A Couple (Un Couple)

A COUPLE

Based on the works of Sophia Tolstoy

The first thing I feel like doing

today,

is to write to you, Leo.

I wish to recall the day

that bound us for the many years we spent together.

We got into the daily habit of writing to each other,

even while living under the same roof.

I'm 18 years old...

On our wedding night, you give me your diary to read.

18 years old...

What a terrible and marvellous night...

A sleepless night.

I find myself in this huge estate,

I learn about these women with whom you had affairs,

including the one living next door with whom you have a 2-year-old son.

Not to be with you now tortures me,

but my heart turns to you more deeply and more tenderly.

I thank you for the happiness you gave me in the past,

I regret that it hasn't been as strong

and peaceful during all our life.

But our life is not over.

Or is it?

Is our life together over?

Your strength has shattered me.

Your power crushed my life and my personality as well.

Wasn't I strong enough?

I did not lack energy, though.

I spend my time stifling my talents

for you,

neglecting myself,

sacrificing myself for my family.

Is that my vocation?

At the beginning, you sometimes said to me:

"You annoy me, you go around in circles.

"The fool seeks the storm.

"This state of mind is what I fear most."

Your feelings for me vary constantly.

You go from passion

to indifference,

from high esteem to the opposite,

claiming that you lie when you say you love me,

that you're the unhappiest being in the world.

This means...

you become distant,

you avoid me,

your reproaches are cruel.

Before, I would cry,

thinking that you had finally concluded that I was stupid

and uneducated, that you regretted having married a young woman

incapable of understanding you.

I felt sorry for you for having married me.

I really pitied you, I lamented the irreparable.

Making you miserable for life was an agony.

Years later...

I understood.

It took me years to understand that your moods, your demons,

had their roots in something else:

your jealousy,

your apprehension of my stopping to love you,

of my never loving you enough.

Remember the day when I was chatting too cheerfully with Arthur's teacher,

so nice but so uninteresting...

You flew into a devilish rage.

As the innocent Desdemona, I calmly answered your questions,

not understanding what had gotten into you nor what my fault was.

I started to cry.

Worshipping you as always, I blamed myself, a futile,

stupid, miserable person,

unworthy of such a great and beautiful being.

I was so totally in love...

I didn't understand anything.

I am still in love.

You illuminate my life.

I think through your thoughts.

I see everything with your eyes,

I see the world through your eyes.

But one cannot live only

on birds,

flowers,

wilderness,

writing,

freedom...

There is also the prose of life.

Our children,

the illnesses,

the cooking,

the faults and the fights.

You intentionally ignore all this.

I shall not become you, I am not you.

I'll betray myself if I go on like this.

Why do you embarrass me in front of our friends or guests?

You constantly cut me off.

You have always done that.

My vitality and my cheerfulness trigger your anger

and suspicion.

The famous jealousy.

You compare spouses to two halves of a sheet of paper:

"If there is a little tear and you pull on it, they separate.

"This is what quarrels do.

"They are small tears in good relationships.

"Spouses' sincere relationships must be preserved.

"Never let the paper be torn."

I have difficulty controlling myself.

I am irritable,

I am nervous, I am jealous too.

And like you, I am passionate.

How often after I lost my temper have I forced the door

of the study where you write, to see you, kiss you...

ask you to forgive me.

"She rushed in and started a hysterical scene,

"her idea being that nothing can ever change,

"that she is unhappy,

"and should run away who knows where.

"I pitied her but I'm well aware that it is hopeless.

"Until I die, she'll be a millstone around my neck and the children's.

"Maybe I must learn how not to drown with a millstone around my neck.

"But the children?

"This is apparently what has to be.

"It hurts me only because I am short-sighted.

"I calmed her as you do a sick person."

I read that in your diary.

Nothing makes me happier than

your loving gaze,

your tenderness,

your appreciation for my work,

your gentle gestures.

You never apologize.

Caring for the children,

the sleepless nights with the baby and with you too,

the meals for ten people,

the servants to govern,

the running of the household, the beds for the guests,

copying and recopying your manuscripts...

all this

is so exhausting

that it leaves no room in me for any feeling

except fatigue.

This is why any discontent, any suspicion from you always drove me to despair.

Yes,

I am talking about your distrust after we were married.

You think that I am attracted to other men?

You not believing me hurts me!

Tears in your eyes,

a sweet gaze,

so sweet but so sad...

I love you so much

that I want to hug you

but I am haunted by the idea that you won't believe me.

You don't believe me.

Trust,

affection, and simplicity are the best things one can give me.

The only things that make me happy.

What escaped me then, and still do, are you constant mood swings.

You court me.

You express such tenderness,

you are so caring, you appreciate my qualities.

But your fiery passion lasts but only a moment.

I was so happy to read in your diary:

"One year since I last wrote in this notebook. A good year.

"The ties between Sonia and me have strengthened and solidified.

"We love each other,

"we are dearer to each other than anybody in the world.

"We look at each other with clear eyes.

"No secrets, nothing embarrassing.

"I feel very good,

"I'm so happy with her,

"as probably only one man in a million can be."

But your sudden despair is so deep,

so irremediable,

that it cannot be leave scars on a very young soul,

marks for life.

It is that same despair that a young child may feel

when he sees a rotten corpse for the first time.

You are interested in other things.

Writing,

supervising the estate, your businesses,

your schools...

You don't see me anymore.

You ask me if I'm well

and what I did with my day.

My answers don't interest you.

Why is that?

What did I do wrong?

Why are you so distant,

so aloof, so cold?

I wonder... in vain.

I read in your diary:

"She is sleeping peacefully,

"she'll wake up totally convinced that I am unfair

"and that she is the miserable victim of my unending whims.

"She feeds the baby, she's busy with him.

"Chatting with her is now impossible,

"while all could maybe be resolved.

"No, she did not love me, she doesn't love me.

"It scares me and hurts me now

"but did I delude myself that much?"

Do you see me as a person?

Am I a person? An object?