This preamble might seem affected. Obviously a man who is suffering, when he confides in a friend, does not go back to the beginning of the friendship that binds them. But ours is a very particular case. Paul and I, in truth, are no longer friends. We were friends only during the war. So it was natural for him to speak that night about what we had meant to each other in order to confer on the tenuous relationship we have today the significance it once had.
My friend, who had stopped talking, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow oddly, insistently, with the care he would have taken for his entire face. I did not look straight at him so as not to embarrass him.
He rose, removed his overcoat, and sat back down in the larger chair. Without the fullness of his clothing, he seemed even more depressed. His hands were uneasy in the small pockets of his jacket. Everything he was wearing seemed no longer to belong to him.
Suddenly he burst into sobs. He hid his face in his hands and I could only see the lower half. His chin tensed so much that dimples appeared in unsuspected places. Have you ever seen dimples like that? They are made of tiny, trembling wrinkles that disappear then reappear somewhere else.
He was crying. How sad are the tears one hides! Why wasn’t he crying freely, with his face uncovered? I could have consoled him. But like this, withdrawn into himself, he was completely alone with his pain.
“Paul! Paul!” I said, distressed.
My God, how firm my voice seemed! True, in order to ease someone’s pain, you need not suffer as well. You must use a familiar, cheerful tone, the one everyone uses because everyone has always realized that no other tone of voice can offer consolation.
“Please, Paul. Be serious. You come here to tell me your troubles and you start crying like a child. A little courage, Paul! You know I’m your friend and I only want to help you. Be reasonable. We are men. It’s ridiculous to cry like this before you’ve examined the problem. Afterwards, if there is no solution, there will be plenty of time to cry.”
My friend must have been waiting—not for these words, which he did not even listen to—but for that consoling tone of voice because he raised his head. He had not cried long enough for his eyes to be red. Just wiping his handkerchief across his face was enough to erase all traces of his tears.
Exactly as I would have done, he began by apologizing for having cried. He did so in words I wish to note because they are shared by all men.
“Forgive me, Jean. I couldn’t help it. But it’s nothing, just a moment of weakness. If you knew what happened to me, you’d understand.”
His handkerchief, damp from his tears, took up little space in his hand. One tear, to which he paid no mind, still glistened on his cheek.
“Come now, Paul. Tell me everything and then I can tell you what needs to be done.”
“Yes, Jean, I’ll tell you everything. Don’t be angry with me if I’m emotional. You know Fernande. You know how much I love her.”
I did not know Fernande. And when I nodded, I swear it was not because I was uncaring, or because I was afraid my friend was trying to prove to me that I’d already met his wife, but simply so as not to contradict him. I was too aware that a contradiction would upset him.
Paul spoke without a single gesture, like a sick person. From time to time, he would glance at the door and that was enough to make him lose his train of thought. It was as if he were reading and his eyes, distracted for an instant, could no longer find the line he had just read. And when he stopped speaking, I listened just as attentively so that he would begin again as quickly as possible.
“You know, Jean, I was living peacefully. I’m a simple man with modest tastes. Unfortunately, I am too good. My wife, my dear wife, often criticized me for this. Not because she would have wanted me to be unkind, but because she finds it disagreeable to know that I am good to others as well as to her. I never raised my voice. Even though I would have had reasons to do so, I’ve always understood that the volume of a voice adds nothing to the meaning of words. Tonight, as I speak to you, I will stick to this principle. I will tell you everything as simply as possible.”
He stopped speaking for a second but went on acting as if he were swallowing something, which lifted his double chin slightly.
“My life was calm. At times I’d have the impression that one day some misfortune was bound to come and spoil my happiness. But the feeling would not last. I would have had to have a pathological tendency to imagine vileness everywhere not to be happy. Often my wife and I would go to the countryside. Nature would fill us with wonder. We would go into ecstasies over the perfection of the plants and insects and, as unlikely as it may seem, I felt that in Fernande’s eyes, I held the key to mysteries I did not understand. There was, nonetheless, a small snag in our happiness: we had no children. I’m ashamed to admit it, but even that safeguarded our happiness. When we would go to visit friends, everything about us made it seem as though we regretted not having a child. And so our tranquility was preserved because, deep down, our friends pitied us. Life flowed on in this way, smoothly, without quarrels or conflict. And I have to say that sometimes, at the thought that I was happy with so little effort, I wondered if I truly was. But I would dismiss this misgiving as quickly as possible for I knew that if someone were to ask me to describe the happiness about which I dreamt, I would have had no choice but to paint a picture of the one I already possessed. To love, be loved, to do as we pleased, to have faithful friends, to never argue, never be ill, what more could one ask for when one is a simple, trusting soul? In any event, there are not that many ways to be happy! It is indeed happiness to have no worries, and to love. I don’t think the vagabond on the road who has no idea where he will sleep at night is happy, poor man, although some people claim this to be so.”
Paul broke off again, not as one does at the end of a period, but as if he were casting about for his words. His lips were moving. He gestured and finally managed to go on.
“It was eight in the evening when I got home. I took off my hat and went to Fernande in our bedroom. Lying on a divan, my wife seemed to me more beautiful than ever. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she wasn’t sleeping. She was holding a book with the grace of someone who has dozed off while reading. I went to her and kissed her softly on the forehead. She gave an elegant little start, not right when I kissed her, but a few seconds afterwards. ‘You, Paul!’ You know how hard it is to give a gentle intonation to two words. Yet if you had heard the tone with which she murmured ‘You, Paul!’ it would have delighted you. Then she closed her eyes again, without hiding her face from me, with that trust of women who love. Fernande often closes her eyes. In the theater, while we’re eating, everywhere. Not a day goes by when I don’t see her before me, eyes closed, even though she isn’t sleeping. It seems she has trouble tolerating the spectacle of life, that everything appears so trite to her that by closing her eyes she doesn’t think she is missing anything. We’ve been married for four years, but I’ve never been able to tell if there is any kind of deceit in all that. I did not do anything to wake her from this feigned sleep. I sat close to her and waited. I stayed like that for a long time, without even daring to read the newspaper. I love Fernande and it seems natural for me to watch over her. If she found it amusing to pretend to sleep, why would I stop her? To look at her without her seeing me was a joy for me. She had let her book slip, no doubt so that her slumber would seem more natural. It slid slowly. I let it fall. She opened her eyes.