The Log
It was a small drawing room, with thick hangings, and with a faint aromatic smell of scent in the air. A large fire was burning in the grate, and one lamp, covered with a shade of old lace, on the corner of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on to the two persons who were talking.
She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, one of those adorable old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest paper, and is scented, impregnated with perfume, the delicate essences used in the bath for so many years having penetrated through the epidermis. An old lady who, when one kisses her hand, smells of the delicate perfume which greets the nostrils, when a box of Florentine iris powder is opened.
He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a companion in the journey of life, but nothing else.
They had not spoken for about a minute, and were both looking at the fire, dreaming of nothing in particular. It was one of those moments of sympathetic silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in order to be happy together. Suddenly a large log, a stump covered with burning roots, fell out. It fell over the firedogs on to the drawing room floor, scattering great sparks all round. The old lady sprang up with a little scream, as if to run away, but he kicked the log back on to the hearth and trod out the burning sparks with his boots.
When the disaster was repaired, there was a strong smell of burning. Sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her with a smile, and said, as he pointed to the log:
“That accident recalls the reason I never married.”
She looked at him in astonishment, with the inquisitive gaze of women who wish to know everything, eying him as women do who are no longer young, with intense and malicious curiosity. Then she asked:
“How so?”
“Oh! it is a long story,” he replied; “a rather sad and unpleasant story.
“My old friends were often surprised at the coldness which suddenly sprang up between one of my best friends, whose Christian name was Julien, and myself. They could not understand how two such intimate and inseparable friends as we had been could suddenly become almost strangers to one another. This is why we parted company.
“He and I used to live together at one time. We were never apart, and the friendship that united us seemed so strong that nothing could break it.
“One evening when he came home, he told me that he was going to be married, and it gave me a shock just as if he had robbed me or betrayed me. When a man’s friend marries, all is over between them. The jealous affection of a woman, a suspicious, uneasy, and carnal affection, will not tolerate that sturdy and frank attachment, that attachment of the mind and of the heart, and the mutual confidence which exist between two men.
“However great the love may be that unites them, a man and a woman are always strangers in mind and intellect; they remain belligerents, they belong to different races. There must always be a conqueror and a conquered, a master and a slave; now the one, now the other—they are never equal. They press each other’s hands, hands trembling with amorous passion; but they never press them with a long, strong, loyal pressure, a pressure which seems to open hearts and to lay them bare in a burst of sincere, strong, manly affection. Wise men instead of marrying and bringing into the world, as a consolation for their old age, children who will abandon them, ought to seek a good, staunch friend, and grow old with him in that community of ideas which can exist only between two men.
“Well, my friend Julien married. His wife was pretty, charming, a light, curly-haired, plump, bright little woman, who seemed to worship him. At first I went but rarely to their house, as I was afraid of interfering with their affection, and averse to being in their way. But somehow they attracted me to their house; they were constantly inviting me, and seemed very fond of me. Consequently, by degrees I allowed myself to be allured by the charm of life with them. I often dined with them, and frequently, when I returned home at night, thought that I would do as he had done, and get married, as I found my empty house very dull. They seemed very much in love with one another, and were never apart.
“Well, one evening Julien wrote and asked me to go to dinner, and I went.
“ ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I must go out directly afterwards on business, and I shall not be back until eleven o’clock, but I shall not be later. Can I depend on you to keep Bertha company?’
“The young woman smiled.
“ ‘It was my idea,’ she said, ‘to send for you.’
“I held out my hand to her.
“ ‘You are as nice as ever,’ I said, and I felt a long, friendly pressure of my fingers, but I paid no attention to it. We sat down to dinner, and at eight o’clock Julien went out.
“As soon as he had gone, a kind of strange embarrassment immediately seemed to come over his wife and me. We had never been alone together yet, and in spite of our daily increasing intimacy, this tête-à-tête placed us in a new position. At first I spoke vaguely of those indifferent matters with which one fills up an embarrassing silence, but she did not reply, and remained opposite to me looking down in an undecided manner, as if thinking over some difficult subject. As I was at a loss for more commonplaces, I remained silent. It is surprising how hard it is at times to find anything to say. And then, again, I felt in the air, in my bones, so to speak, something which is impossible for me to express, that mysterious premonition which tells you beforehand of the secret intentions, be they good or evil, of another person with respect to yourself.
“The painful silence lasted some time, and then Bertha said to me:
“ ‘Will you kindly put a log on the fire, for it is going out.’
“So I opened the box where the wood was kept, which was placed just where yours is, took out the largest log, and put it on the top of the others, which were three-parts burned, and then silence reigned in the room again.
“In a few minutes the log was burning so brightly that it scorched our faces, and the young woman raised her eyes to me—eyes that had a strange look to me.
“ ‘It is too hot now,’ she said; ‘let us go and sit on the sofa over there.’
“So we went and sat on the sofa, and then she said suddenly, looking me full in the face:
“ ‘What should you do if a woman were to tell you that she was in love with you?’
“ ‘Upon my word,’ I replied, very much at a loss for an answer, ‘I cannot imagine such a case; but it would very much depend upon the woman.’
“She gave a hard, nervous, vibrating laugh; one of those false laughs which seem as if they would break thin glasses, and then she added: ‘Men are never either audacious or clever.’ And after a moment’s silence, she continued: ‘Have you ever been in love, Monsieur Paul?’ I was obliged to acknowledge that I certainly had been, and she asked me to tell her all about it, whereupon I made up some story or other. She listened to me attentively with frequent signs of approbation or contempt, and then suddenly she said:
“ ‘No, you understand nothing about the subject. It seems to me that real love must unsettle the mind, upset the nerves, and distract the head; that it must—how shall I express it?—be dangerous, even terrible, almost criminal and sacrilegious; that it must be a kind of treason; I mean to say that it is almost bound to break laws, fraternal bonds, sacred obstacles; when love is tranquil, easy, lawful, and without danger, is it really love?’
“I did not know what answer to give her, and this philosophical reflection occurred to me: ‘Oh! female brain, here indeed you show yourself!’
“While speaking, she had assumed a demure, saintly air; and resting on the cushions, she stretched herself out at full length, with her head on my shoulder and her dress pulled up a little, so as to show her red silk stockings, which looked still brighter in the firelight. In a minute or two she continued:
“ ‘I suppose I have frightened you?’ I protested against such a notion, and she leaned against my breast altogether, and without looking at me she said: ‘If I were to tell you that I love you, what would you do?’
“And before I could think of an answer, she had thrown her arms round my neck, had quickly drawn my head down and put her lips to mine.
“My dear friend, I can tell you that I did not feel at all happy! What! deceive Julien?—become the lover of this little, silly, wrongheaded, cunning woman, who was no doubt terribly sensual, and for whom her husband was already not sufficient! To betray him continually, to deceive him, to play at being in love merely because I was attracted by forbidden fruit, danger incurred and friendship betrayed! No, that did not suit me, but what was I to do? To imitate Joseph would be acting a very stupid and, moreover, difficult part, for this woman was maddening in her perfidy, inflamed by audacity, palpitating, and excited. Let the man who has never felt on his lips the warm kiss of a woman who is ready to give herself to him throw the first stone at me!
“Well, a minute more—you understand what I mean? A minute more and—I should have been—no, she would have been—I beg your pardon, he would have been—when a loud noise made us both jump up. The log had fallen into the room, knocking over the fire-irons and the fender, as quick as a hurricane of flame, and was setting fire to the carpet. It came to a stop under an armchair which would certainly have caught fire.
“I jumped up like a madman, and as I was replacing the log on the fire, the door opened hastily, and Julien came in.
“ ‘I have done,’ he said, in evident pleasure. ‘The business was over two hours sooner than I expected!’
“Yes, my dear friend, without that log, I should have been caught in the very act, and you know what the consequences would have been! You may be sure that I took good care never to be caught again in a similar situation; never, never. Soon afterward I saw that Julien was giving me the ‘cold shoulder,’ as they say. His wife was evidently undermining our friendship; by degrees he got rid of me, and we have altogether ceased to meet.
“That is why I have not got married; it ought not to surprise you.”