I wished that I could have transformed myself into
one of those crafty, unctuous priests, to whom women
confess their most secret faults, to whom they entrust
their souls and frequently ask for advice, and that
Elaine would have come and knelt at the grating of
the confessional, where I should press her closely
with questions, and gradually extract sincere confidences
from her.
As soon as I am by the side of a young or old woman
now, I try to give our conversation a ticklish turn;
I forget all reserve and I try to make her talk of
those jokes which nettle, those words of double meaning
which excite, and to lead her up to the only subject
that interests and holds me, to find out what she
feels in her body as well as in her heart, on that
night, when for the first time, she has to undergo
the nuptial ordeal. Some do not appear to understand
me, blush, leave me as if I were some unpleasant,
ill-mannered person, and had offended them; as if
I had tried to force open the precious casket in which
they keep their sweetest recollections.
Others, on the other hand, understand me only too
well, scent something equivocal and ridiculous, though
they do not exactly know what, make me go on, and
finally get out of the difficulty by some subtle piece
of impertinence, and a burst of chaffing laughter.
Two or three at most, and they were those pretty little
upstarts who talk at random, and brag about their
vice, and whom one could soon not leave a leg to stand
upon, were one to take the trouble, have related their
impressions to me with ironical complaisance, and I
found nothing in what they told me that reassured
me, nor could I discover anything serious, true or
moving in it.
That supreme initiation amused them as much as if
it had been a scene from a comedy; the small amount
of affection that they felt for the man with whom
their existence had been associated grew less and evaporated
altogether—and they remembered nothing about
it except its ridiculous and hateful side, and described
it as a sort of pantomime in which they played a bad
part. But these did not love and were not adored
like Elaine was. They married either from interest,
or that they might not remain old maids, that they
might have more liberty and escape from troublesome
guardianship.
Foolish dolls, without either heart or head, they
had neither that almost diseased nervosity, nor that
requirement for affection, nor that instinct of love
which I discovered in my wife’s nature, and which
attracted me, at the same time that it terrified me.
Besides, who could convince me of my errors?
Who could dissipate that darkness in which I was lost?
What miracle could restore all my belief in
her again?
Elaine felt that I was hiding something from her,
that I was unhappy, that, as it were, some threatening
obstacle had risen up between her and me, that some
insupportable suspicion was oppressing me, torturing
me and keeping me from her arms, was poisoning and
disturbing that affection in which I had hoped to
find fresh youth, absolute happiness, my dream of
dreams.
