Hydrophobia?
My dear Geneviève, you ask me to tell you about my honeymoon. How do you think I dare? Sly wretch that you are, never to tell me anything, upon my word, not even the least hint. Just think, you’ve been married for eighteen months, you pretend to be my best friend, you never kept anything from me before, and you hadn’t the kindness to warn me. If you’d only given me a hint, if you’d put me on my guard about it, if you’d let the least suspicion penetrate to my mind, the very least, you would have saved me from making such a fool of myself that I still blush about it, and my husband will laugh about it till the day he dies, and no one but you is to blame for it.
I have made myself frightfully ridiculous forever, I have made one of those mistakes one never forgets, through your fault, your fault, you bad girl. … Oh, if I’d only known!
Well, I’m growing bolder as I write and I think I’ll tell you the whole story. But promise me you won’t laugh too much.
Don’t expect a comedy. It’s a drama.
You remember my wedding. I had to leave the same evening for my honeymoon. I was certainly not much like Paulette, whose story Gyp has so amusingly related in her witty novel, Autour du Mariage. And if my mother had said to me, as Madame d’Hautretan said to her daughter: “Your husband will take you in his arms … and …” I should assuredly not have replied as Paulette did, shouting with laughter: “Don’t go too far, mamma … I know all that as well as you do. …”
I knew nothing at all, and mamma, poor mamma who is frightened of the least thing, had not even dared to approach this delicate subject.
Well, at five o’clock in the evening, after the luncheon, they announced that the carriage was waiting for me. The guests had gone, I was ready. I can remember still the sound of the trunks being brought down the staircase, and the nasal voice of papa, who did not want to show that he was crying. As he embraced me, the poor man said: “Be brave,” as though I were going to have a tooth out. As for mamma, she was a fountain. My husband was hurrying me away to escape these difficult farewells; I was in tears myself although I was very happy. I can’t explain that, but it’s none the less true. Suddenly I felt something tugging at my gown. It was Bijou, quite forgotten since the morning. The poor beast was saying goodbye to me after his fashion. It went to my heart a little, and I was wild to kiss my dog. I snatched him up (you know he’s the size of my fist) and began to cover him with kisses. I adore caressing animals. It pleases me so much, and somehow thrills me, it’s quite heavenly.
As for Bijou, he was like a mad thing, he pawed me, licked me and nibbled me as he does when he’s very happy. Suddenly he took hold of my nose with his teeth and I felt him hurt me. I gave a little cry and put the dog on the ground. He had given me a real bite in play. I was bleeding. Everybody was very distressed. They brought water, vinegar and bandages, and my husband wanted to look after me himself. It was nothing, however, two tiny holes like the pricks made by a needle. In five minutes the blood had stopped and I set off.
We had decided to travel in Normandy for about six weeks.
We reached Dieppe in the evening. When I say “evening” I mean midnight.
You know how I love the sea. I declared to my husband that I would not go to bed without having seen it. He seemed very amazed. I laughed and asked him:
“Are you sleepy?”
He answered:
“No, my dear, but surely you understand that I am longing to be alone with you.”
I was surprised.
“Alone with me? But we’ve been alone in the train all the way from Paris.”
He smiled.
“Yes … but … in the train, it’s not the same thing as being alone in our room.”
I would not give in:
“Well, we shall be alone on the seashore, and that’s that.”
That certainly did not please him. However, he said:
“Very well, since you wish it.”
It was a glorious night, one of those nights that fill the imaginative with vast dim ideas, felt rather than thought, a night to make one long to open one’s arms, spread one’s wings, embrace the whole sky—I don’t know. But it seems as if one might be just on the verge of understanding strange mysteries.
There is a Dream in the air, and Romance that pierces the heart, and happiness that does not belong to this earth, a sort of divine intoxication born of stars, and moon, and moving silvered water. Life holds no better moments. They make one’s life seem different, touched to beauty, delicately rare; they are like a revelation of what might be … or what will be.
My husband, however, seemed impatient to return. “Are you cold?” I asked him. “No. Then look at that little boat over there: it seems asleep on the water. We couldn’t find a lovelier place than this, could we? I would gladly stay here until daylight. Tell me, wouldn’t you like us to wait for the dawn?”
He thought that I was making fun of him, and he dragged me back to the hotel almost by force. If I had only known! Oh, the wretch!
When we were alone I felt ashamed, awkward, without knowing why, I assure you. At last I sent him away into the drawing room and I got into bed. Oh, my dear, how can I tell you? But here it is. He must have taken my utter innocence for malice, my utter simplicity for depravity, my trustful and artless freedom for deliberate coquetry, and he did not trouble himself to be as delicately discreet and kind as he ought to have been to make such mysteries explicable, understandable and acceptable to an unsuspecting and absolutely unprepared mind.
And, all at once, I thought that he had lost his head. Then I was overcome with fear and I asked him if he wanted to kill me. When you are terror-stricken, you don’t reason, you don’t think at all, you just go mad. In an instant, I imagined the most frightful things. I thought of the news items in the newspapers, of mysterious crimes, of all the stories whispered about young girls who have married wicked men. Did I know this man? I struggled, repulsed him, mad with fear. I even tore out a handful of his hair, and one side of his moustache; the effort freed me, and I leaped up, shouting “Help.” I ran to the door, drew back the bolts and rushed out on to the staircase, almost naked.
Other doors opened. Men in nightshirts appeared, with lights in their hands. I fell into the arms of one of them, and implored him to protect me. He threw himself on my husband.
I don’t know what happened after that. They fought and shouted; then they laughed; I’ve never heard such laughter. The whole house laughed, from cellar to attic. I heard loud bursts of merriment in the corridors, and in the bedrooms above. The scullions were laughing in the garrets, and the porter writhed on his mattress in the hall.
Think of it, in a hotel!
When it was all over, I was left alone again with my husband, who gave me some brief explanations, much as he might have explained a chemical experiment before trying it. He was by no means pleased. I wept until it grew light, and we went away as soon as the hotel doors were opened.
That’s not all.
Next day, we arrived at Pourville, which is still only the beginnings of a seaside town. My husband overwhelmed me with little attentions and kindnesses. After his first annoyance he seemed altogether delighted. Ashamed and miserable as I was over the previous day’s adventure, I made myself as agreeable as anyone could, and as docile. But you can’t imagine the horror, the disgust, the hatred almost, with which Henry inspired me since I had learned the monstrous secret that is so carefully hidden from young girls. I felt desperate, so sad I wanted to die, disgusted with everything, tormented by longing to return to my poor parents. The following day, we arrived at Étretat. All the visitors were in a state of great excitement: a young woman, bitten by a little dog, had just died—mad. A terrible shiver ran down my spine when I heard them talking about it at the hotel table. It suddenly struck me that my nose was paining me, and, I felt queer sensations all along my limbs.
I did not sleep that night: I had quite forgotten my husband. Suppose I too was going to die mad. The next day I asked the head waiter for details. He told me the most frightful story. I spent the day walking on the cliff. I said nothing, I was thinking. Madness! What a horrible death! Henry asked me: “What’s the matter? You seem sad.” “Nothing, nothing,” I answered. I stared distractedly at the sea, without seeing it at all: I stared at the farm and the fields, but I could not have said what I was looking at. Not for anything in the world would I have confessed to the thought that was torturing me. I had pains, genuine pains in my nose. I insisted on going back.
As soon as we returned to the hotel, I shut myself in my room to examine the wound. There was nothing to be seen now. There was no mistake about it, however, it was hurting me.
I wrote to my mother at once, a short letter that she must have thought very strange. I demanded an immediate reply to certain unimportant questions. After I had signed it, I added: “Above all, don’t forget to give me news of Bijou.”
The next day I could not eat, but I refused to see a doctor. I spent the day sitting on the beach watching the bathers in the water. They arrived, some fat, some thin, and all ugly in their frightful costumes; but I hardly had the heart to laugh. I was thinking: “They’re happy, those people. They haven’t been bitten. They’ll live, they will. They’re not living in fear of anything. They can amuse themselves in any way they like. How peaceful they are!”
I kept lifting my hand to my nose to feel it. Was it swelling up? As soon as I got back to the hotel, I shut myself in my room to look at it in the glass. Oh, if it had changed colour I should have died on the spot.
That evening, I felt suddenly something like affection for my husband, an affection born of despair. I felt that he was kind, I leaned on his arm. Twenty times I was on the verge of telling him my dreadful secret, but I held my tongue.
He took the most abominable advantage of my self-abandon and my utter exhaustion of spirit. I had not strength enough to resist him, nor even the will. I would have endured anything, suffered anything. The next day, I had a letter from mother. She answered my questions, but did not mention Bijou. I thought at once: “He’s dead and they’re hiding it from me.” Then I wanted to run to the telegraph office to send a wire. A thought stopped me: “If he is really dead, they won’t tell me.” So I resigned myself to another two days of agony. And I wrote again. I asked them to send me the dog to amuse me, because I was a little bored.
In the afternoon I was seized with a trembling fit. I could not lift a full glass without spilling half the contents. My mind was in a lamentable state. Towards dusk I escaped from my husband and hurried to the church. I prayed for a long time.
On the way back I felt fresh pains in my nose and I went into a chemist’s whose shop was lit up. I told him that a friend of mine had been bitten and I asked his advice. But I forgot everything as soon as he said it, my mind was so troubled. I remembered only one thing: “Purgings are often recommended.” I bought several bottles of goodness knows what, on the pretext of giving them to my friend.
The dogs I met filled me with horror and a wild desire to take to my heels and run away. Several times I thought that I felt an impulse to bite them too.
I had a horribly restless night. My husband profited thereby. First thing in the morning, I received a reply from my mother. Bijou, she said, was quite well. But it would be too risky to send him alone by rail like that. So they would not send him to me. He was dead!
I could not sleep again. As for Henry, he snored. He woke up several times. I was exhausted.
The following day, I bathed in the sea. I almost fainted on going into the water, I felt so terribly cold. I was still more distraught by this sensation of bitter cold. My legs shook dreadfully, but the worst pain of all was in my nose.
Someone happened to introduce the local medical inspector to me, a charming man. I led up to my subject very subtly. Then I told him that a few days ago my young dog had bitten me, and I asked him what would have to be done if inflammation set in. He began to laugh and answered:
“In your case, madame, I could think of only one course, which would be to operate on you.”
And as I did not understand, he added:
“And that would be your husband’s business.”
I was no farther on and no wiser when I left him.
Henry seemed very gay, and very happy this evening. We went to the Casino in the evening, but he did not wait for the end of the show before suggesting to me that we should go home. Nothing interested me any more now: I fell in with his wish.
But I could not rest in bed, my nerves were exhausted and on edge. Nor was he any the readier for sleep. He embraced me, caressed me, and was as gentle and tender as if he had at last guessed how I was suffering. I endured his caresses without even realising what he was doing, without thinking about it at all.
But all at once a sudden spasm seized me, the most extraordinary and awful spasm. I uttered one frightful cry, and repulsing my husband, who was holding me closely, I leaped out of bed and threw myself on my face near the door. It was madness, a dreadful madness. I was lost.
Henry, utterly distracted, lifted me up and begged me to tell him what was the matter. But I would not speak. I was resigned now. I waited for death. I knew that after a few hours’ respite, another spasm would seize me, then another, until the last one, which would be fatal.
I let him carry me back to bed. Towards daybreak, my husband’s irritating obsessions brought on a fresh attack, which lasted longer than the first. I felt a wild impulse to rend, bite, scream; it was terrible, but less disagreeable than I would have believed.
Towards eight o’clock in the morning, I fell asleep for the first time for four nights.
At eleven o’clock, a beloved voice woke me. It was mamma: my letter had alarmed her, and she had come hurrying to see me. She held a large hamper in her hand and suddenly I heard barks coming from it. I snatched it, quite distraught, and wild with hope. I opened it, and Bijou jumped on to the bed; he caressed me, and frisked about, and rolled on my pillow, quite mad with joy.
Well, my darling, believe me or not, as you like … I only understood next day.
What tricks our imagination can play us! To think what I imagined! Tell me, isn’t it too stupid? …
I have never, you understand, don’t you, confessed to anyone the tortures I suffered during those four days. Suppose my husband had known. He makes enough fun of me already over our Dieppe adventure. For the matter of that, his jests don’t trouble me much. I am used to them. One gets used to everything in this life. …