Authors: Simone de Beauvoir
Often she understands her mistake; and so she tries to reaffirm her freedom, to find her alterity; she becomes flirtatious. Desired by other men, she interests her blasé lover again: such is the hackneyed theme of many awful novels, absence is sometimes enough to bring back her prestige; Albertine seems insipid when she is present and docile; from afar she
becomes mysterious again, and the jealous Proust appreciates her again. But these maneuvers are delicate; if the man sees through them, they only serve to reveal to him how ridiculous his slave’s servitude is. And even their success can be dangerous: because she is his the lover disdains his mistress, but he is attached to her because she is his; is it disdain or is it attachment that an infidelity will kill? It may be that, vexed, the man turns away from the indifferent one: he wants her free, yes; but he wants her given. She knows this risk: it paralyzes her flirtatiousness. It is almost impossible for a woman in love to play this game skillfully; she is too afraid to be caught in her own trap. And insofar as she still reveres her lover, she is loath to dupe him: How can he remain a god in her eyes? If she wins the match, she destroys her idol; if she loses it, she loses herself. There is no salvation.
A cautious woman in love—but these words clash—tries to convert the lover’s passion into tenderness, friendship, habit; or she tries to attach him with solid ties: a child or marriage; this desire of marriage haunts many liaisons: it is one of security; the clever mistress takes advantage of the generosity of young love to take out insurance on the future: but when she gives herself over to these speculations, she no longer deserves the name of woman in love. For she madly dreams of securing the lover’s freedom forever, but not of destroying it. And this is why, except in the rare case where free commitment lasts a whole life, love-religion leads to catastrophe. With Mora, Mlle de Lespinasse was lucky enough to tire of him first: she tired of him because she had met Guibert, who in return promptly tired of her. The love between Mme d’Agoult and Liszt died of this implacable dialectic: the passion, vitality, and ambition that made Liszt so easy to love destined him to other loves. The Portuguese nun could only be abandoned. The fire that made D’Annunzio so captivating
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had a price: his infidelity. A rupture can deeply mark a man: but in the end, he has his life as man to live. The abandoned woman is nothing, has nothing. If she is asked “How did you live before?” she cannot even remember. She let fall into ashes the world that was hers to adopt a new land from which she is brutally expelled; she gave up all the values she believed in, broke off her friendships; she finds herself without a roof over her head and the desert all around her. How could she begin a new life when outside her lover there is nothing? She takes refuge in delirious imaginings as in former times in the convent; or if she is too reasonable, there is nothing left but to die: very quickly, like Mlle de Lespinasse, or little by little; the agony can last a long time. When a woman has been devoted to a man body and soul for ten or twenty years, when he
has remained firmly on the pedestal where she put him, being abandoned is a crushing catastrophe. “What can I do,” asks this forty-year-old woman, “what can I do if Jacques no longer loves me?” She dressed, fixed her hair, and made herself up meticulously; but her hardened face, already undone, could barely arouse a new love; and she herself, after twenty years spent in the shadow of a man, could she ever love another? There are many years still to live at forty. I still see that other woman who kept her beautiful eyes and noble features in spite of a face swollen with suffering and who let her tears flow down her cheeks in public, blind and deaf, without even realizing it. Now the god is telling another the words invented for her; dethroned queen, she no longer knows if she ever reigned over a true kingdom. If the woman is still young, she has the chance of healing; a new love will heal her; sometimes she will give herself to it with somewhat more reserve, realizing that what is not unique cannot be absolute; but often she will be crushed even more violently than the first time because she will have to redeem herself for her past defeat. The failure of absolute love is a productive ordeal only if the woman is capable of taking herself in hand again; separated from Abélard, Héloïse was not a wreck, because, directing an abbey, she constructed an autonomous existence. Colette’s heroines have too much pride and too many resources to let themselves be broken by an amorous disillusion; Renée Néré is saved by her work. And Sido tells her daughter that she was not too worried about her emotional destiny because she knew that Colette was much more than a woman in love. But there are few crimes that bring worse punishment than this generous mistake: to put one’s self entirely in another’s hands.
Authentic love must be founded on reciprocal recognition of two freedoms; each lover would then experience himself as himself and as the other; neither would abdicate his transcendence, they would not mutilate themselves; together they would both reveal values and ends in the world. For each of them, love would be the revelation of self through the gift of self and the enrichment of the universe. In his work
La connaissance de soi
(The Discovery of Self),
*
Georges Gusdorf summarizes precisely what
man
demands of love:
Love reveals us to ourselves by making us come out of ourselves. We affirm ourselves by contact with that which is foreign and complementary to us. Love as a form of understanding discovers
new heavens and new earths even in the very landscape where we have always lived. Here is the great secret: the world is other,
I myself am other
. And I am no longer alone in knowing it. Even better: someone taught me this. Woman therefore plays an indispensable and capital role in the consciousness man has of himself.
This accounts for the importance the young man gives to love’s apprenticeship;
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we have seen how Stendhal and Malraux marvel at the miracle that “I myself am another.” But Gusdorf is wrong to write “and
in the same way
man represents for the woman an indispensable intermediary of herself to herself,” because today her situation is not
the same;
man is revealed in the guise of another, but he remains himself, and his new face is integrated into the whole of his personality. It would only be the same for woman if she also existed essentially for-herself; this would imply that she possessed an economic independence, that she projected herself toward her own ends and surpassed herself without intermediary toward the group. Thus equal loves are possible, such as the one Malraux describes between Kyo and May. It can even happen that the woman plays the virile and dominating role like Mme de Warens with Rousseau, Léa with Chéri. But in most cases, the woman knows herself only as other: her for-others merges with her very being; love is not for her an intermediary between self and self, because she does not find herself in her subjective existence; she remains engulfed in this loving woman that man has not only revealed but also created; her salvation depends on this despotic freedom that formed her and can destroy her in an instant. She spends her life trembling in fear of the one who holds her destiny in his hands without completely realizing it and without completely wanting it; she is in danger in an other, an anguished and powerless witness of her own destiny. Tyrant and executioner in spite of himself, this other wears the face of the enemy in spite of her and himself: instead of the sought-after union, the woman in love experiences the bitterest of solitudes; instead of complicity, struggle and often hate. Love, for the woman, is a supreme attempt to overcome the dependence to which she is condemned by assuming it; but even consented to, dependence can only be lived in fear and servility. Men have rivaled each other proclaiming that love is a woman’s supreme accomplishment. “A woman who loves like a woman becomes
a more perfect woman
,” says Nietzsche; and Balzac: “In the higher order,
man’s life is glory, woman’s is love. Woman is equal to man only in making her life a perpetual offering, as his is perpetual action.” But there again is a cruel mystification since what she offers, he cares not at all to accept. Man does not need the unconditional devotion he demands, nor the idolatrous love that flatters his vanity; he only accepts them on the condition that he does not satisfy the demands these attitudes reciprocally imply. He preaches to the woman about giving: and her gifts exasperate him; she finds herself disconcerted by her useless gifts, disconcerted by her vain existence. The day when it will be possible for the woman to love in her strength and not in her weakness, not to escape from herself but to find herself, not out of resignation but to affirm herself, love will become for her as for man the source of life and not a mortal danger. For the time being, love epitomizes in its most moving form the curse that weighs on woman trapped in the feminine universe, the mutilated woman, incapable of being self-sufficient. Innumerable martyrs to love attest to the injustice of a destiny that offers them as ultimate salvation a sterile hell.
1.
Nietzsche’s emphasis.
2.
Also Nietzsche’s emphasis.
3.
Pierre Janet,
Obsessions and Psychasthenia
.
*
Translated by Beverley Bie Brahic.—T
RANS
.
†
Colette,
The Vagabond
.—T
RANS
.
4.
Mary Webb,
The House in Dormer Forest
.
5.
Isadora Duncan,
My Life
.
6.
See, among others,
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
. Through Mellors, Lawrence expresses his horror of women who make him a tool of pleasure.
7.
It is, among others, H. Deutsch’s theory in
Psychology of Women
.
8.
Cf. Sartre,
Being and Nothingness
.
9.
That Albertine is an Albert does not change anything; Proust’s attitude here is in any case the masculine attitude.
10.
Je hais les dormeurs
(I Hate Sleepers).
11.
The Gay Science
.
12.
I have tried to show this in
Pyrrhus et Cinéas
.
13.
The case is different if the wife has found her autonomy in the marriage; in such a case, love between the two spouses can be a free exchange of two self-sufficient beings.
14.
Fanny Hurst,
Back Street
.
15.
Rosamond Lehmann,
The Weather in the Streets
.
16.
This comes to the fore, for example, in Lagache’s work
The Nature and Forms of Jealousy
. [The correct title of Lagache’s book is
La jalousie amoreuse—Jealousy in Love
.
—TRANS.]
17.
Dominique Rolin,
Moi qui ne suis qu’amour
.
18.
According to Isadora Duncan.
*
The correct title of the work is
La découverte de soi
.—T
RANS
.
19.
See Volume I.
Love has been assigned to woman as her supreme vocation, and when she addresses it to a man, she is seeking God in him: if circumstances deny her human love, if she is disappointed or demanding, she will choose to worship the divinity in God himself. It is true that there are also men who have burned with this flame; but they are rare, and their fervor has been of a highly refined intellectual form. Women, though, who abandon themselves to the delights of celestial marriages are legion: and they experience them in a strangely affective way. Women are accustomed to living on their knees; normally, they expect their salvation to descend from heaven, where males reign; men too are enveloped in clouds: their majesty is revealed from beyond the veils of their bodily presence. The Beloved is always more or less absent; he communicates with her, his worshipper, in ambiguous signs; she only knows his heart by an act of faith; and the more superior to her he seems, the more impenetrable his behavior seems to her. We have seen that in erotomania this faith resisted all refutations. A woman does not need to see or touch to feel the Presence at her side. Whether it be a doctor, a priest, or God, she will find the same incontestable proof; she will welcome as a slave the waves of a love that falls from on high into her heart. Human love and divine love melt into one not because the latter is a sublimation of the former but because the former is also a movement toward a transcendent, toward the absolute. In any case, the woman in love has to save her contingent existence by uniting with the Whole incarnated in a sovereign Person.
This ambiguity is flagrant in many cases—pathological or normal—where the lover is deified, where God has human traits. I will only cite this one reported by Ferdière in his work on erotomania. It is the patient who is speaking:
In 1923, I corresponded with a journalist from
La Presse;
every day I read his articles about morality. I read between the lines; it seemed
to me that he was answering me, giving me advice; I wrote him love letters; I wrote to him a lot … In 1924, it suddenly came to me: it seemed to me that God was looking for a woman, that he was going to come and speak to me; I had the impression he had given me a mission, chosen me to found a temple; I believed myself to be the center of a big complex where doctors would take care of women … It was then that … I was transferred to the Clermont mental institution … There were young doctors who wanted to change the world: in my cabin, I felt their kisses on my fingers, I felt their sex organs in my hands; once, they told me: “You are not sensitive, but sensual; turn over”; I turned over and I felt them in me: it was very pleasant … The head doctor, Dr. D.…, was like a god; I really felt there was something when he came near my bed; he looked at me as if to say: I am all yours. He really loved me: one day, he looked at me insistently in a truly extraordinary way … his green eyes became blue as the sky; they widened intensely in an incredible way … he saw the effect that produced all the while speaking to another woman patient and he smiled … and I thus remained fixated, fixated on Dr. D.… one nail does not replace another and in spite of all my lovers (I have had fifteen or sixteen), I could not separate myself from him; that’s why he’s guilty … For more than twelve years, I have been having mental conversations with him … when I wanted to forget him, he reappeared … he was sometimes a bit mocking … “You see, I frighten you,” he said again, “you can love others, but you will always come back to me …” I often wrote him letters, even making appointments I would keep. Last year, I went to see him; he was remote; there was no warmth; I felt so silly and I left … People tell me he married another woman, but he will always love me … he is my husband, and yet the act has never taken place, the act that would make the fusion …“Abandon everything,” he sometimes says, “with me you will always rise upward, you will not be like a being of the earth.” You see: each time I look for God, I find a man; now I don’t know what religion I should turn to.
*