The Woman Destroyed. Simone Beauvoir de
but my state of mind was no longer the same as it had been in the days when we systematically combed the Ile de France in an aged second-hand car. Neither of us was really taking it in. I was not really interested in the carved capitals, nor in the misericords that had once amused us so.
As we left the church, André said to me, ‘Do you think the Truite d’Or is still there?’
‘Let’s go and see.’
The little inn at the water’s edge, with its simple, delightful food, had once been one of our favourite places. We celebrated our silver wedding there, but we had not been back since. This village, with its silence and its little cobbles, had not changed. We went right along the high street in both directions: the Truite d’Or had vanished. We did not like the restaurant in the forest where we stopped: perhaps because we compared it with our memories.
‘And what shall we do now?’ I asked.
‘We had thought of the Château de Vaux and the towers at Blandy.’
‘But do you want to go?’
‘Why not?’
He did not give a damn about them, and nor indeed did I; but neither of us liked to say so. What exactly was he thinking of, as we drove along the little leaf-scented country roads? About the desert of his future? I could not follow him on to that ground. I felt that there beside me he was alone. I was, too. Philippe had tried to telephone me several times. I had hung up as soon as I recognized his voice. I questioned myself. Had I been too demanding with regard to him? Had André been too scornfully indulgent? Was it this lack of harmony that had damaged him? I should have liked to talk about it with André, but I was afraid of starting a quarrel again.
The Château de Vaux, the towers at Blandy: we carried out our programme. We said, ‘I remember it perfectly, I did not remember it at all, these towers are quite splendid …’ But in one way the mere sight of things is neither here nor there. You have to be linked to them by some plan or some question. All I saw was stones piled one on top of the other.
The day did not bring us any closer together; I felt that we were both disappointed and very remote from one another as we drove back to Paris. It seemed to me that we were no longer capable of talking to one another. Might all one heard about non-communication perhaps be true, then? Were we, as I had glimpsed in my anger, condemned to silence and loneliness? Had this always been the case with me, and had it only been that stubborn optimism that had made me say it was not? ‘I must make an effort,’ I said to myself as I went to bed. ‘Tomorrow morning we will discuss it. We will try to get to the bottom of it.’ The fact that our quarrel had not been dissipated was because it was merely a symptom. Everything would have to be gone into again, radically. Above all not to be afraid of talking about Philippe. A single forbidden subject and our dialogue would be wholly frustrated.
I poured out the tea and I was trying to find the words to begin this discussion when André said, ‘Do you know what I should like? To go to Villeneuve straight away. I should rest there better than in Paris.’
So that was the conclusion he had drawn from the failure of yesterday: instead of trying to come closer he was escaping! It sometimes happens that he spends a few days at his mother’s house without me, out of affection for her. But this was a way of escaping from our tête-à-tête. I was cut to the quick.
‘A splendid idea,’ I said curtly, ‘Your mother will be delighted. Do go.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to come?’ he asked, in an unnatural tone.
‘You know very well that I haven’t the least wish to leave Paris so early. I shall come at the date we fixed.’
‘As you like.’
I should have stayed in any case: I wanted to work and also to see how my book would be received—to talk to my friends about it. But I was much taken aback at the way he did not press me. Coldly I asked, ‘When do you think of going?’
‘I don’t know: soon. I have absolutely nothing to do here.’
‘What does soon mean? Tomorrow? The day after?.’
‘Why not tomorrow morning?’
So we should be away from one another for a fortnight: he never used to leave me for more than three or four days, except for congresses. Had I been so very unpleasant? He ought to have talked things over with me instead of running away. And yet it was not like him, avoiding an issue. I could only see one explanation for it—always the same explanation—he was getting old. I thought crossly, ‘Let him go and get over his ageing somewhere else.’ I was certainly not going to raise a finger to keep him here.
We agreed that he should take the car. He spent the day at the garage, shopping, telephoning: he said good-bye to his colleagues. I scarcely saw him. When he got into the car the next day we exchanged kisses and smiles. Then I was back in the library, quite at a loss. I had the feeling that André, ditching me in this way, was punishing me. No: it was merely that he wanted to get rid of me.
Once my first amazement was over I felt lightened. Life as a couple implies decisions. ‘When shall we eat? What would you like to have?’ Plans come into being. When one is alone things happen without premeditation: it is restful. I got up late; I stayed there lapped in the gentle warmth of the sheets, trying to catch the fleeting shreds of my dreams. I read my letters as I drank my tea, and I hummed ‘I get along without you very well … of course I do.’ Between working hours I strolled about the streets.
This state of grace lasted for three days. On the afternoon of the fourth someone rang with little quick touches on the bell. Only one person rings like that. My heart began to thump furiously. Through the door I said, ‘Who is that?’
‘Open the door,’ cried Philippe. ‘I shall keep my finger on the bell until you do.’
I opened, and immediately there were his arms around me and his head leaning on my shoulder. ‘Darling, sweet- heart, please, please don’t hate me. I can’t bear life if we are cross with one another. Please. I do so love you!’
How often this imploring voice had melted away my resentment! I let him come into the library. He loved me; I could have no doubt of that. Did anything else matter? The familiar words ‘My little boy’ were just coming to my lips, but I thrust them back. He was not a little boy.
‘Don’t try to soften my heart: it’s too late. You’ve spoilt everything.’
‘Listen. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps I have behaved badly—I don’t know. It keeps me awake all night. But I don’t want to lose you. Have pity on me. You’re making me so unhappy!’ Childish tears shone in his eyes. But this was not a child any more. A man, Irène’s husband, an entirely adult person.
‘That’s too easy altogether,’ I said. ‘You quietly go about your business, knowing perfectly well that you are setting us poles apart. And you want me to take it all with a smile—you want everything to be just the same as it was before! No, no, no.’
‘Really, you are too hard—you have too much Party spirit altogether. There are parents and children who love one another without having the same political opinions.’
‘It is not a question of differing political opinions. You are changing sides out of mere ambition and a desire to succeed at any price. That is what is so tenth-irate.’
‘No, no, not at all. My views have changed! Maybe I’m easily influenced but truly I have come to see things in another light. I promise you I have!’
‘Then you should have told me about it earlier. Not have carried out your wire-pulling behind my back and then face me with a fait accompli. I shall never forgive you that.’
‘I didn’t dare. You have a way of looking at me that frightens me.’
‘You always used to say that: it has never been a valid excuse.’
‘Yet you used to forgive me. Forgive me again this time. Please, please do. I can’t bear it when we are against one another, you