All was silent. They were gone. They had hidden elsewhere. The
husband was coming. I gathered that from what they had said. But did
I really know what they had said?
I paced up and down in my room, then dined, as in a dream, and went
out, lured by humanity.
A cafe! The bright lighting beckoned to me to enter. Calm, simple,
care-free people, who have no task like mine to accomplish.
Sitting by herself at a table, constantly looking around, was a girl
with a painted face. A full glass was set in front of her and she held
a little dog on her lap. His head reached over the edge of the marble
table, and he comically sued on behalf of his mistress for the glances,
even the smiles of the passersby.
The woman looked at me with interest. She saw I was not waiting for
anybody or anything.
A sign, a word, and she, who was waiting for everybody, would come over
to me with a smile. But no! I was simpler than that. If love
troubled me, it was because of a great thought and not a mere instinct.
It was my misfortune to have a dream greater and stronger than I could
bear.
Woe to those who dream of what they do not possess! They are right,
but they are too right, and so are outside of nature. The simple, the
weak, the humble pass carelessly by what is not meant for them. They
touch everything lightly, without anguish. But the others! But I!
I wanted to take what was not mine. I wanted to steal. I wanted to
live all lives, to dwell in all hearts.
Ah! I saw now how I should be punished for having entered into the
living secrets of man. My punishment would fit my crime. I was
destined to undergo the infinite misery I read in the others. I was to
be punished by every mystery that kept its secret, by every woman who
went by.
Infinity is not what we think. We associate it with heroes of legend
and romance, and we invest fiery, exceptional characters, like a
Hamlet, with infinity as with a theatrical costume. But infinity
resides quietly in that man who is just passing by on the street. It
resides in me, just as I am, with my ordinary face and name, in me, who
want everything I have not. And there is no reason why there should be
any limits to what I want.
So, step by step, I followed the track of the infinite. It made me
suffer. Ah, if I did wrong, that great misery of mine, the tragedy of
striving for the impossible, redeemed me. But I do not believe in
redemption. I was suffering, and doubtless I looked like a martyr.
I had to go home to fulfil my martyrdom in the whole of its wretched
duration. I had to go on looking. I was losing time in the world
outside. I returned to my room, which welcomed me like a living being.
. . . . .
I passed two idle days, watching fruitlessly.
I took to my hasty pacing to and fro again and succeeded, not without
difficulty, in gaining a few days of respite, in making myself forget
for a while.
I dwelt within these walls quiet in a feverish sort of way and inactive
as a prisoner. I walked up and down my room a great part of the day,
attracted by the opening in the wall and not daring to go away to a
distance from it again.
The long hours went by, and in the evening I was worn out by my
indefatigable hope.
. . . . .
The room was in disorder. Amy was there with her husband. They had
come back from a journey.
I had not heard them enter. I must have been too tired.
He had his hat on and was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She was
dressing. I saw her disappear behind the washroom door. I looked at
the husband. His features were regular and even seemed to show a
certain nobility. The line of his forehead was clear cut. Only his
mouth and moustache were somewhat coarse. He had a healthier, stronger
appearance than her lover. His hand, which was toying with a cane, was
fine, and there was a forceful elegance about his whole personality.
That was the man she hated and was deceiving. It was that head, that
face, that expression which had lowered and disfigured themselves in
her eyes, and were synonymous with her unhappiness.
All at once she was there in full view. My heart stood still and
contracted and drew me toward her. She had nothing on but a short,
thin chemise. She had come back a bit tired out by the thousands of
little nothings she had already done. She had a toothbrush in her
hand, her lips were moist and red, her hair dishevelled. Her legs were
dainty, and the arch of her little feet was accentuated by her high-
heeled shoes.
The air in the closed room was heavy with a mixture of odours--soap,
face powder, the pungent scent of cologne.
She went out and came back again, warm and soapy, drying her face.
This time she was all fresh and rosy.
He was talking about something, with his legs stretched out a little,
sometimes looking at her, sometimes not looking at her.
"You know, the Bernards have not accepted."
He glanced at her, then looked down at the carpet and gave a
disappointed cluck with his tongue, absorbed in this matter that
interested him, while she kept going and coming, showing the lovely
curves of her body.
She /was/ lovely. But her husband went on droning his commonplaces,
phrases that meant nothing to her, that were strange to her, and that
seemed blasphemous in the room which held her beauty.
She put her garments on, one by one. Her husband continued in his
bestial indifference, and dropped back into his reflections.
She went to the mirror over the mantelpiece with toilet articles spread
out before her. Probably the mirror in the washroom was too small.
While keeping on with her toilet, she spoke as if to herself in a gay,
animated, chatty way, because it was still the springtime of the day.
She gave herself careful attention and took much time to groom herself.
But this was an important matter, and the time was not lost. Besides,
she was really hurrying.
Now she went to a wardrobe and took out a light dress of delicate
texture, which she held out in her arms carefully.
She started to put the dress on, then an idea suddenly occurred to her
and she stopped.
"No, no, no, decidedly not," she said.
She put the dress back and looked for another one, a dark skirt and a
blouse.
She took a hat, fluffed the ribbon a bit, then held the trimming of
roses close to her face in front of the mirror. Then she began to
sing, evidently satisfied.
. . . . .
He did not look at her, and when he did look at her, he did not see
her.
It was a solemn spectacle, a drama, but a drama dismal and depressing.
That man was not happy, and yet I envied him his happiness. How
explain this except by the fact that happiness is within us, within
each of us, and is the desire for what we do not possess?
These two were together, but in reality far apart. They had left each
other without leaving each other. A sort of intrigue about nothing
held them together. They would never come nearer again, for between
them lay the impassable barrier of love over and done with. This
silence and this mutual ignorance are the cruelest things in the world.
To cease to love is worse than to hate, for say what you will, death is
worse than suffering.
I am sorry for the men and women who go through life together in the
chains of indifference. I am sorry for the poor heart that has what it
has for so short a time. I am sorry for the men who have the heart not
to love any more.
And for a moment, seeing this simple harrowing scene, I underwent a
little of the enormous suffering of those innumerable people who suffer
all.
. . . . .
Amy finished dressing. She put on a coat to match her skirt, leaving
it partly open to show her transparent flesh-coloured lingerie waist.
Then she left us--her husband and me.
He, too, made ready to leave, but the door opened again. Was it Amy
coming back? No, it was the maid, who, seeing the room was occupied,
started to withdraw.
"Excuse me, sir. I came to put the room in order, but I don't want to
disturb you."
"You may stay."
She began to pick things up and close drawers. He raised his head and
looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Then he rose and went over
to her awkwardly, as though fascinated. A scuffling and an outcry,
stifled by a coarse laugh. She dropped her brush and the gown she was
holding. He caught her from behind and put his arms around her waist.
"Oh, go on! Stop! What-che doing?"
He did not say anything, but pressed her closer to him.
She laughed. Her hair came partly undone and fell down over her blowsy
face. He trod on Amy's gown, which had dropped from the girl's hand.
Then she felt the thing had gone far enough.
"Now, that'll do, that'll do," she said.
Since he still said nothing and brought his jaw close to her neck, she
got angry.
"I told you, that'll do. Stop, I say. What's the matter with you?"
At length he let her go, and left, laughing a devilish laugh of shame
and cynicism.
He went out, his passion still seething. But it was not only the
overwhelming instinct that was stirring in him. A moment before that
exquisite woman had unfolded herself in his presence in all her
exquisite beauty, and he had not desired her.
Perhaps she denied herself to him. Perhaps they had an agreement with
each other. But I plainly saw that even his eyes did not care, those
same eyes which kindled at the sight of the servant girl, that ignoble
Venus with untidy hair and dirty finger nails.
Because he did not know her, because she was different from the one
whom he knew. To have what one has not. So, strange as it may seem,
it was an idea, a lofty, eternal idea that guided his instinct.
I understood--I to whom it was given to behold these human crises--I
understood that many things which we place outside ourselves are really
inside ourselves, and that this was the secret.
How the veils drop off! How the intricacies unravel, and simplicity
appears!
. . . . .
One dark stormy night two women came and occupied the Room. I could
not see them and caught only fragments of their strange, whispered talk
of love. From that time on the meals of the boarding-house had a magic
attraction for me. I studied all the faces, trying to identify those
two beings.
But I questioned pairs of faces in vain. I made efforts to detect
resemblances. There was nothing to guide me. I knew them no more than
if they had been buried in the dark night outside.
There were five girls or young women in the dining-room. One of them,
at least, must have been an occupant of the Room that night. But a
stronger will than mine shut off her countenance. I did not know, and
I was overwhelmed by the nothingness of what I saw.
They left, one at a time. I did not know. My hands twitched in the
infinity of uncertainty, and my fingers pressed the void. My face was
there, my face, which was a definite thing, confronting everything
possible, everything indefinite.
. . . . .
The lady there! I recognised Amy. She was talking to the landlady
beside the window. I did not notice her at first, because of the other
boarders between us.
She was eating grapes, daintily, with a rather studied manner.
I turned towards her. Her name was Madame Montgeron or Montgerot. It
sounded funny to me. Why did she have that name? It seemed not to
suit her, or to be useless. It struck me how artificial words and
signs are.
The meal was over. Almost everybody had gone out. Coffee cups and
sticky little liqueur glasses were scattered on the table on which a
sunbeam shone, mottling the tablecloth and making the glasses sparkle.
A coffee stain had dried on the cloth and gave out fragrance.
I joined in the conversation between Amy and Madame Lemercier. She
looked at me. I scarcely recognised her look, which I had seen so
clearly before.
The man-servant came in and whispered a few words to Madame Lemercier.
She rose, excused herself, and went out of the room. I was left with
Amy. There were only two or three people in the dining-room, who were
discussing what they were going to do in the afternoon.
I did not know what to say to her. The conversation flagged and died
out. She must have thought that she did not interest me--this woman,
whose heart I had seen, and whose destiny I knew as well as God
Himself.
She reached for a newspaper lying on the table, read a line or two,
then folded it, rose and also left the room.
Sickened by the commonplaceness of life and dull from the heaviness of
the after-lunch hour, I leaned drowsily on the long, long table, the
sunlit table disappearing into infinity, and I made an effort to keep
my arms from giving way, my chin from dropping, and my eyes from
closing.
And in that disorderly room, where the servants were already hastening
quietly to clear the table and make ready for the evening meal, I
lingered almost alone, not knowing whether I was happy or unhappy, not
knowing what was real and what was supernatural.
Then I understood. It came upon me softly, heavily. I looked around
at all those simple, peaceful things. Then I closed my eyes, and said
to myself, like a seer who gradually becomes conscious of the nature of
the revelation he has seen, "The infinite--why, this is the infinite.
It is true. I can no longer doubt." It came upon me with force that
there is nothing strange on earth, that the supernatural does not
exist, or, rather, that it is everywhere. It is in reality, in
simplicity, in peace. It is here, inside these walls. The real and
the supernatural are one and the same. There can no more be mystery in
life than there can be a fourth dimension.
I, like other men, am moulded out of infinity. But how confused it all
was to me! And I dreamed of myself, who could neither know myself well
nor rid me of myself--myself who was like a deep shadow between my heart
and the sun.