Climates by André Maurois Page B

some miniatures … It’s all so simple, if you only knew.”
    But I was already thinking, “Now, spurred on by this success, she’ll know that next time she can invite her lover to join her without any danger.”
    Oh, this lover of Odile’s, I tried so hard to work out what he was like! I put him together from everything I found inexplicable in my wife’s thoughts and words. I had developed incredible subtlety in my analyses of what Odile said. I made a note of all the finer ideas she expressed, in homage to this stranger. A peculiar relationship had grown between Odile and myself. I now admitted my every thought to her, even those that cast her in the harshest light. She listened to me with an almost indulgent attentiveness, irritated but also flattered to be the object of so much curiosity and interest.
    Her health was still poor and she now went to bed very early. I spent almost every evening at her bedside. Strange and rather pleasant evenings.I explained the flaws in her character to her, she smiled as she listened to me, then reached out her hand and, taking mine, said, “Poor Dickie, what torment over an unhappy little girl who’s unkind, stupid, proud, flirtatious … because I’m all those, aren’t I?”
    “You’re not at all stupid,” I told her. “You’re not very intelligent … but you have incredible intuition and a great deal of taste.”
    “Ah!” said Odile. “I have taste … So I am left with
something
. Listen, Dickie, I’m going to read you an English verse that I found. I adore it.”
    Her natural tastes were very refined and she rarely liked anything mediocre, but even in the choice of verses she read to me I was disturbed and surprised to identify a taste for love, a profound knowledge of passion, and sometimes a longing for death. I particularly remember one stanza that she often recited:
    From too much love of living
,
    From hope and fear set free
,
    We thank, with brief thanksgiving
    Whatever gods may be
    That no life lives for ever;
    That dead men rise up never;
    That even the weariest river
    Winds somewhere safe to sea
.
    “ ‘The weariest river,’ I like that,” she often said. “That’s me, Dickie, the weariest river … and I’m heading off gently toward the sea.”
    “You’re mad,” I said. “You’re life itself.”
    “Oh, I may look like that,” Odile retorted with a comically sad pout, “but I’m a very weary river.”
    When I left her after an evening like this, I would say, “Deep down, with all your faults, Odile, I do love you.”
    “And so do I, Dickie.” She would say.

. X .
    My father had been asking me for some time to make a trip to Sweden in connection with the paper factory. We bought wood pulp there through brokers. There was no doubt we could have it at a better price by dealing directly with the supplier, and he was not in good enough health to make the trip himself. I refused to go if Odile did not come with me, and she was in no hurry to do so. I thought this unwillingness suspect; she enjoyed travel. In case she did not want to cross Germany and Denmark by train, I suggested going by boat from Le Havre or Boulogne, which should have been a pleasure for her.
    “No,” she said, “you go alone. I’m not tempted by Sweden. It’s too cold.”
    “Not at all, Odile, it’s a charming country … landscapes just made for you, you can get away from things, there are lakes edged with fir trees, old castles …”
    “Do you think? No, I don’t feel like leaving Paris at the moment … But your father’s keen for you to do this, so you go. It’ll do you good to see some other women besides me. Swedish women are ravishing, tall, fair-skinned blondes. Just your type … Be unfaithful to me …”
    In the end it became impossible for me not to make the trip. I humbly admitted to Odile that I was horrified at the thought of leaving her alone in Paris.
    “You
are
funny,” she said. “I won’t go out, I promise. I’ve lots