Climates by André Maurois Page A

length, and lighting to ensure a single iris or rose curved as gracefully as possible.
    After this, though, the evening would often become peculiarly sad, like on sunny days when the shadows of huge clouds take the world by surprise as they envelop everything. We had little to say to oneanother. I tried often enough to talk to Odile about my business, but she had no interest in it. She had exhausted the novelty of listening to me describing my youth; my ideas did not change much because I had no time to read, and she was uncomfortably aware of this. I tried to bring my two closest friends into our life. Odile instantly disliked André Halff, whom she found sarcastic, almost hostile, and indeed he was so with her.
    “You don’t like Odile,” I once said to him.
    “I think she’s very beautiful,” he said.
    “Yes, but not very intelligent?”
    “True … There’s no need for a woman to be intelligent.”
    “Anyway, you’re wrong; Odile is very intelligent, but it’s not your sort of intelligence. She’s intuitive, concrete.”
    “You could be right,” he said.
    It was different with Bertrand. He tried to have a deep, confidential friendship with Odile and found her rebellious, defensive. Bertrand and I could happily spend an entire evening sitting together, smoking, and putting the world to rights. Odile preferred to spend the end of the day at theaters, cabarets, or amusement parks. One evening she made me spendthree whole hours roaming around between shops, fairground rides, raffles, and shooting galleries. Her two brothers came with us; Odile always had fun with these two spoiled, boisterous, and slightly unpredictable children.
    “Come on, Odile,” I said toward midnight, “haven’t you had enough? Can’t you see that it’s rather ridiculous. Surely you can’t actually enjoy throwing balls at bottles, going around in circles in fake automobiles, and winning a boat made of spun glass on the fortieth attempt?”
    She replied with a quote from a philosopher I had told her to read: “What does it matter if a pleasure is false, so long as we believe it is real …” And, taking her brother’s arm, she ran off toward a shooting gallery; she was a very fine shot and, after hitting ten eggs in as many shots, went home in good spirits.
    At the time of our marriage, I believed that, like me, Odile could not bear the social scene. This was not the case. She liked dinners and balls; as soon as she discovered the dazzling animated group that revolved around Aunt Cora, she wanted to go to avenue Marceau every Tuesday. My only desire since our marriage had been to have Odile to myself;I could rest easy only when I knew that so much beauty was perfectly contained within the narrow confines of our home. This was something I felt so powerfully that I was happier when Odile, who was always fragile and often laid low by exhaustion, had to keep to her bed for a few days. Then I would spend the evening in an armchair beside her. We would have long conversations together that she called “waffling,” and I would read to her. I quickly learned what sort of book would capture her attention for a few hours. She had quite good taste, but in order to please her a book had to be both melancholy and passionate. She liked
Dominique
, Turgenev’s novels, and a few English poets.
    “It’s strange,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t know you well might think you frivolous, and yet deep down you like only rather sad books.”
    “But I’m very serious, Dickie; perhaps that’s why I’m frivolous. I don’t want to show everyone what I’m really like.”
    “Not even me?”
    “Well, you, yes … Remember Florence …”
    “Yes, in Florence I came to know you well … But you’re very different now, darling.”
    “We mustn’t always stay the same.”
    “You don’t even say anything kind to me anymore.”
    “People don’t say kind things to order. Be patient; it will come back …”
    “Like in