Excursions were gotten up, romantic pilgrimages to Nietzsche’s house or in memory of the painter Segantini, who died on the mountain above the Maloja. I had come a long way in search of artificial emotions such as one meets with in the theatre and drawing-rooms. Except that in having them one breathed a healthier air, there was no change.
I had scorned the Sleeping Woods and Sylve-Benite, the black fish-pond bordered with reeds, the sunken roads, the ravines, the hills, all the peace that was offered within the reach of one’s hand; I had to have movement.
When at last I decided to return, thinking of the loyal waiting of my Penelope, but more and more averse to and disgusted with regular and thoughtful life—though it is the kind by which alone one can improve and watchfully perfect oneself—the only danger being lest one fall asleep—I was not slow to be bored.
* * *
We returned to Paris very early. Raymonde, although the prolongation of our stay in the country had benefited her health, as far as her overworked heart was concerned, did not object to my haste. But she gave every evidence of being unable to go about as much as during the previous winter.
“A little later in the season,” she said, “I shall go everywhere with you again.”
I proposed an arrangement which was very satisfactory to me.
“Let each of us be free,” I said, “each go to the places he likes.”
“I shall not go out at all for the present, if you are satisfied.”
“Let each of us be free:” what a convenient formula to regain one’s independence by! I was so blinded that I saw no traces yet of her growing weakness.