a smear of vermilion from her lips on the steel shank.

  ‘There. That’s all right now. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Is the Sumatra a nice place? I do wish you would take me there one of these days.’

  ‘But it would tire you,’ said Mathieu rather irritably.

  ‘Oh, just for once... we would make an occasion of it, it’s so long since I’ve had an evening out with you anywhere.’

  An evening out! Mathieu angrily repeated the too conjugal phrase: Marcelle was not tactful in her choice of words.

  ‘Will you?’ said Marcelle.

  ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘it couldn’t be before the autumn anyway: you must look after yourself properly just now, and besides the place will soon be closing for the summer break. Lola is going on tour in North Africa.’

  ‘Well, then, we’ll go in the autumn. Is that a promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marcelle coughed with embarrassment. ‘I can see you’re a bit annoyed with me.’

  ‘Annoyed?’

  ‘Yes... I was very tiresome the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Not at all. Why?’

  ‘Indeed I was. I was nervy.’

  ‘Well, that was natural. It’s all my fault, my poor darling.’

  ‘You’re not in the least to blame,’ she exclaimed cheerfully, ‘you never have been.’

  He did not dare to look at her, he could picture only too clearly the expression on her face, he could not endure that inexplicable and unmerited air of confidence. There was a long silence: she certainly expected a word of affection, a word of forgiveness. Mathieu could hold out no longer.

  ‘Look,’ he said.

  He produced his pocket book and laid it open on his knees. Marcelle craned her neck to look, and set her chin on Mathieu’s shoulder.

  ‘What am I to look at?’

  ‘This.’

  He took the notes out of the pocket book.

  ‘One, two, three, four,’ said he, crackling them triumphantly. They were still odorous of Lola. Mathieu waited a moment, with the notes on his knees, and as Marcelle did not utter a word, he turned towards her. She had raised her head, she was looking at the notes, and blinking. She did not seem to understand. Then she said slowly: ‘Four thousand francs.’

  Mathieu airily dropped the notes on to the table by the bed.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘Four thousand francs. I had some trouble in raising the money.’

  Marcelle did not answer. She bit her underlip and eyed the notes with an air of incredulity: she had suddenly aged. She looked at Mathieu with a sad but still confiding air. And she said: ‘I thought...’

  Mathieu interrupted her, and said briskly: ‘You’ll be able to go to the Jew. It seems he’s famous. Hundreds of women in Vienna have been through his hands. Women in good society, wealthy patients.’

  The light in Marcelle’s eyes went out. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’

  She had taken a safety-pin out of the box of dressings and was nervously opening and shu
tting it. Mathieu added: ‘I’ll leave the money with you. I fancy Sarah will take you to him, and you will pay the fee, he wants to be paid in advance, confound him.’

  There was silence, and then Marcelle asked: ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘Guess,’ said Mathieu.

  ‘Daniel?’

  He shrugged his shoulders: she knew quite well that Daniel had refused to lend a penny.

  ‘Jacques?’

  ‘Certainly not. I told you yesterday on the telephone.’

  ‘Then I give it up,’ she said curtly. ‘Who?’

  ‘No one gave it to me,’ he said.

  Marcelle smiled faintly: ‘You’re not going to tell me that you stole the money?’

  ‘That’s just what I did.’

  ‘You stole it,’ she replied with bewilderment. ‘It isn’t true?’

  ‘It is. From Lola.’

  A silence followed. Mathieu wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ he said.

  ‘You stole it!’ repeated Marcelle slowly.

  Her face had turned grey: and she, with eyes averted, said: ‘How you must have wanted to get rid of the child.’

  ‘What I did want was to prevent you going to that old woman.’

  She pondered: her mouth had resumed its hard and cynical expression.

  ‘Do you blame me,’ he asked, ‘for having stolen the money?’

  ‘Good heavens — no.’

  ‘Then what’s the matter?’

  With a sudden movement of her hand Marcelle knocked the box of dressings on to the floor. They both looked at it, and Mathieu thrust it aside with his foot. Slowly Marcelle turned her head towards him, she looked astonished.

  ‘Tell me what’s the matter,’ repeated Mathieu.

  She laughed shortly.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  ‘At myself,’ she said.

  She had taken the flower from her hair, and was twirling it in her fingers. And she murmured: ‘What a fool I’ve been.’

  Her face had hardened. She sat with her mouth open as though she wanted to speak to him, but the words would not come; she seemed to be afraid of what she had in mind to say. Mathieu took her hand, but she drew it away. She said, without looking at him: ‘I know you have seen Daniel.’

  It was out! She had jerked herself backwards and was convulsively clutching the sheets: she looked both frightened and relieved. Mathieu also felt relieved: all the cards were on the table: they must go through with it now. They had all night before them.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen him,’ said Mathieu. ‘How did you know? I suppose it was you who sent him? You fixed it all up between you, eh?’

  ‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said Marcelle, ‘you’ll wake my mother. It wasn’t I who sent him, but I knew he wanted to see you.’

  ‘How rotten of you,’ said Mathieu regretfully.

  ‘Oh yes; it was rotten of me,’ said Marcelle bitterly.

  They were silent: Daniel was there, he was sitting between them.

  ‘Well,’ said Mathieu. ‘We must have a frank explanation. That’s all we can do now.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ said Marcelle. ‘You have seen Daniel. He told you what he had to tell you, and you promptly went off and stole four thousand francs from Lola.’

  ‘Yes. And you have been receiving Daniel secretly for months past. There are plenty of things to be explained, you see. Look here,’ he said, brusquely: ‘What went wrong the day before yesterday.’

  ‘The day before yesterday?’

  ‘Don’t pretend not to understand. Daniel told me that you were hurt by my attitude on that day.’

  ‘Never mind now,’ she said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Please don’t be obstinate, Marcelle,’ said Mathieu. ‘I do assure you I mean well, I’ll admit anything that I shouldn’t have done. But tell me what went wrong the day before yesterday. We should get on so much better if we could recover a little confidence in each other.’

  She hesitated; she was looking sullen and rather listless.

  ‘Please —’ he said, taking her hand.

  ‘Well... it was just as usual, you couldn’t be serious about what was in my mind.’

  ‘And what was in your mind?’

  ‘Why do you want to make me say? You know quite well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mathieu. ‘I think I know.’

  He thought to himself: ‘That’s done it, I shall marry her.’ All was now clear. ‘I must indeed have been a swine to imagine I could get out of it.’ She was there, she was in distress, she was wretched and resentful, only one gesture was needed to restore her peace of mind. He said: ‘You want us to get married, don’t you?’

  She snatched her hand away, and leapt to her feet. He eyed her with bewilderment: she had turned sickly pale and her lips were quivering: ‘Yes... Was it Daniel told you that?’

  ‘No,’ said Mathieu, disconcerted. ‘But that’s what I assumed.’

  ‘That’s what you assumed!’ she laughed. ‘That’s what you assumed! Daniel told you I was upset, and you assumed I wanted to get married. So that’s what you think of me, Mathieu, after seven years.’

  Her hands too had now begun to tremble. Mathieu longed to take her in his arms, but did not dare.

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I oughtn’t to have thought that.’

  She seemed not to hear.

  ‘Look here,’ he went on; ‘There were excuses for me: Daniel had just told me you were seeing him without letting me know.’

  She still did not answer, and he added gently: ‘I suppose you want to have the baby?’

  ‘That,’ said Marcelle, ‘is no concern of yours. What I want is no longer any concern of yours.’

  ‘Please,’ said Mathieu: ‘there is still time...’

  She shook her head: ‘That’s not true, there isn’t time.’

  ‘But why, Marcelle? Why won’t you talk things over with me quietly? An hour would be enough: everything could be settled and cleared up...’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘But why? —Why?’

  ‘Because I no longer respect you. And also because you don’t love me any more.’

  She had spoken with assurance, but she herself was surprised and frightened by what she had just said: there was nothing now in her eyes but an uneasy interrogation. She continued in a melancholy voice: ‘If you think like that of me, you must have completely ceased to love me...’

  It was almost a question. If he took her in his arms, if he told her that he loved her, the situation might yet be saved. He would marry her, they would have the child, they would live side by side for the rest of their lives. He had got up: he was about to say to her — I love you. He swayed slightly, and then said in a clear voice: ‘Well, it’s true... I no longer love you.’

  Some while after the words had been spoken he still heard them, to his amazement. And he thought: ‘That’s the end of everything.’ Marcelle had started back, uttering a cry of triumph, but almost immediately she laid her hand to her mouth and signed to him to be silent. ‘Mother —’ she murmured anxiously.

  They both stood listening, but could hear no sound but the distant mutter of traffic.

  ‘Marcelle,’ said Mathieu: ‘I still care for you very deeply...’ Marcelle laughed disdainfully. ‘Of course. Only you care — differently. Is that what you mean?’

  He took her hand, and said: ‘Listen...’

  She jerked her hand away: ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘That’s enough. I know what I wanted to know.’

  She brushed back from her forehead a few meshes of hair now soaked in perspiration. Suddenly she smiled, as though at a recollection.

  ‘But look here,’ she resumed with a flash of malicious joy: ‘that isn’t what you said yesterday, on the telephone. You said in so many words — I do love you — though no one asked you the question.’

  Mathieu did not answer. She said with a crushing look: ‘The fact is
— you despise me.’

  ‘I don’t despise you,’ said Mathieu. ‘I...’

  ‘Go,’ said Marcelle.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Mathieu. ‘I won’t go, I really must explain to you that I...’

  ‘Go,’ she repeated hoarsely, her eyes closed.

  ‘But I still care for you deeply,’ he exclaimed in desperation: ‘I have no notion of giving you up. I want to stay with you all my life, I’ll marry you, I...’

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Go, I can’t see you any more; go, or I won’t answer for myself. I’ll start screaming.’

  She had begun to quiver all over. Mathieu took one step towards her, but she repulsed him violently.

  ‘If you don’t go, I shall call Mother.’

  He opened the wardrobe and took out his shoes, he felt ridiculous and detestable. Addressing his back, she said: ‘Take your money with you.’

  Mathieu turned round. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s a separate matter. There’s no sense in...’

  She took the notes from the night-table and flung them in his face. They fluttered across the room and dropped beside the bed, near the box of dressings. Mathieu did not pick them up: he looked at Marcelle. She had begun to laugh in hysterical paroxysms, her eyes still closed.

  ‘Oh, how funny it all is! And I who thought...’

  He made as though to approach her, but she opened her eyes, and leapt backwards, pointing to the door. ‘If I stay, she’ll begin to scream,’ he thought... He turned on his heel and went out of the room in his socks, carrying his shoes in his hand. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he put on his shoes, paused for an instant, his hand on the latch of the front door, and listened. He suddenly heard Marcelle’s laugh, a low-pitched ominous laugh, that gradually shrilled into something like a horse’s neigh and then cascaded downwards. A voice cried: ‘Marcelle! What’s the matter? Marcelle!’

  It was her mother. The laugh broke off short, and silence fell. Mathieu listened for an instant longer, and, as he could hear nothing more, he quietly opened the door and went out.

  CHAPTER 18

  HE THOUGHT to himself: ‘I’m a swine,’ and was vastly astonished at the fact. There was nothing left in him but exhaustion and amazement. He stopped at the second floor landing to get his breath. His legs were unsteady; he had only had six hours’ sleep for three days, perhaps not even that: ‘I’ll go to bed.’ He would throw his clothes down anyhow, stagger to his bed, and fall into it. But he knew he would stay awake all night, staring into the darkness. He went on upstairs: the door of his flat was still open. Ivich must have fled; the reading lamp was still alight in his study.