Chapter VIII: Part TWO: I (4)

For that is what she told herself in her discouragement. Another, in her place, would not have been cast down. Why was she not capable of accepting it? Why could she not sacrifice a part of her nature? . . . But no, she could not! How badly life is arranged! One cannot live without mutual affection; no more can one live without independence. The one is as sacred as the other. One as much as the other is necessary to the air we breathe. How can they be reconciled? They say to you: "Sacrifice! If you do not sacrifice, you do not love enough. . . ." But it is almost always those who are capable of a great love who are also the most enamoured of independence. For in them, all is strong. And if they sacrifice to their love the principle of their pride, they feel themselves degraded even in their love, they dishonor love. . . . No, it is not so simple as the morality of humility would have us believe--or that of pride,--the Christian or the Nietzschean doctrine. In us a strength is not opposed to a weakness, a virtue to a vice; it is two forces confronting two virtues, two duties. . . . The sole true morality, according to the true life, would be a morality of harmony. But, so far, human society has known only a morality of repression and renunciation,--tempered by lies. Annette could not lie. . . .

What was to be done? . . . To escape from equivocation as quickly as possible, at any price! Since she was convinced that it would be impossible to live in this union, to break it the next day! . . .

Break! . . . She imagined to herself the family's stupefaction, the scandal. . . . That was nothing. . . . But Roger's grief. . . . Immediately she pictured to herself in the darkness the image of his beloved face. . . . At this vision a new surge of passion swept everything away. . . . Annette, burning and icy, motionless in her bed, upon her back, with her eyes open, suppressed the beatings of her heart. . . .

"Roger," she implored, "my Roger, forgive me! . . . Oh! If I could spare you this pain! . . . I cannot, I cannot! . . ."

Then she was bathed in such a flood of love and of remorse that she nearly went running to fling herself at the foot of Roger's bed, to kiss his hands, and say to him:

"I will do everything you wish. . . ."

What! She still loved him? . . . She rebelled. . . .

"No, no! I don't love him any more! . . ."

She lied to herself furiously. . . .

"I don't love him any more! . . ."

In vain! . . . She still loved him. She loved him more than ever. Perhaps not with the noblest part of her--(but what is noble, and what is not?)--Yes! with the noblest too, and with the least! Body and soul! . . . If one could only stop loving when one stopped respecting! How comfortable that would be! . . . But to suffer at the hands of the beloved has never exempted one from loving him: one feels it only the more cruelly when one is forced to love him! . . . Annette was suffering in her wounded love--from lack of confidence, lack of faith in herself, lack of Roger's profound love. She was suffering from the bitter consciousness of all the destroyed hopes which she had hatched and which would never see the light of day. It was because she loved Roger so ardently that she insisted on making him accept her independence. She wanted to be to him more than a woman who abdicates, passive in the union,--a free and sure companion. He took no stock in it. She felt within herself a sorrow, an anger of offended passion. . . .

"No! no! I love him no longer! I ought not to, I don't want to. . . ."

But her strength crumpled, and, even before she could finish her cry of rebellion, she wept. . . . In the night, in silence. . . . Beneath the ice of reason, alas! she was on fire. . . . There was that which she did not wish to say: what joy she would have found in sacrificing to him all that she had, even her independence, if only he had made a generous move, a gesture, a simple gesture, to sacrifice himself, rather than to sacrifice her! . . . She would not have let him do it. She would have demanded no more than an outburst of the heart, a proof of true love. But that proof, although he loved her in his own way, he was incapable of giving. It did not enter his thoughts. He had judged Annette's desire as a feminine requirement that must be received smilingly, but in which there was not touch sense. What could she wish? Why the devil was she crying? Because she loved him? Well then? . . .

"You love me, don't you? You love me? That is the essential thing. . . ."

Ah! that word, she had not forgotten that either! . . .

Annette smiled amid her tears. Poor Roger! He was what he was. One could not grudge him that. But one does not change. Neither he, nor I. We cannot live together. . . .

She dried her eyes.

"Come now, one must put a stop to this. . . ."

XIV

After a white night--(she had drowsed for only an hour or two at dawn)--Annette arose, resolute. With the light of day, calm returned to her. She dressed herself and did her hair methodically, coldly, shutting out of her mind everything that might awaken its doubts, attentive to her toilet, which she made with an even more than ordinary meticulous attention to correct detail.

About nine o'clock Roger knocked gaily at her door. Following his morning custom, he had come to take her for a walk.

They set out, escorted by a gamboling dog. They took a road that led beneath the trees. The young, verdant woods were shot through with sunlight. The branches were alive with the songs and cries of birds. Every step sent them flying; there were beatings of wings, rustlings of leaves, clashing of branches, frenzied flights through the forest. The excited dog snapped and sniffed and zig-zagged. Jays were bickering. In the cupola of an oak, two ringdoves were cooing. And far away, the cuckoo was circling, circling, farther, then nearer, tirelessly repeating his ancient jest. It was the outburst of spring fever. . . .

Roger, noisy, very gay, laughing, and exciting his dog, was himself like a big, happy dog. Annette followed silently, at a few paces. She was thinking:

"Here! . . . No, yonder at the turning. . . ."

She was watching Roger. She was listening to the forest. How different all would be, after she had spoken! . . . The turn was passed. She had not spoken. . . . She said: "Roger . . ." in an uncertain, trembling voice, almost a whisper. . . . He did not hear it, he noticed nothing. Stooping down in front of her, he gathered some violets, and he talked, talked. . . . She repeated: "Roger!" this time in such an accent of distress that he turned around, startled. At once he saw the pallor of her gravely serious face; he came to her. . . . He was afraid already. She said:

"Roger, we must separate."

His features expressed stupefaction and dismay. He stammered:

"What's that you say? What's that you say?"

Avoiding his glance, she repeated firmly:

"We must separate, Roger; it is sad, but we must. I have come to see that it is impossible, impossible for me to be your wife. . . ."

She wanted to go on, but he prevented her.

"No, no, that's not true! . . . Be still! Be still! You are mad! . . ."

"I must go away, Roger," she said.

He shouted: "Go away, you! . . . I don't want you to! . . ."

He had seized her arms, and was squeezing them brutally. Then he caught sight of her proud face, obstinate and glacial; he felt that he was lost, he let go, he begged pardon, he prayed, he pleaded.

"Annette! My little Annette! Stay, stay! . . . No, it isn't possible. . . . But what has happened? What have I done?"

Pity reappeared on the firm face. She said:

"Let's sit down, Roger. . . ."

(He seated himself docilely beside her on a mossy bank: his eyes never left her, imploring at every word).

". . . Be calm, everything must be explained. . . . Be calm, I beg of you! . . . Believe me that I have to use all my strength to be. . . . I could not speak unless I forced myself to do so. . . ."

"But don't speak," he cried. "It is madness! . . ."

"It is necessary."

He tried to close her mouth. She pulled herself away. Despite the disturbance within her, her resolution seemed so inflexible that she imposed it on Roger who, abandoning the struggle, beaten and haggard, listened to her words, without daring to look at her. Annette, in a voice that seemed impassive, cold and mournful, but which was marked by sharp breaks, and which once or twice stopped to take breath along the way,--said what she had decided to say, in words that were clear, studied, and moderate, but which seemed all the more implacable for that. . . . She had sincerely wanted to test out whether they could live together. She hoped so at first, she wished it with all her heart. She had seen that this dream could not be realized. Too many things separated them. Too many differences in their surroundings and in their thoughts. She laid the blame at her own door; she had definitely recognized that she could not live a married life. She had conceptions of life, of independence, which did not accord with Roger's. Perhaps Roger was right. The majority of men, perhaps of women even, thought as he did. She was wrong, no doubt. But right or wrong, that was how she was. It was useless for her to cause another's misery and her own. She was made to live alone. She freed Roger from all promises made to her, and took back her own freedom. For the rest, they were not bound. Everything had been upright between them. They must separate uprightly, as friends. . . .

While speaking, she stared at the grass at her feet; she was very careful not to look at Roger. But, as she spoke, she heard his gasping breath, and it was a sore trial for her to go on to the end. When she had finished, she risked looking at him. In her turn, she was smitten. Roger's face was like that of a drowning man: flushed, breathing noisily, he had not the strength to cry out. Awkwardly he moved his clenched hands, sought and found his breath, and groaned:

"No, no, no, no, I cannot, I cannot . . ."

And he burst into sobs.

From a field by the edge of the woods, they heard the voice of a peasant, the noise of a plow-share. Annette, overcome with emotion, seized Roger by the arm and drew him away from the road, into the bushes, then further into the midst of the forest. Roger, devoid of strength, let himself be led, repeating:

"I cannot, I cannot. . . . What is going to become of me? . . ."

Tenderly she tried to keep him from speaking. But he was overwhelmed by his despair: the misery of his love, of his pride, the public humiliation, the ruined happiness that was to be his lot,--all these were at once commingled. This big child who had been spoiled by life, who had never seen anything resist his desire, broke down at this defeat: it was a catastrophe, a crumbling of all his certainties; he was losing faith in himself, he was losing his foothold, there was no way for him to turn. Annette, touched by this great grief, was saying:

"My sweetheart . . . my sweetheart. . . . Don't cry! . . . You have, you will have a beautiful life . . . you will have no need of me."

He continued to moan.

"I can't do without you. I no longer believe in anything. . . . I no longer believe in my life. . . ."

And he flung himself on his knees.

"Stay! Stay with me! . . . I will do what you want . . . everything that you want. . . ."

Annette knew perfectly well that he was making promises that he could not fulfill, but she was touched. Gently she replied:

"No, my friend, you are saying it sincerely, but you couldn't do it, or you would suffer because of it, and I should suffer too; life would be a perpetual conflict. . . ."

When he saw that he could not shake her resolution, he burst into tears at her feet, like a child. Annette was pierced by pity and by love. Her energy melted. She tried to remain firm, but she could not resist these tears. She thought of herself no longer; she thought only of him. She caressed that dear head resting against her legs, and she said tender words to him. She lifted up her big, unhappy boy, she dried his eyes with her handkerchief, she took him by the arm again, she compelled him to walk. He was so prostrated that he surrendered himself, knowing only how to weep. As they went along, the branches of the trees lashed their faces. They went into the woods, without seeing, without knowing where. Annette felt emotion and love rising within her. Supporting Roger, she said:

"Don't cry! . . . my dear! . . . my little one. It tears me to pieces. . . . I can't bear it. . . . Don't cry! . . . I love you. . . . I love you, my poor little Roger. . . ."

And he answered:

"No . . .!" in the midst of his tears.

"Yes! I love you, I love you, a thousand times more than you have ever loved me. . . . What do you want me to do? . . . Oh! I shall do it. . . . Roger, my Roger. . . ."

And now as they were walking, they came out of the woods, and found themselves at the fence of the Rivière property, near the old house. Annette recognized it. . . . She looked at Roger. . . . And suddenly passion invaded her whole body. A wind of fire. A drunkenness of the senses, like the intoxication of an acacia in bloom. . . . She ran towards the door, holding Roger by the hand. They entered the deserted habitation. The blinds were shut. Coming in out of the broad daylight, they were blinded. Roger bumped against the furniture. Without seeing and without thinking, he let himself be guided by the burning hand that led him through the darkness of the ground floor rooms. Annette did not hesitate, her destiny drew her on. . . . Into the room at the back, the room of the two sisters, in which from the past autumn there still floated the perfume of their two bodies, toward the big bed, where they had both slept, she went with him; and, in a passion of pity and of joy,--she gave herself to him.

XV

When they awakened from their overwhelming intoxication, their eyes were accustomed to darkness. The room seemed lighted. Rays of sunlight came dancing through the slits in the blinds, reminding them of the fine day outside. Roger was covering Annette's unclothed body with kisses; he was giving voice to his gratitude in inarticulate words. . . .

But after he had spoken, he suddenly fell silent, his face resting against Annette's side. . . . Annette, silent and motionless, was dreaming. . . . Outside, in the rosebush by the wall, bees were buzzing. . . . And, like a song receding in the distance, Annette heard Roger's love take wings. . . .

Already he loved her less. Roger, too, felt it with shame and annoyance; but he was unwilling to admit it. Fundamentally, he was shocked that Annette had given herself. . . . Ridiculous exigence of man! He desires the woman, and when she sincerely surrenders herself to him, he almost regards her over-generous act as an infidelity! . . .

Annette leaned towards him, lifted up his head, looked into his eyes for a long time, said nothing, and smiled a melancholy smile. When he felt this glance piercing him to his very soul, he sought to deceive her. He intended to appear thoroughly enamoured. He said:

"Now, Annette, you cannot go: I _must_ marry you."

Annette's sad smile reappeared. She had read him perfectly. . . .

"No, my friend," said she, "you _must_ nothing."

He recovered himself.

"I want . . ."

But she replied: "I am going to go."

"Why?" he asked.

And before she spoke he already understood her reasons for departure. However, he felt obliged to dispute them afresh. She put her hand over his mouth; and he kissed that hand with passionate anger. . . . Oh! how much he loved her! He was humiliated by his own thoughts. Had not she seen them? . . . And the sweet, moist hand that caressed his lips seemed to say:

"I have seen nothing. . . ."

From a distant village came the tolling of bells, borne upon the fitful wind. . . . After a long silence, Annette sighed. . . . Come, this time it is the end. . . . In a hushed voice she said:

"Roger, we must go back. . . ."

Their bodies drew apart. Kneeling beside the bed, he pressed his brow against Annette's bare feet. He wished to prove to her:

"I am thine."

But he did not succeed in driving away his afterthought.

He went out of the room, leaving Annette to dress. While waiting he leaned his elbows on a wall of the little entrance court, listening vaguely to the noises of the countryside and savoring the hour just passed. Importunate ideas were eclipsed. He rejoiced in the happiness of pride and sensual appeasement. He was proud of himself. He thought:

"Poor Annette!"

He corrected himself:

"Dear Annette! . . ."

She came out of the house. As calm as ever. But very pale. . . . Who can tell all that had passed during those brief moments that she had been left alone: assaults of passion, grief, renunciation? . . . Roger saw nothing of all this, he was absorbed in himself. He went to her and sought to renew his protestations. She raised a finger to her lips: Silence! . . . At the hedge that enclosed the garden she plucked a branch of hawthorn, she broke it in two, and gave him half. And as she left the Rivière estate with him, on the very threshold, she pressed her lips to Roger's.

They returned without a word, through the forest. Annette had begged him not to break the silence. He held her arm. His attitude was very tender. She was smiling, with her eyes half closed. And this time it was he who guided her steps. He did not recall that only an hour ago, at this very spot, he had wept. . . .

In the depths of the forest the dog was barking in pursuit of game. . . .

XVI

She took her departure on the following day. Her excuse was a letter, a sudden illness of her old aunt. The Brissots were not completely fooled by this. For some time they had been more suspicious than Roger that Annette was escaping them. But it suited their dignity not to seem to admit this possibility, and to believe in the reasons given for this sudden departure. Up to the last moment they played a comedy of brief separation and early reunion. This constraint was painful to Annette; but Roger had begged her not to announce her decision until later, at Paris, and Annette admitted to herself that she would have found it hard to inform the Brissots by word of mouth. So, when they took leave of each other, they exchanged smiles, coy words and embraces from which the heart was absent.

Roger again accompanied Annette in a carriage to the station. They were both sad. Roger had virtuously renewed his request to Annette that she should marry him; he felt that he was bound to: he was a gentleman. Too much of a one. He also felt that he had the right, now, to make his authority felt,--in the interest of Annette. He thought that because she had given herself, because Annette had abdicated, the situation between them was no longer quite equal, and that he must now demand marriage. Annette saw only too clearly that, if he married her now, he would think himself justified a thousand times more than ever in playing her guardian. Of course, she was grateful to him for his correct insistence. But . . . she refused. Roger was secretly irritated by this. He no longer understood her. . . . (He thought that he had always understood her!) . . . And he judged her severely. He did not show it. But she guessed it, with mingled sorrow and irony, and always tenderness. . . . (He was still Roger! . . .)

When they had nearly arrived, she placed her gloved hand on Roger's hand. He started:

"Annette!"

"Let us forgive each other!" she said.

He wished to speak; he could not. Their hands remained clasped. They did not look at each other, but each knew that the other was holding back the tears, ready to flow. . . .

They were at the station; they had to be discreet. Roger installed Annette in her carriage. She was not alone in the compartment. They had to restrict themselves to commonplace courtesies; but the eyes of each were avidly seizing upon the image of the other's beloved face.

The engine whistled.

"Till we meet again!" they said.

And they were thinking: "Never!"

The train pulled out. Roger returned home in the falling night. His heart was full of sorrow and of anger. Of anger against Annette. Of anger against himself. He felt torn asunder. He felt--oh, shame!--he felt relieved. . . .

And stopping his horse on the deserted road, in contempt for himself and in contempt for love, he wept bitterly.

XVII

Annette returned home to the Boulogne house, and there she shut herself up. When the letter to the Brissots had gone off, she severed all connections with the outside world. None of her friends knew that she had returned. She opened no letters. For days she never left the floor on which she lived. Her old aunt, accustomed not to understand her and not to worry about it, respected her isolation. Her external life seemed suspended. Her other, secret life was only the more intense. Her silence was swept by storms of wounded passion. She had to be alone so that she might abandon herself to them to the point of exhaustion. She emerged from them broken, her blood drained, her mouth parched, with burning brow, and hands and feet like ice. There followed torpid periods given over to deep dreams. For days she dreamed; and she made no effort to direct her thoughts. She was invaded by a confused mass of mingled emotions. . . . A somber melancholy, a bitter sweetness, a taste of ashes in the mouth, disappointed hopes, sudden flashes of memory that made her heart leap, fits of embittered despair, pride and passion, and a sense of ruin, of the irremediable, of a Fate against which all efforts are vain,--at first a crushing feeling, then mournful, then dissolving into a drowsiness whose distant sorrow was marked by a strange pleasure. . . . She did not understand. . . .

One night, in a dream, she saw herself in a bourgeoning forest. She was alone. She was running through the thickets. Tree branches laid hold of her dress, damp bushes clutched her; she freed herself, but tore her clothes in doing so, and saw with shame that she was half naked. She bent to cover herself with the tatters of her skirt. And then before her, on the ground, she saw a small oval basket, beneath a pile of sun-drenched leaves,--not yellow and gold, but white as silver, like the trunk of a birch, white with the finest linen. Deeply moved, she looked at it, she knelt beside it. She saw the linen begin to stir. With beating heart, she stretched out her hand. . . . Her emotion persisted. . . . She did not understand. . . .

There came a day--when she understood. . . . She was alone no longer. . . . In her a life was arising, a new life. . . .

And the weeks passed, while she brooded over her hidden universe. . . .

"Love, is it really thou? Love, thou who hast fled me when I sought to seize thee, hast thou entered into me? I hold thee, I hold thee, thou shalt not escape me; oh, my little prisoner, I hold thee in my body. Revenge thyself! Devour me! Little consuming creature, devour my vitals! Nourish thyself on my blood! Thou art myself. Thou art my dream. Since I could not find thee in this world, I have made thee with my flesh. . . . And now, Love, I have thee! I am he whom I love! . . ."

THE END