i
My dear friends, I knew you were faithful. You have answered my summons
as quickly as I should have answered yours. And yet three years have
gone by without your seeing me. May your friendship, which has been so
proof against absence, be equally proof against the story I am going to
tell you. For it was solely to see you, solely that you might listen to
me, that I called upon you so suddenly and made you take this journey
to my distant abode. The only help I wish for is this--to talk to you.
For I have reached a point in my life beyond which I cannot go. Not
from weariness though. But I can no longer understand things. I want
... I want to talk, I tell you. To know how to free oneself is nothing;
the arduous thing is to know what to do with one’s freedom. Let me
speak of myself; I am going to tell you my life simply, without modesty
and without pride, more simply than if I were talking to myself. Listen:
The last time we saw each other, I remember, was in the neighbourhood
of Angers, in the little country church in which I was married. There
were very few people at my wedding and the presence of real friends
turned this commonplace function into something touching. I felt that
others were moved and that in itself was enough to move me. After we
left the church you joined us at my bride’s house for a short meal, at
which there was neither noise nor laughter; then, she and I drove away
in a hired carriage, according to the custom by which we always have to
associate the idea of a wedding with the vision of a railway station.
I knew my wife very little and thought, without being much distressed
by it, that she knew me no better. I had married her without being in
love, greatly in order to please my father who, as he lay dying, felt
anxious at leaving me alone. I loved my father dearly; engrossed by his
last illness, I had thought of nothing else all through that melancholy
time but how to make his end easier; and so I pledged my life before I
knew what the possibilities of life were. Our betrothal took place at
my dying father’s bedside, without laughter but not without a certain
grave joy, so great was the peace it brought him. If, as I say, I did
not love my betrothed, at any rate I had never loved any other woman.
This seemed to me sufficient to secure our happiness; and I thought I
was giving her the whole of myself, without having any knowledge of
what that self was. She was an orphan as I was, and lived with her two
brothers. Her name was Marceline; she was barely twenty; I was four
years older.
I have said I did not love her--at any rate, I felt for her nothing
of what is generally known as love, but I loved her, if that word may
cover a feeling of tenderness, a sort of pity, and a considerable
measure of esteem. She was a Catholic and I a Protestant ... but,
thought I, so little of a Protestant! The priest accepted me; I
accepted the priest; it all went off without a hitch.
My father was what is called an ‘atheist’--at least, I suppose so, for
a kind of invincible shyness, which I imagine he shared, had always
made it impossible for me to talk to him about his beliefs. The grave
Huguenot teaching which my mother had given me had slowly faded from my
mind together with the image of her beauty; you know I was young when
I lost her. I did not then suspect how great a hold the early moral
lessons of our childhood take of one, nor what marks they leave upon
the mind. That kind of austerity, a taste for which had been left me
by my mother’s bringing up, I now applied wholly to my studies. I was
fifteen when I lost her; my father took me in hand, looked after me
and instructed me himself with passionate eagerness. I already knew
Latin and Greek well; under him I quickly learnt Hebrew, Sanskrit,
and finally Persian and Arabic. When I was about twenty I had been
so intensively forced that he actually made me his collaborator. It
amused him to claim me as his equal and he wanted to show me he was
right. The _Essay on Phrygian Cults_ which appeared under his name was
in reality my work; he scarcely read it over; nothing he had written
ever brought him so much praise. He was delighted. As for me I was a
little abashed by the success of this deception. But my reputation was
made. The most learned scholars treated me as their colleague. I smile
now at all the honours that were paid me.... And so I reached the age
of twenty-five, having barely cast a glance at anything but books and
ruins, and knowing nothing of life; I spent all my fervour in my work.
I loved a few friends (you were among them), but it was not so much my
friends I loved as friendship--it was a craving for high-mindedness
that made my devotion to them so great; I cherished in myself each and
all of my fine feelings. For the rest, I knew my friends as little as I
knew myself. The idea that I might have lived a different existence or
that anyone could possibly live differently never for a moment crossed
my mind.
My father and I were satisfied with simple things; we both of us spent
so little that I reached the age of twenty-five without knowing that
we were rich. I imagined, without giving it much thought, that we had
just enough to live on. And the habits of economy I had acquired with
my father were so great that I felt almost uncomfortable when I learnt
we had a great deal more. I was so careless about such matters that
even after my father’s death, though I was his sole heir, I failed
to realize the extent of my fortune; I did so only when our marriage
settlements were being drawn up and at the same time I learnt that
Marceline brought me next to nothing.
And another thing I was ignorant of--even more important perhaps--was
that I had very delicate health. How should I have known this, when
I had never put it to the test? I had colds from time to time and
neglected them. The excessive tranquillity of the life I led weakened,
while at the same time it protected me. Marceline, on the contrary,
seemed strong--that she was stronger than I we were very soon to learn.
* * * * *
On our wedding-day, we went straight to Paris and slept in my apartment
where two rooms had been got ready for us. We stayed in Paris only
just long enough to do some necessary shopping, then took the train to
Marseilles and embarked at once for Tunis.
So many urgent things to be done, so many bewildering events following
each other in too rapid succession, the unavoidable agitation of my
wedding coming so soon after the more genuine emotion caused by my
father’s death--all of this had left me exhausted. It was only on the
boat that I was able to realize how tired I was. Up till then, every
occupation, while increasing my fatigue, had distracted me from feeling
it. The enforced leisure on board ship at last enabled me to reflect.
For the first time, so it seemed to me.
It was for the first time too that I had consented to forgo my work
for any length of time. Up till then I had only allowed myself short
holidays. A journey to Spain with my father shortly after my mother’s
death had, it is true, lasted over a month; another to Germany,
six weeks; there were others too, but they had all been student’s
journeys; my father was never to be distracted from his own particular
researches; when I was not accompanying him, I used to read. And
yet, we had hardly left Marseilles, when memories came back to me of
Granada and Seville, of a purer sky, of franker shadows, of dances,
of laughter, of songs. That is what we are going to find, I thought.
I went up on to the deck and watched Marseilles disappearing in the
distance.
Then, suddenly, it occurred to me that I was leaving Marceline a little
too much to herself.
She was sitting in the bows; I drew near, and for the first time really
looked at her.
Marceline was very pretty. You saw her, so you know. I reproached
myself for not having noticed it sooner. I had known her too long to
see her with any freshness of vision; our families had been friends for
ages; I had seen her grow up; I was accustomed to her grace.... For the
first time now I was struck with astonishment, it seemed to me so great.
She wore a big veil, floating from a simple black straw hat; she was
fair, but did not look delicate. Her bodice and skirt were made of the
same material--a Scotch plaid which we had chosen together. I had not
wanted the gloom of my mourning to overshadow her.
She felt I was looking at her and turned towards me ... up till then I
had only paid her the necessary official attentions; I replaced love
as best I could by a kind of frigid gallantry, which I saw well enough
she found rather tiresome; perhaps at that moment Marceline felt I was
looking at her for the first time in a different way. She, in her turn
looked fixedly at me; then, very tenderly, smiled. I sat down beside
her without speaking. I had lived up till then for myself alone, or at
any rate in my own fashion; I had married without imagining I should
find in my wife anything different from a comrade, without thinking at
all definitely that my life might be changed by our union. And now at
last I realized that the monologue had come to an end.
We were alone on deck. She held up her face and I gently pressed her to
me; she raised her eyes; I kissed her on the eyelids and suddenly felt
as I kissed her an unfamiliar kind of pity, which took hold of me so
violently that I could not restrain my tears.
“What is it, dear?” said Marceline.
We began to talk. What she said was so charming that it delighted me.
I had picked up in one way or another a few ideas on women’s silliness.
That evening, in her presence, it was myself I thought awkward and
stupid.
So the being to whom I had attached my life had a real and individual
life of her own! The importance of this thought woke me up several
times during the night; several times I sat up in my berth in order to
look at Marceline, my wife, asleep in the berth below.
The next morning the sky was splendid; the sea almost perfectly calm.
A few leisurely talks lessened our shyness still more. Marriage was
really beginning. On the morning of the last day of October we landed
in Tunis.
* * * * *
I intended to stay there only a few days. I will confess my folly; in
so new a country nothing attracted me except Carthage and a few Roman
ruins--Timgad, about which Octave had spoken to me, the mosaics of
Sousse, and above all the amphitheatre of El Djem, which I decided
we must visit without delay. We had first to get to Sousse, and from
Sousse take the mail diligence; between this and then I was determined
to think nothing worth my attention.
And yet Tunis surprised me greatly. At the touch of new sensations,
certain portions of me awoke--certain sleeping faculties, which, from
not having as yet been used, had kept all their mysterious freshness.
But I was more astonished, more bewildered than amused, and what
pleased me most was Marceline’s delight.
My fatigue in the meantime was growing greater every day; but I should
have thought it shameful to give in to it. I had a bad cough and a
curious feeling of discomfort in the upper part of my chest. We are
going towards the South, I thought; the heat will put me to rights
again.
The Sfax diligence leaves Sousse at eight o’clock in the evening
and passes through El Djem at one o’clock in the morning. We had
engaged coupé places; I expected to find an uncomfortable shandrydan;
the seats, however, were fairly commodious. But oh, the cold!...
We were both lightly clad and, with a kind of childish confidence
in the warmth of southern climes, had taken no wrap with us but a
single shawl. As soon as we were out of Sousse and the shelter of
its hills, the wind began to blow. It leapt over the plain in great
bounds, howling, whistling, coming in by every chink of the door and
windows--impossible to protect oneself from it! We were both chilled
to the bone when we arrived and I exhausted as well by the jolting
of the carriage and by my horrible cough which shook me even worse.
What a night! When we got to El Djem, there was no inn, nothing but a
frightful native _bordj_. What was to be done? The diligence was going
on; the village was asleep; the lugubrious mass of the ruins lowered
dimly through the dark immensity of the night; dogs were howling. We
went into a room whose walls and floor were made of mud and in which
stood two wretched beds. Marceline was shivering with cold, but here at
any rate, we were out of the wind.
The next day was a dismal one. We were surprised on going out to see
a sky that was one unrelieved grey. The wind was still blowing, but
less violently than the night before. The diligence only passed through
again in the evening.... It was a dismal day, I tell you. I went over
the amphitheatre in a few minutes and found it disappointing; I thought
it actually ugly under that dreary sky. Perhaps my fatigue added to my
feeling of tedium. Towards the middle of the day, as I had nothing else
to do, I went back to the ruins and searched in vain for inscriptions
on the stones. Marceline found a place that was sheltered from the
wind and sat reading an English book, which by good luck she had
brought with her. I went and sat beside her.
“What a melancholy day!” I said. “Aren’t you bored?”
“Not particularly. I am reading.”
“What made us come to such a place? I hope you are not cold, are you?”
“Not so very. And you? Oh, you must be. How pale you are!”
“No, oh no!”
At night, the wind began again as violently as ever.... At last the
diligence arrived. We started.
No sooner did the jolting begin than I felt shattered. Marceline, who
was very tired, had gone to sleep almost at once on my shoulder. My
cough will wake her, I thought, and freeing myself very, very gently,
I propped her head against the side of the carriage. In the mean time
I had stopped coughing; yes; I had begun to spit instead; this was
something new; I brought it up without an effort; it came in little
jerks at regular intervals; the sensation was so odd that at first it
almost amused me, but I was soon disgusted by the peculiar taste it
left in my mouth. My handkerchief was very soon used up. My fingers
were covered with it. Should I wake up Marceline?... Fortunately I
thought of a large silk foulard she was wearing tucked into her belt.
I took possession of it quietly. The spitting, which I no longer tried
to keep back, came more abundantly and I was extraordinarily relieved
by it. It is the end of my cold, I thought. Then, there suddenly came
over me a feeling of extreme weakness; everything began to spin round
and I thought I was going to faint. Should I wake her up?... No,
shame!... (My puritanical childhood has left me, I think, a hatred of
any surrender to bodily weakness--cowardice, I call it.) I controlled
myself, made a desperate effort and finally conquered my giddiness....
I felt as if I were at sea again, and the noise of the wheels turned
into the sound of the waves.... But I had stopped spitting.
Then I sank, overpowered, into a sort of sleep.
When I emerged from it, the sky was already filling with dawn.
Marceline was still asleep. We were just getting to Sousse. The foulard
I was holding in my hand was dark-coloured, so that at first I saw
nothing; but when I took out my handkerchief, I saw with stupefaction
that it was soaked with blood.
My first thought was to hide the blood from Marceline. But how?
I was covered with it; it seemed to be everywhere; on my fingers
especially.... My nose might perhaps have been bleeding.... That’s it!
If she asks me, I shall say my nose has been bleeding.
Marceline was still asleep. We drew up at the Sousse hotel. She had
to get down first and saw nothing. Our two rooms had been kept for
us. I was able to dart into mine and wash away every trace of blood.
Marceline had seen nothing.
I was feeling very weak, however, and ordered some tea to be brought.
And as she was pouring it out, a little pale herself, but very calm
and smiling, a kind of irritation seized me to think she had not had
the sense to see anything. I felt indeed I was being unjust, and
said to myself that she only saw nothing, because I had hidden it
from her so cleverly; but I couldn’t help it--the feeling grew in me
like an instinct, filled me ... and at last it became too strong;
I could contain myself no longer; the words slipped out, as though
absent-mindedly:
“I spat blood last night.”
She did not utter a sound; she simply turned much paler, tottered,
tried to save herself and fell heavily to the ground.
I sprang to her in a sort of fury: “Marceline! Marceline!” What on
earth had I done? Wasn’t it enough for _me_ to be ill? But, as I
have said, I was very weak; I was on the point of fainting myself. I
managed, however, to open the door and call. Someone hurried to our
help.
I remembered I had a letter of introduction to an officer in the town,
and on the strength of this I sent for the regimental doctor.
Marceline in the meantime had recovered herself and settled down at
my bedside, where I lay, shivering with fever. The doctor came and
examined us both; there was nothing the matter with Marceline, he
declared, and she had not been hurt by her fall; _I_ was seriously ill;
he refused to give a definite opinion and promised to come back before
evening.
He came back, smiled at me, talked to me and prescribed various
remedies. I realized that he gave me up for lost. Shall I confess that
I felt not the least shock? I was very tired, I simply let myself go.
‘After all, what had life to offer? I had worked faithfully to the end,
resolutely and passionately done my duty. The rest ... oh! what did
it matter?’ thought I, with a certain admiration of my own stoicism.
What really pained me was the ugliness of my surroundings. ‘This hotel
room is frightful,’ I thought and looked at it. Suddenly it occurred
to me that in a like room next door was my wife, Marceline; and I
heard her speaking. The doctor had not gone; he was talking to her; he
was studiously lowering his voice. A little time went by--I must have
slept....
When I woke up, Marceline was there. I could see she had been crying.
I did not care for life enough to pity myself; but the ugliness of the
place vexed me; my eyes rested on her with a pleasure that was almost
voluptuous.
She was sitting by me writing. I thought she looked very pretty. I saw
her fasten up several letters. Then she got up, drew near my bed and
took my hand tenderly.
“How are you feeling now?” she asked. I smiled and said sadly:
“Shall I get better?” But she answered at once, “You _shall_ get
better” with such passionate conviction that it almost brought
conviction to me too, and there came over me a kind of confused feeling
of all that life might mean, of Marceline’s own love--a vague vision
of such pathetic beauties that the tears started from my eyes and I
wept long and helplessly without trying or wanting to stop.
With what loving violence she managed to get me away from Sousse!
How charmingly she protected me, helped me, nursed me! From Sousse
to Tunis, from Tunis to Constantine, Marceline was admirable. It was
at Biskra I was to get well. Her confidence was perfect; never for a
single moment did her zeal slacken. She settled everything, arranged
the starts, engaged the rooms. It was not in her power, alas! to make
the journey less horrible. Several times I thought I should have to
stop and give up. I sweated mortally; I gasped for breath; at times I
lost consciousness. At the end of the third day, I arrived at Biskra
more dead than alive.
ii
Why speak of those first days? What remains of them? Their frightful
memory has no tongue. I lost all knowledge of who or where I was. I
can only see Marceline, my wife, my life, bending over the bed where
I lay agonizing. I know that her passionate care, her love alone,
saved me. One day, at last, like a ship-wrecked mariner who catches
sight of land, I felt a gleam of life revisit me; I was able to smile
at Marceline. Why should I recall all this? What is important is that
Death had touched me, as people say, with its wing. What is important
is that I came to think it a very astonishing thing to be alive, that
every day shone for me, an unhoped-for light. Before, thought I, I did
not understand I was alive. The thrilling discovery of life was to be
mine.
The day came when I was able to get up. I was utterly enchanted by our
home. It was almost nothing but a terrace. What a terrace! My room and
Marceline’s opened out on to it; at the further end it was continued
over roofs. From the highest part, one saw palm-trees above the houses;
and above the palm-trees, the desert. On the other side, the terrace
adjoined the public gardens and was shaded by the branches of the
nearest cassias; lastly, it ran along one side of the courtyard--a
small, regular courtyard, planted regularly with six palm-trees--and
came to an end with the staircase that led down to the courtyard. My
room was spacious and airy; the walls were bare and whitewashed; a
little door led to Marceline’s room; a large door with glass panes
opened on to the terrace.
There the hourless days slipped by. How often in my solitude those
slow-slipping days come back to me!... Marceline sits beside me. She
is reading, or sewing, or writing. I am doing nothing--just looking
at her. O Marceline! Marceline!... I look. I see the sun; I see the
shadow; I see the line of shadow moving; I have so little to think
of that I watch it. I am still very weak; my breathing is very bad;
everything tires me--even reading; besides, what should I read?
Existing is occupation enough.
* * * * *
One morning Marceline came in laughing.
“I have brought you a friend,” she said, and I saw come in behind her
a little dark-complexioned Arab. His name was Bachir and he had large
silent eyes that looked at me. They made me feel embarrassed, and that
was enough to tire me. I said nothing, only looked cross. The child,
disconcerted by the coldness of my reception, turned to Marceline and,
with the coaxing grace of a little animal, nestled up against her, took
her hand and kissed it, showing his bare arms as he did so. I noticed
that under his thin, white gandourah and patched burnous, he was naked.
“Come, sit down there,” said Marceline, who had noticed my shyness.
“Amuse yourself quietly.”
The little fellow sat down on the floor, took a knife and a piece of
djerid wood out of the hood of his burnous, and began to slice at it. I
think it was a whistle he was trying to make.
After a little time, I ceased to feel uncomfortable. I looked at him;
he seemed to have forgotten where he was. His feet were bare; he had
charmingly turned ankles and wrists. He handled his wretched knife with
amusing dexterity.... Was this really going to interest me?... His hair
was shaved Arab fashion; he wore a shabby chechia on his head with a
hole in the place of the tassel. His gandourah, which had slipped down
a little, showed his delicate little shoulder. I wanted to touch it. I
bent down; he turned round and smiled at me. I signed to him to pass me
his whistle, took it and pretended to admire it. After a time he said
he must go. Marceline gave him a cake and I a penny.
The next day, for the first time, I felt dull. I seemed to be expecting
something. Expecting what? I was listless, restless. At last I could
resist no longer.
“Isn’t Bachir coming this morning, Marceline?”
“If you like, I’ll fetch him.”
She left me and went out; after a little she came back alone. What kind
of thing had illness made me that I should have felt inclined to cry at
seeing her return without Bachir?
“It was too late,” she said, “the children had come out of school and
dispersed. Some of them are really charming. I think they all know me
now.”
“Well, at any rate, try and get him to come tomorrow.”
Next morning Bachir came back. He sat down in the same way he had done
two days before, took out his knife and tried to carve his bit of wood,
but it was too hard for him and he finally managed to stick the blade
into his thumb. I shuddered with horror, but he laughed, held out his
hand for me to see the glistening cut and looked amused at the sight
of his blood running. When he laughed, he showed very white teeth; he
licked his cut complacently and his tongue was as pink as a cat’s.
Ah! how well he looked! That was what I had fallen in love with--his
health. The health of that little body was a beautiful thing.
The day after he brought some marbles. He wanted to make me play.
Marceline was out or she would have prevented me. I hesitated and
looked at Bachir; the little fellow seized my arm, put the marbles into
my hand, forced me. The attitude of stooping made me very breathless,
but I tried to play all the same. Bachir’s pleasure charmed me. At
last, however, it was too much for me. I was in a profuse perspiration.
I pushed aside the marbles and dropped into an armchair. Bachir,
somewhat disturbed, looked at me.
“Ill?” said he sweetly; the quality of his voice was exquisite.
Marceline came back at that moment.
“Take him away,” I said, “I am tired this morning.”
A few hours later I had a hemorrhage. It was while I was taking a
laborious walk up and down the terrace; Marceline was busy in her room
and fortunately saw nothing. My breathlessness had made me take a
deeper respiration than usual and the thing had suddenly come. It had
filled my mouth.... But it was no longer bright, clear blood as on the
first occasion. It was a frightful great clot which I spat on to the
ground in disgust.
I took a few tottering steps. I was horribly upset. I was frightened; I
was angry. For up till then I had thought that, step by step, recovery
was on the way, and that I had nothing to do but wait for it. This
brutal accident had thrown me back. The strange thing is that the first
hemorrhage had not affected me so much. I now remembered it had left me
almost calm. What was the reason of my fear, my horror now? Alas! it
was because I had begun to love life.
I returned on my steps, bent down, found the clot, and with a piece
of straw picked it up and put it on my handkerchief. It was hideous,
almost black in colour, sticky, slimy, horrible.... I thought of
Bachir’s beautiful, brilliant flow of blood.... And suddenly I was
seized with a desire, a craving, something more furious and more
imperious than I had ever felt before--to live! I want to live! I
_will_ live. I clenched my teeth, my hands, concentrated my whole being
in this wild, grief-stricken endeavour after existence.
The day before, I had received a letter from T..., written in answer
to Marceline’s anxious enquiries; it was full of medical advice; T...
had even accompanied his letter with one or two little popular medical
pamphlets and a book of a more technical nature, which for that reason
seemed to me more serious. I had read the letter carelessly and the
printed matter not at all; in the first place I was set against the
pamphlets because of their likeness to the moral tracts that used
to tease me in my childhood; and then too every kind of advice was
irksome to me; and besides, I did not think that _Advice to Tuberculous
Patients_ or _How to Cure Tuberculosis_ in any way concerned me. I
did not think I was tuberculous. I inclined to attribute my first
hemorrhage to a different cause; or rather, to tell the truth, I did
not attribute it to anything; I avoided thinking of it, hardly thought
of it at all, and considered myself, if not cured altogether, at
least very nearly so.... I read the letter; I devoured the book, the
pamphlets. Suddenly, with shocking clearness, it became evident to
me that I had not been treating myself properly. Hitherto, I had let
myself live passively, trusting to the vaguest of hopes; suddenly I
perceived my life was attacked--attacked in its very centre. An active
host of enemies was living within me. I listened to them; I spied
on them; I felt them. I should not vanquish them without a struggle
... and I added half aloud, as if better to convince myself, “It is a
matter of will.”