The Marmot with the Collar
Diary of a Philosopher

For a Marmot of a certain age, five times father of a family, I have committed an unforgivable folly, a folly worthy of a child or a Philosopher. I carry the pain of it.

Chance brought it about that we met the other day the White Hare, who seemed neither surprised nor alarmed by my collar. I believe him the brother of the one who died, my friend. Perhaps I am not completely unknown to him. I offered him a gracious greeting, which he returned at once. My wife inclined her head slightly.

When he had passed, I turned the conversation to his late brother. Although my wife considers my studies and my reflections to be vanity, she does not dislike it when I speak to her of him. She is of her sex, that is, curious. I did not hide from her the regret that the death of a friend had caused me, a friend who would have been a companion in my search after Wisdom. We spoke of Wisdom, in this regard, and as she seemed in one of her better frames of mind and heart, I chanced a few pleasantries on the foolishness of philosophers who marry to seek Wisdom together. She had a reply for everything, always graceful and charming.

“By the way,” she said simpering, “who is stopping you from seeking Wisdom together?”

I plunged headlong into the trap.

“What,” I replied, “you could…?”

I could not finish anything. Words failed me.

She encouraged me to open my whole heart to her. In my naïvety I did this, I opened my whole heart to her, I begged her to allow me a friend. She listened to me with an air of tender indulgence, without letting me suspect for an instant the storm that was about to break.

When I had finished, her manner changed all at once.

“My dear Philosopher,” she addressed me coldly, “I thank you for having opened your heart to me; now, I know you. In your turn, know me. I am not one of those Marmots who, when married, keep girlfriends, societies, gossip. I give all that I am and I demand that you give all that you are. It is up to you to take a decision. You have all my thoughts; will you finally allow me all yours?”

I saw that I was deceived and I was beside myself with anger.

“Madam,” I replied, “when, like myself, one is married for the second time, and, like yourself, for the sixth, it is rather difficult only ever to think of a single person.”

It was then that all the thunders of heaven broke over my head.

“Yes,” she cried, “I have had five husbands, and you are the sixth. Do not think that I am hiding it nor that I am ashamed to have loved them, each one in their turn. Because I loved them all – you ungrateful wretch! – all as much as you. Do you think that, for the love of the sixth, I would wish to repudiate from my memory the first five? They have all their equally sacred place. If the first had survived, I would have loved him alone all my life, and so for each of the others that followed. I wept for all of them sincerely, just as I will weep for you, if you were to die, from which may heaven protect us! But I confess it, there is Spring in my heart, and widowhood is absolutely not for me. It is necessary that I love, that I love alway. Is it my fault if Nature has given me a soul whose youth is always renewed? I do not blush to obey Nature. It is Nature whom I have worshipped in each of those who have shared my bed. Love is consoled by love. There exists no other consolation. What is your Philosophy? It must be that generations should succeed one another and that the breaches of death should be eternally repaired. There is only one crime, which is barrenness. That is why, several times a widow, I have given myself several times in marriage, and it is also why I have always given myself completely. I belong to you not only in part; I do not reserve some other part of myself for a White Hare or for a so-called Wisdom. But I see what it really is. You do not have the strength to love. You have a weak heart and pale blood. You live from distractions. You have a wife, and you must have a friend to seek Wisdom with him!... What will you have left to seek with your wife?... Here is my heart. I do not know how to divide it in twain. Give me also the whole of yours – or let us go each our own way.”

I must confess it, my wife was magnificent in her wrath. She has a divine anger, just like her smile. I felt no less keenly the injury that she had done me. At this moment, I adored her and I hated her.

I replied that this manner of forcing the choice surprised me somewhat, that I had never heard it said that an innocent friendship or honest studies were incompatible with the holy state of matrimony, and that I asked to reflect before making a decision.

She shrugged her shoulders.

I left her with the assurance that I would let her have a reply in three days.

The first of these three days has passed.