I
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD
In the beginning of July, the lime trees in the city park at Grenoble
were, in addition to their shade, still giving forth the heavy scent of
their fading flowers. A light breeze to offset the heat of the sun could
be found--there and under the trees on the promenade L'Ile Verte, where
nobody goes, and where even the nurses do not willingly take their
little charges.
After having thrown some bread to the black swan who caught it in his
red beak with a loud splash, Marie-Louise and Philippe Derize, who had
been summoned home, were saying good-by to their little friends, Jeanne
and Renée de Crozet, who were earnestly telling of their early
departure.
"We are going to Aix-Les-Bains this year."
"And we are going to Uriage," replied Marie-Louise who was never at a
loss for an answer.
"Saint-Martin," explained her stolid brother. "It is in the woods."
But the little girl promptly contradicted him:
"No, Uriage, it is more fashionable."
She thought she had eclipsed Aix-Les-Bains. She loved to excel. On the
way back Philippe protested:
"Our house is at Saint-Martin. It is in the mountains."
"Yes, but we are going to Uriage. You, you sleep like a trunk at night."
"I don't sleep like a trunk. Trunks don't sleep!"
"Grandpa says so. I listen at the open door, and have heard that we were
going to Uriage not to Saint Martin. And Grandmother said that papa was
dead to us."
"What's that 'dead'?"
"It is when you are buried."
"I don't want papa to be buried."
The little girl glanced at him with superiority and began to explain in
trying to recall some new expression that she had overheard.
"Well, not exactly. That's what is so funny; he is not dead at all, and
he is dead to us."
"Shall we see him again?"
"Of course. But you must not say so."
She inherited from her father, with his curiosity and high spirit, a
definite confidence in the future.
The child was not wrong about her mother's summer plans. The Derize
family generally left Paris from July until November, spending the
summer and part of the autumn at Saint Martin, a village built on the
side of the mountain of Chamrousse among the lime and chestnut trees,
above the castle of Saint-Ferriol. They lived in the old family mansion
which Albert had inherited. It was a large châlet with its beams set in
stone; with verandahs all round it, and green shutters to its windows.
An avenue of plane-trees led from the house to the church. Mme. Derize,
senior, had a room there, so vacation time was the best of the year for
her. Out of doors all day long, the children acquired complexions like
the country folk; and their cheeks grew rosy like winter apples. Albert
worked undisturbed on his "History of the Peasant" and listened to the
soothing voices of Nature which sang themselves into his book. But
sometimes when nightfall began to come earlier, Elizabeth found that
this simple life was growing monotonous; from the heart of the valley
came echoes of festivity, the animation of a happy little village; above
all she feared the solitude which forces one to seek distraction and
happiness within.
The Molay-Norrois rented a villa at Uriage, where they met a gathering
of their acquaintances. When the heat made Grenoble unbearable, they
easily persuaded their daughter to follow them.
"Why should you shut yourself up in that great lonely barn? What if your
husband should take it into his head to return? Come with us--you will
be much more at ease."
She had listened to them. In her husband's absence she was beginning to
experience again emotions long since forgotten--fear and uneasiness. And
the mere thought of the house at St. Martin with its long corridors, its
suites of rooms and the monotonous silence of the country, depressed
her.
Uriage, three or four miles from Grenoble, and 1500 feet above the sea,
easy of access, and quite near the lowland, has at the same time a
beautiful view and the invigorating air of the mountain. It is reached
through a somewhat narrow and wooded ravine, at the end of which runs a
peaceful streamlet--Le Sonnant. After a turn in the road there is a
little hill crowned by the castle of Saint Ferriol with its ancient
battlements (of which terraces have been made), its towers and its
gables. Having encircled it, one finally comes into the valley of
Vaulnaveys, where the bathing station is built. This valley of
Vaulnaveys, very limited in extent, bounded by the Cross of Chamrousse
and the mountain Les Quatre Seigneurs, has been compared to a vessel of
which the bow might be the castle of Saint-Ferriol and the stern that of
Vizille, doubly historic since it was rebuilt by Lesdiguières and
occupied in 1789 by the Assembly of the States of Dauphiné. It
resembles a little oasis of fresh verdure between the slopes of woods
and prairies. Owing to the supply of water the grass there is as bright
as in an English countryside. Here and there it has been mown to make a
tennis court, walks, and even a race course.
The Villa Mélèzes which the Molay-Norrois rented for the season stands
against the Chamrousse along the sloping road which leads from Uriage to
the castle of Saint Ferriol, so that it commands a view of the valley.
Pine trees at the back and rose trees in front seem in opposition the
one to the other, as happens frequently in this little corner of the
world; comparable, as it were, to those faces whose natural sweetness is
at first concealed under a serious expression.
On an afternoon in July, Mme. Passerat's motor brought the guests of
Mélèzes to their door. She occupied a neighboring villa, where she
received the old Counsellor Prémereux (jestingly called her duenna),
and the Vimelles; while the Bonnard-Bassons had taken a house a little
below. These ladies made all sorts of plans, and Mme. Bonnard-Basson had
already discovered on the list of visitors the names of several
aristocrats whom she was eager to meet. Marie Louise declared at once
that it was much prettier here than at Saint Martin; but little Philippe
somewhat startled by the speed of the journey reserved his opinion.
Elizabeth saw, above all, her opportunity for avoiding loneliness.
Nobody, in this affair, had given a thought to Albert's mother who was
still in Grenoble, despite the heat, and was to be deprived of her
little grandchildren. With the best of intentions one cannot please
everybody.
As a result of her peculiar position Elizabeth had decided to live very
quietly. She had spoken of it to her mother who had approved of her
attitude. At first she herself took the two children out walking,
manifested a reserved manner with persons whom she knew, and did not
come into the drawing-room when there were visitors. One morning, as she
was crossing the lawn in front of the casino, with Philippe and Marie
Louise, whom she was scolding for picking a flower there, she overheard
two young men conversing as follows:
"That is Mme. Albert Derize."
"The wife of the historian?"
"Yes."
"She is very pretty."
She blushed at this compliment intentionally spoken in too loud a tone,
but was not displeased to be noticed for something other than the name
she bore, which was a burden to her. Her attorney had promised her that
at the opening of the courts, separation would be granted without delay
in her favor, more especially since the defendant, not having as yet
taken any steps, would probably not appear, signifying that he did not
intend to enter a counter action. So there would be time to organize her
life anew. Until then there was nothing to do but wait, since she lacked
nothing and had all the advantages of a home.
But this home grew more lively from day to day. There were motor parties
to which she was always invited with the children. She refused; but her
friends protested so vehemently or so persuasively that finally she was
forced to accept. Thus she found herself in a social whirl. She was
taken to the castle of Vizille which rears its enormous mass of gray
stone above the blue Romanche; to the old bridge of Claix whose arch is
so high that it frames the whole landscape, and over the plain of
Matheysine to the little lakes of Laffrey, whose dark waters add a touch
of charm to the severity of the neighboring mountains. These short
afternoon excursions were gradually prolonged: the Grande Chartreuse,
the Lautaret Pass at the foot of the Grand Galibier or to Vercors, where
the picturesque Pont-en-Royans, carved out of the rock, rises
perpendicularly from the water in the shadow of the castle ruins. The
forty-horse power car belonging to the Passerats led the way for the
inferior machine of the Bonnard-Bassons, which was driven by M. de
Vimelle, as favored in physique as he was weak in intellect. They bought
provisions and lunched gayly on the grass, at the edge of a stream, or
they went to some quiet inn which they promptly enlivened. Marie Louise
was collecting souvenirs to dazzle Jeanne and Renée de Crozet, who had
sent remarkable post-cards from Aix-Les-Bains. How could they break up
the party at night after such pleasant days? Elizabeth used as a pretext
the fact of having to put her two little ones to bed, who were overtired
by the long ride, but could give no excuse for not rejoining the party.
Home life which had never attracted her, was especially unpleasant to
her now. She enjoyed a succession of aimless days, and soon ceased
trying to hold herself aloof.
Her parents were obliged to return the hospitality they had accepted.
When she appeared in a nile green gown, which she had only worn once at
the Duchess of Béard's before the event which had upset her life, she
saw in the women's looks that they were not genuinely sincere in the
touching sympathy they expressed to her on every occasion. The
new-comers in their set made a great deal of her with that easy freedom
which results from the absence of a woman's husband. Although she was
the least décolleté of all the women, she felt a new awkwardness,
which recalled her début as a young girl, in feeling her shoulders
exposed: shoulders, whose mother-of-pearl whiteness was greatly admired.
She had the impression that this was not her place, and her personal
success only half dispelled the idea.
She felt it again, one day as she was walking with her children to Saint
Martin d'Uriage. The closed châlet where she had spent so many peaceful
summers, the church near-by, the charm of this hamlet lost in the woods,
stirred her emotions which sensed the influence of places, as of people.
She opened the chapel door, and in her prayer--very short because of her
impatient companions--she had time to ask herself if this continual
round of gayety were a normal existence for one in her position; if such
habits of going about, of amusement and of pleasure, would not later
spoil the precocious imagination of Marie Louise and Philippe, who,
while rolling about in the grass and playing with the little peasants,
were acquiring, along with good health, simplicity of heart. To her
great astonishment, on the plane-tree avenue, the little boy, without
bashfulness, asked when they would go home, but Marie Louise, blushing
and cuddling up to her mother, said:
"And papa?"
"He is away, traveling," she replied evasively.
The little girl, finding again an important association of her short
past experience, became nervous and her little bosom heaved.
"When I was a child," she said excitedly, "I lived here. Papa took me
away, far away to the mountains. He carried me on his back when I was
tired."
"And me too," cried Philippe, who was not going to be left behind.
"He laughed all the time," Marie Louise recalled again.
Their mother was lost in silence at these recollections. She roamed
along the enclosure which protected the deserted property, looked at the
faded bunches of wistaria, the garden in disorder and the destruction
due to neglect; then, saddened, she led her children to the path which
winds by many turns towards the castle and the lawns of Uriage. In the
evening she invented a headache to refuse at the last moment an
invitation which she had already accepted, but the next day and the day
after, new opportunities offered, and she soon ceased to struggle
against so swift a tide. Her friends purposely selected as her dinner
partners--not without thought of consolation--their most charming
men-guests, but she was not conscious of their intentions. After the
fifteenth of August, Philippe Lagier came and stayed at the best hotel
near the casino. There was nothing unusual about his being there. He
took advantage of the closing of court to rest in the valley where one
breathes the mountain air; every year the bar and magistrates of
Grenoble are well represented here. He was immediately surrounded and
overwhelmed with invitations; for he brought with him an element of
interest into Mme. Passerat's little circle. His caustic wit, his
constant irony, his travels and his taste for the plastic arts gave a
varied turn to the conversation which made him very much sought after by
women: they like the little excitement occasioned by clever paradoxes or
original and boldly defended opinions. And so by general consent, it was
agreed that Elizabeth and her husband's lawyer be brought together, and
that so interesting a flirtation be aided and abetted.
Scorching through Uriage one day, trying to break a record, the little
clerk Malaunay, in plaid knickers and with bare calves, bending over his
bicycle as if he wished to bite the handle bars, still had eyes to see
the young woman and her companion, as they were watching the races, so
that the Tabourin office and indeed all Grenoble knew the truth about
their friendship.
Philippe Lagier, in visiting Elizabeth, simply fulfilled a duty which
gave him renewed pleasure every day. After the useless preliminaries of
reconciliation, the deed of separation had been sent out. It had to be
answered in Albert's name, so Albert meant to seek a divorce, and in
turn take the offensive. Before drawing up such embarrassing
conclusions, the lawyer had gone to the Boulevard des Adieux to consult
someone for whose advice he had the greatest regard.
"Here," he had explained to Mme. Derize Senior, "is what your son wishes
to reply. He is not going to defend himself any longer; he is attacking.
He has given me the private diary he has kept intermittently since his
marriage. He thinks I am sure to find therein proofs of a continual
grievance; but the incompatibility of temperament is not ground for
divorce. And then, must I make use of this?"
The old lady had asked to be allowed to read these books. Her son had
given permission. She had returned them to Philippe with these words:
"Albert would dishonor himself if he made public use of such writings.
The charges he brings against his wife will not affect the court. But
they will perhaps wound Elizabeth's heart. She is a good woman,
unfortunately too inattentive and indifferent, like so many good women.
Ah, if they would only open their eyes! Show her this diary, make her
promise to read it."
"This diary?" the astonished lawyer had objected. "Would it be right?
Albert tells of his love in it."
"With things as they are, I see only this resort to try. Let her face
this interpretation of her own life. She will even realize that this
love which I abhor, but which has nothing evil about it, has something
to do with her, that it has been born of her unwise carelessness. If she
understands, perhaps she will find the courage to pardon and, above all,
the patience to wait. If she does not understand, it would be better for
Albert to legally give up his children whom he has already forgotten too
much, rather than to hurt their mother. Yes, I can see only this way of
reconciliation, unusual and dangerous though it be. My friend, go up to
Uriage; I count on you. For my part, I shall ask Albert to cease
defending himself, if he must use such arguments."
"But he wants a divorce."
Like a Christian she answered:
"'Men have no power to put asunder whom God has joined together.' Life
in its brevity still gives us time to exhaust our passion and to
recognize the right road, however late. Divorce is irreparable. If he
divorces her, I shall not survive it; I will tell him so, if need be."
Philippe had bowed. This little shabby flat was the only place in the
world where he left his skepticism outside the door.
Now, before giving up his weapons to his charming antagonist, he wished
to observe and study her. He purposely acted deliberately. That is
rather the habit of a complex mind. A little earlier in the summer he
would have found indications of uneasiness in her glances, and in her
social retirement. But when he arrived at Uriage she was quite calm and
allowed herself distraction. The coterie of admirers which her friends
slyly arranged for her only served to irritate the lawyer. It was
composed of insignificant young men, of whom there are many at the
watering-places, who would inevitably attract a woman so young and so
neglected. Why should they not believe that she was easy prey, being
insufficiently protected by lax parents who were absorbed in their own
worldly interests? Elizabeth endured them without ennui, but without
pleasure. Philippe sent his shafts among them; the on-lookers who were
amusing themselves about it, introduced him to take the place of all
these admirers, and the young woman did not even deign to notice their
absence.
What was he expecting from these meetings? His plans and unforeseen
opportunities provided a reason for the necessary interviews. He decided
to take Albert's note-books to Elizabeth. She received him in the
garden, where, before a background of pines and birches, a few
clambering roses were blooming: it was already September.
"What is that package?" she asked him jestingly.
He used that bantering tone which destroys all positive convictions and
ultimately leads to a mental attitude that can take nothing seriously.
"Those are your faults. They are many."
"My faults?"
"Have you forgotten our talk at Grenoble. I told you that never in my
career had I known a case of divorce where all the grievances were on
one side. You have challenged me to enumerate yours. Here they are."
"Well, I am listening," she replied incredulously.
"No, no, you will read them."
"You have taken the trouble to write them."
"No--not I."
"Who then?"
But she had already guessed and thought it wiser to be on her guard.
"It is Albert. Take them."
"Oh, no, thank you."
He took no notice of her refusal.
"In two hours you will have time to decipher these notes. You can read
them this evening and return them to me to-morrow."
"I am dining with Mme. Passerat to-night."
"Ah yes,--I am invited, too. And to-morrow?"
"To-morrow we are going to motor to the Castle at Sassenage, and our
evening is engaged too."
"Well, you will find a free day."
"Why do you want me to read these books?"
Her refusal was becoming less positive: this persual imposed no
obligation upon her.
"You will find there the complaint I am going to formulate against you
in my brief."
She was astonished, and blushed, which gave her face the expression of a
young girl about to make her début.
"I thought," she said, "that Albert was going to make no defense."
This noticeable anxiety aroused Philippe Lagier, whose reply was not
without a touch of cruelty.
"He will make so good a defense that he will sue for a divorce--not
separation."
"Ah," she murmured, and the color which had overspread her cheeks faded
quickly.
He immediately regretted having tormented her. Was Albert's viewpoint so
definite that he had a right to use it as a threat? And had he not
decided to play a double rôle, in order to decline to take part in the
trial?
"Does he wish to marry her?" she asked weakly.
"I do not know."
But she was ashamed of her question and quickly expressed her
indifference.
"Oh, it's all the same to me. He may do as he likes; he is dead to me."
It is true that she added, unconscious of her contradiction:
"Very well, leave me the books. I will glance over them when I have a
moment to spare, and shall return them to you."
That evening at Mme. Passerat's dinner, Elizabeth, usually so poised and
calm, evidenced nervousness; and he did not doubt that she had at once
begun the reading of her husband's diary. During dessert he leaned
toward her and questioned her in a low voice. Mme. de Vimelle, seated at
the other end of the table, made use of this to give vent to a spiteful
reflection.
"Have you read it?" he asked.
"What? ... No, no, not yet. I have not thought of it."
He thought she was feigning astonishment, and seeing her so good an
actress, he retracted that impertinent patronage which he had accorded
her so-called simplicity. But he was wrong. She had carefully arranged
Albert's note-books and was only awaiting the opportunity to take them
out of the bureau. The past was the past. It could not be changed. Being
a woman of order and logical mind, she liked definite situations. This
reversion to the past did not attract her. With what had she to reproach
herself? Nothing, according to the world's opinion, absolutely nothing.
Then of what could anyone accuse her, who had been so abominably
deceived, and for a woman older and less attractive than she?
Another cause had contributed to her confusion. She had been the first
arrival at Mme. Passerat's, in order to escape from the temptations of
her own awakened curiosity. The salon on the ground floor was not yet
lighted. In crossing the lawn in front of the villa, walking carefully
because of the dew, she overheard some words of a conversation, the
terms and familiarity of which were significant, and saw, or rather
guessed, from the open window, hardly distinguishable in the shadow,
that a couple whose voices she recognized were sitting there. Without
thinking, she hastily ran across the small space which separated her
from the Mélèzes, and reached her room to hide the shame she felt in
discovering a liaison which her filial devotion would never have
permitted her to suspect. When her mother came to look for her, and
scolded her for being so late, she understood that she must gain control
of herself and keep the secret. If only the poor woman with her might
always remain in ignorance. When the two women entered, Mme. Passerat
received them in that exaggerated manner which has become fashionable,
held both hands of her good friend, Mme. Molay-Norrois, and embraced
that dear Elizabeth who unresponsively suffered her kiss, but was upset
by it all evening. Thus she appeared excited and uneasy to the observant
Philippe Lagier.
Two days later, not having seen her in the interim, he inquired again.
"And our book of grievances?"
This was the name he had given to the private diary of his friend. She
still requested more time, and for some days he did not meet her. Indeed
she went out seldom. She had proposed to take her parents to Saint
Martin to finish the season there; but her father laughed at the offer
and her mother never disagreed with him.
Philippe attributed her sudden reserve to her impression of the reading.
He was surprised, and unconsciously annoyed at the power which Albert
continued to exercise over her from afar. And to add to his irritation,
his friend informed him in a letter bearing the German postmark, that he
had given up the idea of defending himself in court, and had changed his
plan of divorce; perhaps he had listened to his mother's advice, or else
his well-ordered mind revolted against the issue of an open breach, or
perhaps he had agreed with Anne de Sézery to defy the law.
When the lawyer at last succeeded in joining Elizabeth, he avoided
revealing this new situation to her, as if he no longer intended to
reconcile her and her husband, and he did not even ask for the
note-books. But he tried to distract her, to amuse her by his
conversation.
It hardly seemed the beginning of September with its earlier sunsets,
more vaporous lines at the mountain summit less clear on the horizon,
and its sharper air. The well-watered lawns retained their even green,
and as for the clumps of pines, ever green, they need never fear the
threats of Autumn. Elizabeth had come as far as the tennis court, but
had declined to take part in the game. She instinctively sought out
places where there was movement, where she was sure not to hear the
voice of her heart or mind. A young brunette in a white flannel dress
draped in straight folds, was enlivening the party with her laughter,
her remarks, her cleverness. Stopping, on the alert for the ball,
running to meet it, or drawing back to return it with all her strength,
each of her movements brought into play the curved and flexible lines of
her well-built body. Thus she was making a series of little Tanagra
studies, and it was a delight to follow her. But she knew it, and from
time to time glanced at Philippe, whose age, fortune, and career she
well knew, for nowadays civilization is perfected. Elizabeth, whose
sorrow had made her keener, noticed this little affair.
"Someone is looking at you," she said.
"I am no longer in the marriage market." And it was he who in his droll
manner pointed out all the flirtations which were going on about them.
M. de Vimelle, slender and very graceful, was disappearing under the
trees with Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who, too tightly laced, often stopped to
get her breath. As she was known to be the most scheming young woman in
her set, he said:
"She has managed all the same to reserve some aristocratic admirers for
herself."
Obliging Mme. de Vimelle had loaned her husband to her friend to take
her out walking before dinner.
"I don't understand it," replied Elizabeth to the sarcastic observations
of her partner.
"Bah, M. de Vimelle, who is ruined, is besides, the stupidest animal
between Paris and Peru--Japan and Rome. She uses him as best she can."
"Nobody finds grace in your eyes."
"I go about with my eyes open."
"You had better close them."
Mlle. Rivière, who had won the last set, as well as all the preceding
ones, came over to wish them good evening. Her dull complexion, heated
by the game, had become a deep scarlet, and seemed to be burning. Her
white teeth glistened. Her eyes sparkled.
"It is a great game," Philippe explained, close behind her, scorning the
evident interest she showed. "Her whole soul is in her face."
For several days he had been familiarizing the young woman with all the
scandals of their set, making her realize how unimportant they were
considered. His insolent and distressing pessimism fell upon prepared
soil. Elizabeth, after the shock of her father's conduct, found her
illusions completely destroyed.
After many handshakes had been exchanged, tennis was given up. Although
the mountains were still covered with the oblique rays of the sun, the
valley was in shadow.
There was a definite line of demarcation between themselves and the
others. Nobody had joined them. They alone remained behind, as if their
tête-à-tête were respected. Vaguely disturbed by this seclusion,
Elizabeth directed their steps towards the Mélèzes.
"When the night comes on here it looks as though the mountains were
coming nearer and the pine trees were drawing nearer, as if to envelop
us."
In order to calm her, Philippe came closer, and murmured in a
confidential tone.
"Why are you so sad now-a-days?"
"I am not sad."
Without regarding this denial, leaning toward her, he continued, in a
voice which had ceased to be strident, but became, instead, full of
charming inflections, cultivated by that art with which he touched such
varied chords at the bar:
"You think your life is finished when it is only just beginning. And
life can be so beautiful...."
She found no ready answer. She was often given to self-pity; in thinking
now of her keen suffering for one so young and through no fault of her
own, it seemed to her like a new misfortune. Understanding that she was
depressed by this introspection, he pointed out the mountain tops which
were priding themselves on still retaining the light; then he pointed to
the plain, towards the meadows and the woods which were in peaceful
repose. Two or three couples, rather far away from them, acknowledged
lovers, and so accepted socially by general agreement, were returning to
the villas and hotels.
"We are very comfortable here, are we not? When I came to Uriage you
were so popular, so sought after ..."
She did not grasp the exact meaning of the last word.
"I did not notice it," she said.
"I noticed it for you," said Philippe.
In a low voice, choosing his words with care, he continued:
"If you only knew how that irritated me."
"Why?" she asked naively, as they were passing through a little cluster
of pine trees which hid them from sight.
Nevertheless, she hastened her steps. It was not yet the psychological
moment. The love-making of a man of forty is more clear-sighted and
artful, less hurried than that of a young man. He evaded the issue,
rather than declare himself.
"When you were a young girl, I had dreamed of asking you to marry me."
"So I have been told."
"Ah.... If you had been happy, I should not have recalled it. I should
never have reminded you of it. But I cannot bear the look of pain that
crosses your face. You are so young. So many years are before you to
retrieve the grief of the past."
She stopped, overwhelmed, trembling. So many years ... Yes ... until the
old age of her father. The errors of the past: the soul of Autumn, Anne
de Sézery. That was the beauty of living!
"Why do you speak to me like this?" she said in a stifled voice.
He read trouble and confusion in her frightened eyes, which stared at
him, and so mistaking her attitude, he dared to hold the young woman's
hands affectionately.
"I am so sorry for you. Do you not understand?"
She freed herself, tried to recover her breath, then rebelliously
protested:
"You! ... Oh, you! ... Leave me."
"Madame," he begged.
But she had already fled down the path. Motionless, his feet rooted to
the spot, he watched her distinct figure until a tree suddenly hid her
from sight. Then, seeking support, he threw himself on the grass. His
deepest emotions were always controlled and lent themselves to the
demands of reason. He pleaded in his own defense the extenuating
circumstances of the hour, the season, his vanishing youth. Can a man
see with impunity almost daily a young woman of charm, who shows that
she takes pleasure in his society? He tried unsuccessfully to become
tender in thinking about himself, his loneliness intensified by a
superior mentality, hampered in his search for happiness by hesitation,
excessive analysis and disenchantment. One thought alone, which he tried
to put away with all his force, overlapped all others, as a higher and
swifter wave submerges those which precede it: he had betrayed his
friend. After one last thought of Albert's aversion, he gave way to his
self-contempt, and lying on the earth, his face hidden, humiliated in
his faith in himself, he wept tears of despair. This was a moment which
he no longer had the power to dismiss; henceforth, its remembrance must
come to him relentlessly every time he sought the silence of his inmost
heart....
II
THE WATCH
Elizabeth hurried to her room, as a bird with heavy wings beaten down by
a tempest rushes to find shelter. Her mouth somewhat twisted, her lips
dry, her limbs wearied by the effort to climb the stairs, she fell into
an armchair, where, alone with herself, she could better bear her state
of fatigue, and uneasiness of heart. This scene had been surprising and
terrifying to her, who disliked violent or even unexpected sensations,
and sought nothing but peace, order and daily unvarying monotony.
Darkness, kind charitable darkness, enveloping her like a veil which
hangs lightly from the shoulders, lessened her indignation, but made her
more self-pitying. She was confiding in herself as in a friend, and so
found relief, when her mother came in, scarcely touching the door, as if
in the intimacy of the family, it were almost unnecessary to announce
oneself.
"Elizabeth," called Mme. de Molay-Norrois.
Elizabeth did not answer at once, finding added vexation in the fact
that she who was so seldom in need of it, was even at this time unable
to have a corner in which she might take refuge undisturbed.
"You are tired--why did you not ring?"
"I am not tired, Mamma."
How could she stem this maternal solicitude? Mme. Molay-Norrois had
already lighted a lamp, closed the window to keep out the mosquitoes and
the September breeze, and was studying the dear face, whose every
expression she knew.
"You are flushed. You have been crying. And you have told me nothing."
"I have a headache, that is all."
"A headache? You were out all afternoon. It is not a headache. You have
some trouble and you will not tell me."
For the first time the young woman understood that even with those who
love one best, one is often alone, and that any presence, even the
dearest, may be intolerable. For the first time too, she really
understood the tone of voice in which she was being addressed; the one
which is suited to little girls, to encourage them, or quiet and control
them. By what inexplicable mistake did they continue to use it in
speaking to her? Misfortune itself had matured her, and yet they treated
her like a little child. Her sadness was intensified by it, as is the
pain of a wound that is inflamed by unskillful care.
"There is nothing the matter," she reaffirmed.
Her mother, baffled, was surprised and sorry, and finally, to change the
subject, said in an off-hand manner:
"We are dining with the Vimelles to-night; you have just about time to
get ready."
"I shall not go."
"What? You have accepted their invitation. It is too late to refuse.
Then, the other day you declined at the last minute. And you have just
told me you are not ill--no, no, you must come; it is absolutely
necessary."
"Nevertheless, I shall not go," Elizabeth repeated with a new note of
authority.
For Mme. Molay-Norrois there were no small and great events. She valued
equally social obligations and those which concerned the serious affairs
of life. Her daughter's defiance shocked her respect for the laws of
society, as much as it offended her affection which she now considered
to be of no avail. She tried to coax her with gentle insistence which
she finally saw would produce no result.
After her departure and slight thought of regret concerning the
misunderstanding, Elizabeth found joy in again indulging her melancholy.
She was soon aroused out of it, however, by her father who did not even
knock at the door, and came in quite unceremoniously, dashing, beaming,
smiling, his eyes bright, his mustache curled and a rose bud in the
buttonhole of his dinner coat.
"He, too!" she thought, irritated and cross.
He paid no attention to her unfriendly attitude. He never needed to
exert himself with Elizabeth, who was always so tractable.
"Well, little one?" he asked, playfully. "You have nerves, you have
asserted yourself, you have made your mother cry, and she is crying, on
my word! She certainly needs very little to make her weep."
Curled up in her chair, she did not deign to answer him, and to avoid
saying too much, she drew her lips together, so that her mouth was tight
shut. Despite his white hair, he was very lively in his evening attire.
If he had had any idea of what she was thinking of him, he would have
ceased to annoy her.
"Are you ill? No ...? Besides, women's nerves! Come along with us. The
Vimelles will be so offended if you do not come. Philippe Lagier will
amuse you. He is witty and lively. He is rather making love to you,
Philippe Lagier, eh. Eh!"
"No one is making love to me."
She said this in such a peremptory way that he stopped short in his
teasing. This little girl was certainly in a bad temper; it was better
after all to leave her to sulk as she would. The art of living was fast
disappearing when people no longer knew how to conceal their troubles,
to bear them with fortitude, in order not to burden their neighbors.
Society would soon sanction discussing one's private affairs publicly
and wearing a sorrowful expression. And that was the inevitable result
of a long period of democracy. So now he only thought of hastening his
departure. Happily he found some comfort in seeing his face, still
fresh, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe.
"Well, rest, little one, if you are tired."
This expression of interest satisfied his paternal dignity, and as soon
as he was out in the corridor, he cheered up.
Elizabeth, thus disturbed, was trying with difficulty to recover the
lost trend of her reflections, when her children, having heard of her
return, rushed into the room. They had just come in from their walk, and
made a great noise with their hobnailed shoes. They were surprised not
to see her in evening dress.
"You will be late," declared Marie Louise.
"I am dining with you, my darlings."
"Oh! Oh!" cried Philippe joyfully, using his big voice like a bell.
And the little girl was already calling from the staircase.
"Agatha, set three places."
Nothing pleased her so well as giving orders, except listening to
stories or teasing her brother.
At table she did the honors of the dinner, as if her mother were a
guest. Elizabeth was amused, but not without a touch of bitterness,
noting therein the result of her frequent evenings away from them. Her
mind receptive, she also realized that her children, entrusted too much
to the care of servants, were losing many of their good habits; the one
being proud of all the luxury she enjoyed, and particularly of the
Passerat's beautiful motor with which to dazzle her less-favored
playfellows; the other eating with his fingers and using kitchen slang
in his conversation. Little disposed to scold them, she promised herself
to look after them more carefully and to begin to put them to bed
herself, a fact of which little Philippe took advantage to show her all
the tricks he had learned to do in his night-shirt.
As soon as he was in bed, all curled up with his knees almost under his
chin, the little man fell asleep, and, once asleep, he did not move any
more than a trunk,--a habit for which Marie Louise took him to task.
She, on the other hand, fought sleep with obstinate resistance, and only
gave in at last when her eyelids could no longer keep open to see the
light of the lamp.
"Tell me a story," she asked when she was tucked in.
Elizabeth sat down beside her and thought her being there would soothe
her.
"I don't know one."
"Papa always knew some."
She rarely spoke of her father. This remembrance astonished the young
woman and was not pleasant to her.
"Yes," said the little girl, "the one about Jeanne d'Arc and about
Cyclops."
"About Cyclops?"
"Y es, the one who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead, and
who let the sheep get away from him."
Albert Derize had willingly pruned the forest of the epics, the Iliad,
the Odyssey, the "Song of Roland" like any good woodman, to make of them
playthings for his children.
"Go to sleep, darling, go to sleep."
"Well, I shall have to tell you one, Mamma."
"You must go to sleep."
"The one about the cup of happiness, if you like. There was once a
knight who had a very sad wife in his castle. And she went to sleep when
he was away hunting. And then he saw fairies dancing--do fairies dance?"
"Of course, they do. Go to sleep."
"And he saw one there who was the most beautiful of all, and she carried
a golden cup with diamonds. It was not for champagne. It was the cup of
happiness."
Her mother bent over her, thinking she was asleep, but the little voice
continued faintly after a moment.
"So the knight tore it from her hands and rode off on his horse and
escaped, and he made a present of it."
"To whom?" Elizabeth asked mechanically.
"To the lady ... who was sad in the castle ... and he went to sleep when
he was hunting...."
The story went on like this in a circle, but at last the lids with
their long lashes ceased fluttering like little wings, and after two or
three nervous movements, the child went to sleep on her pillow of golden
curls.
Elizabeth stood motionless for some time comparing the sleep of Marie
Louise with that of her brother. She was a much more imaginative child,
of finer sensibility, who had to be soothed and strengthened. This duty
devolved on the mother alone--now that Albert was no longer there.
Albert? Where was he now? Could he desert them? She did not love him
now, but when he was there, she felt the house was stronger, better
protected from all harm.
To escape this recollection which tormented her, close to her children,
she got up and went to her room near by. She half closed the door after
her without entirely shutting it, that she might hear the least sound
and be out of the draught. After taking these precautions she hastened
to open the window, as she was exceedingly warm.
The moon had risen, but was hidden by the roof, and its light resembled
a cloth spread over the country. The numerous lawns, without a shadow,
unfolded themselves in the distance, smooth, pale and even, only broken
here and there by groups of trees, standing like mysterious conspirators
in the dark. Scattered stars twinkled on the edge of the horizon,
without forming very distinct constellations. And over the neighboring
villa, where the Passerats were living, a larch tree stood out, its
curved branches outlining the silhouette of a pagoda on the wall.
This silence, this peace which Elizabeth thought she would enjoy on the
balcony with the scent of the rose bushes, was disturbed by the noise of
fireworks that were being let off at the casino. Rockets sprang up with
a loud report, disappeared into the air and fell back again in a colored
rain, whose effect was half-destroyed by the moonlight. And this was the
signal for shrieks, applause, the expression of festivity, mingled with
the fanfare of trumpets.
She went back into the room. The noise of her heart was sufficient for
her. Nothing could lessen the impression of disgust that Philippe
Lagier's avowal had left upon her, and which she could not forget, as
she went from room to room. She drank a glass of water into which she
had poured a few drops of ammonia and aniseed to take away the taste of
ashes which her lips retained. But they were immediately dry again. A
half forgotten, unexpected, almost ludicrous recollection of her
childhood came suddenly, to give concrete meaning to her impressions. As
a little girl she had read in mythology that there were men with goats'
hoofs called fauns. Amused at this peculiarity, she had spent an entire
day gazing at the passers-by in the street. "Have you met any?" her best
friend and confidante, Blanche Servin, asked incredulously. In order not
to make her book seem untrue, she had replied: "How can one tell if they
have shoes on?" Our dispositions exert so much influence upon our
individual interpretation of things that this old recollection, instead
of being a diversion to her, satisfied her desire for revolt and
augmented her dislike. One must see life clearly. Well! she had opened
her eyes, and saw about her only ignominy and the basest deception, not
even glossed over by the outward decency. One woman had a lover, not for
love, but to appear up-to-date. Another took advantage of her husband's
liaison. That old man--her father--allowed his mistress to be on
friendly terms with his wife and daughter. And as to that honor--of
which men pretend to make a religion, even if they have renounced every
other law, she knew what to think of that, since the lawyer, the
counsel, the most intimate friend of Albert hoped to profit by these
services to offer himself as a comforter. There was no happy medium
between the blindness of her mother, her own before her separation, and
the recognition of this wickedness which haunted her like a nightmare.
To see clearly was to gaze upon the ground, to find the cloven foot.
Bah!
A sigh, then a half stifled cry which she heard from the adjoining room
aroused her from the disgust into which she had sunk as into a
quicksand, made her get up from her chair and walk softly with a
mother's consideration. The little boy had not stirred; he was still in
the same uncomfortable position. It was Marie Louise who was sleeping
restlessly. Elizabeth put back the blanket which the child had thrown
off, and seated herself between the two beds. By the light of the lamp
she looked for a long time from right to left, comparing the motionless
features of the two little sleeping faces, one quite at ease, the other
fidgety and, even in this semi-conscious state, restless, as if the
imagination back of the closed eyelids had remained awake and continued
to work even with the lights out and the stage darkened.
"What will become of these dear mites?" she thought, turning from
thoughts of herself. And the fear of the future brusquely aroused her.
Later on, very soon they would learn what life meant, alone, quite
alone. Even a mother's most tender devotion was powerless. They would
live again the everlasting experience which each must live alone. They
would meet the same sorrows, feel the same bitterness, know the same
despair. For the world would not change for them. She had discovered it
as it is in all its reality. Ah, at least, if she could not protect
them, could not accompany them on the road, ought she not strengthen
them by cultivating their understanding of disillusions, especially the
little girl who took her little joys and sorrows with such intensity and
was not able to distinguish, even in her games, the difference between
fancy and fact, which was never sufficiently attractive to please her
whims?
The night light gave to the objects in the room an animated appearance,
and lengthened the shadows to the ceiling. Elizabeth felt herself
surrounded by dangers and knew the necessity of protecting her children,
threatened as she was. Since her departure from Paris she had given her
entire time to the new life which was arranged for her, in the daily
distraction of which she had forgotten her troubles. But this new life
for herself and the children demanded constant attention and devotion.
Now she was meeting it face to face and she feared it. Her arms hanging
motionless at her side, she gave herself up to the discouragement of the
minute, while she was beginning to grasp the importance of courage.
Never, never would she, so unprepared, educated and trained as she was
for a very ordinary lot, be able to adapt herself to the life before
her.
"The cup of ... happiness ..." stammered Marie Louise in her dreams.
The cup of happiness! What irony this evening! Was it not too unjust
that she should be thus punished for no reason; in the fullness of her
youth be overwhelmed with so many burdens and have so little help! In
her despair she detested Albert, who had deserted her in such cowardly
manner. No doubt he was no worse than others, weak as they were, a slave
to his desires and cruelly selfish. Now she knew him! How he had
deceived her!
"What have I done to him? What have I done to him?" she kept repeating
to herself as she wept.
She thought of the note-books which Philippe Lagier had brought her,
which might furnish an answer to her question. What hypocritical answer?
When the maid came to stay with the children, she went back and lit her
lamp. Quite overcome with suffering and bitterness, her nerves
trembling, she began the reading which kept her awake late into the
night.
III
ALBERT'S DIARY
The note-books belonging to Albert Derize which Philippe Lagier had
given to Elizabeth, contained the story of his life from the month of
January 1902 until April 1905, that is to say from the sixth year of his
marriage until the time of the separation. In accordance with her habit
of regularity, she opened the earliest book at the first page. It was
truly a singular diary; it was difficult to recognize oneself therein.
In the beginning she saw only notes concerning history, observations of
real life, plans of articles, lecture notes hastily written down in a
few lines, short accounts of visits to some historic spot, all that
preparatory work indispensable to an active writer whose brain demands
fresh copy every day. She was at once disheartened, being unused to seek
explanations. Again this return to a dead past seemed so useless to her.
She was about to give up reading, when a little cross marked in blue
pencil caught her eye. The date, underlined with a stroke of the pen,
attracted her attention; May 25th, 1903. It was the anniversary of their
wedding. Four lines recalled it to her memory--she interpreted them with
amazement:
"To shudder, to weep over life, to pray--
That is only the coward's way,
The strong soul stays where his duty lies
And meets it bravely, suffers and dies."
No comment accompanied this disturbing quotation, so strange to mark an
anniversary. What did it really mean? Of what sorrow, what deep
suffering was it the expression? And why was it marked with that blue
cross? Elizabeth felt a thrill through her whole body, like a hare who
in the safety of her form, hears the hounds approaching. She hesitated
to commence a journey which she knew would be dangerous. Since her
opinion concerning the treachery of her husband was alterable, what was
the use of this painful return to the past? She turned over a leaf;
another blue cross marked a new passage in inverted commas:
"O pictures and visions of my youth, O love glances, divine moments, how
quickly you have vanished! To-day I am thinking of you as of my beloved
dead."
She looked at the quotation marks to reassure herself. Albert used these
note-books as an aid to his memory when transcribing his thoughts and
impressions into his books. What importance then should be attached to
pessimistic literature without foundation in fact? For in reality, May,
1903, signified to her only peaceful days, unvarying, colorless days,
such as she loved to live. She read on and saw the blue crosses becoming
more numerous, here and there replaced by broken lines in the margin,
the entire length of the page. Philippe Lagier had no doubt marked the
paragraphs which he meant to use in the trial with reference to the
conjugal drama for which he was seeking a very far-fetched cause. She
understood this and knew that he was impressed with the two quotations
which had wounded her. She had then but to follow the marks which traced
the way for her.
At the next cross she could no longer retain any illusion. Her own
recollections served her. In the month of June, 1903, for the benefit of
some social work, Albert had given a lecture in Paris on the subject of
marriage, the success of which had been so great that he had been
obliged to repeat it in the provinces and abroad. Now the leading ideas
of this lecture were to be found in the note-book which Elizabeth was
reading.
"On the Education of Woman--Double danger to be avoided: firstly, that
which represses her too much and makes of her a weakened sentimental
creature, a good housewife, a discreet and safe companion knowing little
of her husband's interests, overwhelmed by petty domestic duties,
unequipped to mold men and women; secondly, that which tends to create
the masculine type of woman and to destroy the unity of the family by
depriving it of its master. In the first case the woman thinks of
marriage as a matter-of-fact state, a final solution. She does not
understand that happiness is to be gained or lost every day and needs
constant care and lasting attention. She imagines simply that her
husband's property is to be made over to her once and for all by an
authentic deed. After that there is nothing to do but to allow oneself
to drift along in an aimless life. Why can one not have the time that
these women waste in trifles! Certainly the house is looked after and
one dines punctually. But intellectually and morally the man is alone. A
young girl who is not eager to develop her intelligence has no right to
accept the hand of a real man in marriage.
"In the second case the woman accepts marriage as a means of developing
her personality. She at once becomes a rival, who has all the
advantages. The man who would realize his life in its fullness (and a
man's life as opposed to that of a woman, can never have love alone as
its exclusive object)--needs to find in his home, rest, security and
trust after his work. It is the wife's duty to understand, to accept and
to adorn the life of her husband. Her natural wisdom should uphold and
not retard him. _Socia rei humanae et divinae_. Marriage is arranged
according to material consideration; once entered into, it is accepted
as a fixed custom. And one fine day we are surprised to find that we are
strangers to each other. An unhappy marriage is often made more so by
family differences, particularly when the wife is attached to her own
people and remains indifferent to her husband's. The carelessness and
thoughtlessness of wives break up more households than their
independence of character and their desire for love. To know how to live
in a state of watchfulness is half the art of living...."
There were only these general ideas about education, still somewhat
incoherent, and a woman always hesitates to apply theories to the facts
which underlie them, to draw a direct application from them. But a few
lines further on clearly evidenced the intention of the lecturer.
"There is one who will listen to this quietly and passively and will
accept with a gracious smile at its end the congratulations of her women
friends without having understood a word of it."
Elizabeth, thus referred to, raised her head. She remembered this
conversation, expressed somewhat disdainfully, but which had not been
offensive. She had really understood only the pleasure of being on
parade and well received. Being too indolent to think and form her own
opinion, she agreed quite willingly with all the lecturers whom she
heard. But not being informed, why should she be on her guard? And what
did these allusions, these omissions signify? Still, she did not
understand. What were her faults? What reproaches could he make her? She
could not be appealed to by quotations, and generalities. Why not speak
more frankly?
She took up the note-book again more nervously, on the alert for the
slightest vindication as a warned sentry watches for the approaching
enemy who has been sighted.
The continuation of the diary was dated from Saint Martin d'Uriage. When
the summer came they left Paris. Albert, engaged in the writing of "The
History of the Peasant," no longer needing to make a memorandum of other
subjects, applied himself to analyzing his own mind. Whether he was
growing accustomed to putting his sorrow into words, or whether that
suffering, increasing, rendered him less self-possessed, at any rate,
little by little, not without hesitation, however, he was losing that
reserve which had kept him from revealing his inmost thoughts, and as a
result of which he had thus far concealed them within his literary
annotations or anonymous complaints:
"August, 1903--'Nowadays the world is free to great souls. To those who
are alone or to a couple, many places are open where one can breathe the
fragrance of the silent water.'
"Alone or a couple? Where did Nietzsche imbibe such confidence in love?
If one wished to experience the living presence of his thought, he must
find solitude. For our thought is jealous, restless and austere. We are
alone in our deepest emotions. Art, nature, metaphysics and the past
which is ours to explore, demand that we be alone to understand them. In
marriage it is necessary to keep this solitude intact. One does not give
his intellectual strength to the joint patrimony. The cleverness of the
wife lies perhaps in respecting this, by keeping her distance. If she
does not do so she lowers, weakens, and finally kills it.
"Therefore, why this dream of an absolute intimacy, and why this
melancholy, so poignant at certain times of not having realized it, when
instead, we should rejoice in it?"
"August 10th: Walked with my little Marie Louise in the chestnut woods,
on the side of the Charmousse. From her little faun-like feet to the top
of her head she is thrilling with life. When she could scarcely speak
she had been told to shake hands with people who showed an interest in
her and said 'good day.' So when the wind shook the branches, believing
that this movement was intended for her, she politely returned it by
holding out her arms.
"Just now she was running in front of me. Her curls, already quite long,
were keeping time with her movements. She stopped to pick a flower, some
grass, even some soil, and raised them all to her face. One might have
said that at the age of five she wanted to possess the whole world. When
she came back to me she said:
"'Papa, I love the world.'
"'The world?'
"'Yes, I love everybody.'
"'So do I, little girl. I have loved everything through that love of the
touch of things which gives to all our sensations their real value. How
it interests me to follow your development. My youth is dead and I am
thirty-seven. But what does that matter to you? Enjoy yourself.'"
"August 15th: Saint's Day. I went to church with Elizabeth and Marie
Louise. To occupy myself during the service, I opened a prayer-book
which had been left in my pew. It was so old and dirty that I could have
used tongs. My eyes fell on this sentence of the divine service. 'Watch
and pray, for the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak'--
"There was a great deal in this upon which to meditate. That is wise
counsel for life. Instead of watching, we allow habit to put to sleep,
to anæsthetize our feelings, to minimize and degrade them. To reflect
is to keep growing in our inner life, which too often atrophies in the
little daily occupations. We deaden ourselves by pleasure, instead of
keeping ourselves in a constant state of keen sensibility.
"I look about me. All these good women are reading their service or
telling their beads. The letter suffices for them. To reflect, to watch,
is also to pray.
"And these other words which I have never been able to read without
trembling: EGO SUM RESURRECTIO ET VITA...."
"August 18th: How many women incapable of putting anything in its place
are more worried in changing a servant than in real trouble. If only
they knew how to be quiet about it! But the house is given up to their
complaints. I would rather make my own bed and sweep my room as a monk
does, than endure in luxury, that depression of personality which
results in time from useless talk and petty domestic worries. We never
entertain people with details of our clothes. So we should be
unconscious of the routine of a household, except to note its clean,
pleasant appearance, as we do a well-washed face. There should be some
mystery to this inner management. At that, it is better to speak of it
than to neglect it altogether."
"August 19th: I love the unexpected, but Elizabeth detests it. Philippe
Lagier came to Uriage to see us this morning. Naturally I asked him to
stay to luncheon. For a long time I had not talked with so much
pleasure. When we are together we give our imagination free rein like
horses in an open field. He is clever, subtle, terse--has a vein of
irony which excels in discovering the inner meaning of words, of
theories and of humanity in general. Only he had not told me he was
coming and we had no cook. It seems we did not have a good luncheon. I
had not noticed it and neither had Philippe. And when he had gone I had
to listen to complaints, as though I were guilty of some sin in inviting
my friend. Thus, by too much care we lose our naturalness."
"August 30th: How difficult it is to keep one's liberty. For ten days I
have been unable to write a line of my 'Peasant.' The advent of the
Molay-Norrois at Uriage has upset our quiet life, so essential to the
rest required for a long work. I could not ask Elizabeth not to invite
her own people. The life we generally lead here is quiet enough for one
of her age. Now we are constantly invited to parties and fêtes. Her
brothers, both on leave, are untiring, and give us no peace. I, who am
considered self-willed, am so weak that I scatter my forces and lose
myself without vexation. In order to concentrate on my work, I need the
life of the fields, of the little walks in the mountains or in the
woods--and some music and conversation. In the evening it is the odious
casino, and in the daytime our hermitage has become the objective point
of all the idle people in the valley. A lawyer, a doctor, an attorney
may plead professional duties. In my case they make me put off my work
until the next day. My home is open to intruders, even to the
unintelligent.
"My mother takes care of our children at Saint Martin when we go out.
Last evening I was alone with her, having succeeded in escaping a
banquet of snobs. We talked until the return of Elizabeth, who was
escorted by her brother Oliver; we had one of those good old reminiscent
talks when one goes from recollections to questions about the unknown,
and of things which have not been discussed since my marriage. Elizabeth
was surprised to see us so animated at that late hour. After six years
she does not yet know my mother. She will never know her. Were I to have
the misfortune of losing her, I should weep alone for her. Elizabeth's
judgment does not go beyond outward appearances, and how could she
imagine a superior woman under such a simple exterior. Her own parents
inflict upon me their acquaintances and their tastes. I should
continually show them my amazement and gratitude for having been
accepted by them. But why, on the other hand, am I still sensitive to
their favors and their compliments? They may exploit my reputation, if
they so desire, and cease showing me off as if I were under their
patronage.
"Heavens, how lonely one is in this married life, and what irony to
pretend to be an influence upon one's time, when after six years one has
exerted none on his own home!"
"September 22nd: After several rainy days my parents-in-law returned to
Grenoble, and with them went all their set. I hoped to take up my work
in peace again. But Elizabeth is already bored. I cannot accuse her
either of coquetry or of silly admiration for fashion, or extreme desire
for pleasure. Only she must constantly be amused by trifles, and this
restlessness is unbearable to me. I try in vain to interest her in
reading, in music, in the variation of light that is accentuated by the
approach of Autumn--even in my work. She listens graciously, and is
thinking of something else. She is not lacking in intelligence, but she
does not care to use it. She needs boundaries that can be touched. And
when I wish to destroy them, she immediately builds others."
"October 12th: My mother wished to leave, despite my request that she
remain. Without my making mention of it, she has guessed that I am
unhappy. I am responsible for this unusual departure. In the evening I
was talking more responsively with her than with Elizabeth. After the
day's work this semi-activity of mind in conversation rests and
refreshes me. Age has not diminished her passionate interest in vital
questions. And she considers all subjects from a superior point of view,
which is reflected in our discussions. She remained aside, occupying
herself with some embroidery. She did not wish to disturb our intimacy.
Poor Mamma, she did not yet understand that she was leaving me in my
loneliness."
"October 25th: I was walking until evening on the mountain tops of
Chamrousse. Passing through the chestnut wood I walked through a bed of
dead leaves. I love the sharp crackling under my feet. And before
returning, I allowed myself to be enveloped in the shadows rising from
the valley. This isolation of darkness added to my own isolation.
"Autumn has changed the country in a few days. On the two opposite sides
there is a color scheme which shades from pale green to dark purple, a
magnificent bouquet which has all the melancholy of the flowers placed
in the cemetery on All Saints Day. I was in the forest when the sun set,
and for a long time I watched the flaming twilight between the tree
trunks. For the stripped woods reveal a broader horizon, just as we see
further, the older we grow.
"From that place I have seen many other autumnal fêtes, but have never
been affected by so much dying beauty. On the contrary, I felt a cruel
pleasure in crushing those heaps of fallen leaves destined so soon to
decay. I was younger and Youth concealed death from me, perhaps love as
well.
"I felt those forebodings of finality like a wound. I felt myself
unsatisfied and filled with desire. It seemed to me that on my return my
restlessness was visible on my face. But those who are near us never
perceive the inner dramas which we are living. How should she guess?
Last evening I was telling the ancient adventures of Pygmalion to Marie
Louise, who always asks for stories, and who obliges me to steal from
legends and mythology; as I proceeded, I met myself in my story. I, too,
have asked love to awaken my Galatea, but Galatea has remained as
immovable as a goddess of stone. Have I not resigned myself to it, and
is she not the ornament of my home? Have I not resolved to look
elsewhere for those emotions so necessary to strong natures, and which
nature, art, thought--and the entire course of the human stream have
offered us? Passion means to live violently, and this power belongs only
to love.
"And love, in ordinary life, cannot last. Or rather, one must cultivate
it like a garden, instead of leaving it for each day, going, to carry
away a fragment of it. To admit its decline, its slow diminution, the
alteration of its quality, is worse perhaps than to lose it at once. The
physical tie lasts the longest, with the laxity, the humiliations it
imposes. But the intelligence, as well, remains subdued for a long time.
Tired out, it can no longer defend itself. Shall I refuse to admit to
myself this sham, these miseries and failings which, in spite of my
work, plans, ambitions, hopes, and even this book itself, make me
express my inmost thoughts, when I know I shall be neither followed nor
understood? Parody of an intimacy which no longer exists, and whose
outward appearances are preserved! Should I not at least use my reserve
energy to protect my conscience?...
"When I got back, surprised at my late return, she inquired laughingly:
"'Can you see in the darkness like a cat?'
"Her laugh was pretty and fresh, the laugh of a young girl. She was
really uneasy and I knew it. My material comfort is preoccupying her
thoughts much more than it should. Why does she not take keener interest
in our harmony, which she does not suspect is at the breaking point?
"In the evening, as conversation lagged, which happens frequently since
my mother's departure, she asked me:
"'When are we going back to Paris?'
"'When you like,' I replied.
"I usually try to prolong our stay far into the season, the peace of
which is so favorable to my work. But in Paris, in this whirl which
gives the impression of activity, in the external movement that
distracts us and takes us out of ourselves, the hidden breach in our
lives will be less evident and the coming of Autumn passes
unnoticed...."
"October 27th: Yes, this isolation cannot last. No link of thought
unites us. My affection refuses to accept it. Our insignificant
conversations are becoming unbearable to me. I try in vain to lift them
from the commonplace. Elizabeth always lets them drop back again. She
listens to me inattentively, does not interest herself, scarcely
replies, or takes up another subject, a reposeful, personal subject.
Even her voice, much too sharp, does not lend itself to the words of a
deeper life.
"I try to read to her, she interrupts me with trifles. Either one of the
children called, or it is a noise from outside, which must be
investigated. And if I get angry she is amazed, and I am altogether in
the wrong.
"When I come across in history or even in the newspapers--(our animated
epoch is not without it)--one of those manifestations of generosity or
courage which exalt me, I turn to share my emotion with her. She is like
marble to all things which do not touch her closely.
"She lets time pass as if we were always to live together, youth as if
it were worthless; our love, as if we did not need to care for it. And
her expressionless beauty irritates me as a reminder of my slavery.
Sometimes, stirred by a dangerous longing for destruction, I watch for,
I solicit one of those silly, ridiculous reflections by which so many
women betray themselves and give us reason to despise them. But she is
not even intelligent, which would release me. She allows her mind to
remain fallow, as a beautiful abandoned domain. Her father, too worldly,
her mother, too taken up with her father (and how uselessly!) did not
teach her earlier to make use of her life. I came into it when the habit
was already formed. This apathy freezes her heart and brain, as the cold
does running water. Defeated, I have no more strength to break that ice.
What fatal blow would be required to smash it?"
"October 28th: We are leaving to-morrow. A last walk with my two babies.
Elizabeth has pleaded trunks to be packed, so as to avoid coming with
us. She has always some pretext for refusing when I ask her to go out
with me. Physical activity is not pleasant to her. She likes to take the
air only in a carriage or motor, or seated in a garden as long as summer
lasts. Fatigue is unknown to her, that splendid fatigue which gives us
an opportunity to measure our powers of resistance, to gain
self-confidence. She has deprived us of that camaraderie and physical
gayety which comes from fatigue endured together.
"I was telling the little ones their favorite story--an old Scottish
legend, 'The Cup of Happiness.' Our own has a crack through which the
liquid has all flowed, but it cannot be seen at first glance. Am I then
obsessed that I am always returning to this useless subject? That
sorrowful beauty of Autumn on which I have gazed this evening from the
bank for the last time, breaks my heart. If I am not happy, I have never
been more eager to be...."
The note-book finished with that last evening spent at St. Martin
d'Uriage. Elizabeth, before taking up the continuation, wished to
breathe, to stop, to rest. Her breath came short, and her mind was in a
whirl. Thus accused, she wished to clear herself, and sought in this
chaos of new thoughts to find mistakes and duplicity. But it was like a
weight too heavy to lift, and to dispense with such effort, she
preferred to hasten her reading, waiting to reply later to these
reproaches in their entirety.
She heard the front door open and the guarded voices of her parents. She
immediately put out the light, so that her mother should not be tempted
to come into her room, knowing she was still awake. In the condition of
fever and mental confusion in which she found herself, she could not
bear anyone's presence. And in the darkness she brought into play all
her overwrought attention to listen for the silence, which, little by
little, came upon the house. Then she lighted her lamp, whose chimney
had almost time to grow cold again. It was eleven o'clock. If she had to
sit up all night she would read to the conclusion of these unexpected
confidences.
In the second book Albert came back to Paris, seeming to have left his
sorrow in the country. The little blue crosses were lacking, and at
first one saw only history notes, short sketches of some celebrated men,
of some session in the Chamber, some account of a short journey, or some
idea for an article. And then again the marks reappeared. Elizabeth,
relying on their definite indication, joined the scattered passages.
"December: Heard Orpheus. Gluck both exalts and calms me. The emotion he
arouses strengthens, rather than weakens. I need to hear that music or
Beethoven's. When we were first married I asked Elizabeth to play
sonatas for me in the evening--but she has only fingers. Little by
little, by tacit agreement, we gave up this use of our evenings. In the
same way we have given up our visits to the museums, our trips: she
became so fatigued by them and her complaints enervated me. We now go
each our own way. She prefers her quiet family relations to the bold
conversations of my friends. If her beauty makes the passersby turn to
look at her; if she is very much admired in society, especially when she
enters a room--for she does not spend herself in either coquetry or
effort of conversation, it is quite sufficient to make her enjoy in
peace the lights, the gowns and her own success. I have confidence in
her indifference and her loyalty.
"At my side in the balcony was a blonde woman, no longer young, already
quite faded. In repose, her soft commonplace features wore an expression
which evidenced only lassitude and boredom. By chances after the first
act I turned towards her. I saw her transfigured. The mobility of
expression, the fire of her eyes revealed her deep emotion. She enjoyed
the present moment with all her tense body and high-strung spirit. How
pleasure can change a face, and how its quality reveals itself! I
pointed her out to Elizabeth:
"'What do you think of her?'
"'Old and insignificant.'"
"December: To get out of one's life everything that can be derived from
a maximum of effort constitutes a sort of happiness, the only sort which
depends entirely on ourselves."
"February, 1904: The first volume of 'The History of a Peasant' and the
'Life of Pascal' have been brought out by my two publishers at short
intervals. They are severe and passionate books, not pleasing to women.
So I do not understand why I receive so many letters concerning them.
The majority take no interest in them. Some few show a taste for deep
reading. In the tumult of Paris, it is praiseworthy.
"I do not think that Elizabeth has yet cut her copies. As I have read to
her in the evenings at Saint Martin some of the chapters with which I
was particularly pleased, and as she saw the proofs, she has every
reason in the world to avoid this burden. At heart, she does not like
the life that chance, not her desire, has fashioned for her. At Grenoble
in a drab, dull sphere, she would have been happier. Life here is beyond
her. Paris calls for continued effort, and the Parisians are forceful
because of the keen competition which works to the disadvantage of the
weak, who are soon discarded or crushed.
"The books which I suggest that she read, she either rushes through or
does not finish. I saw her stop once at the last page but one, of an
Italian novel which I had devoured passionately. She was not eager to
know the conclusion. On the other hand, she adores the theater, for
which I care so little; there, seated in an armchair, you have your own
emotions served to you."
"February: Party at Mme. de B----. Why do they pursue me? Is it because
I make no advances to them? My fame attracts them. A very naïve
curiosity; as if the best of a writer is not to be found in his works!
They suspect my moral loneliness. One of them said to me: 'In Pascal
there is commendation of solitude. One might say that you know the
rapture of it and that you despise women.' Desire clothes the expression
of disdain."
"March: A slight intrigue with Mme. R----. I like the contrast of her
black hair and her glistening neck and all the vital power which
emanates from her. But she is rather vulgar, as often happens in the
case of these beauteous beings of joy.
"I have tried in vain to make Elizabeth jealous. In her opinion the
world is divided into two categories--good people and the others--and we
belong to the first, which is very restful. She recognizes no
compromise, no distinction, no desire, no passion. But my thoughts are
free."
"March 30th: Spring has come on its own day this year, a rare thing. In
the streets and over the squares floats a delicate light, a slight fog.
The trees are beginning to show their buds and tiny leaves. As one
walks, somewhat out of practice since the winter, one feels a pleasant
lassitude, as if carrying a burden of gladness.
"I look at the women as they pass, more graceful in their lighter suits.
One of them, it is inevitable, is coming into my life as into an open
garden. I am watching for her without settling my choice on anyone. A
harmless dream which amuses me."
"April: Which? I am at times like a huntsman on the alert. And then I
give up so futile a pursuit.
"My first love is the symbol of my sentimental life. I was fifteen and
the young girl whom I loved was seventeen or eighteen. I looked at her
from afar, yet I dared not speak to her. To see her gave me happiness
that was almost too much to bear. What more could I desire? She guessed
my secret, and it was she who offered her heart to me. But I refused
her, assuring her that she was wrong in believing she loved me. I could
not admit that my love ceased to be a painful exaltation.