The Story of My Wife (50 page)

"What do you mean compelled? You
are
being strange. Am I to take it, then, that you do not always tell the truth."

"Not always. And that's a definite not always. But how could I, miss? Life doesn't allow you to . . . You will discover it, too, and will remember my words. But you will still believe me, won't you, that right now I am being honest?"

"I guess so. But how do I know when
now
is?"

"I will let your heart be the judge of that."

"Oh but my heart has deceived me more than once," she said, throwing her head back again. (Just like at the university when, lost in thought, she smoothed back her blonde hair.) "It seems I've experienced another disappointment," she said with a smile, and signalled to the waiter to bring the check.

"I thought I would marry you," she suddenly said.

"Come again, miss?"

"Didn't you notice that I ... I welcomed your attentions? I thought I would bind my life to yours, for a time, anyway, as long as you find me pleasing. I had the feeling, you see, that I've finally found a likable, decent man."

"Is that what you thought, miss?"

"Oh, even my little sister encouraged me; she said this time I had nothing to fear. She'll be so disappointed, the poor girl . . . But it's all the same now," she added as her eyes misted over.

By then, however, I could say whatever I liked.

Still, I wanted to know why such a trifle should make her lose her trust in me.

Even if it is a trifle, she said, it alienated her from me. She was very sorry but she felt alienated.

"For to go on acting out a role, and for such a long time, too . . . We never expected you to bring such a sacrifice."

"Wait a minute," I said; "let's not be hasty about this. You are still young, Madeleine, you haven't had much experience. Life is no joyride, you know; it can teach you a thing or two . . ."

"I know," she interrupted. "It teaches you to cheat, to be ruthless, right? Depending on your preference. You choose it and life teaches you."

"Hold it, will you?" I said again. "You are a very smart woman, Madeleine, but you don't know everything. You have no idea what a man has to go through, how many times he must fall and hurt himself before he realizes that with the naked truth he won't get anywhere . . . he'll never be content."

"Content? Why should he be content? If it means humiliating himself?" And she blushed all over. "Anyway, I have only contempt for such theories. Theories which hold that we cannot exist without lies, that lies are better for us than the truth. Yes, I despise them . . . They emanate from the rubbish heap and that's where they belong."

What did I answer her? Nothing, most probably. And not only because I couldn't, because she was so right—purity is always right—but because my own youth stood before me that instant; I saw the same proud bearing, the same uncompromising sternness. I, too, had contempt for such theories then.

And with the passage of time all that is forgotten? Perhaps I myself blushed at that moment.

In short, up to that point I hadn't taken mademoiselle too seriously. I was too busy smiling at her childlike silliness, not realizing that I was also laughing at her cherished beliefs. That I didn't feel like smiling any more became pretty obvious, I guess.

For after all, how low can a man sink?

As far as Madeleine was concerned, she stuck to her guns, and with good reason, I thought. "Wait five minutes," I used to say in my younger years to people who very zealously advocated a certain position, only to defend the opposing viewpoint with equal enthusiasm moments later. In other words, they had no problem abandoning their position. I never liked that sort of thing, found it pretty contemptible, in fact. Your original convictions do deserve some allegiance.

As do your experiences ... In short, I did try to plead my own case, arguing that I was young once, too, and not that long ago, either, or at least it didn't seem that long ago. What is more, I also had ideals; except that ideals were one thing and experience quite another. Of course this was something I also refused to accept— from anyone.

"But then one day I did; and you will, too, I assure you. And when you do, think of me. A proud young lady like you will bang her head against the wall many more times before realizing what this jamboree is all about ..." I coughed up a few more of these commonplaces, in short. Except that now she wasn't going to let me off the hook.

I shouldn't take it ill of her, she said very seriously, but she first began to have doubts about me when I told her that John Bunyan was my friend.

This wasn't a pleasant thing to hear, needless to say, if only because it happened to be true.

"Look here, dear," I said, somewhat angrier this time, "I can't very well explain everything to you—after all, you are still both children. It would be churlish of me, and anyway, I don't know you that well. Should I have told you that I was an unbeliever who wanted to believe, and picked up Bunyan for that reason? Should I have burdened you with all my doubts and torments?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "You could have trusted me. And even if you didn't, there was no reason to say such things. I mean: wasn't this an attempt to make me look ridiculous? I wouldn't do this to anyone, monsieur—least of all to someone I respected."

"You are quite right." And to myself I thought: I might as well tell her off ... it hardly matters now.

"You were crazy about the music, right?" she taunted.

"How else was I going to worm my way into a kid's heart?" I countered. "Two kids' hearts, as a matter of fact." Oh, I got into the swing of it all right, the dark street resounded with my eloquence. (We were walking up and down winding passageways near the Vielle de Temple.) In other words, I fully recovered my wits, found my voice, hit upon the right arguments; and after that things went smoothly enough. I never did like to express myself too delicately. I called them annoying little ninnies, and asked her if she had any advice on how to deal with such creatures.

"I grant you, I am not worthy of their friendship," I went on. I won't ever see them again, and that's all right, too. . . . But what could I do about it? One can put up with an awful lot, that is one of the things life taught me. "Just the same, you will allow me a few parting words, won't you."

"Go right ahead," she said coolly.

"I loved you, too, but your younger sister I loved even more. (Her behavior annoyed me to no end, so I came out with it.) And do you know how I love her? Like one loves a daughter, yet not quite the same way. Miserably, in other words, perversely; with the knowledge that this is corruption itself, like everything else I was destined to go through in life. What should he do who is too old for his emotions—tear out his heart? What should
I
do, miss? You are a wise one, you're as wise as they come—you tell me."

She gave me a shocked look. And then said something to the effect that I was still fairly young, something like that, though it really doesn't matter whether or not she actually said it. Fact is she then went on to say this:

"That's all right. You were being honest at least. I'll talk to my sister, whom I love, too, of course . . . For whom I'd give my life and blood," she added, painfully, passionately. And with that she left me, most probably because tears appeared in her eyes.

* * *

Let's just go on, I said to myself. Actually, something happened right around then. I sat up in bed one night and asked myself: You really don't want your misery any more, do you?

No, I don't, I answered. But then I said: Yes, I do.

For that's the way man is. He goes on killing himself, tormenting himself, to silence in him the very thing that would fade away anyhow; and when it does, when it finally dies away, he looks around in great surprise: Is it possible? Could it be that he is no longer interested in his own life; in what he lived for until now: his grief, his deep-set anger? And before he knows it, he is desperately reaching out for it, like a miser trying to retrieve invested capital.

But as we know, such attempts are bound to fail. You can't dispose of your past . . . especially when you don't really want to . . . For nothing terrifies you more than to end up with nothing.

So I worked even harder than one ought to at such times. Being alone was becoming harder to take; I had no one by now save my servant boy, of whom I grew so tired, I began to treat him most cruelly. . . . Oh but let's skip the nasty details.

After what happened I left the university, of course. Actually, I managed to transfer to nearby Alfort, where at a school of veterinary medicine, chemistry was taught quite decently. I am in attendance at the school to this day. I commute from Paris four times a week and am quite satisfied with the establishment—all the more as I happened to make a couple of discoveries, one right after another, before even settling in. One had to do with a new electronic process, the other was this (I'll be brief, not to worry):

Actually, I was busying myself with something entirely different then—titration, I believe, but the result was quite surprising. The mixing of two liquids gave me the idea for a splendid new cooling process—it came to me so fast, I could hardly believe it myself. I mean, it was hard to conceive of such a sudden illumination.

The thing was so simple it spoke for itself. As soon as I combined the two liquids, everything congealed around them, they even cracked the water bowl in which I did the mixing. What was most important, though, was that the two frozen liquids could easily be separated; they were adaptable, in other words . . . And a discovery like that always opens up new vistas.

The truth is whenever I am involved in something like this, I am slow to get started—locomotive was what one of my former wife's friends called me, and that was an apt description, because I do huff and puff a lot at first, but then I take off. And there's no stopping me then, until I am all through . . .

So I buckled down and read all the books and journals I could get my hands on. For a whole week I didn't sleep, didn't even take my clothes off. But when the excitement got to be too much for me, I lay down and stayed that way. This was my old system—it never failed. Whenever I got too tense, I'd just chuck everything and start staring at the ceiling.

It was the same now. For three whole days I lay in bed in a kind of stupor, feeling pretty unhappy. What do I need all this for? I thought. To make more money. . . ? Ah, vanity . . . what a strange thing it is. One gives the very best of himself, casts it in front of others, and the only reason for doing it, it seems, is to solicit praise. And you do it for nothing, isn't that a laugh? For a casual nod of the head. (This, then, is what holds the world together— vanity. People have been saying it for a long time, and now I've come to agree with them.) Is that what I am after, that nod? And if not, why all this drudgery, when what I really want is peace and quiet . . . what I have right now, this very moment, and find so pleasant . . . since I don't even have to stick my hand out of the bed.

And still. In the end I got back into action. One night I struggled to my feet and with my still stiff and bandaged hand I began to draw diagrams. I quickly sketched out plans for two systems, I even filled in some of the details, so as to have it all on paper. This way I wouldn't have to let draughtsman in on my idea, for they would be sure to spread it around. I even thought about the manufacturers I would approach and get estimates from—for that's how you usually proceed: order each part of the planned machine from a different manufacturer, and when they're all ready, assemble a prototype . . . Well, I had the whole thing mapped out and even began thinking about the actual production, when I suddenly faltered, my spirits flagged, and I was overcome with shame.

For the heavens responded to my ambitious notions with a peal of laughter.
I
was needed to come up with a new solution?
I
had to play the inventor? Weren't there enough chemists in the world?

And
they
never thought of this possibility?

What can I say? I grew to hate chemistry and everything connected with it, including my own diligence. In short, I had only contempt for all this busywork of mine.

But what else could I possibly be after?

I heard nothing from the other side, you see, nothing from the two girls, that is, although I had been working on my project over a month and a half now, and Madeleine gave me her word, promised me when we parted at the university, that she'd apprise me of their decision as soon as possible. Though her sister was still recuperating, and therefore she didn't want to excite her unduly, she said she'd have a talk with her just as soon as her little sister got better . . . She promised this twice, using these very words.

So I waited another two weeks. But as it proved to be a fruitless extension, I came to the conclusion that the younger sister also condemned those poor, untrustworthy people who in moments of weakness or embarrassment were capable of lying through their teeth.

Except it didn't help to think that, nothing helped. Over the years I may have become adept at giving up on things, but I also grew older, and when that happens, your strength and resistance diminishes also, alas.

So what I decided one fine spring Sunday, early in the morning, was that I would look them up—that very day, it
was
Sunday after all, and they did mention it more than once that they spent Sunday mornings at home—the older one usually rested, the other wrote letters. I knew all that. And knew also that they were living with their aunt, but quite independently, meaning they could receive visitors any time they wished.

I thought to myself: Maybe I still had a chance. Why should one give up prematurely and retreat unnecessarily, permanently? I have time. I will tell them that when it comes to matters of social conscience I will defer to them without fail. I never did pay much attention to those momentous issues, I don't have a feel for them—they can make all the important decisions . . . Now could I have come up with a more honorable offer? Oh, and something for the little one: Should she fall in love with someone, I will get out of her way. That's what I'll promise them, I decided, and swear to it if need be.