But the truth is that I never felt for an instant any desire or inclination to hang myself: I wasn’t even afraid I would do it. No — I was afraid only of the window itself — and of Clarimonde — and of something terrible, something uncertain and unpredictable that was now to come. I had the pathetic irresistible longing to get up and go to the window. And I had to do it...
Then the telephone rang. I grabbed the receiver and before I could hear a word I myself cried into the mouthpiece: “Come! Come at once!”
It was just as if my unearthly yell had instantly chased all the shadows into the farthest cracks of the floor. I became composed immediately. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and drank a glass of water. Then I considered what I ought to tell the Commissioner when he came. Finally I went to the window, greeted Clarimonde, and smiled.
And Clarimonde greeted me and smiled.
Five minutes later the Commissioner was here. I told him that I had finally struck the root of the whole affair; if he would only refrain from questioning me to-day, I would certainly be able to make some remarkable disclosures in the very near future. The queer part of it was that while I was lying to him I was at the same time fully convinced in my own mind that I was telling the truth. And I still feel that that is the truth — against my better judgment.
He probably noticed the unusual condition of my temper, especially when I apologized for screaming into the telephone and tried to explain — and failed to find any plausible reason for my agitation. He suggested very amiably that I need not take undue consideration of him: he was always at my service — that was his duty. He would rather make a dozen useless trips over here than to let me wait for him once when I really needed him. Then he invited me to go out with him to-night, suggesting that that might help distract me — it wasn’t a good thing to be alone all the time. I have accepted his invitation, although I think it will be difficult to go out: I don’t like to leave this room.
Saturday, March 19
We went to the Gaieté Rochechouart, to the Cigale, and to the Lune Rousse. The Commissioner was right: it was a good thing for me to go out and breathe another atmosphere. At first I felt rather uncomfortable, as if I were doing something wrong, as if I were a deserter, running away from our flag. But by and by that feeling died; we drank a good deal, laughed, and joked.
When I went to the window this morning, I seemed to read a reproach in Clarimonde’s look. But perhaps I only imagined it: how could she know that I had gone out last night? For that matter, it seemed to last for only a moment; then she smiled again.
We played all day long.
Sunday, March 20
To-day I can only repeat: we played all day long.
Monday, March 21
We played all day long.
Tuesday, March 22
Yes, and to-day we did the same. Nothing, absolutely nothing else. Sometimes I ask myself why we do it. What is it all for? Or, what do I really want, to what can it all lead? But I never answer my own question. For it’s certain that I want nothing other than just this. Come what may, that which is coming is exactly what I long for.
We have been talking to one another these last few days, of course not with any spoken word. Sometimes we moved our lips, at other times we only looked at one another. But we understood each other perfectly.
I was right: Clarimonde reproached me for running away last Friday. But I begged her forgiveness and told her I realized that it had been very unwise and horrid of me. She forgave me and I promised her never again to leave the window. And we kissed each other, pressing our lips against the panes for a long, long time.
Wednesday, March 23
I know now that I love her. It must be love — I feel it tingling in every fiber of my being. It may be that with other people love is different. But is there any one among a thousand millions who has a head, an ear, a hand that is like any one else’s? Every one is different, so it is quite conceivable that our love is unlike that of other people. I know that my love is very singular. But does that make it any less beautiful? I am almost happy in this love.
If only there would not be this fear! Sometimes it falls asleep. Then I forget it. But only for a few minutes. Then it wakes up again and will not let me go. It seems to me like a poor little mouse fighting against a huge and beautiful snake, trying to free itself from its overpowering embrace. Just wait, you poor foolish little fear, soon our love will devour you!
Thursday, March 24
I have made a discovery: I don’t play with Clarimonde — she plays with me.
It happened like this.
Last night, as usual, I thought about our game. I wrote down five intricate movements with which I wanted to surprise her to-day. I gave every motion a number. I practiced them so as to be able to execute them as quickly as possible, first in order, and then backwards. Then only the even numbers and then the odd, and then only the first and last parts of each of the five motions. It was very laborious, but it gave me great satisfaction because it brought me nearer to Clarimonde, even though I could not see her. I practiced in this way for hours, and finally they went like clock-work.
This morning I went to the window. We greeted each other, and the game began. Forward, backward — it was incredible to see how quickly she understood me, and how instantaneously she repeated all the things I did.
Then there was a knock at my door. It was the porter, bringing me my boots. I took them; but when I was going back to the window my glance fell on the sheet of paper on which I had recorded the order of the movements. And I saw that I had not executed a single one of these movements.
I almost reeled. I grabbed the back of the easy chair and let myself down into it. I couldn’t believe it. I read the sheet again and again. But it was true: of all the motions I had made at the window, not a single one was mine.
And again I was aware of a door opening somewhere far away — her door. I was standing before it and looking in... nothing, nothing — only an empty darkness. Then I knew that if I went out, I would be saved; and I realized that now I could go. Nevertheless I did not go. That was because I was distinctly aware of one feeling: that I held the secret of the mystery. Held it tightly in both hands. — Paris — I was going to conquer Paris!
For a moment Paris was stronger than Clarimonde.
Oh, I’ve dropped all thought of it now. Now I am aware only of my love, and in the midst of it this quiet, passionate fear.
But in that instant I felt suddenly strong. I read through the details of my first movement once more and impressed it firmly in my memory. Then I went back to the window.
And I took exact notice of what I did: not a single motion I executed was among those I had set out to do.
Then I decided to run my index finger along my nose. But instead I kissed the window-pane. I wanted to drum on the window-sill, but ran my hand through my hair instead. So it was true: Clarimonde did not imitate the things I did: on the contrary, I repeated the things she indicated. And I did it so quickly, with such lightning rapidity, that I followed her motions in the same second, so that even now it seems as if I were the one who exerted the will power to do these things.
So it is I... I who was so proud of the fact that I had determined her mode of thought — I was the one who was being so completely influenced. Only, her influence is so soft, so gentle that it seems as if nothing on earth could be so soothing.
I made other experiments. I put both my hands in my pockets and resolved firmly not to move them; then I looked across at her. I noticed how she lifted her hand and smiled, and gently chided me with her index finger. I refused to budge. I felt my right hand wanting to take itself out of my pocket, but I dug my fingers deep into the pocket lining. Then slowly, after several minutes, my fingers relaxed, my hand came out of the pocket, and I lifted my arm. And I chided her with my index finger and smiled. It seemed as if it were really not I that was doing all this, but some stranger whom I watched from a distance. No, no — that wasn’t the way of it. I, I was the one who did it — and some stranger was watching me. It was the stranger — that other me — who was so strong, who wanted to solve this mystery with some great discovery. But that was no longer I.