MYSELF: You are young and still inexperienced, but there is no man or woman so young and inexperienced as not to have formed, from observation, many general and just maxims concerning human affairs and the conduct of life. But it must be confessed that when a man, or in this case a woman, comes to put these in practice, she will be extremely liable to error, till time and further experience both enlarge these maxims and teach her their proper use and application.
It was a long way to Paris, and my student lying there beside me, ever eager to learn, not wishing to squander this opportunity of intimate and secluded pedagogy, began quietly but intently to enlarge the maxim before her, and together we spent some time further investigating its proper use and application.
As our journey neared its close, my student turned her face to mine.
SHE: Does this mean that you forgive me?
MYSELF: The inquiry of truth, which is the lovemaking or wooing of it; the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it; and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of mankind. I have inquired with you, I have known your presence, I believe and enjoy you.
SHE: I have been misled by faulty logic, by the inveterate errors that are founded on vulgar notions. But my search for the truth has at last brought me back to you.
MARGARET SLEPT long hours and stared at the walls when she was awake. Forget it, she told herself. Even Edward's egotistical largess could not forgive a wife who ignored him for months, left him, and then, naked, embraced another man. Forget it. But she couldn't forget. She thought of calling him, of course. But sometimes shame held her back, sometimes anger. So what if she had thrown her naked arms around Richard? Did Edward think she was sleeping with that prissy misogynist? What kind of woman did he take her for, anyway? Call him? He could damn well call her. On his knees. She imagined him telephoning on his knees; but then she thought that she had been such a terrible, criminal wife that it was she who should approach Edward on her knees, and then she cried into her pillow and went back to sleep.
In this way, she spent a week of a dreary, lonely, maid's-room existence during which she strained Richard's hospitality. Then she went home to Massachusetts, to Mom and Dad, to relive various adolescent disappointments by sitting beneath big suburban trees and contemplating lawns. In her parents' house, she was outraged to find a copy of Art Turner's book, just out, called Sight Unseen, which had become an instant best seller. She was further outraged when she read it, for far from the bloated, self-important twaddle she had expected, it turned out to be a brief, rigorous, and peculiarly comic novel about a blind psychiatrist, which she thoroughly enjoyed.
All this time away from Edward, wandering—her mind wandered, at least—had left Margaret more and more homesick for him. Her shamed anger simply grew at first, becoming grander and more intense; and then it stopped growing and seemed to blossom and flower into something else entirely: determination. How dare Edward leave her? He had no right. She loved him, and she would have him. She would get him back. He was hers. She had sought friendship. She had sought lovers. She had sought knowledge, she had sought the truth about things. Now, she would seek Edward.
Seeking truth is the lovemaking or wooing of it, said the philosopher in Rameau's Niece. Now Margaret must woo in earnest.
But what about this truth? Who needed truth? Truth didn't pay the rent. If you have your health, her grandmother liked to say, and an independent income, you have everything. Truth! Truth is a tautology. A chair is a chair. Logical truth is a tautology.