I had
watched over him like a cat, to save him from others' stupidity and his
own impetuousness. It came the very moment when he had to go to the
theatre. He asked me if I were ready, I wasn't. _I didn't want to go._
VERA
You didn't want to go?
JEAN
No. It's difficult to explain, but somehow by then I had grown aware that
the long series of little obstacles, each one accidental and temporary,
seemed to express something unseen, something impersonal, a kind of fate
... as if the verdict had gone forth from the lords of things that Paul
was _not_ to succeed. And everything seemed to hang in the balance that
night. I thought that the fact I was aware of Paul's bad luck made me all
the likelier instrument for it to work through. So I told him I had a
headache.... He must have felt something in my voice. He dropped his
violin and demanded I tell him why I didn't _want_ to go. His intuition
told him it was a matter of will with me. I hadn't thought to have a story
ready. Besides, I was so worn out that I was on the verge of hysteria. He
stormed, and I sat staring at him without a word, wondering only why he
didn't forget poor insignificant me and go forth to his glory.
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