The Story of My Wife Read Free Page A

understood the word but not the thing I was getting at. True, I was a good-sized lad and could have been taken for a boy of eighteen, but I did wear short pants and knee socks; what is more I had on a nice blue sailor suit top, with a bow my mother herself tied that morning. I still had rosy cheeks then, though I admit my ears were also red, and large-sized ears they were, too. But my teeth were white and my eyes fearless—I was a boy with earnest eyes. And I was not yet corrupted, honestly I wasn't. Just how I got the courage to put those words down I still can't say.
    The governess simply stared at me, she nearly swallowed me with her eyes.
    "Que c'est que tu veux?" she asked finally.
    But I was not embarrassed even then. I stood there graciously, then ran away. I did the same the following day and the day after.
    The governess, as soon as she saw me coming, would start laughing—she laughed so hard she nearly fell over. Arms akimbo, she continued laughing, and the child with her laughed too. But I stood my ground, my gaze remained steadfast; I did not budge.
    "Mon pauvre garçon," she intoned sympathetically, laughing still, though also blushing hotly. "Eh bien, tu ne sais pas ce qu'il te faut." A woman of the world, I thought. "My poor boy," she repeated; "you have no idea what's bothering you, do you?" And she stared into my eyes, wonderstruck, like the hot sun, and even pinched my face. Whereupon I ran away.
    Finally, though, she caught on. Why not? she must have asked herself. At least this sort of thing can't lead to scandal or other problems. The thought of the ditch appealed to her too. There was also a little bridge there with overgrown bushes underneath. After discovering that the park-keeper passed by only twice a day (because of the summer heat, the place was deserted most of the time), she met me by that bridge early in the morning, bringing with her a basket of food or a jug of milk. She was uncombed, sleepy—oh, I was crazy about her. For it should be understood: I was a young lad and I could still feel the warmth of her bed on her.
    At home I accounted for my early departure with some lie or other; I tried to avoid my mother anyway and walked about all day in the sunshine as if in a dream. . . . This lasted the entire summer. Then I lost all interest in women.
    A year later, one of my uncles, my favorite, my thoroughly depraved uncle, whom I happened to be visiting then, set out a hooked ladder for me so I could climb up to the upper floor of a neighboring house; each night I observed a beautiful lady taking a bath. It was summertime then, too, and in the sweltering heat she kept the windows of her apartment open. One day, while hovering between the ground and the sky, I decided to land on her window sill. So as not to scare her, I whispered to her:
    "A little boy is here."
    Rather than getting scared, she turned very somber in her bath. Actually, she knew me already by sight. Then, without saying a word, she motioned me to come closer. I stepped down from the ledge, and she with a hazy look in her eyes embraced me.
    These were the only two amorous adventures of my early youth, which, though awkward, both of them, are worth mentioning. The others are negligible. I had to laugh at men who were panting after them. ... I was full of unattractive thoughts about women. How haughtily they sat in restaurants, holding their heads oh so high. But I knew things about them that would have made them less haughty, surely. I conceived of man's business with them as being fairly straightforward. In this I was not unlike many a young man. One must deal with them quite simply, I thought.
    Instead, I became more and more interested in good eating, especially after being exposed to new worlds during the course of my travels. An acquaintance of mine, General Piet Mens, once made the observation in my presence that man is worse than the filthiest hog because he tastes everything. Well, I disagree. It's by leaving nothing