Monsieur Malet might mention some saying he had read, could not quote it exactly, and he too would go out to consult a book. Conversation was extremely free, and I did not like to hear Monsieur Malet discussing improper subjects in front of his daughter. I knew how ridiculous it was to attach so much importance to such small details, but it was not a judgment, it was an uncomfortable impression. I was not happy in the Malet house; it was not my sort of climate. I did not like myself, I seemed solemn, boring, and, even though I loathed my own silences, I withdrew into them.
But in the Malet household and at Gandumas alike, my discomfort was only skin-deep because I had the still potent pleasure of watching Odile live. When I was seated opposite her at a dinner, I could not help watching her. She had a dazzling, luminous whiteness and reminded me of a beautiful diamond twinkling in the moonlight. At the time she almost always dressed in white and surrounded herself with white flowers at home. It suited her well. What a fantastic combination of candor and mystery she was! It felt like living alongside a child, but sometimes, when she spoke to another man, I caught glimpses of unfamiliar sentiments in her expression and something like the distant murmurings of a passionate and savage race.
. VIII .
I have tried to help you grasp the entrance, the first exposition—half hidden beneath louder instruments—of the themes around which the unfinished symphony of my life has been built. You have seen the Knight and the Cynic, and perhaps you have also noticed, in the ridiculously intricate ornamentation, that I have scrupulously chosen not to omit the first distant call of Jealousy. Be indulgent now and try not to judge but to understand. It is painful and difficult for me to tell you what happened next, and yet I want to be accurate. And this desire is all the greater because I believe I am cured, and I will try to describe my madness with theobjectivity of a doctor who has had a fit of delirium and forces himself to write about it.
There are illnesses that begin slowly with slight, increasingly frequent dizzy spells; others explode in the space of an evening with a bout violent fever. For me jealousy was a sudden and terrible scourge. If I try now, in a calmer state, to trace its causes, they strike me as very varied. First there was my great love and the natural desire to keep for myself the tiniest portions of the precious materials that were Odile’s time, her words, her smiles, and her expressions. But that desire was not the most important element, for when I could have Odile to myself (if, for example, we were alone at home in the evening, or if I went away with her for a couple of days), she complained that I was much more interested in my books and thoughts than in her. It was only when she could have been taken by others that I wished I had her to myself. This sentiment was mostly due to pride, a subterranean pride masked by the modesty and reserve characteristic of my father’s family. I wanted to rule over Odile’s mind in the same way that, in the Loue valley, I ruled over the waters, the forests, the long machines sliding across the white paper pulp, the peasants’ houses and the workmen’s cottages. I wanted to know what was going on inside her pretty little head, beneath that curlyhair, just as I knew, from the clear printed statements that came every day from Limousin, how many kilos of Whatman were left and what the factory’s daily output had been over the last week.
Judging by the pain it reawakens when I press on this precise spot, I can see that here was the root of the problem, in my acute intellectual curiosity. I never conceded that I did not understand. Yet understanding Odile was impossible, and I believe that no man (if he loved her) could have lived with her without suffering. I even think that, had she been different, I might never have known what it is to be jealous (because man is not born
But in the Malet household and at Gandumas alike, my discomfort was only skin-deep because I had the still potent pleasure of watching Odile live. When I was seated opposite her at a dinner, I could not help watching her. She had a dazzling, luminous whiteness and reminded me of a beautiful diamond twinkling in the moonlight. At the time she almost always dressed in white and surrounded herself with white flowers at home. It suited her well. What a fantastic combination of candor and mystery she was! It felt like living alongside a child, but sometimes, when she spoke to another man, I caught glimpses of unfamiliar sentiments in her expression and something like the distant murmurings of a passionate and savage race.
. VIII .
I have tried to help you grasp the entrance, the first exposition—half hidden beneath louder instruments—of the themes around which the unfinished symphony of my life has been built. You have seen the Knight and the Cynic, and perhaps you have also noticed, in the ridiculously intricate ornamentation, that I have scrupulously chosen not to omit the first distant call of Jealousy. Be indulgent now and try not to judge but to understand. It is painful and difficult for me to tell you what happened next, and yet I want to be accurate. And this desire is all the greater because I believe I am cured, and I will try to describe my madness with theobjectivity of a doctor who has had a fit of delirium and forces himself to write about it.
There are illnesses that begin slowly with slight, increasingly frequent dizzy spells; others explode in the space of an evening with a bout violent fever. For me jealousy was a sudden and terrible scourge. If I try now, in a calmer state, to trace its causes, they strike me as very varied. First there was my great love and the natural desire to keep for myself the tiniest portions of the precious materials that were Odile’s time, her words, her smiles, and her expressions. But that desire was not the most important element, for when I could have Odile to myself (if, for example, we were alone at home in the evening, or if I went away with her for a couple of days), she complained that I was much more interested in my books and thoughts than in her. It was only when she could have been taken by others that I wished I had her to myself. This sentiment was mostly due to pride, a subterranean pride masked by the modesty and reserve characteristic of my father’s family. I wanted to rule over Odile’s mind in the same way that, in the Loue valley, I ruled over the waters, the forests, the long machines sliding across the white paper pulp, the peasants’ houses and the workmen’s cottages. I wanted to know what was going on inside her pretty little head, beneath that curlyhair, just as I knew, from the clear printed statements that came every day from Limousin, how many kilos of Whatman were left and what the factory’s daily output had been over the last week.
Judging by the pain it reawakens when I press on this precise spot, I can see that here was the root of the problem, in my acute intellectual curiosity. I never conceded that I did not understand. Yet understanding Odile was impossible, and I believe that no man (if he loved her) could have lived with her without suffering. I even think that, had she been different, I might never have known what it is to be jealous (because man is not born
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