French fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, French -- Translations into English
"Well, then, the matter is"--and a trembling voice betrayed her
excitement--"that life with you has become unbearable and that I have
resolved no longer to try to endure it. You are, I admit, an honorable
man, and have, I believe, been a faithful husband. I, on my side, have
never forgotten my marriage vows. Here we stand on the same ground.
The trouble is that we are uncongenial. Everything I do annoys you,
and to me all your ways are insufferable. What I say always vexes you,
and your laugh drives me crazy. Even when silent, we provoke each
other. About the merest trifles we have frightful scenes--about a
hat, a dress, whether it will be best to carry a cane or an umbrella,
or whether the meat is overdone or not--in short, everything--and
everything makes us quarrel! Then, at home, either you talk so much
that I can not put in a word or else you do not open your lips, and
you look about as cheerful as a mortuary chapel. I must be happy when
you are happy, sad when you are sad. Your temper is changeable, odd,
quick; you do not allow the slightest contradiction; if I begin to
speak of something which does not interest you, I am not allowed to
finish my sentence. For me to express an opinion suffices to make you
take an opposite view. You insist that you understand music, and that
I know nothing about politics, while, in point of fact, the contrary
is the truth. You scold my maid until she cries, and your disgusting
valet drinks all the wine in my cellar. You forbid me to smoke, and
insist that my dresses shall not be cut too low. And when we quarrel,
even about some very ordinary matter, instead of its being over in five
minutes, it lasts for hours, and we try to outdo each other in saying
bitter things which neither of us forgets. In short, everything about
me is disagreeable to you. I feel it, and I know it; you hate the tone
of my voice, the sound of my step, my gestures, even my clothes; do not
deny it, at this very moment I can read in your face that you would
like to pitch me out of the window.
"Therefore?" said Monsieur de Précy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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