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.
“When Elizabeth passed through the streets of Grenoble, I stopped, not to gaze upon her longer, but because I could not make advances.
“I find myself again in that state of languor and expectation, but without cause. My thoughts are quite fixed upon the future. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, when you came into my life, I believed the sun rose in you. Why have you allowed the darkness to fall? Our hearth exhales death and night. I can no longer bear that state of apathy which is neither sorrow nor joy, that listlessness into which I am sinking. Do you not see the danger? And if the well-spring of my mental activity, thus parched, were to dry up! A man’s brain is a delicate mechanism. An awkward hand is sufficient to warp it. And it is because I am tired that I am returning to lectures, articles, essays, to all those rapid works which mislead us about our power of production. But you were not capable of giving me a different love, not to me, nor to anyone else....”
“April 25th: Next week a history congress in London. They have asked me for a lecture on the condition of the peasant in France before the Revolution.”
The second of Albert Derize’s note-books concluded with this information.