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TIME AND DECISION
 TIME AND
DECISION
Economic and Psychological
Perspectives on Intertemporal Choice

George Loewenstein, Daniel Read,

and Roy Baumeister

Editors

RUSSELL SAGE FOUNDATION NEW YORK

 The Russell Sage Foundation
The Russell Sage Foundation, one of the oldest of America’s general purpose founda-
tions, was established in 1907 by Mrs. Margaret Olivia Sage for “the improvement of
social and living conditions in the United States.” The Foundation seeks to fulfill this
mandate by fostering the development and dissemination of knowledge about the
country’s political, social, and economic problems. While the Foundation endeavors to
assure the accuracy and objectivity of each book it publishes, the conclusions and inter-
pretations in Russell Sage Foundation publications are those of the authors and not of
the Foundation, its Trustees, or its staff. Publication by Russell Sage, therefore, does not
imply Foundation endorsement.

BOARD OF TRUSTEES
Robert E. Denham, Chair

Alan S. Blinder Timothy A. Hultquist Cora B. Marrett

Christine K. Cassel Kathleen Hall Jamieson Eugene Smolensky
Thomas D. Cook Melvin Konner Eric Wanner
Larry V. Hedges Ellen Condliffe Lagemann Mary C. Waters
Jennifer L. Hochschild

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Time and decision : economic and psychological perspectives on intertemporal choice /

George Loewenstein, Daniel Read, Roy Baumeister, editors.
p. cm.
“The papers were all first presented during a meeting at the Russell Sage Foundation
in New York”—Introd.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-87154-549-7
1. Decision making—Congresses. 2. Time—Economic aspects—Congresses.
3. Time—Psychological aspects—Congresses. 4. Choice (Psychology)—
Congresses. 5. Economics—Psychological aspects—Congresses. I. Loewenstein,
George. II. Read, Daniel, 1958– III. Baumeister, Roy F.
BF448 .T55 2003
153.8⬘3—dc21
2002036743

Copyright 䉷 2003 by Russell Sage Foundation. All rights reserved. Printed in the
United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the
publisher.

Reproduction by the United States Government in whole or in part is permitted for any
purpose.

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American Na-
tional Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library
Materials. ANSI Z39.48-1992.

Text design by Suzanne Nichols

RUSSELL SAGE FOUNDATION

112 East 64th Street, New York, New York 10021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
 Contents

Contributors ix
Acknowledgments xiii

Introduction 1
George Loewenstein, Daniel Read, and
Roy F. Baumeister
1. Time Discounting and Time Preference:
A Critical Review 13
Shane Frederick, George Loewenstein, and
Ted O’Donoghue

PART I 䡠 Philosophical, Evolutionary, and

Neurobiological Underpinnings

2. Time Preference and Personal Identity 89

Shane Frederick
3. The Evolution of Patience 115
Alex Kacelnik
4. A Neurobiology of Intertemporal Choice 139
Stephen B. Manuck, Janine D. Flory,
Matthew F. Muldoon, and Robert E. Ferrell

v
vi Contents

PART II 䡠 Theoretical Perspectives

5. Sustaining Delay of Gratification over Time:

A Hot-Cool Systems Perspective 175
Walter Mischel, Ozlem Ayduk, and
Rodolfo Mendoza-Denton
6. Willpower, Choice, and Self-Control 201
Roy F. Baumeister and Kathleen D. Vohs
7. Self-Awareness and Self-Control 217
Ted O’Donoghue and Matthew Rabin
8. Construal Level Theory of Intertemporal
Judgment and Decision 245
Nira Liberman and Yaacov Trope
9. Self-Signaling and Self-Control 277
Drazen Prelec and Ronit Bodner

PART III 䡠 Patterns of Preference

10. Subadditive Intertemporal Choice 301

Daniel Read
11. Summary Assessment of Experiences: The Whole
Is Different from the Sum of Its Parts 323
Dan Ariely and Ziv Carmon
12. Predicting and Indulging Changing Preferences 351
George Loewenstein and Erik Angner

PART IV 䡠 Applications

13. Time Discounting of Health Outcomes 395

Gretchen B. Chapman
14. Delay Discounting: A Fundamental Behavioral
Process of Drug Dependence 419
Warren K. Bickel and Matthew W. Johnson
15. Fear as a Policy Instrument 441
Andrew Caplin
16. Dieting as an Exercise in Behavioral Economics 459
C. Peter Herman and Janet Polivy
 Contents vii

17. Self-Rationing: Self-Control in Consumer Choice 491

Klaus Wertenbroch
18. The Hyperbolic Consumption Model: Calibration,
Simulation, and Empirical Evaluation 517
George-Marios Angeletos, David Laibson,
Andrea Repetto, Jeremy Tobacman, and
Stephen Weinberg

Index 545
 Contributors

George Loewenstein is professor of economics and psychology in the

Department of Social and Decision Sciences at Carnegie Mellon Uni-
versity.

Daniel Read is reader in operational research at the London School of

Economics and Political Science.

Roy F. Baumeister is the Eppes Professor of Psychology at Florida

State University.

George-Marios Angeletos is assistant professor of economics at the

Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

Erik Angner is a graduate student in the Department of History and

Philosophy of Science and the Department of Economics at the Uni-
versity of Pittsburgh.

Dan Ariely is the Luis Alvarez Renta Professor at the Sloan School of
Management and the Media Laboratory at the Massachusetts Institute
of Technology.

Ozlem Ayduk is assistant professor of psychology at the University

of California, Berkeley.

Warren K. Bickel is professor of psychiatry and psychology at the

University of Vermont.
ix
x Contributors

Ronit Bodner is director of Learning Innovations.

Andrew Caplin is professor of economics at New York University

and codirector of the Center for Experimental Social Science.

Ziv Carmon is associate professor of marketing at INSEAD.

Gretchen B. Chapman is associate professor of psychology at Rutgers

University.

Robert E. Ferrell is professor and chair of human genetics at the Uni-

versity of Pittsburgh Graduate School of Public Health.

Janine D. Flory is research assistant professor of psychology at the

University of Pittsburgh.

Shane Frederick is assistant professor of management science at the

Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

C. Peter Herman is professor of psychology at the University of

Toronto.

Matthew W. Johnson is a doctoral student in experimental psychol-

ogy at the University of Vermont.

Alex Kacelnik is professor of behavioral ecology at the University of

Oxford and a fellow of the Institute for Advanced Studies in Berlin.

David Laibson is professor of economics at Harvard University.

Nira Liberman is a senior lecturer in psychology at Tel Aviv Univer-

sity, Israel.

Stephen B. Manuck is professor of psychology and psychiatry at the

University of Pittsburgh.

Rodolfo Mendoza-Denton is assistant professor of psychology at the

University of California, Berkeley.

Walter Mischel is the Robert Johnston Niven Professor of Humane

Letters in Psychology at Columbia University.
 Contributors xi

Matthew F. Muldoon is associate professor of medicine at the Univer-

sity of Pittsburgh School of Medicine.

Ted O’Donoghue is assistant professor of economics at Cornell Uni-

versity.

Janet Polivy is professor of psychology at the University of Toronto.

Drazen Prelec is the Digital Equipment LFM Professor of Manage-

ment at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Sloan School of
Management.

Matthew Rabin is professor of economics at the University of Califor-

nia, Berkeley.

Andrea Repetto is assistant professor of industrial engineering at the

University of Chile, Santiago, Chile.

Jeremy Tobacman is a graduate student in economics at Harvard

University.

Yaacov Trope is professor of psychology at New York University.

Kathleen D. Vohs is a research fellow funded by the National Insti-

tutes of Mental Health to conduct research at the University of Utah
and Case Western Reserve University.

Stephen Weinberg is a graduate student in economics at Harvard

University.

Klaus Wertenbroch is associate professor of marketing at INSEAD,

Fontainebleau, France, and Singapore.
 Acknowledgments

With thanks to Rosa Stipanovic for all the hard work, Suzanne
Nichols for keeping us on track, and Eric Wanner for making the
whole thing happen.

xiii
 Introduction
George Loewenstein, Daniel Read,
and Roy F. Baumeister

P sychology and economics have a classic love-hate relationship.

Members of each discipline often express positive sentiments about
the other in the abstract, and acknowledge complementarities be-
tween disciplines in methods, subject matter, and levels of analysis.
Yet actual encounters often produce glassy eyes or, worse, overt hos-
tility. Both disciplines set out to use scientific method to explain and
describe human behavior. They differ, however, in the details of their
respective paradigms. Psychology is mainly empirically based, em-
bracing a great variety of theories (frequently incompatible, as some
economists are not shy about pointing out). Psychologists usually
start from phenomena, develop a local theory based on that phe-
nomenon, then test this theory against further observations. Eco-
nomics, in contrast, is more theory-based, with a single theoretical
approach that can be tailored to a wide range of applications. Psy-
chologists and economists converge on at least one point: both wish
that members of the other discipline would be more like them. Psy-
chologists wish economists were less theory-driven and more respon-
sive to empirical data. Economists accuse psychologists of being too
willing to interpret quirky behavior as evidence of irrationality, and
wish that psychologists would subject their theories to the discipline
of formal modeling. Each group tends to view the other’s theories as
invalid or trivial, with very few evaluations falling between these
extremes.
A dispassionate mediator might think that both sides have merit,
but might also propose that the two disciplines find some way of
sorting out their differences and agree on a common ground that
combines both their strengths into a greater whole. Now, more than
ever before, there are grounds for optimism that such a reconciliation
is beginning to occur. This book is a record of what may be the great-
est success story in the unfolding interdisciplinary relationship: the
development of our knowledge of intertemporal choice and its appli-
cation to important economic and psychological problems.
1
2 Time and Decision

Intertemporal choice is what we do when we make trade-offs be-

tween costs and benefits occurring at different points in time. We are
always making intertemporal choices—when we choose between a
hamburger now or a fine meal (or thinner body) later; between in-
creasing our pension fund contribution or going to Hawaii; or be-
tween a sinful moment on earth or an eternity in heaven. Indeed, so
broad is the domain of intertemporal choice that it is difficult to think
of a consequential decision that is not an intertemporal choice. Given
the importance of intertemporal choice, that it is a central theme in
both psychology and economics is not surprising.
Basic research on intertemporal choice by contemporary econo-
mists has revolved mainly around testing the validity and implica-
tions of the discounted utility (DU) model, which posits that people
have a single unitary rate of time preference that they use to discount
the value of delayed events. This means, for instance, that if some-
thing is worth 10 percent less to you if it is delayed by one year, it
should be worth a further 10 percent less when delayed by a second
year, and so on. DU is a normative model because if we don’t treat the
future in this fashion, we won’t be able to make plans that we can be
sure we will implement in the future. Whether DU is a valid descrip-
tive model of behavior is a matter of debate among economists (and
the central focus of the following chapter).
Basic research by psychologists on intertemporal choice (a term
psychologists rarely use) has tended to focus on different issues. Some
have been concerned with measuring individual differences in the
propensity to delay gratification, others with situational determinants
of impulsivity, and still others with cognitive and emotional mecha-
nisms underlying intertemporal choice. The chapters in this volume
represent a sort of academic “busing” intended to speed up the inte-
gration of psychology and economics in the domain of intertemporal
choice. These were papers first presented during a meeting at the
Russell Sage Foundation in New York, where distinguished researchers
with common interests (who in many cases had not heard of one
another) shared their work. For many of us the meeting was revela-
tory. We differed in our terminology, disciplinary assumptions, and
research methods, but serious efforts were made to speak a common
language. Whenever possible, the economists stripped their talks of
equations—and when they did not, were called to task by the psy-
chologists. The psychologists took great pains to express theories in
terms that economists could digest. In the end, all left the meeting
with a somewhat changed perspective and certainly with an enhanced
understanding of diverse aspects of intertemporal choice. We can
only hope that these chapters will have a similar effect on the reader.
 Introduction 3

Completion of this volume occurs almost exactly ten years after the
publication of a previous compendium on intertemporal choice (also
published by the Russell Sage Foundation) titled Choice Over Time.
Despite substantial overlap in authorship and subject matter between
the two volumes, the differences are striking and underline the pace
of progress that occurred in the intervening decade. Much of the orig-
inal volume (fully six of fifteen chapters) was occupied with discus-
sions of hyperbolic time discounting—that is, the observation that peo-
ple tend to be more impatient toward trade-offs involving earlier
rewards than those involving later rewards. These discussions fo-
cused mainly on its theoretical development and implications. Hyper-
bolic time discounting continues to be a central theme in the current
volume (see chapters 7, 10, 14, and 18), but most chapters herein are
oriented toward examining its implications rather than documenting
the phenomenon, as in the earlier volume. Moreover, a variety of
other important themes have emerged. For example, there is much
more discussion of intra-individual variability in time discounting—
why people sometimes behave as if there is no tomorrow and at other
times seem obsessively focused on the future (chapters 1, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11,
and 12); more discussion of the role played by emotions (chapters 1,
5, 13, 14, and 18); and a plethora of intriguing new theoretical per-
spectives (chapters 5 through 9). The applications have become far
more sophisticated both in terms of underlying theory and quality of
empirical research (chapters 13 through 18). Moreover, there is even
research questioning the robustness of hyperbolic time discounting
(chapters 1 and 10).
On top of the appeal of a round number, the decade gap between
the two volumes seems close to ideal from the standpoint of scientific
progress. Only a few years earlier, it might have been difficult to fill a
volume with new research sufficiently distinct from that published in
the original volume. Given the rapid pace of research in the field,
doing justice to the breadth of the topic a few years from now may
well require two volumes instead of one. As it is, we have inevitably
neglected to include much important and high quality research, as
well as a number of theoretical perspectives.
The remainder of the introduction provides a map to the thematic
concerns in the chapters that follow. Part I looks at some basic issues:
the philosophy of intertemporal choice, how it evolved, and what has
evolved. Part II describes some theoretical contributions around the
question of what is intertemporal choice. Most of these chapters focus
on the problem of self-control, an issue that looms large throughout
the book. Part III turns to specific patterns of time preference, looking
at what we know about how people value future outcomes. Part IV,
4 Time and Decision

the final section, deals with applications in the domains of health,

drug addiction, dieting, marketing, savings, and public policy. The
categorization is necessarily crude. Many of the more theoretical
chapters are heavily informed by applied findings, and the applied
chapters all derive novel basic theoretical insights from the specific
domains they explore. Chapter 1 presents an overview of research on
time discounting and time preference. The chapter focuses on the de-
scriptive validity of the DU model, which remains the dominant eco-
nomic theory of intertemporal choice. Frederick, Loewenstein, and
O’Donoghue observe that virtually every assumption and implication
of the DU model has been contradicted by empirical research. More-
over, they argue that the model cannot be salvaged by merely assum-
ing a different—hyperbolic, for example—discount function. Rather,
they argue, understanding intertemporal choice behavior requires an
account of several distinct motives that can vary greatly across deci-
sions—a theme that resounds throughout the book.
While Frederick and colleagues focus on the descriptive question
of how people do discount the future, chapter 2, by Frederick, ad-
dresses the normative question of whether we should discount the
future at all. Many argue that there is no good reason to weight utility
in the near future more than utility in the more distant future—at
least no reason other than the uncertainty of obtaining that future
utility. Yet some philosophers, in particular Derek Parfit, have argued
that our relation to future selves is fundamentally the same as our
relation to other distinct individuals, that our connection to future
selves diminishes over time, and that to give lesser weight to selves
with whom we are less connected is reasonable—just as we would
care less about strangers than about close relations. Along with exam-
ining both sides of this issue, Frederick presents a descriptive study
that assesses whether diminishing identity might not only justify time
preference, but also help explain it. In chapter 3, Kacelnik discusses
the evolutionary basis of time discounting, and specifically provides
an evolutionary account of anomalous patterns of discounting behav-
ior observed both in humans and animals. Experiments with animals
have sometimes been interpreted as showing that, contrary to evolu-
tionary theory, animals do not maximize expected rewards. Kacelnik
argues that the findings that support such conclusions are an artifact
of research in which animals are placed in artificial environments un-
like the natural environments they have evolved to deal with. Ka-
celnik also devotes considerable attention to drawing linkages be-
tween experimental results dealing with humans and other animals,
and cautions against the temptation of automatically concluding that
they are the product of similar underlying mechanisms and evolu-
 Introduction 5

tionary forces. Kacelnik’s chapter underlines the crucial role that the
ability to optimally delay gratification must have played in evolution.
Not surprisingly, therefore, as reviewed in chapter 4 by Manuck and
colleagues, a great deal of evidence has emerged showing that pa-
tience is influenced by specific brain structures and chemical pro-
cesses. One such brain structure is the prefrontal cortex. People with
damage to this area of the brain or to its connections with other brain
structures (such as those involved in emotional experiences and mo-
tivation) do not take into account the future consequences of their
actions, and so choose based on immediate rewards only (Damasio
1994). The ability to withstand impulses is also modulated by activity
of the neurotransmitter serotonin. In laboratory animals, for example,
administering drugs that reduce serotonin activity in the brain in-
creases the likelihood of impulsive choice, whereas increasing sero-
tonin activity (as by Prozac) makes animals more willing to wait. Vari-
ability in serotonergic activity also predicts variability in impulsive
choices in humans, including suicide and aggression, as well as scores
on a personality test of impulsivity. Manuck and colleagues also discuss
genetic variation in a component of the serotonin system that is corre-
lated, in humans, with both impulsivity and brain serotonergic activity.
The ability to wait is not only correlated with brain activity, but
also with age and dispositional person variables. Mischel, Ayduk, and
Mendoza-Denton describe Mischel’s studies of delay ability using the
classic preschool delay of gratification paradigm, which measures the time
children wait for a preferred but delayed reward over a less desirable
but immediately available reward. As children mature they become
increasingly able to wait for longer periods, due to the development
of cognitive-attentional strategies to prevent the immediate desir-
ability of the small rewards from overwhelming their long-term inter-
ests. This development is seen as reflecting the maturation of a ratio-
nal and far-sighted, cognitive, “cool” system (probably located in the
frontal lobe and hippocampus) that gradually becomes able to moder-
ate the impulses of the “hot” system (amygdala) and enables self-
regulation. Independent of maturational level, stable individual dif-
ferences also exist in the ability to access cool-system strategies in
dealing with the frustration of the delay situation. This ability is pre-
dictive of social, emotional, and cognitive competencies throughout
adolescence and adulthood. For instance, research showed that five-
year-olds who resisted longer in the preschool delay paradigm also
did better in college later in life. The authors summarize findings elu-
cidating the attentional mechanisms that underlie this ability. They
also highlight recent research exploring how delay ability protects
against destructive behavior in interpersonal relationships.
6 Time and Decision

Mischel and colleagues found that four-year-olds who waited longer

in the preschool delay paradigm also did better in college later in life.
We often speak of the ability to overcome temptation as involving the
use of willpower. In chapter 6, Baumeister and Vohs report research
suggesting that this term can be taken literally. They argue that peo-
ple have a limited pool of resources that they can use to resist tempta-
tion. Successful resistance draws on this resource pool and makes
people less able to resist subsequent (immediate) temptations. Indeed,
they suggest that self-control is like a muscle that can be temporarily
fatigued (and may also be able to be strengthened with judicious use).
Baumeister and Vohs describe experiments in which people are re-
quired to exert willpower in one domain (resisting tempting food)
and then called on to exert it in an unrelated domain (persistence on
an unsolvable task). They find that there appears to be less willpower
left at the second stage.
The contributions of Mischel, Ayduk, and Mendoza-Denton and
Baumeister and Vohs focus on how difficult it can be to overcome the
desire for immediate gratification. O’Donoghue and Rabin, in chapter
7, are concerned with the importance of people’s awareness of their
own self-control problems. They distinguish between two extreme
states of awareness: at one extreme is sophistication, or full awareness
of future self-control problems; at the other extreme is naivete, or full
unawareness. O’Donoghue and Rabin show that to be sophisticated is
sometimes better, and at times to be naive is better. A sophisticate will
resist procrastinating too much because she knows she will have no
more willpower tomorrow than today, while a naı̈f will (incorrectly)
count on his future selves to do the job. Yet a naı̈f might persist
despite inevitable (but unanticipated) future self-control failures,
whereas a sophisticate, who predicts these failures, might never even
try. Their chapter also describes the more realistic case of partial na-
ivete: you know you will have trouble getting up when the alarm
rings, but you underestimate how much. Indeed, one of the results of
their analysis will be familiar to many readers—namely, that even a
little naivete about the tendency to procrastinate can lead one to delay
completing a task until the last minute.
O’Donoghue and Rabin discuss as well how our beliefs affect when
we want to do things. Although their approach is different, this ques-
tion is also at the heart of Liberman and Trope’s temporal construal
theory described in chapter 8. They argue that choice objects can be
characterized in terms of their high-level and low-level features, and
that our construal, or mental representations, of those objects will have
more high-level features the more the object is delayed. Consequently,
choices concerning delayed events will be based on higher-level con-
 Introduction 7

struals than will choices for immediate events. To illustrate, a high-

level construal of writing a book chapter might be “building a career,”
while a low-level construal would be “sitting in front of the com-
puter.” The decision of whether to write a chapter in six months will
be based on its effects on one’s career, while the decision to work on it
tonight will depend on whether typing is more fun than watching
television. As Trope and Liberman show in numerous experiments,
this seems to be precisely how we do decide. Theoretical approaches
to self-control have largely focused on the conflict between immediate
gratification and long-term objectives. In chapter 9, Prelec and Bodner
note that many self-control problems also involve a problem of scale:
success in the long run requires persistence and endurance over many
smaller decisions, each of which has a negligible impact on the larger
goal. To deal with this, they develop a self-signaling model of self-
control, in which success “in the small” is a motivating signal of suc-
cess in the long run. The model rests on a distinction between two
types of reward: reward experienced directly from the consequences
of a choice; and diagnostic reward, which is the moral pleasure or
pain derived from learning something positive or negative about
one’s own disposition or future prospects. Anticipation of diagnostic
reward or fear of diagnostic pain promotes self-control. In the model,
whether a person is aware of the attempt to self-signal matters. Un-
awareness of self-signaling promotes good behavior and self-esteem.
Awareness can trigger an excess of self-control, where good behavior
is discounted for diagnostic motives, and being reasonably good is no
longer “good enough.” The fully aware self-signaler is on a self-con-
trol treadmill, engaged in perfect behavior with no commensurate im-
provement in self-esteem.
As previously mentioned, DU theory has been widely judged defi-
cient. The most widely discussed deficiency—one that has led to the
greatest degree of consensus between psychologists and economists—
is the idea that the discount rate is not a single number but rather a
function. As noted, a strong consensus has developed around the no-
tion of hyperbolic time discounting. The experiments reported in
Read’s chapter 10 may therefore be met by some dismay by both
economists and psychologists who, having finally acknowledged the
limitations of exponential time discounting, were on the verge of
throwing in their hat with hyperbolic discounting. These experiments
show that much of the data adduced as evidence for a hyperbolic
discount function are faulty. Read’s studies show that the measured
discount rate depends critically on the length of the interval being
evaluated and may have little to do with when the interval occurs.
This is called subadditive intertemporal choice, and Read questions the
8 Time and Decision

strength of the evidence for hyperbolic time discounting once this

subadditivity of time discounting is taken into account.
Although DU theory and its alternatives, such as hyperbolic dis-
counting, are often studied with experiments comparing preferences
for single outcomes, in practical terms their most important applica-
tion is to sequences or streams of consequences, such as the value of a
lifetime of paychecks or living with a chronic disease. According to
DU theory, the value of such a sequence is the sum of the discounted
values of each element in that sequence. These discounted values are
assumed to be separable, meaning that the utility experienced at one
period does not influence utility at a later period. Ariely and Car-
mon’s review of the evidence (much from their own experimental
research) in chapter 11 shows that this assumption is far from true.
Rather, the value placed on a sequence of good or bad feelings is
apparently based on the combination of a host of gestalt properties of
that sequence. For instance, people weigh heavily on how good the
end of a sequence is, its peak, and whether it is improving or getting
worse (people like improvement). Ariely and Carmon’s bottom line is
that people encode or evaluate sequences based on abstract mental
representations containing summary information (such as the mean,
slope, and variance) about the pleasure of experiences, and not on
representations of entire sequences. When people decide what future
sequences they want to experience, they take these gestalt properties
into account, thereby violating the assumption of separability. If the
assumption of additivity—that the value of a sequence is the sum of
the values of its parts—is unrealistic, an even more unrealistic (though
all too common) assumption in modeling intertemporal choice is that
tastes are fixed over time. Loewenstein and Angner, in chapter 12,
underscore the artificiality of this assumption by enumerating some
of the most important sources of preference change. They also review
the burgeoning literature on predictions of future tastes, showing
that, while many reasons exist for why people mispredict changes in
their own tastes, these diverse reasons generally produce a common
pattern of misestimation that Loewenstein, O’Donoghue, and Rabin
(2002) call projection bias. Finally, Loewenstein and Angner challenge
the universal applicability of a common assumption made in most
research that does allow for changing preferences—namely, that peo-
ple want to satisfy whatever preferences they expect to have in the
future. This certainly is often true, but situations occur (which they
discuss) in which people attempt to impose their current preferences
on their own future selves.
One area in which time discounting plays an especially important
role is that of decisions concerning health. For the consumer, virtually
 Introduction 9

all health-related decisions involve trade-offs between short-term and

long-term gains. Taking medication, seeing the doctor, undergoing
withdrawal—these are all behaviors that are good for us in the long
term but can range from annoying to unbearable in the short term.
Studies of discounting health outcomes are also theoretically impor-
tant because health may be the only nonfungible domain of choice
that we can study: whereas consumption of money is (in principle)
independent of when it is received, health can only be consumed
when it is received. An important question is whether qualitative
findings reported in studies of monetary discounting are also found
in studies of health; Chapman, in chapter 13, shows that some are and
some aren’t. For instance, people discount larger health effects at a
lower rate than smaller ones, which is also true for monetary out-
comes, but they sometimes would rather their health got worse rather
than better (holding total health constant) when they usually want
their income to increase (again, holding total income constant). A per-
haps more important question is whether health discounting is corre-
lated with discounting for other things; Chapman suggests it is not.
This finding appears to challenge the common view that time dis-
counting is a reliable individual difference.
One domain in which the future values of money and health, or at
least health-related behavior, do seem to coincide is discussed by
Bickel and Johnson in chapter 14. They find that addicts do indeed
discount future money much more than do nonaddicts, suggesting
that at least in this domain, discounting is related to health-related
decisions. One might think that this is because people who discount
the future more become addicts, but research suggests that perhaps
the addiction creates the heavy discounting. The authors observe that
heroin addicts and smokers discount the future heavily, but once they
have fought off their addiction, their discount rates fall. Evidence that
longtime ex-smokers discount the future the same way as non-
smokers also supports this notion.
Both Chapman’s and Bickel and Johnson’s chapters show how
health-related behaviors are often quite shortsighted. Caplin’s chapter
15 examines policy implications of this observation. He analyzes the
common tendency to avoid learning about, or discovering if one has,
a disease. Many people put off seeing the doctor because they fear
what they might discover. For them, myopia arises not because they
weigh too little on the future but because contemplating bad futures
is frightening, and not making an appointment with the doctor is one
way to avoid doing so. Many campaigns to increase the public take-
up of testing for serious conditions (such as testicular cancer) use fear
appeals that emphasize the consequences of the undiagnosed disease.
10 Time and Decision

In line with current psychological theory, Caplin suggests that these

fear appeals may have the paradoxical effect of making at-risk indi-
viduals less willing to undertake the preventive act. This is especially
likely to happen in cases such as self-examination for testicular can-
cer, in which the preventive act itself triggers fear. In such cases the
fear appeal may backfire by making the preventive act even more
frightening, prompting greater efforts at avoidance. Caplin’s work
shows one way in which economic analyses can enhance psychologi-
cal thinking: his model specifies circumstances under which fear ap-
peals are likely to be effective and those when they are not. He also
examines differences between economists and psychologists in how
they judge the success of policy interventions, and proposes a hybrid
approach that draws on both traditions.
Herman and Polivy, in chapter 16, provide an in-depth examina-
tion of a case of dynamic inconsistency that has actually served as the
poster child for much writing about intertemporal choice. At the
meeting in New York, almost everyone used failure to stick to a diet
as the “perfect example” of dynamic inconsistency. The prototypical
example is that we plan to eat healthily before dinner, but at dinner-
time our good intentions fail and we take some frightfully fattening
food. The cycle repeats itself dinner after dinner. Herman and Polivy,
who have spent most of their careers studying dieters, pointed out
that this is not exactly what happens; dieters do plan to diet when
meals are still far away, but they do not necessarily fall prey when the
moment for dessert arrives. Rather, dieters break down usually be-
cause some particular disruptive event (albeit often minor) disinhibits
them enough to make them break their diet momentarily; then the
fact that the diet has been broken often leads to a catastrophic binge.
Herman and Polivy’s skeptical conclusions are in line with many of
the other chapters, pointing out that the road to understanding inter-
temporal choice is not through developing better discount functions
but through understanding the variety of psychological processes that
enter into future-based decision making. One such psychological pro-
cess, investigated by Wertenbroch, is in the domain of consumer choice.
In chapter 17, he starts with the well-established phenomenon that
people seem to consume at a rate that is an increasing function of
their immediately available (local) resources. What this means is intu-
itively compelling: we will eat more cheese if we have ten pounds in
the fridge instead of five, and more if we have five pounds instead
of one. Wertenbroch suggests that consumption decisions often are
driven by lax local constraints (for example, what we have stockpiled
in inventory) rather than by more stringent global constraints (such as
long-term health concerns). Thus, for example, if we purchase beer by
 Introduction 11

the case (as is virtually mandated by Pennsylvania law), we are likely

to consume more beer over the course of the month than if we buy by
the six-pack. Wertenbroch presents wide-ranging evidence for the
proposition that a large paycheck makes people overspend, a large
box of chocolates makes people overeat, and the lack of an explicit
deadline makes people squander time. He argues that consumers are
partially sophisticated in dealing with this problem, and so respond
by self-imposing rationing rules that tighten local constraints on con-
sumption (“never borrow,” “only $50 per month for clothes”). Such
rationing strategies include, for example, self-imposing costly dead-
lines to prevent procrastination and purchase quantity rationing (buy-
ing small amounts at a time) to prevent overconsumption: many
smokers, for instance, buy cigarettes one pack at a time rather than
economizing by buying cartons. In chapter 18—the final chapter—the
focus shifts from the individual to the entire population and asks,
What are the consequences of a society of shortsighted decision
makers? Angeletos, Laibson, Repetto, Tobacman, and Weinberg inves-
tigate the implications of hyperbolic discounting for predictions of
national savings data. If consumers conform to the DU model, their
rate of spending would be more or less even over their lifetime: early
in life they would borrow on future income, then they would save in
midlife and retire on their savings. In fact, consumers’ spending
seems to closely fit their current incomes. Early in life they spend
little, in midlife they spend a lot, and they retire in relative poverty.
Angeletos and colleagues conducted computer simulations of econ-
omies composed of either hyperbolic consumers (who spend too much
too soon) or exponential consumers (who spend the right amount at
the right time). The hyperbolic economies predicted real consumer
behavior extraordinarily well.
As is clear from these synopses, the contributions to this book are
remarkably wide ranging and comprehensive. The study of intertem-
poral choice is now a truly interdisciplinary project. We hope that
you’ll invest the time in familiarizing yourself with this exciting and
active area of research. Please don’t procrastinate; there’s no time like
the present.

References

Damasio, Antonio R. 1994. Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason, and the Human
Brain. New York: G.P. Putnam.
Loewenstein, George, Ted O’Donoghue, and Matthew Rabin. 2000. “Projec-
tion Bias in the Prediction of Future Utility.” Working paper, Department of
Social Science and Decision Sciences, Carnegie Mellon University.
 䡠 1 䡠
Time Discounting and
Time Preference:
A Critical Review

Shane Frederick, George Loewenstein,

and Ted O’Donoghue

I ntertemporal choices—decisions involving trade-offs among

costs and benefits occurring at different times—are important and
ubiquitous. Such decisions not only affect one’s health, wealth, and
happiness, but may also, as Adam Smith first recognized, determine
the economic prosperity of nations. In this chapter, we review empiri-
cal research on intertemporal choice, and present an overview of re-
cent theoretical formulations that incorporate insights gained from
this research.
Economists’ attention to intertemporal choice began early in the
history of the discipline. Not long after Adam Smith called attention
to the importance of intertemporal choice for the wealth of nations,
the Scottish economist John Rae was examining the sociological and
psychological determinants of these choices. We will briefly review
the perspectives on intertemporal choice of Rae and nineteenth- and
early twentieth-century economists, and describe how these early per-
spectives interpreted intertemporal choice as the joint product of
many conflicting psychological motives.
All of this changed when Paul Samuelson proposed the dis-
counted-utility (DU) model in 1937. Despite Samuelson’s manifest
reservations about the normative and descriptive validity of the for-
13
14 Time and Decision

mulation he had proposed, the DU model was accepted almost in-

stantly, not only as a valid normative standard for public policies (for
example, in cost-benefit analyses), but as a descriptively accurate rep-
resentation of actual behavior. A central assumption of the DU model
is that all of the disparate motives underlying intertemporal choice
can be condensed into a single parameter—the discount rate. We do
not present an axiomatic derivation of the DU model, but instead
focus on those features that highlight the implicit psychological as-
sumptions underlying the model.
Samuelson’s reservations about the descriptive validity of the DU
model were justified. Virtually every assumption underlying the DU
model has been tested and found to be descriptively invalid in at
least some situations. Moreover, these anomalies are not anomalies in
the sense that they are regarded as errors by the people who commit
them. Unlike many of the better-known expected-utility anomalies,
the DU anomalies do not necessarily violate any standard or principle
that people believe they should uphold.
The insights about intertemporal choice gleaned from this empiri-
cal research have led to the proposal of numerous alternative theoreti-
cal models. Some of these modify the discount function, permitting,
for example, declining discount rates or “hyperbolic discounting.”
Others introduce additional arguments into the utility function, such
as the utility of anticipation. Still others depart from the DU model
more radically, by including, for instance, systematic mispredictions
of future utility. Many of these new theories revive psychological con-
siderations discussed by Rae and other early economists that were
extinguished with the adoption of the DU model and its expression of
intertemporal preferences in terms of a single parameter.
While the DU model assumes that people are characterized by a
single discount rate, the literature reveals spectacular variation across
(and even within) studies. The failure of this research to converge
toward any agreed-upon average discount rate stems partly from dif-
ferences in elicitation procedures. But it also stems from the faulty
assumption that the varied considerations that are relevant in inter-
temporal choices apply equally to different choices and thus that they
can all be sensibly represented by a single discount rate.
Throughout, we stress the importance of distinguishing among the
varied considerations that underlie intertemporal choices. We distin-
guish time discounting from time preference. We use the term time dis-
counting broadly to encompass any reason for caring less about a fu-
ture consequence, including factors that diminish the expected utility
generated by a future consequence, such as uncertainty or changing
tastes. We use the term time preference to refer, more specifically, to the
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 15

preference for immediate utility over delayed utility. We push this

theme further by examining whether time preference itself might con-
sist of distinct psychological traits that can be separately analyzed.

Historical Origins of the Discounted Utility Model

The historical developments that culminated in the formulation of the

DU model help to explain the model’s limitations. Each of the major
figures in its development—John Rae, Eugen von Böhm-Bawerk, Irv-
ing Fisher, and Paul Samuelson—built upon the theoretical frame-
work of his predecessors, drawing on little more than introspection
and personal observation. When the DU model eventually became
entrenched as the dominant theoretical framework for modeling in-
tertemporal choice, it was due largely to its simplicity and its resem-
blance to the familiar compound interest formula, and not as a result
of empirical research demonstrating its validity.
Intertemporal choice became firmly established as a distinct topic
in 1834, with John Rae’s publication of The Sociological Theory of Capi-
tal. Like Adam Smith, Rae sought to determine why wealth differed
among nations. Smith had argued that national wealth was deter-
mined by the amount of labor allocated to the production of capital,
but Rae recognized that this account was incomplete because it failed
to explain the determinants of this allocation. In Rae’s view, the miss-
ing element was “the effective desire of accumulation”—a psycho-
logical factor that differed across countries and determined a society’s
level of saving and investment.
Along with inventing the topic of intertemporal choice, Rae also
produced the first in-depth discussion of the psychological motives
underlying intertemporal choice. Rae believed that intertemporal
choices were the joint product of factors that either promoted or lim-
ited the effective desire of accumulation. The two main factors that
promoted the effective desire of accumulation were the bequest mo-
tive—“the prevalence throughout the society of the social and benev-
olent affections”—and the propensity to exercise self-restraint: “the
extent of the intellectual powers, and the consequent prevalence of
habits of reflection, and prudence, in the minds of the members of
society” (Rae 1905 [1834], 58). One limiting factor was the uncertainty
of human life.

When engaged in safe occupations, and living in healthy countries, men

are much more apt to be frugal, than in unhealthy, or hazardous occu-
pations, and in climates pernicious to human life. Sailors and soldiers
16 Time and Decision

are prodigals. In the West Indies, New Orleans, the East Indies, the
expenditure of the inhabitants is profuse. The same people, coming to
reside in the healthy parts of Europe, and not getting into the vortex of
extravagant fashion, live economically. War and pestilence have always
waste and luxury, among the other evils that follow in their train. (Rae
1905 [1834], 57)

A second factor that limited the effective desire of accumulation

was the excitement produced by the prospect of immediate consump-
tion, and the concomitant discomfort of deferring such available grati-
fications.

Such pleasures as may now be enjoyed generally awaken a passion

strongly prompting to the partaking of them. The actual presence of the
immediate object of desire in the mind by exciting the attention, seems
to rouse all the faculties, as it were to fix their view on it, and leads
them to a very lively conception of the enjoyments which it offers to
their instant possession. (Rae 1905 [1834], 120)

Among the four factors that Rae identified as the joint determi-
nants of time preference, one can glimpse two fundamentally differ-
ent views. One, which was later championed by William S. Jevons
(1888) and his son, Herbert S. Jevons (1905), assumes that people care
only about their immediate utility, and explains farsighted behavior
by postulating utility from the anticipation of future consumption. On
this view, deferral of gratification will occur only if it produces an
increase in “anticipal” utility that more than compensates for the de-
crease in immediate consumption utility. The second perspective as-
sumes equal treatment of present and future (zero discounting) as the
natural baseline for behavior, and attributes the overweighting of the
present to the miseries produced by the self-denial required to delay
gratification. N. W. Senior, the best-known advocate of this “absti-
nence” perspective, wrote, “To abstain from the enjoyment which is
in our power, or to seek distant rather than immediate results, are
among the most painful exertions of the human will” (Senior 1836,
60).
The anticipatory-utility and abstinence perspectives share the idea
that intertemporal trade-offs depend on immediate feelings—in one
case, the immediate pleasure of anticipation, and in the other, the im-
mediate discomfort of self-denial. The two perspectives, however, ex-
plain variability in intertemporal-choice behavior in different ways.
The anticipatory-utility perspective attributes variations in intertem-
poral-choice behavior to differences in people’s abilities to imagine
the future and to differences in situations that promote or inhibit such
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 17

mental images. The abstinence perspective, on the other hand, ex-

plains variations in intertemporal-choice behavior on the basis of in-
dividual and situational differences in the psychological discomfort
associated with self-denial. In this view, one should observe high
rates of time discounting by people who find it painful to delay grati-
fication, and in situations in which deferral is generally painful—for
example, when one is, as Rae worded it, in the “actual presence of the
immediate object of desire.”
Eugen von Böhm-Bawerk, the next major figure in the develop-
ment of the economic perspective on intertemporal choice, added a
new motive to the list proposed by Rae, Jevons, and Senior, arguing
that humans suffer from a systematic tendency to underestimate fu-
ture wants.

It may be that we possess inadequate power to imagine and to abstract,

or that we are not willing to put forth the necessary effort, but in any
event we limn a more or less incomplete picture of our future wants
and especially of the remotely distant ones. And then there are all those
wants that never come to mind at all. (Böhm-Bawerk 1970 [1889], 268–
69)1

Böhm-Bawerk’s analysis of time preference, like those of his prede-

cessors, was heavily psychological, and much of his voluminous trea-
tise, Capital and Interest, was devoted to discussions of the psychologi-
cal constituents of time preference. However, whereas the early views
of Rae, Senior, and Jevons explained intertemporal choices in terms of
motives uniquely associated with time, Böhm-Bawerk began model-
ing intertemporal choice in the same terms as other economic trade-
offs—as a “technical” decision about allocating resources (to oneself)
over different points in time, much as one would allocate resources
between any two competing interests, such as housing and food.
Böhm-Bawerk’s treatment of intertemporal choice as an allocation
of consumption among time periods was formalized a decade later by
the American economist Irving Fisher (1930). Fisher plotted the inter-
temporal consumption decision on a two-good indifference diagram,
with consumption in the current year on the abscissa, and consump-
tion in the following year on the ordinate. This representation made
clear that a person’s observed (marginal) rate of time preference—the
marginal rate of substitution at her chosen consumption bundle—de-
pends on two considerations: time preference and diminishing mar-
ginal utility. Many economists have subsequently expressed discomfort
with using the term time preference to include the effects of differential
marginal utility arising from unequal consumption levels between
18 Time and Decision

time periods (see in particular Olson and Bailey 1981). In Fisher’s

formulation, pure time preference can be interpreted as the marginal
rate of substitution on the diagonal, where consumption is equal in
both periods.
Fisher’s writings, like those of his predecessors, included extensive
discussions of the psychological determinants of time preference. Like
Böhm-Bawerk, he differentiated “objective factors,” such as projected
future wealth and risk, from “personal factors.” Fisher’s list of per-
sonal factors included the four described by Rae, “foresight” (the abil-
ity to imagine future wants—the inverse of the deficit that Böhm-
Bawerk postulated), and “fashion,” which Fisher believed to be “of
vast importance . . . in its influence both on the rate of interest and on
the distribution of wealth itself” (Fisher 1930, 88).

The most fitful of the causes at work is probably fashion. This at the
present time acts, on the one hand, to stimulate men to save and be-
come millionaires, and, on the other hand, to stimulate millionaires to
live in an ostentatious manner. (Fisher 1930, 87)

Hence, in the early part of the twentieth century, “time preference”

was viewed as an amalgamation of various intertemporal motives.
While the DU model condenses these motives into the discount rate,
we will argue that resurrecting these distinct motives is crucial for
understanding intertemporal choices.

The Discounted Utility Model

In 1937, Paul Samuelson introduced the DU model in a five-page arti-
cle titled “A Note on Measurement of Utility.” Samuelson’s paper was
intended to offer a generalized model of intertemporal choice that
was applicable to multiple time periods (Fisher’s graphical indif-
ference-curve analysis was difficult to extend to more than two time
periods) and to make the point that representing intertemporal trade-
offs required a cardinal measure of utility. But in Samuelson’s sim-
plified model, all the psychological concerns discussed in the pre-
vious century were compressed into a single parameter, the discount
rate.
The DU model specifies a decision maker’s intertemporal prefer-
ences over consumption profiles (ct, . . .,cT). Under the usual assump-
tions (completeness, transitivity, and continuity), such preferences can
be represented by an intertemporal utility function Ut(ct, . . .,cT). The
DU model goes further, by assuming that a person’s intertemporal
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 19

utility function can be described by the following special functional

form:

Tⳮt
Ut(ct, . . .,cT) ⳱ 兺 D(k)u(ctⳭk)
k⳱0

1
( )
k
where D(k) ⳱ .
1Ⳮ␳

In this formulation, u(ctⳭk) is often interpreted as the person’s cardi-

nal instantaneous utility function—her well-being in period t Ⳮ k—
and D(k) is often interpreted as the person’s discount function—the
relative weight she attaches, in period t, to her well-being in period
t Ⳮ k. ␳ represents the individual’s pure rate of time preference (her
discount rate), which is meant to reflect the collective effects of the
“psychological” motives discussed earlier.2
Samuelson did not endorse the DU model as a normative model of
intertemporal choice, noting that “any connection between utility as
discussed here and any welfare concept is disavowed” (1937, 161). He
also made no claims on behalf of its descriptive validity, stressing, “It
is completely arbitrary to assume that the individual behaves so as to
maximize an integral of the form envisaged in [the DU model]” (1937,
159). Yet despite Samuelson’s manifest reservations, the simplicity
and elegance of this formulation was irresistible, and the DU model
was rapidly adopted as the framework of choice for analyzing inter-
temporal decisions.
The DU model received a scarcely needed further boost to its dom-
inance as the standard model of intertemporal choice when Tjalling C.
Koopmans (1960) showed that the model could be derived from a
superficially plausible set of axioms. Koopmans, like Samuelson, did
not argue that the DU model was psychologically or normatively
plausible; his goal was only to show that under some well-specified
(though arguably unrealistic) circumstances, individuals were log-
ically compelled to possess positive time preference. Producers of a
product, however, cannot dictate how the product will be used, and
Koopmans’s central technical message was largely lost while his axi-
omatization of the DU model helped to cement its popularity and
bolster its perceived legitimacy.
We next describe some important features of the DU model as it is
commonly used by economists, and briefly comment on the norma-
tive and positive validity of these assumptions. These features do not
20 Time and Decision

represent an axiom system—they are neither necessary nor sufficient

conditions for the DU model—but are intended to highlight the im-
plicit psychological assumptions underlying the model.3

Integration of New Alternatives with Existing Plans

A central assumption in most models of intertemporal choice—in-
cluding the DU model—is that a person evaluates new alternatives
by integrating them with one’s existing plans. To illustrate, consider a
person with an existing consumption plan (ct, . . .,cT) who is offered
an intertemporal-choice prospect X, which might be something like
an option to give up $5,000 today to receive $10,000 in five years.
Integration means that prospect X is not evaluated in isolation, but in
light of how it changes the person’s aggregate consumption in all
future periods. Thus, to evaluate the prospect X, the person must
choose what his or her new consumption path (c⬘t, . . .,c⬘T) would be if
he or she were to accept prospect X, and should accept the prospect if
Ut(c⬘t, . . .,c⬘T) ⬎ Ut(ct, . . .,cT).
An alternative way to understand integration is to recognize that
intertemporal prospects alter a person’s budget set. If the person’s
initial endowment is E0, then accepting prospect X would change his
or her endowment to E0 ∪ X. Letting B(E) denote the person’s budget
set given endowment E—that is, the set of consumption streams that
are feasible given endowment E—the DU model says that the person
should accept prospect X if:

T T
1 ␶ⳮt 1 ␶ⳮt
max
(ct,...,cT)∈B(E0∪X) 兺 ( 1Ⳮ␳ ) u(c␶) ⬎
max
(ct,...,cT)∈B(E0) 兺 ( 1Ⳮ␳ ) u(c␶)
␶⳱t ␶⳱t

While integration seems normatively compelling, it may be too dif-

ficult to actually do. A person may not have well-formed plans about
future consumption streams, or be unable (or unwilling) to recompute
the new optimal plan every time he or she makes an intertemporal
choice. Some of the evidence we will review supports the plausible
presumption that people evaluate the results of intertemporal choices
independently of any expectations they have regarding consumption
in future time periods.

Utility Independence
The DU model explicitly assumes that the overall value—or “global
utility”—of a sequence of outcomes is equal to the (discounted) sum
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 21

of the utilities in each period. Hence, the distribution of utility across

time makes no difference beyond that dictated by discounting, which
(assuming positive time preference) penalizes utility that is experi-
enced later. The assumption of utility independence has rarely been
discussed or challenged, but its implications are far from innocuous.
It rules out any kind of preference for patterns of utility over time—
for example, a preference for a flat utility profile over a roller-coaster
utility profile with the same discounted utility.4

Consumption Independence
The DU model explicitly assumes that a person’s well-being in period
t Ⳮ k is independent of his or her consumption in any other period—
that is, that the marginal rate of substitution between consumption in
periods ␶ and ␶ ⬘ is independent of consumption in period ␶ ⬙.
Consumption independence is analogous to, but fundamentally
different from, the independence axiom of expected-utility theory. In
expected-utility theory, the independence axiom specifies that prefer-
ences over uncertain prospects are not affected by the consequences
that the prospects share—that is, that the utility of an experienced
outcome is unaffected by other outcomes that one might have experi-
enced (but did not). In intertemporal choice, consumption indepen-
dence says that preferences over consumption profiles are not af-
fected by the nature of consumption in periods in which consumption
is identical in the two profiles—that is, that an outcome’s utility is
unaffected by outcomes experienced in prior or future periods. For
example, consumption independence says that one’s preference be-
tween an Italian and Thai restaurant tonight should not depend on
whether one had Italian last night nor whether one expects to have it
tomorrow. As the example suggests, and as Samuelson and Koop-
mans both recognized, there is no compelling rationale for such an
assumption. Samuelson (1952, 674) noted that “the amount of wine I
drank yesterday and will drink tomorrow can be expected to have
effects upon my today’s indifference slope between wine and milk.”
Similarly, Koopmans (1960, 292) acknowledged, “One cannot claim a
high degree of realism for [the independence assumption], because
there is no clear reason why complementarity of goods could not ex-
tend over more than one time period.”

Stationary Instantaneous Utility

When applying the DU model to specific problems, it is often as-
sumed that the cardinal instantaneous utility function u(c␶) is constant
22 Time and Decision

across time, so that the well-being generated by any activity is the

same in different periods. Most economists would acknowledge that
stationarity of the instantaneous utility function is not sensible in
many situations, because people’s preferences in fact do change over
time in predictable and unpredictable ways. Though this unrealistic
assumption is often retained for analytical convenience, it becomes
less defensible as economists gain insight into how tastes change over
time (see Loewenstein and Angner, chapter 12 herein, for a discussion
of different sources of preference change).5

Independence of Discounting from Consumption

The DU model assumes that the discount function is invariant across
all forms of consumption. This feature is crucial to the notion of time
preference. If people discount utility from different sources at differ-
ent rates, then the notion of a unitary time preference is meaningless.
Instead we would need to label time preference according to the ob-
ject being delayed—“banana time preference,” “vacation time prefer-
ence,” and so on.

Constant Discounting and Time Consistency

Any discount function can be written in the form

1
D(k) ⳱ ⌸nk ⳮ1
⳱0 ( 1 Ⳮ ␳n )
,

where ␳n represents the per-period discount rate for period n—that is,
the discount rate applied between periods n and n Ⳮ 1. Hence, by
assuming that the discount function takes the form

1 k
D(k) ⳱ ( 1Ⳮ␳
, )
the DU model assumes a constant per-period discount rate (␳n ⳱ ␳
for all n).6
Constant discounting entails an evenhandedness in the way a per-
son evaluates time. It means that delaying or accelerating two dated
outcomes by a common amount should not change preferences be-
tween the outcomes—if in period t one prefers X at ␶ to Y at ␶ Ⳮ d
for some ␶, then in period t one must prefer X at ␶ to Y at ␶ Ⳮ d for all
␶. The assumption of constant discounting permits a person’s time
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 23

preference to be summarized as a single discount rate. If constant dis-

counting does not hold, then characterizing one’s time preference re-
quires the specification of an entire discount function.
Constant discounting implies that a person’s intertemporal prefer-
ences are time-consistent, which means that later preferences “con-
firm” earlier preferences. Formally, a person’s preferences are time-
consistent if, for any two consumption profiles (ct, . . .,cT) and (c⬘t,
. . .,c⬘T), with ct ⳱ c⬘t, Ut(ct,ctⳭ1, . . .,cT) ⱖ Ut(c⬘t,c⬘tⳭ1,. . .,c⬘T) if and
only if UtⳭ1(ctⳭ1, . . .,cT) ⱖ UtⳭ1(c⬘tⳭ1, . . .,c⬘T).7 For an interesting dis-
cussion that questions the normative validity of constant discounting
see Albrecht and Weber (1995).

Diminishing Marginal Utility and

Positive Time Preference
While not core features of the DU model, virtually all analyses of
intertemporal choice assume both diminishing marginal utility (that
the instantaneous utility function u(ct) is concave) and positive time
preference (that the discount rate ␳ is positive).8 These two assump-
tions create opposing forces in intertemporal choice: diminishing mar-
ginal utility motivates a person to spread consumption over time,
while positive time preference motivates a person to concentrate con-
sumption in the present.
Since people do, in fact, spread consumption over time, the as-
sumption of diminishing marginal utility (or some other property that
has the same effect) seems strongly justified. The assumption of posi-
tive time preference, however, is more questionable. Several re-
searchers have argued for positive time preference on logical grounds
(Hirshleifer 1970; Koopmans 1960; Koopmans, Diamond, and Wil-
liamson 1964; Olson and Bailey 1981). The gist of their arguments is
that a zero or negative time preference, combined with a positive real
rate of return on saving, would command the infinite deferral of all
consumption.9 But this conclusion assumes, unrealistically, that indi-
viduals have infinite life spans and linear (or weakly concave) utility
functions. Nevertheless, in econometric analyses of savings and inter-
temporal substitution, positive time preference is sometimes treated
as an identifying restriction whose violation is interpreted as evidence
of misspecification.
The most compelling argument supporting the logic of positive
time preference was made by Derek Parfit (1971, 1976, 1982), who
contends that there is no enduring self or “I” over time to which all
future utility can be ascribed, and that a diminution in psychological
24 Time and Decision

connections gives our descendent future selves the status of other

people—making that utility less than fully “ours” and giving us a
reason to count it less.10

We care less about our further future . . . because we know that less of
what we are now—less, say, of our present hopes or plans, loves or
ideals—will survive into the further future . . . [if] what matters holds
to a lesser degree, it cannot be irrational to care less. (Parfit 1971, 99)

Parfit’s claims are normative, not descriptive. He is not attempting

to explain or predict people’s intertemporal choices, but is arguing
that conclusions about the rationality of time preference must be
grounded in a correct view of personal identity. If this is the only
compelling normative rationale for time discounting, however, it
would be instructive to test for a positive relation between observed
time discounting and changing identity. Frederick (chap. 2 herein)
conducted the only study of this type, and found no relation between
monetary discount rates (as imputed from procedures such as “I
would be indifferent between $100 tomorrow and $ in five
years”) and self-perceived stability of identity (as defined by the fol-
lowing similarity ratings: “Compared to now, how similar were you
five years ago [will you be five years from now]?”), nor did he find
any relation between such monetary discount rates and the presumed
correlates of identity stability (for example, the extent to which people
agree with the statement “I am still embarrassed by stupid things I
did a long time ago”).

DU Anomalies

Over the last two decades, empirical research on intertemporal choice

has documented various inadequacies of the DU model as a descrip-
tive model of behavior. First, empirically observed discount rates are
not constant over time, but appear to decline—a pattern often re-
ferred to as hyperbolic discounting. Furthermore, even for a given
delay, discount rates vary across different types of intertemporal
choices: gains are discounted more than losses, small amounts more
than large amounts, and explicit sequences of multiple outcomes are
discounted differently than outcomes considered singly.

Hyperbolic Discounting
The best documented DU anomaly is hyperbolic discounting. The
term hyperbolic discounting is often used to mean that a person has a
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 25

declining rate of time preference (in our notation, ␳n is declining in n),

and we adopt this meaning here. Several results are usually inter-
preted as evidence for hyperbolic discounting. First, when subjects
are asked to compare a smaller-sooner reward to a larger-later reward
(to be discussed), the implicit discount rate over longer time horizons
is lower than the implicit discount rate over shorter time horizons.
For example, Thaler (1981) asked subjects to specify the amount of
money they would require in one month, one year, and ten years to
make them indifferent to receiving $15 now. The median responses—
$20, $50, $100—imply an average (annual) discount rate of 345 per-
cent over a one-month horizon, 120 percent over a one-year horizon,
and 19 percent over a ten-year horizon.11 Other researchers have
found a similar pattern (Benzion, Rapoport, and Yagil 1989; Chapman
1996; Chapman and Elstein 1995; Pender 1996; Redelmeier and Heller
1993).
Second, when mathematical functions are explicitly fit to such data,
a hyperbolic functional form, which imposes declining discount rates,
fits the data better than the exponential functional form, which im-
poses constant discount rates (Kirby 1997; Kirby and Marakovic 1995;
Myerson and Green 1995; Rachlin, Raineri, and Cross 1991).12
Third, researchers have shown that preferences between two de-
layed rewards can reverse in favor of the more proximate reward as
the time to both rewards diminishes—for example, someone may
prefer $110 in thirty-one days over $100 in thirty days, but also prefer
$100 now over $110 tomorrow. Such “preference reversals” have been
observed both in humans (Green, Fristoe, and Myerson 1994; Kirby
and Herrnstein 1995; Millar and Navarick 1984; Solnick et al. 1980)
and in pigeons (Ainslie and Herrnstein 1981; Green et al. 1981).13
Fourth, the pattern of declining discount rates suggested by these
studies is also evident across studies. Figure 1.1 plots the average esti-
mated discount factor (⳱ 1/(1 Ⳮ discount rate)) from each of these
studies against the average time horizon for that study.14 As the re-
gression line reflects, the estimated discount factor increases with the
time horizon, which means that the discount rate declines. We note,
however, that after excluding studies with very short time horizons
(one year or less) from the analysis (see figure 1.2), there is no evi-
dence that discount rates continue to decline. In fact, after excluding
the studies with short time horizons, the correlation between time
horizon and discount factor is almost exactly zero (ⳮ0.0026).
Although the collective evidence outlined here seems over-
whelmingly to support hyperbolic discounting, a recent study by
Read (2001) points out that the most common type of evidence—the
finding that implicit discount rates decrease with the time horizon—
26 Time and Decision

Figure 1.1 Discount Factor as a Function of Time Horizon (All

Studies)

1.0
Imputed Discount Factor

0.8

0.6

0.4

0.2

0.0
0 5 10 15

Time Horizon (Years)

Source: Frederick, Loewenstein, and O’Donoghue (2002).

could also be explained by “subadditive discounting,” which means

that the total amount of discounting over a temporal interval in-
creases as the interval is more finely partitioned.15 To demonstrate
subadditive discounting and distinguish it from hyperbolic discount-
ing, Read elicited discount rates for a two-year (twenty-four-month)
interval and for its three constituent intervals, an eight-month interval
beginning at the same time, an eight-month interval beginning eight
months later, and an eight-month interval beginning sixteen months
later. He found that the average discount rate for the twenty-four-
month interval was lower than the compounded average discount
rate over the three eight-month subintervals—a result predicted by
subadditive discounting but not predicted by hyperbolic discounting
(or any type of discount function, for that matter). Moreover, there
was no evidence that discount rates declined with time, as the dis-
count rates for the three eight-month intervals were approximately
equal. Similar empirical results were found earlier by Holcomb and
Nelson (1992), although they did not interpret their results the same
way.
If Read is correct about subadditive discounting, its main implica-
tion for economic applications may be to provide an alternative psy-
chological underpinning for using a hyperbolic discount function,
because most intertemporal decisions are based primarily on dis-
counting from the present.16
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 27

Figure 1.2 Discount Factor as a Function of Time Horizon (Studies

with Average Horizons Greater Than One Year)

1.0
Imputed Discount Factor

0.8

0.6

0.4

0.2

0.0
0 5 10 15
Time Horizon (Years)

Source: Frederick, Loewenstein, and O’Donoghue (2002).

Other DU Anomalies
The DU model not only dictates that the discount rate should be con-
stant for all time periods, it also assumes that the discount rate should
be the same for all types of goods and all categories of intertemporal
decisions. There are several empirical regularities that appear to con-
tradict this assumption, namely: gains are discounted more than losses;
small amounts are discounted more than large amounts; greater dis-
counting is shown to avoid delay of a good than to expedite its re-
ceipt; in choices over sequences of outcomes, improving sequences
are often preferred to declining sequences though positive time pref-
erence dictates the opposite; and in choices over sequences, violations
of independence are pervasive, and people seem to prefer spreading
consumption over time in a way that diminishing marginal utility
alone cannot explain.

The “Sign Effect” (Gains Are Discounted More than Losses) Many
studies have concluded that gains are discounted at a higher rate than
losses. For instance, Thaler (1981) asked subjects to imagine they had
received a traffic ticket that could be paid either now or later and to
state how much they would be willing to pay if payment could be
delayed (by three months, one year, or three years). The discount
rates imputed from these answers were much lower than the discount
28 Time and Decision

rates imputed from comparable questions about monetary gains. This

pattern is prevalent in the literature. Indeed, in many studies, a sub-
stantial proportion of subjects prefer to incur a loss immediately
rather than delay it (Benzion, Rapoport, and Yagil 1989; Loewenstein
1987; MacKeigan et al. 1993; Mischel, Grusec, and Masters 1969;
Redelmeier and Heller 1993; Yates and Watts 1975).

The “Magnitude Effect” (Small Outcomes Are Discounted More than Large
Ones) Most studies that vary outcome size have found that large
outcomes are discounted at a lower rate than small ones (Ainslie and
Haendel 1983; Benzion, Rapoport, and Yagil 1989; Green, Fristoe, and
Myerson 1994; Green, Fry, and Myerson 1994; Holcomb and Nelson
1992; Kirby 1997; Kirby and Marakovic 1995; Kirby, Petry, and Bickel
1999; Loewenstein 1987; Raineri and Rachlin 1993; Shelley 1993;
Thaler 1981). In Thaler’s (1981) study, for example, respondents were,
on average, indifferent between $15 immediately and $60 in a year,
$250 immediately and $350 in a year, and $3,000 immediately and
$4,000 in a year, implying discount rates of 139 percent, 34 percent,
and 29 percent, respectively.

The “Delay-Speedup” Asymmetry Loewenstein (1988) demonstrated

that imputed discount rates can be dramatically affected by whether
the change in delivery time of an outcome is framed as an accelera-
tion or a delay from some temporal reference point. For example, re-
spondents who didn’t expect to receive a VCR for another year would
pay an average of $54 to receive it immediately, but those who
thought they would receive it immediately demanded an average of
$126 to delay its receipt by a year. Benzion, Rapoport, and Yagil (1989)
and Shelley (1993) replicated Loewenstein’s findings for losses as well
as gains (respondents demanded more to expedite payment than they
would pay to delay it).

Preference for Improving Sequences In studies of discounting that in-

volve choices between two outcomes—for example, X at ␶ versus Y at
␶⬘—positive discounting is the norm. Research examining preferences
over sequences of outcomes, however, has generally found that people
prefer improving sequences to declining sequences (for an overview
see Ariely and Carmon, chapter 11 herein; Frederick and Loewenstein
2002; Loewenstein and Prelec 1993). For example, Loewenstein and
Sicherman (1991) found that, for an otherwise identical job, most sub-
jects prefer an increasing wage profile to a declining or flat one (see
also Frank 1993). Hsee, Abelson, and Salovey (1991) found that an
increasing salary sequence was rated as highly as a decreasing se-
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 29

quence that conferred much more money. Varey and Kahneman

(1992) found that subjects strongly preferred streams of decreasing
discomfort to streams of increasing discomfort, even when the overall
sum of discomfort over the interval was otherwise identical. Loewen-
stein and Prelec (1993) found that respondents who chose between
sequences of two or more events (for example, dinners or vacation
trips) on consecutive weekends or consecutive months generally pre-
ferred to save the better thing for last. Chapman (2000) presented
respondents with hypothetical sequences of headache pain that were
matched in terms of total pain that either gradually lessened or grad-
ually increased with time. Sequence durations included one hour, one
day, one month, one year, five years, and twenty years. For all se-
quence durations, the vast majority (from 82 percent to 92 percent) of
subjects preferred the sequence of pain that lessened over time. (See
also Ross and Simonson 1991.)

Violations of Independence and Preference for Spread The research on

preferences over sequences also reveals strong violations of indepen-
dence. Consider the following pair of questions from Loewenstein
and Prelec (1993):

Imagine that over the next five weekends you must decide how to spend
your Saturday nights. From each pair of sequences of dinners below, circle the
one you would prefer. “Fancy French” refers to a dinner at a fancy French
restaurant. “Fancy Lobster” refers to an exquisite lobster dinner at a four-star
restaurant. Ignore scheduling considerations (e.g., your current plans).

First Second Third Fourth Fifth

Weekend Weekend Weekend Weekend Weekend
Option A
Fancy Eat at Eat at Eat at Eat at [11%]
French home home home home
Option B
Eat at Eat at Fancy Eat at Eat at [89%]
home home French home home
Option C
Fancy Eat at Eat at Eat at Fancy [49%]
French home home home Lobster
Option D
Eat at Eat at Fancy Eat at Fancy [51%]
home home French home Lobster
30 Time and Decision

As discussed earlier, consumption independence implies that pref-

erences between two consumption profiles should not be affected by
the nature of the consumption in periods in which consumption is
identical in the two profiles. Thus, anyone preferring profile B to pro-
file A (which share the fifth period “Eat at home”) should also prefer
profile D to profile C (which share the fifth period “Fancy Lobster”).
As the data reveal, however, many respondents violated this predic-
tion, preferring the fancy French dinner on the third weekend, if that
was the only fancy dinner in the profile, but preferring the fancy
French dinner on the first weekend if the profile contained another
fancy dinner. This result could be explained by the simple desire to
spread consumption over time—which, in this context, violates the
dubious assumption of independence that the DU model entails.
Loewenstein and Prelec (1993) provide further evidence of such a
preference for spread. Subjects were asked to imagine that they were
given two coupons for fancy ($100) restaurant dinners, and were
asked to indicate when they would use them, ignoring considerations
such as holidays, birthdays, and such. Subjects were told either that
“you can use the coupons at any time between today and two years
from today” or were told nothing about any constraints. Subjects in
the two-year constraint condition actually scheduled both dinners at a
later time than those who faced no explicit constraint—they delayed
the first dinner for eight weeks (rather than three) and the second
dinner for thirty-one weeks (rather than thirteen). This counterintui-
tive result can be explained in terms of a preference for spread if the
explicit two-year interval was greater than the implicit time horizon
of subjects in the unconstrained group.

Are These “Anomalies” Mistakes?

In other domains of judgment and choice, many of the famous “effects”
that have been documented are regarded as errors by the people who
commit them. For example, in the “conjunction fallacy” discovered by
Tversky and Kahneman (1983), many people will—with some reflec-
tion—recognize that a conjunction cannot be more likely than one of its
constituents (for example, that it can’t be more likely for Linda to be a
feminist bank teller than for her to be “just” a bank teller). In contrast,
the patterns of preferences that are regarded as “anomalies” in the
context of the DU model do not necessarily violate any standard or
principle that people believe they should uphold. Even when the choice
pattern is pointed out to people, they do not regard themselves as
having made a mistake (and probably have not made one!). For exam-
ple, there is no compelling logic that dictates that one who prefers to
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 31

delay a French dinner should also prefer to do so when that French

dinner will be closely followed by a lobster dinner.
Indeed, it is unclear whether any of the DU “anomalies” should be
regarded as mistakes. Frederick and Read (2002) found evidence that
the magnitude effect is more pronounced when subjects evaluate both
“small” and “large” amounts than when they evaluate either one.
Specifically, the difference in the discount rates between a small
amount ($10) and a large amount ($1,000) was larger when the two
judgments were made in close succession than when made separately.
Analogous results were obtained for the sign effect as the differences
in discount rates between gains and losses were slightly larger in a
within-subjects design, where respondents evaluated delayed gains
and delayed losses, than in a between-subjects design, where they
evaluate only gains or only losses. Since respondents did not attempt
to coordinate their responses to conform to DU’s postulates when
they evaluated rewards of different sizes, it suggests that they con-
sider the different discount rates to be normatively appropriate. Sim-
ilarly, even after Loewenstein and Sicherman (1991) informed respon-
dents that a decreasing wage profile ($27,000, $26,000, . . . $23,000)
would (via appropriate saving and investing) permit strictly more
consumption in every period than the corresponding increasing wage
profile with an equivalent nominal total ($23,000, $24,000, . . .
$27,000), respondents still preferred the increasing sequence. Perhaps
they suspected that they could not exercise the required self-control
to maintain their desired consumption sequence, or felt a general leeri-
ness about the significance of a declining wage, either of which could
justify that choice. As these examples illustrate, many DU “anoma-
lies” exist as “anomalies” only by reference to a model that was con-
structed without regard to its descriptive validity, and which has no
compelling normative basis.

Alternative Models

In response to the anomalies just enumerated, and other intertem-

poral-choice phenomena that are inconsistent with the DU model, a
variety of alternate theoretical models have been developed. Some
models attempt to achieve greater descriptive realism by relaxing the
assumption of constant discounting. Other models incorporate addi-
tional considerations into the instantaneous utility function, such as
the utility from anticipation. Still others depart from the DU model
more radically, by including, for instance, systematic mispredictions
of future utility.
32 Time and Decision

Models of Hyperbolic Discounting

In the economics literature, Strotz was the first to consider alterna-
tives to exponential discounting, seeing “no reason why an individual
should have such a special discount function” (1955–1956, 172).
Moreover, Strotz recognized that for any discount function other than
exponential, a person would have time-inconsistent preferences.17 He
proposed two strategies that might be employed by a person who
foresees how her preferences will change over time: the “strategy of
precommitment” (wherein she commits to some plan of action) and
the “strategy of consistent planning” (wherein she chooses her behav-
ior ignoring plans that she knows her future selves will not carry
out).18 While Strotz did not posit any specific alternative functional
forms, he did suggest that “special attention” be given to the case of
declining discount rates.
Motivated by the evidence discussed earlier, there has been a re-
cent surge of interest among economists in the implications of declin-
ing discount rates (beginning with Laibson 1994, 1997). This literature
has used a particularly simple functional form that captures the es-
sence of hyperbolic discounting:

D(k) ⳱
兵 1
␤␦ k
if h ⳱ 0
if k ⬎ 0.

This functional form was first introduced by Phelps and Pollak (1968)
to study intergenerational altruism, and was first applied to individ-
ual decision making by Elster (1979). It assumes that the per-period
discount rate between now and the next period is (1 ⳮ ␤␦)/␤␦
whereas the per-period discount rate between any two future periods
is

1ⳮ␦ 1 ⳮ ␤␦
⬍ .
␦ ␤␦

Hence, this (␤,␦) formulation assumes a declining discount rate be-

tween this period and next, but a constant discount rate thereafter.
The (␤,␦) formulation is highly tractable, and captures many of the
qualitative implications of hyperbolic discounting.
Laibson and his collaborators have used the (␤,␦) formulation to
explore the implications of hyperbolic discounting for consumption-
saving behavior. Hyperbolic discounting leads one to consume more
than one would like to from a prior perspective (or, equivalently, to
undersave). Laibson (1997) explores the role of illiquid assets, such as
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 33

housing, as an imperfect commitment technology, emphasizing how

one could limit overconsumption by tying up one’s wealth in illiquid
assets. Laibson (1998) explores consumption-saving decisions in a
world without illiquid assets (or any other commitment technology).
These papers describe how hyperbolic discounting might explain some
stylized empirical facts, such as the excess comovement of income and
consumption, the existence of asset-specific marginal propensities to
consume, low levels of precautionary savings, and the correlation of
measured levels of patience with age, income, and wealth. Laibson,
Repetto, and Tobacman (1998), and Angeletos and colleagues (2001)
calibrate models of consumption-saving decisions, using both expo-
nential discounting and (␤,␦) hyperbolic discounting. By comparing
simulated data to real-world data, they demonstrate how hyperbolic
discounting can better explain a variety of empirical observations in the
consumption-saving literature. In particular, Angeletos and colleagues
(2001) describe how hyperbolic discounting can explain the coexistence
of high preretirement wealth, low liquid asset holdings (relative to
income levels and illiquid asset holdings), and high credit-card debt.
Fischer (1999) and O’Donoghue and Rabin (1999c, 2001) have ap-
plied (␤,␦) preferences to procrastination, where hyperbolic discount-
ing leads a person to put off an onerous activity more than she would
like to from a prior perspective.19 O’Donoghue and Rabin (1999c) ex-
amine the implications of hyperbolic discounting for contracting
when a principal is concerned with combating procrastination by an
agent. They show how incentive schemes with “deadlines” may be a
useful screening device to distinguish efficient delay from inefficient
procrastination. O’Donoghue and Rabin (2001) explore procrastina-
tion when a person must not only choose when to complete a task, but
also which task to complete, They show that a person might never
carry out a very easy and very good option because they continually
plan to carry out an even better but more onerous option. For in-
stance, a person might never take half an hour to straighten the
shelves in her garage because she persistently plans to take an entire
day to do a major cleanup of the entire garage. Extending this logic,
they show that providing people with new options might make pro-
crastination more likely. If the person’s only option were to straighten
the shelves, she might do it in a timely manner; but if the person can
either straighten the shelves or do the major cleanup, she now may
do nothing. O’Donoghue and Rabin (1999d) apply this logic to retire-
ment planning.
O’Donoghue and Rabin (1999a, 2000), Gruber and Koszegi (2000),
and Carrillo (1999) have applied (␤,␦) preferences to addiction. These
researchers describe how hyperbolic discounting can lead people
34 Time and Decision

to overconsume harmful addictive products, and examine the degree

of harm caused by such overconsumption. Carrillo and Mariotti
(2000) and Benabou and Tirole (2000) have examined how (␤,␦) pref-
erences might influence a person’s decision to acquire information. If,
for example, one is deciding whether to embark on a specific research
agenda, one may have the option to get feedback from colleagues
about its likely fruitfulness. The standard economic model implies
that people should always choose to acquire this information if it is
free. Carrillo and Mariotti show, however, that hyperbolic discounting
can lead to “strategic ignorance”—a person with hyperbolic discount-
ing who is worried about withdrawing from an advantageous course
of action when the costs become imminent might choose not to ac-
quire free information if doing so increases the risk of bailing out.

Self-Awareness
A person with time-inconsistent preferences may or may not be
aware that his or her preferences will change over time. Strotz (1955–
1956) and Pollak (1968) discussed two extreme alternatives. At one
extreme, a person could be completely “naive” and believe that her
future preferences will be identical to her current preferences. At the
other extreme, a person could be completely “sophisticated” and cor-
rectly predict how his or her preferences will change over time. While
casual observation and introspection suggest that people lie some-
where between these two extremes, behavioral evidence regarding
the degree of awareness is quite limited.
One way to identify sophistication is to look for evidence of com-
mitment. Someone who suspects that his or her preferences will
change over time might take steps to eliminate an inferior option
that might tempt one later. For example, someone who currently
prefers $110 in thirty-one days to $100 in thirty days but who sus-
pects that in a month she will prefer $100 immediately to $110 to-
morrow, might attempt to eliminate the $100 reward from the later
choice set, and thereby bind herself now to receive the $110 reward
in thirty-one days. Real-world examples of commitment include
“Christmas clubs” or “fat farms.”
Perhaps the best empirical demonstration of a preference for com-
mitment was conducted by Ariely and Wertenbroch (2002). In that
study, MIT executive-education students had to write three short pa-
pers for a class and were assigned to one of two experimental condi-
tions. In one condition, deadlines for the three papers were imposed
by the instructor and were evenly spaced across the semester. In the
other condition, each student was allowed to set his or her own dead-
lines for each of the three papers. In both conditions, the penalty for
 Time Discounting and Time Preference 35

delay was 1 percent per day late, regardless of whether the deadline
was externally or self-imposed. Although students in the free-choice
condition could have made all three papers due at the end of the
semester, many in fact did choose to impose deadlines on themselves,
suggesting that they appreciated the value of commitment. Few stu-
dents chose evenly spaced deadlines, however, and those who did
not performed worse in the course than those with evenly spaced
deadlines (whether externally imposed or self-imposed).20
O’Donoghue and Rabin (1999b) examine how people’s behaviors
depend on their sophistication about their own time inconsistency.
Some behaviors, such as using illiquid assets for commitment, require
some degree of sophistication. Other behaviors, such as overcon-
sumption or procrastination, are more robust to the degree of aware-
ness, though the degree of misbehavior may depend on the degree of
sophistication. To understand such effects, O’Donoghue and Rabin
(2001) introduce a formal model of partial naivete, in which a person is
aware that he or she will have future self-control problems but under-
estimates their magnitude. They show that severe procrastination can-
not occur under complete sophistication, but can arise if the person is
only a little naive. (For more discussion on self-awareness see O’Don-
oghue and Rabin, chapter 7 herein.)
The degree of sophistication versus naivete has important implica-
tions for public policy. If people are sufficiently sophisticated about
their own self-control problems, providing commitment devices may
be beneficial. If people are naive, however, policies might be better
aimed at either educating people about loss of control (making them
more sophisticated), or providing incentives for people to use com-
mitment devices, even if they don’t recognize the need for them.

Models That Enrich the Instantaneous Utility Function

Many discounting anomalies, especially those discussed earlier, can
be understood as a misspecification of the instantaneous utility func-
tion. Similarly, many of the confounds discussed in the section on
measuring time discounting are caused by researchers attributing to
the discount rate aspects of preference that are more appropriately
considered as arguments in the instantaneous utility function. As a
result, alternative models of intertemporal choice have been advanced
that add additional arguments, such as utility from anticipation, to
the instantaneous utility function.

Habit-Formation Models James Duesenberry (1952) was the first

economist to propose the idea of “habit formation”—that the utility
from current consumption (“tastes”) can be affected by the level of
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 ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES

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G U Y D E MAU PAS SAN T

LA PRÉSENTE ÉDITION
DES
ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES DE GUY DE MAUPASSANT
A ÉTÉ TIRÉE
PAR L’IMPRIMERIE NATIONALE
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ŒUVRES COMPLÈTES
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GUY DE MAUPASSANT
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TABLE DES MATIÈRES.

 MONSIEUR PARENT.
I

L E petit Georges, à quatre pattes dans l’allée, faisait des montagnes de

sable. Il le ramassait de ses deux mains, l’élevait en pyramide, puis
plantait au sommet une feuille de marronnier.
Son père, assis sur une chaise de fer, le contemplait avec une attention
concentrée et amoureuse, ne voyait que lui dans l’étroit jardin public rempli
de monde.
Tout le long du chemin rond qui passe devant le bassin et devant l’église
de la Trinité pour revenir, après avoir contourné le gazon, d’autres enfants
s’occupaient de même, à leurs petits jeux de jeunes animaux, tandis que les
bonnes indifférentes regardaient en l’air avec leurs yeux de brutes, ou que
les mères causaient entre elles en surveillant la marmaille d’un coup d’œil
incessant.
Des nourrices, deux par deux, se promenaient d’un air grave, laissant
traîner derrière elles les longs rubans éclatants de leurs bonnets, et portant
dans leurs bras quelque chose de blanc enveloppé de dentelles, tandis que
de petites filles, en robe courte et jambes nues, avaient des entretiens
sérieux entre deux courses au cerceau, et que le gardien du square, en
tunique verte, errait au milieu de ce peuple de mioches, faisait sans cesse
des détours pour ne point démolir des ouvrages de terre, pour ne point
écraser des mains, pour ne point déranger le travail de fourmi de ces
mignonnes larves humaines.
Le soleil allait disparaître derrière les toits de la rue Saint-Lazare et jetait
ses grands rayons obliques sur cette foule gamine et parée. Les marronniers
s’éclairaient de lueurs jaunes, et les trois cascades, devant le haut portail de
l’église, semblaient en argent liquide.
M. Parent regardait son fils accroupi dans la poussière: il suivait ses
moindres gestes avec amour, semblait envoyer des baisers du bout des
lèvres à tous les mouvements de Georges.
Mais ayant levé les yeux vers l’horloge du clocher, il constata qu’il se
trouvait en retard de cinq minutes. Alors il se leva, prit le petit par le bras,
secoua sa robe pleine de terre, essuya ses mains et l’entraîna vers la rue
Blanche. Il pressait le pas pour ne point rentrer après sa femme; et le gamin,
qui ne le pouvait suivre, trottinait à son côté.
Le père alors le prit en ses bras, et, accélérant encore son allure, se mit à
souffler de peine en montant le trottoir incliné. C’était un homme de
quarante ans, déjà gris, un peu gros, portant avec un air inquiet un bon
ventre de joyeux garçon que les événements ont rendu timide.
Il avait épousé, quelques années plus tôt, une jeune femme aimée
tendrement qui le traitait à présent avec une rudesse et une autorité de
despote tout-puissant. Elle le gourmandait sans cesse pour tout ce qu’il
faisait et pour tout ce qu’il ne faisait pas, lui reprochait aigrement ses
moindres actes, ses habitudes, ses simples plaisirs, ses goûts, ses allures, ses
gestes, la rondeur de sa ceinture et le son placide de sa voix.
Il l’aimait encore cependant, mais il aimait surtout l’enfant qu’il avait
d’elle, Georges, âgé maintenant de trois ans, devenu la plus grande joie et la
plus grande préoccupation de son cœur. Rentier modeste, il vivait sans
emploi avec ses vingt mille francs de revenu; et sa femme, prise sans dot,
s’indignait sans cesse de l’inaction de son mari.
Il atteignit enfin sa maison, posa l’enfant sur la première marche de
l’escalier, s’essuya le front, et se mit à monter.
Au second étage, il sonna.
Une vieille bonne qui l’avait élevé, une de ces servantes maîtresses qui
sont les tyrans des familles, vint ouvrir; et il demanda avec angoisse:
—Madame est-elle rentrée?
La domestique haussa les épaules:
—Depuis quand Monsieur a-t-il vu Madame rentrer pour six heures et
demie?
Il répondit d’un ton gêné:
—C’est bon, tant mieux, ça me donne le temps de me changer, car j’ai
très chaud.
La servante le regardait avec une pitié irritée et méprisante. Elle grogna:
—Oh! je le vois bien, Monsieur est en nage; Monsieur a couru; il a porté
le petit peut-être; et tout ça pour attendre Madame jusqu’à sept heures et
demie. C’est moi qu’on ne prendrait pas maintenant à être prête à l’heure.
Je fais mon dîner pour huit heures, moi, et quand on l’attend, tant pis, un
rôti ne doit pas être brûlé!
M. Parent feignait de ne point écouter. Il murmura:
—C’est bon, c’est bon. Il faut laver les mains de Georges qui a fait des
pâtés de sable. Moi, je vais me changer. Recommande à la femme de
chambre de bien nettoyer le petit.
Et il entra dans son appartement. Dès qu’il y fut, il poussa le verrou pour
être seul, bien seul, tout seul. Il était tellement habitué, maintenant, à se voir
malmené et rudoyé qu’il ne se jugeait en sûreté que sous la protection des
serrures. Il n’osait même plus penser, réfléchir, raisonner avec lui-même,
s’il ne se sentait garanti par un tour de clef contre les regards et les
suppositions. S’étant affaissé sur une chaise pour se reposer un peu avant de
mettre du linge propre, il songea que Julie commençait à devenir un danger
nouveau dans la maison. Elle haïssait sa femme, c’était visible; elle haïssait
surtout son camarade Paul Limousin resté, chose rare, l’ami intime et
familier du ménage, après avoir été l’inséparable compagnon de sa vie de
garçon. C’était Limousin qui servait d’huile et de tampon entre Henriette et
lui, qui le défendait même vivement, même sévèrement contre les reproches
immérités, contre les scènes harcelantes, contre toutes les misères
quotidiennes de son existence.
Mais voilà que, depuis bientôt six mois, Julie se permettait sans cesse sur
sa maîtresse des remarques et des appréciations malveillantes. Elle la
jugeait à tout moment, déclarait vingt fois par jour: «Si j’étais Monsieur,
c’est moi qui ne me laisserais pas mener comme ça par le nez. Enfin,
enfin... Voilà... chacun suivant sa nature.»
Un jour même elle avait été insolente avec Henriette, qui s’était
contentée de dire, le soir, à son mari: «Tu sais, à la première parole vive de
cette fille, je la flanque dehors, moi.» Elle semblait cependant, elle qui ne
craignait rien, redouter la vieille servante; et Parent attribuait cette
mansuétude à une considération pour la bonne qui l’avait élevé, et qui avait
fermé les yeux de sa mère.
Mais c’était fini, les choses ne pourraient traîner plus longtemps; et il
s’épouvantait à l’idée de ce qui allait arriver. Que ferait-il? Renvoyer Julie
lui apparaissait comme une résolution si redoutable, qu’il n’osait y arrêter
sa pensée. Lui donner raison contre sa femme était également impossible; et
il ne se passerait pas un mois maintenant, avant que la situation devînt
insoutenable entre les deux.
Il restait assis, les bras ballants, cherchant vaguement des moyens de tout
concilier, et ne trouvant rien. Alors il murmura: «Heureusement que j’ai
Georges... Sans lui, je serais bien malheureux.»
Puis l’idée lui vint de consulter Limousin; il s’y résolut; mais aussitôt le
souvenir de l’inimitié née entre sa bonne et son ami lui fit craindre que
celui-ci ne conseillât l’expulsion; et il demeurait de nouveau perdu dans ses
angoisses et ses incertitudes.
La pendule sonna sept heures. Il eut un sursaut. Sept heures, et il n’avait
pas encore changé de linge! Alors, effaré, essoufflé, il se dévêtit, se lava,
mit une chemise blanche, et se revêtit avec précipitation, comme si on l’eût
attendu dans la pièce voisine pour un événement d’une importance extrême.
Puis il entra dans le salon, heureux de n’avoir plus rien à redouter.
Il jeta un coup d’œil sur le journal, alla regarder dans la rue, revint
s’asseoir sur le canapé; mais une porte s’ouvrit, et son fils entra, nettoyé,
peigné, souriant. Parent le saisit dans ses bras et le baisa avec passion. Il
l’embrassa d’abord dans les cheveux, puis sur les yeux, puis sur les joues,
puis sur la bouche, puis sur les mains. Puis il le fit sauter en l’air, l’élevant
jusqu’au plafond, au bout de ses poignets. Puis il s’assit, fatigué par cet
effort; et prenant Georges sur un genou, il lui fit faire «à dada».
L’enfant riait enchanté, agitait ses bras, poussait des cris de plaisir, et le
père aussi riait et criait de contentement, secouant son gros ventre,
s’amusant plus encore que le petit.
Il l’aimait de tout son bon cœur de faible, de résigné, de meurtri. Il
l’aimait avec des élans fous, de grandes caresses emportées, avec toute la
tendresse honteuse cachée en lui, qui n’avait jamais pu sortir, s’épandre,
même aux premières heures de son mariage, sa femme s’étant toujours
montrée sèche et réservée.
Julie parut sur la porte, le visage pâle, l’œil brillant, et elle annonça
d’une voix tremblante d’exaspération:
—Il est sept heures et demie, Monsieur.
Parent jeta sur la pendule un regard inquiet et résigné, et murmura:
—En effet, il est sept heures et demie.
—Voilà, mon dîner est prêt, maintenant.
 Voyant l’orage, il s’efforça de l’écarter:
—Mais ne m’as-tu pas dit, quand je suis rentré, que tu ne le ferais que
pour huit heures?
—Pour huit heures!... Vous n’y pensez pas, bien sûr! Vous n’allez pas
vouloir faire manger le petit à huit heures maintenant. On dit ça, pardi, c’est
une manière de parler. Mais ça détruirait l’estomac du petit de le faire
manger à huit heures! Oh! s’il n’y avait que sa mère! Elle s’en soucie bien
de son enfant! Ah oui! parlons-en, en voilà une mère! Si ce n’est pas une
pitié de voir des mères comme ça!
Parent, tout frémissant d’angoisse, sentit qu’il fallait arrêter net la scène
menaçante.
—Julie, dit-il, je ne te permets point de parler ainsi de ta maîtresse. Tu
entends, n’est-ce pas? ne l’oublie plus à l’avenir.
La vieille bonne, suffoquée par l’étonnement, tourna les talons et sortit
en tirant la porte avec tant de violence que tous les cristaux du lustre
tintèrent. Ce fut, pendant quelques secondes, comme une légère et vague
sonnerie de petites clochettes invisibles qui voltigea dans l’air silencieux du
salon.
Georges, surpris d’abord, se mit à battre des mains avec bonheur, et,
gonflant ses joues, fit un gros «boum» de toute la force de ses poumons
pour imiter le bruit de la porte.
Alors son père lui conta des histoires; mais la préoccupation de son
esprit lui faisait perdre à tout moment le fil de son récit; et le petit, ne
comprenant plus, ouvrait de grands yeux étonnés.
Parent ne quittait pas la pendule du regard. Il lui semblait voir marcher
l’aiguille. Il aurait voulu arrêter l’heure, faire immobile le temps jusqu’à la
rentrée de sa femme. Il n’en voulait pas à Henriette d’être en retard, mais il
avait peur, peur d’elle et de Julie, peur de tout ce qui pouvait arriver. Dix
minutes de plus suffiraient pour amener une irréparable catastrophe, des
explications et des violences qu’il n’osait même imaginer. La seule pensée
de la querelle, des éclats de voix, des injures traversant l’air comme des
balles, des deux femmes face à face se regardant au fond des yeux et se
jetant à la tête des mots blessants, lui faisait battre le cœur, lui séchait la
bouche ainsi qu’une marche au soleil, le rendait mou comme une loque, si
mou qu’il n’avait plus la force de soulever son enfant et de le faire sauter
sur son genou.
 Huit heures sonnèrent; la porte se rouvrit et Julie reparut. Elle n’avait
plus son air exaspéré, mais un air de résolution méchante et froide, plus
redoutable encore.
—Monsieur, dit-elle, j’ai servi votre maman jusqu’à son dernier jour, je
vous ai élevé aussi de votre naissance jusqu’à aujourd’hui! Je crois qu’on
peut dire que je suis dévouée à la famille...
Elle attendait une réponse.
Parent balbutia:
—Mais oui, ma bonne Julie.
Elle reprit:
—Vous savez bien que je n’ai jamais rien fait par intérêt d’argent, mais
toujours par intérêt pour vous; que je ne vous ai jamais trompé ni menti;
que vous n’avez jamais pu m’adresser de reproches...
—Mais oui, ma bonne Julie.
—Eh bien, Monsieur, ça ne peut pas durer plus longtemps. C’est par
amitié pour vous que je ne disais rien, que je vous laissais dans votre
ignorance; mais c’est trop fort, et on rit trop de vous dans le quartier. Vous
ferez ce que vous voudrez, mais tout le monde le sait; il faut que je vous le
dise aussi, à la fin, bien que ça ne m’aille guère de rapporter. Si Madame
rentre comme ça à des heures de fantaisie, c’est qu’elle fait des choses
abominables.
Il demeurait effaré, ne comprenant pas. Il ne put que balbutier:
—Tais-toi... Tu sais que je t’ai défendu...
Elle lui coupa la parole avec une résolution irrésistible.
—Non, Monsieur, il faut que je vous dise tout, maintenant. Il y a
longtemps que Madame a fauté avec M. Limousin. Moi, je les ai vus plus
de vingt fois s’embrasser derrière les portes. Oh, allez! si M. Limousin avait
été riche, ça n’est pas M. Parent que Madame aurait épousé. Si Monsieur se
rappelait seulement comment le mariage s’est fait, il comprendrait la chose
d’un bout à l’autre...
Parent s’était levé, livide, balbutiant:
—Tais-toi... tais-toi... ou...
Elle continua:
 —Non, je vous dirai tout. Madame a épousé Monsieur par intérêt; et elle
l’a trompé du premier jour. C’était entendu entre eux, pardi! Il suffit de
réfléchir pour comprendre ça. Alors comme Madame n’était pas contente
d’avoir épousé Monsieur qu’elle n’aimait pas, elle lui a fait la vie dure, si
dure que j’en avais le cœur cassé, moi qui voyais ça...
Il fit deux pas, les poings fermés, répétant:
—Tais-toi... tais-toi... car il ne trouvait rien à répondre.
La vieille bonne ne recula point; elle semblait résolue à tout.
Mais Georges, effaré d’abord, puis effrayé par ces voix grondantes, se
mit à pousser des cris aigus. Il restait debout derrière son père, et, la face
crispée, la bouche ouverte, il hurlait.
La clameur de son fils exaspéra Parent, l’emplit de courage et de fureur.
Il se précipita vers Julie, les deux bras levés, prêt à frapper des deux mains,
et criant:
—Ah misérable! tu vas tourner les sens du petit.
Il la touchait déjà! Elle lui jeta par la face:
—Monsieur peut me battre s’il veut, moi qui l’ai élevé; ça n’empêchera
pas que sa femme le trompe et que son enfant n’est pas de lui!...
Il s’arrêta tout net, laissa retomber ses bras; et il restait en face d’elle
tellement éperdu qu’il ne comprenait plus rien.
Elle ajouta:
—Il suffit de regarder le petit pour reconnaître le père, pardi! c’est tout le
portrait de M. Limousin. Il n’y a qu’à regarder ses yeux et son front. Un
aveugle ne s’y tromperait pas...
Mais il l’avait saisie par les épaules et il la secouait de toute sa force,
bégayant:
—Vipère... vipère! Hors d’ici, vipère!... Va-t’en ou je te tuerais!... Va-
t’en! Va-t’en!...
Et d’un effort désespéré il la lança dans la pièce voisine. Elle tomba sur
la table servie dont les verres s’abattirent et se cassèrent; puis, s’étant
relevée, elle mit la table entre elle et son maître, et, tandis qu’il la
poursuivait pour la ressaisir, elle lui crachait au visage des paroles terribles:
—Monsieur n’a qu’à sortir... ce soir... après dîner... et qu’à rentrer tout de
suite... il verra!... il verra si j’ai menti!... Que Monsieur essaye... il verra.
 Elle avait gagné la porte de la cuisine et elle s’enfuit, il courut derrière
elle, monta l’escalier de service jusqu’à sa chambre de bonne où elle s’était
enfermée, et heurtant la porte:
—Tu vas quitter la maison à l’instant même.
Elle répondit à travers la planche:
—Monsieur peut y compter. Dans une heure je ne serai plus ici.
Alors il redescendit lentement, en se cramponnant à la rampe pour ne
point tomber; et il rentra dans son salon où Georges pleurait, assis par terre.
Parent s’affaissa sur un siège et regarda l’enfant d’un œil hébété. Il ne
comprenait plus rien; il ne savait plus rien; il se sentait étourdi, abruti, fou,
comme s’il venait de choir sur la tête; à peine se souvenait-il des choses
horribles que lui avait dites sa bonne. Puis, peu à peu, sa raison, comme une
eau troublée, se calma et s’éclaircit; et l’abominable révélation commença à
travailler son cœur.
Julie avait parlé si net, avec une telle force, une telle assurance, une telle
sincérité, qu’il ne douta pas de sa bonne foi, mais il s’obstinait à douter de
sa clairvoyance. Elle pouvait s’être trompée, aveuglée par son dévouement
pour lui, entraînée par une haine inconsciente contre Henriette. Cependant,
à mesure qu’il tâchait de se rassurer et de se convaincre, mille petits faits se
réveillaient en son souvenir, des paroles de sa femme, des regards de
Limousin, un tas de riens inobservés, presque inaperçus, des sorties
tardives, des absences simultanées, et même des gestes presque
insignifiants, mais bizarres qu’il n’avait pas su voir, pas su comprendre, et
qui, maintenant, prenaient pour lui une importance extrême, établissaient
une connivence entre eux. Tout ce qui s’était passé depuis ses fiançailles
surgissait brusquement en sa mémoire surexcitée par l’angoisse. Il
retrouvait tout, des intonations singulières, des attitudes suspectes; et son
pauvre esprit d’homme calme et bon, harcelé par le doute, lui montrait
maintenant, comme des certitudes, ce qui aurait pu n’être encore que des
soupçons.
Il fouillait avec une obstination acharnée dans ces cinq années de
mariage, cherchant à retrouver tout, mois par mois, jour par jour; et chaque
chose inquiétante qu’il découvrait le piquait au cœur comme un aiguillon de
guêpe.
Il ne pensait plus à Georges, qui se taisait maintenant, le derrière sur le
tapis. Mais, voyant qu’on ne s’occupait pas de lui, le gamin se remit à
pleurer.
Son père s’élança, le saisit dans ses bras, et lui couvrit la tête de baisers.
Son enfant lui demeurait au moins! Qu’importait le reste? Il le tenait, le
serrait, la bouche dans ses cheveux blonds, soulagé, consolé, balbutiant:
«Georges... mon petit Georges, mon cher petit Georges...» Mais il se
rappela brusquement ce qu’avait dit Julie!... Oui, elle avait dit que son
enfant était à Limousin... Oh! cela n’était pas possible, par exemple! non, il
ne pouvait le croire, il n’en pouvait même douter une seconde. C’était là
une de ces odieuses infamies qui germent dans les âmes ignobles des
servantes! Il répétait: «Georges... mon cher Georges.» Le gamin, caressé,
s’était tu de nouveau.
Parent sentait la chaleur de la petite poitrine pénétrer dans la sienne à
travers les étoffes. Elle l’emplissait d’amour, de courage, de joie; cette
chaleur douce d’enfant le caressait, le fortifiait, le sauvait.
Alors il écarta un peu de lui la tête mignonne et frisée pour la regarder
avec passion. Il la contemplait avidement, éperdument, se grisant à la voir,
et répétant toujours: «Oh! mon petit... mon petit Georges!...»
Il pensa soudain: «S’il ressemblait à Limousin... pourtant!»
Ce fut en lui quelque chose d’étrange, d’atroce, une poignante et violente
sensation de froid dans tout son corps, dans tous ses membres, comme si ses
os, tout à coup, fussent devenus de glace. Oh! s’il ressemblait à Limousin!...
et il continuait à regarder Georges qui riait maintenant. Il le regardait avec
des yeux éperdus, troubles, hagards. Et il cherchait dans le front, dans le
nez, dans la bouche, dans les joues, s’il ne retrouvait pas quelque chose du
front, du nez, de la bouche ou des joues de Limousin.
Sa pensée s’égarait comme lorsqu’on devient fou; et le visage de son
enfant se transformait sous son regard, prenait des aspects bizarres, des
ressemblances invraisemblables.
Julie avait dit: «Un aveugle ne s’y tromperait pas.» Il y avait donc
quelque chose de frappant, quelque chose d’indéniable! Mais quoi? Le
front? Oui, peut-être? Cependant Limousin avait le front plus étroit! Alors
la bouche? Mais Limousin portait toute sa barbe! Comment constater les
rapports entre ce gras menton d’enfant et le menton poilu de cet homme?
Parent pensait: «Je n’y vois pas, moi, je n’y vois plus; je suis trop
troublé; je ne pourrais rien reconnaître maintenant... Il faut attendre; il
faudra que je le regarde bien demain matin, en me levant.»
 Puis il songea: «Mais s’il me ressemblait, à moi, je serais sauvé, sauvé!»
Et il traversa le salon en deux enjambées pour aller examiner dans la
glace la face de son enfant à côté de la sienne.
Il tenait Georges assis sur son bras, afin que leurs visages fussent tout
proches, et il parlait haut tant son égarement était grand. «Oui... nous avons
le même nez... le même nez... peut-être... ce n’est pas sûr... et le même
regard... Mais non, il a les yeux bleus... Alors... oh! mon Dieu!... mon
Dieu!... mon Dieu!... je deviens fou!... Je ne veux plus voir... je deviens
fou!...»
Il se sauva loin de la glace, à l’autre bout du salon, tomba sur un fauteuil,
posa le petit sur un autre, et il se mit à pleurer. Il pleurait par grands
sanglots désespérés. Georges, effaré d’entendre gémir son père, commença
aussitôt à hurler.
Le timbre d’entrée sonna. Parent fit un bond, comme si une balle l’eût
traversé. Il dit: «La voilà... qu’est-ce que je vais faire?...» Et il courut
s’enfermer dans sa chambre pour avoir le temps, au moins, de s’essuyer les
yeux. Mais après quelques secondes, un nouveau coup de timbre le fit
encore tressaillir; puis il se rappela que Julie était partie sans que la femme
de chambre fût prévenue. Donc personne n’irait ouvrir? Que faire? Il y alla.
Voici que tout d’un coup il se sentait brave, résolu, prêt pour la
dissimulation et la lutte. L’effroyable secousse l’avait mûri en quelques
instants. Et puis il voulait savoir; il le voulait avec une fureur de timide et
une ténacité de débonnaire exaspéré.
Il tremblait cependant! Était-ce de peur? Oui... Peut-être avait-il encore
peur d’elle? sait-on combien l’audace contient parfois de lâcheté fouettée?
Derrière la porte qu’il avait atteinte à pas furtifs, il s’arrêta pour écouter.
Son cœur battait à coups furieux; il n’entendait que ce bruit-là: ces grands
coups sourds dans sa poitrine et la voix aiguë de Georges qui criait toujours,
dans le salon.
Soudain, le son du timbre éclatant sur sa tête, le secoua comme une
explosion; alors il saisit la serrure, et, haletant, défaillant, il fit tourner la
clef et tira le battant.
Sa femme et Limousin se tenaient debout en face de lui, sur l’escalier.
Elle dit, avec un air d’étonnement où apparaissait un peu d’irritation:
—C’est toi qui ouvres, maintenant? Où est donc Julie?
 Il avait la gorge serrée, la respiration précipitée; et il s’efforçait de
répondre, sans pouvoir prononcer un mot.
Elle reprit:
—Es-tu devenu muet? Je te demande où est Julie.
Alors il balbutia:
—Elle... elle... est... partie...
Sa femme commençait à se fâcher:
—Comment, partie? Où ça? Pourquoi?
Il reprenait son aplomb peu à peu et sentait naître en lui une haine
mordante contre cette femme insolente, debout devant lui.
—Oui, partie pour tout à fait... je l’ai renvoyée...
—Tu l’as renvoyée?... Julie?... Mais tu es fou...
—Oui, je l’ai renvoyée parce qu’elle avait été insolente... et qu’elle...
qu’elle a maltraité l’enfant.
—Julie?
—Oui... Julie.
—A propos de quoi a-t-elle été insolente?
—A propos de toi.
—A propos de moi?
—Oui... parce que son dîner était brûlé et que tu ne rentrais pas.
—Elle a dit...?
—Elle a dit... des choses désobligeantes pour toi... et que je ne devais
pas... que je ne pouvais pas entendre....
—Quelles choses?
—Il est inutile de les répéter.
—Je désire les connaître.
—Elle a dit qu’il était très malheureux pour un homme comme moi,
d’épouser une femme comme toi, inexacte, sans ordre, sans soins, mauvaise
maîtresse de maison, mauvaise mère, et mauvaise épouse...
La jeune femme était entrée dans l’antichambre, suivie par Limousin qui
ne disait mot devant cette situation inattendue. Elle ferma brusquement la
porte, jeta son manteau sur une chaise et marcha sur son mari en bégayant,
exaspérée:
 —Tu dis?... Tu dis?... que je suis...?
Il était très pâle, très calme. Il répondit:
—Je ne dis rien, ma chère amie; je te répète seulement les propos de
Julie, que tu as voulu connaître; et je te ferai remarquer que je l’ai mise à la
porte justement à cause de ces propos.
Elle frémissait de l’envie violente de lui arracher la barbe et les joues
avec ses ongles. Dans la voix, dans le ton, dans l’allure, elle sentait bien la
révolte, quoiqu’elle ne pût rien répondre; et elle cherchait à reprendre
l’offensive par quelque mot direct et blessant.
—Tu as dîné? dit-elle.
—Non, j’ai attendu.
Elle haussa les épaules avec impatience.
—C’est stupide d’attendre après sept heures et demie. Tu aurais dû
comprendre que j’avais été retenue, que j’avais eu des affaires, des courses.
Puis, tout à coup, un besoin lui vint d’expliquer l’emploi de son temps,
et elle raconta, avec des paroles brèves, hautaines, qu’ayant eu des objets de
mobilier à choisir très loin, très loin, rue de Rennes, elle avait rencontré
Limousin à sept heures passées, boulevard Saint-Germain, en revenant, et
qu’alors elle lui avait demandé son bras pour entrer manger un morceau
dans un restaurant où elle n’osait pénétrer seule, bien qu’elle se sentît
défaillir de faim. Voilà comment elle avait dîné, avec Limousin, si on
pouvait appeler cela dîner; car ils n’avaient pris qu’un bouillon et un demi-
poulet, tant ils avaient hâte de revenir.
Parent répondit simplement:
—Mais tu as bien fait. Je ne t’adresse pas de reproches.
Alors Limousin, resté jusque-là muet, presque caché derrière Henriette,
s’approcha et tendit sa main en murmurant:
—Tu vas bien?
Parent prit cette main offerte, et, la serrant mollement:
—Oui, très bien.
Mais la jeune femme avait saisi un mot dans la dernière phrase de son
mari.
—Des reproches... pourquoi parles-tu de reproches?... On dirait que tu as
une intention.
 Il s’excusa:
—Non, pas du tout. Je voulais simplement te répondre que je ne m’étais
pas inquiété de ton retard et que je ne t’en faisais point un crime.
Elle le prit de haut, cherchant un prétexte à querelle:
—De mon retard?... On dirait vraiment qu’il est une heure du matin et
que je passe la nuit dehors.
—Mais non, ma chère amie. J’ai dit «retard» parce que je n’ai pas
d’autre mot. Tu devais rentrer à six heures et demie, tu rentres à huit heures
et demie. C’est un retard, ça! Je le comprends très bien; je ne... ne... ne
m’en étonne même pas... Mais... mais... il m’est difficile d’employer un
autre mot.
—C’est que tu le prononces comme si j’avais découché....
—Mais non... mais non...
Elle vit qu’il céderait toujours, et elle allait entrer dans sa chambre,
quand elle s’aperçut enfin que Georges hurlait. Alors elle demanda, avec un
visage ému:
—Qu’a donc le petit?
—Je t’ai dit que Julie l’avait un peu maltraité.
—Qu’est-ce qu’elle lui a fait, cette gueuse?
—Oh! presque rien. Elle l’a poussé et il est tombé.
Elle voulut voir son enfant et s’élança dans la salle à manger, puis
s’arrêta net devant la table couverte de vin répandu, de carafes et de verres
brisés, et de salières renversées.
—Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce ravage-là?
—C’est Julie qui....
Mais elle lui coupa la parole avec fureur:
—C’est trop fort, à la fin! Julie me traite de dévergondée, bat mon
enfant, casse ma vaisselle, bouleverse ma maison, et il semble que tu
trouves cela tout naturel.
—Mais non... puisque je l’ai renvoyée.
—Vraiment!... Tu las renvoyée!... Mais il fallait la faire arrêter. C’est le
commissaire de police qu’on appelle dans ces cas-là!
Il balbutia:
 —Mais... ma chère amie... je ne pouvais pourtant pas... il n’y avait point
de raison... Vraiment, il était bien difficile...
Elle haussa les épaules avec un infini dédain.
—Tiens, tu ne seras jamais qu’une loque, un pauvre sire, un pauvre
homme sans volonté, sans fermeté, sans énergie. Ah! elle a dû t’en dire de
raides, ta Julie, pour que tu te sois décidé à la mettre dehors. J’aurais voulu
être là une minute, rien qu’une minute.
Ayant ouvert la porte du salon, elle courut à Georges, le releva, le serra
dans ses bras en l’embrassant: «Georget, qu’est-ce que tu as, mon chat, mon
mignon, mon poulet?»
Caressé par sa mère, il se tut. Elle répéta:
—Qu’est-ce que tu as?
Il répondit, ayant vu trouble avec ses yeux d’enfant effrayé:
—C’est Zulie qu’a battu papa.
Henriette se retourna vers son mari, stupéfaite d’abord. Puis une folle
envie de rire s’éveilla dans son regard, passa comme un frisson sur ses
joues fines, releva sa lèvre, retroussa les ailes de ses narines, et enfin jaillit
de sa bouche en une claire fusée de joie, en une cascade de gaieté, sonore et
vive comme une roulade d’oiseau. Elle répétait, avec de petits cris méchants
qui passaient entre ses dents blanches et déchiraient Parent ainsi que des
morsures: «Ah!... ah!... ah!... ah!... elle t’a ba... ba... battu... Ah!... ah!...
ah!... que c’est drôle... que c’est drôle.... Vous entendez, Limousin. Julie l’a
battu... battu... Julie a battu mon mari... Ah!... ah!... ah!... que c’est drôle!...
Parent balbutiait:
—Mais non... mais non... ce n’est pas vrai... ce n’est pas vrai... C’est
moi, au contraire, qui l’ai jetée dans la salle à manger, si fort qu’elle a
bouleversé la table. L’enfant a mal vu. C’est moi qui l’ai battue!
Henriette disait à son fils:
—Répète, mon poulet. C’est Julie qui a battu papa!
Il répondit:
—Oui, c’est Zulie.
Puis, passant soudain à une autre idée, elle reprit:
—Mais il n’a pas dîné, cet enfant-là? Tu n’as rien mangé, mon chéri?
—Non, maman.
 Alors elle se retourna, furieuse, vers son mari:
—Tu es donc fou, archi-fou! Il est huit heures et demie et Georges n’a
pas dîné!
Il s’excusa, égaré dans cette scène et dans cette explication, écrasé sous
cet écroulement de sa vie.
—Mais, ma chère amie, nous t’attendions. Je ne voulais pas dîner sans
toi. Comme tu rentres tous les jours en retard, je pensais que tu allais
revenir d’un moment à l’autre.
Elle lança dans un fauteuil son chapeau, gardé jusque-là sur sa tête, et, la
voix nerveuse:
—Vraiment, c’est intolérable d’avoir affaire à des gens qui ne
comprennent rien, qui ne devinent rien, qui ne savent rien faire par eux-
mêmes. Alors, si j’étais rentrée à minuit, l’enfant n’aurait rien mangé du
tout. Comme si tu n’aurais pas pu comprendre, après sept heures et demie
passées, que j’avais eu un empêchement, un retard, une entrave!...
Parent tremblait, sentant la colère le gagner; mais Limousin s’interposa
et, se tournant vers la jeune femme:
—Vous êtes tout à fait injuste, ma chère amie. Parent ne pouvait pas
deviner que vous rentreriez si tard, ce qui ne vous arrive jamais; et puis,
comment vouliez-vous qu’il se tirât d’affaire tout seul, après avoir renvoyé
Julie?
Mais Henriette, exaspérée, répondit:
—Il faudra pourtant bien qu’il se tire d’affaire, car je ne l’aiderai pas.
Qu’il se débrouille!
Et elle entra brusquement dans sa chambre, oubliant déjà que son fils
n’avait point mangé.
Alors Limousin, tout à coup, se multiplia pour aider son ami. Il ramassa
et enleva les verres brisés qui couvraient la table, remit le couvert et assit
l’enfant sur son petit fauteuil à grands pieds, pendant que Parent allait
chercher la femme de chambre pour se faire servir par elle.
Elle arriva étonnée, n’ayant rien entendu dans la chambre de Georges où
elle travaillait.
Elle apporta la soupe, un gigot brûlé, puis des pommes de terre en purée.
Parent s’était assis à côté de son enfant, l’esprit en détresse, la raison
emportée dans cette catastrophe. Il faisait manger le petit, essayait de
manger lui-même, coupait la viande, la mâchait et l’avalait avec effort,
comme si sa gorge eût été paralysée.
Alors, peu à peu, s’éveilla dans son âme un désir affolé de regarder
Limousin assis en face de lui et qui roulait des boulettes de pain. Il voulait
voir s’il ressemblait à Georges. Mais il n’osait pas lever les yeux. Il s’y
décida pourtant, et considéra brusquement cette figure qu’il connaissait
bien, quoiqu’il lui semblât ne l’avoir jamais examinée, tant elle lui parut
différente de ce qu’il pensait. De seconde en seconde, il jetait un coup d’œil
rapide sur ce visage, cherchant à en reconnaître les moindres lignes, les
moindres traits, les moindres sens; puis, aussitôt, il regardait son fils, en
ayant l’air de le faire manger.
Deux mots ronflaient dans son oreille: «Son père! son père! son père!»
Ils bourdonnaient à ses tempes avec chaque battement de son cœur. Oui, cet
homme, cet homme tranquille, assis de l’autre côté de cette table, était peut-
être le père de son fils, de Georges, de son petit Georges. Parent cessa de
manger, il ne pouvait plus. Une douleur atroce, une de ces douleurs qui font
hurler, se rouler par terre, mordre les meubles, lui déchirait tout le dedans
du corps. Il eut envie de prendre son couteau et de se l’enfoncer dans le
ventre. Cela le soulagerait, le sauverait; ce serait fini.
Car pourrait-il vivre maintenant? Pourrait-il vivre, se lever le matin,
manger aux repas, sortir par les rues, se coucher le soir et dormir la nuit
avec cette pensée vrillée en lui: «Limousin, le père de Georges!...» Non, il
n’aurait plus la force de faire un pas, de s’habiller, de penser à rien, de
parler à personne! Chaque jour, à toute heure, à toute seconde, il se
demanderait cela; il chercherait à savoir, à deviner, à surprendre cet horrible
secret? Et le petit, son cher petit, il ne pourrait plus le voir sans endurer
l’épouvantable souffrance de ce doute, sans se sentir déchiré jusqu’aux
entrailles, sans être torturé jusqu’aux moelles de ses os. Il lui faudrait vivre
ici, rester dans cette maison, à côté de cet enfant qu’il aimerait et haïrait!
Oui, il finirait par le haïr assurément. Quel supplice! Oh! s’il était certain
que Limousin fût le père, peut-être arriverait-il à se calmer, à s’endormir
dans son malheur, dans sa douleur? Mais ne pas savoir était intolérable!
Ne pas savoir, chercher toujours, souffrir toujours, et embrasser cet
enfant à tout moment, l’enfant d’un autre, le promener dans la ville, le
porter dans ses bras, sentir la caresse de ses fins cheveux sous les lèvres,
l’adorer et penser sans cesse: «Il n’est pas à moi, peut-être?» Ne vaudrait-il
pas mieux ne plus le voir, l’abandonner, le perdre dans les rues, ou se
sauver soi-même très loin, si loin, qu’il n’entendrait plus jamais parler de
rien, jamais!
Il eut un sursaut en entendant ouvrir la porte. Sa femme rentrait.
—J’ai faim, dit-elle; et vous, Limousin?
Limousin répondit, en hésitant:
—Ma foi, moi aussi.
Et elle fit rapporter le gigot.
Parent se demandait: «Ont-ils dîné? ou bien se sont-ils mis en retard à un
rendez-vous d’amour?»
Ils mangeaient maintenant de grand appétit, tous les deux. Henriette,
tranquille, riait et plaisantait. Son mari l’épiait aussi, par regards brusques,
vite détournés. Elle avait une robe de chambre rose garnie de dentelles
blanches; et sa tête blonde, son cou frais, ses mains grasses sortaient de ce
joli vêtement coquet et parfumé, comme d’une coquille bordée d’écume.
Qu’avait-elle fait tout le jour avec cet homme? Parent les voyait embrassés,
balbutiant des paroles ardentes! Comment ne pouvait-il rien savoir, ne
pouvait-il pas deviner en les regardant ainsi côte à côte, en face de lui?
Comme ils devaient se moquer de lui, s’il avait été leur dupe depuis le
premier jour? Était-il possible qu’on se jouât ainsi d’un homme, d’un brave
homme, parce que son père lui avait laissé un peu d’argent! Comment ne
pouvait-on voir ces choses-là dans les âmes, comment se pouvait-il que rien
ne révélât aux cœurs droits les fraudes des cœurs infâmes, que la voix fût la
même pour mentir que pour adorer, et le regard fourbe qui trompe, pareil au
regard sincère?
Il les épiait, attendant un geste, un mot, une intonation. Soudain il pensa:
«Je vais les surprendre ce soir.» Et il dit:
—Ma chère amie, comme je viens de renvoyer Julie, il faut que je
m’occupe, dès aujourd’hui, de trouver une autre bonne. Je sors tout de suite,
afin de me procurer quelqu’un pour demain matin. Je rentrerai peut-être un
peu tard.
Elle répondit:
—Va; je ne bougerai pas d’ici. Limousin me tiendra compagnie. Nous
t’attendrons.
Puis, se tournant vers la femme de chambre:
 —Vous allez coucher Georges, ensuite vous pourrez desservir et monter
chez vous.
Parent s’était levé. Il oscillait sur ses jambes, étourdi, trébuchant. Il
murmura: «A tout à l’heure,» et gagna la sortie en s’appuyant au mur, car le
parquet remuait comme une barque.
Georges était parti aux bras de sa bonne. Henriette et Limousin passèrent
au salon. Dès que la porte fut refermée:
—Ah, çà! tu es donc folle, dit-il, de harceler ainsi ton mari?
Elle se retourna:
—Ah! tu sais, je commence à trouver violente cette habitude que tu
prends depuis quelque temps de poser Parent en martyr.
Limousin se jeta dans un fauteuil, et, croisant ses jambes:
—Je ne le pose pas en martyr le moins du monde, mais je trouve, moi,
qu’il est ridicule, dans notre situation, de braver cet homme du matin au
soir.
Elle prit une cigarette sur la cheminée, l’alluma, et répondit:
—Mais je ne le brave pas, bien au contraire; seulement il m’irrite par sa
stupidité... et je le traite comme il le mérite.
Limousin reprit, d’une voix impatiente:
—C’est inepte, ce que tu fais! Du reste, toutes les femmes sont pareilles.
Comment? voilà un excellent garçon, trop bon, stupide de confiance et de
bonté, qui ne nous gêne en rien, qui ne nous soupçonne pas une seconde,
qui nous laisse libres, tranquilles autant que nous voulons; et tu fais tout ce
que tu peux pour le rendre enragé et pour gâter notre vie.
Elle se tourna vers lui:
—Tiens, tu m’embêtes! Toi, tu es lâche, comme tous les hommes! Tu as
peur de ce crétin!
Il se leva vivement, et, furieux:
—Ah! çà, je voudrais bien savoir ce qu’il t’a fait, et de quoi tu peux lui
en vouloir? Te rend-il malheureuse? Te bat-il? Te trompe-t-il? Non, c’est
trop fort à la fin de faire souffrir ce garçon uniquement parce qu’il est trop
bon, et de lui en vouloir uniquement parce que tu le trompes.
Elle s’approcha de Limousin, et, le regardant au fond des yeux:
 —C’est toi qui me reproches de le tromper, toi? toi? toi? Faut-il que tu
aies un sale cœur?
Il se défendit, un peu honteux:
—Mais je ne te reproche rien, ma chère amie, je te demande seulement
de ménager un peu ton mari, parce que nous avons besoin l’un et l’autre de
sa confiance. Il me semble que tu devrais comprendre cela.
Ils étaient tout près l’un de l’autre, lui grand, brun, avec des favoris
tombants, l’allure un peu vulgaire d’un beau garçon content de lui; elle
mignonne, rose et blonde, une petite Parisienne mi-cocotte et mi-
bourgeoise, née dans une arrière-boutique, élevée sur le seuil du magasin à
cueillir les passants d’un coup d’œil, et mariée, au hasard de cette cueillette,
avec le promeneur naïf qui s’est épris d’elle pour l’avoir vue, chaque jour,
devant cette porte, en sortant le matin et en rentrant le soir.
Elle disait:
—Mais tu ne comprends donc pas, grand niais, que je l’exècre justement
parce qu’il m’a épousée, parce qu’il m’a achetée enfin, parce que tout ce
qu’il dit, tout ce qu’il fait, tout ce qu’il pense me porte sur les nerfs. Il
m’exaspère à toute seconde par sa sottise que tu appelles de la bonté, par sa
lourdeur que tu appelles de la confiance, et puis, surtout, parce qu’il est
mon mari, lui, au lieu de toi! Je le sens entre nous deux, quoiqu’il ne nous
gêne guère. Et puis?... et puis?... Non, il est trop idiot à la fin de ne se
douter de rien! Je voudrais qu’il fût un peu jaloux au moins. Il y a des
moments où j’ai envie de lui crier: «Mais tu ne vois donc rien, grosse bête,
tu ne comprends donc pas que Paul est mon amant.»
Limousin se mit à rire:
—En attendant, tu feras bien de te taire et de ne pas troubler notre
existence.
—Oh! je ne la troublerai pas, va! Avec cet imbécile-là, il n’y a rien à
craindre. Non, mais c’est incroyable que tu ne comprennes pas combien il
m’est odieux, combien il m’énerve. Toi, tu as toujours l’air de le chérir, de
lui serrer la main avec franchise. Les hommes sont surprenants parfois.
—Il faut bien savoir dissimuler, ma chère.
—Il ne s’agit pas de dissimulation, mon cher, mais de sentiments. Vous
autres, quand vous trompez un homme, on dirait que vous l’aimez tout de
suite davantage; nous autres, nous le haïssons à partir du moment où nous
l’avons trompé.
—Je ne vois pas du tout pourquoi on haïrait un brave garçon dont on
prend la femme.
—Tu ne vois pas?... tu ne vois pas?... C’est un tact qui vous manque à
tous, cela! Que veux-tu? ce sont des choses qu’on sent et qu’on ne peut pas
dire. Et puis d’abord on ne doit pas?... Non, tu ne comprendrais point, c’est
inutile! Vous autres, vous n’avez pas de finesse.
Et souriant, avec un doux mépris de rouée, elle posa les deux mains sur
ses épaules en tendant vers lui ses lèvres; il pencha la tête vers elle en
l’enfermant dans une étreinte, et leurs bouches se rencontrèrent. Et comme
ils étaient debout devant la glace de la cheminée, un autre couple tout pareil
à eux s’embrassait derrière la pendule.
Ils n’avaient rien entendu, ni le bruit de la clef ni le grincement de la
porte; mais Henriette, brusquement, poussant un cri aigu, rejeta Limousin
de ses deux bras, et ils aperçurent Parent qui les regardait, livide, les poings
fermés, déchaussé, et son chapeau sur le front.
Il les regardait, l’un après l’autre, d’un rapide mouvement de l’œil, sans
remuer la tête. Il semblait fou; puis sans dire un mot, il se rua sur Limousin,
le prit à pleins bras comme pour l’étouffer, le culbuta jusque dans l’angle du
salon d’un élan si impétueux, que l’autre, perdant pied, battant l’air de ses
mains, alla heurter brutalement son crâne contre la muraille.
Mais Henriette, quand elle comprit que son mari allait assommer son
amant, se jeta sur Parent, le saisit par le cou, et enfonçant dans la chair ses
dix doigts fins et roses, elle serra si fort, avec ses nerfs de femme éperdue,
que le sang jaillit sous ses ongles. Et elle lui mordait l’épaule comme si elle
eût voulu le déchirer avec ses dents. Parent, étranglé, suffoquant, lâcha
Limousin pour secouer sa femme accrochée à son col; et l’ayant empoignée
par la taille, il la jeta, d’une seule poussée, à l’autre bout du salon.
Puis, comme il avait la colère courte des débonnaires, et la violence
poussive des faibles, il demeura debout entre les deux, haletant, épuisé, ne
sachant plus ce qu’il devait faire. Sa fureur brutale s’était répandue dans cet
effort, comme la mousse d’un vin débouché, et son énergie insolite finissait
en essoufflement. Dès qu’il put parler, il balbutia:
—Allez-vous-en... tous les deux... tout de suite... allez-vous-en!...
 Limousin restait immobile dans son angle, collé contre le mur, trop
effaré pour rien comprendre encore, trop effrayé pour remuer un doigt.
Henriette, les poings appuyés sur le guéridon, la tête en avant, décoiffée, le
corsage ouvert, la poitrine nue, attendait, pareille à une bête qui va sauter.
Parent reprit d’une voix plus forte:
—Allez-vous-en, tout de suite... Allez-vous-en!
Voyant calmée sa première exaspération, sa femme s’enhardit, se
redressa, fit deux pas vers lui, et presque insolente déjà:
—Tu as donc perdu la tête?... Qu’est-ce qui t’a pris?... Pourquoi cette
agression inqualifiable?...
Il se retourna vers elle, en levant le poing pour l’assommer, et bégayant:
—Oh!... oh!... c’est trop fort!... trop fort!... j’ai... j’ai... j’ai... tout
entendu!... tout!... tout!... tu comprends... tout!... misérable!... misérable!...
Vous êtes deux misérables!... Allez-vous-en!... tous les deux!... tout de
suite!... Je vous tuerais!... Allez-vous-en!...
Elle comprit que c’était fini, qu’il savait, qu’elle ne se pourrait point
innocenter et qu’il fallait céder. Mais toute son impudence lui était revenue
et sa haine contre cet homme, exaspérée à présent, la poussait à l’audace,
mettait en elle un besoin de défi, un besoin de bravade.
Elle dit d’une voix claire:
—Venez, Limousin. Puisqu’on me chasse, je vais chez vous.
Mais Limousin ne remuait pas. Parent, qu’une colère nouvelle saisissait,
se mit à crier:
—Allez-vous-en donc!... allez-vous-en!... misérables!... ou bien!... ou
bien!...
Il saisit une chaise qu’il fit tournoyer sur sa tête.
Alors Henriette traversa le salon d’un pas rapide, prit son amant par le
bras, l’arracha du mur où il semblait scellé, et l’entraîna vers la porte en
répétant:
—Mais venez donc, mon ami, venez donc... Vous voyez bien que cet
homme est fou... Venez donc!...
Au moment de sortir, elle se retourna vers son mari, cherchant ce qu’elle
pourrait faire, ce qu’elle pourrait inventer pour le blesser au cœur, en
quittant cette maison. Et une idée lui traversa l’esprit, une de ces idées
venimeuses, mortelles, où fermente toute la perfidie des femmes.
Elle dit, résolue:
—Je veux emporter mon enfant.
Parent, stupéfait, balbutia:
—Ton... ton... enfant?... Tu oses parler de ton enfant?... tu oses... tu oses
demander ton enfant... après... après... Oh! oh! oh! c’est trop fort!... Tu
oses?... Mais va-t’en donc, gueuse! Va-t’en!...
Elle revint vers lui, presque souriante, presque vengée déjà, et le bravant,
tout près, face à face:
—Je veux mon enfant... et tu n’as pas le droit de le garder, parce qu’il
n’est pas à toi... tu entends, tu entends bien... Il n’est pas à toi... Il est à
Limousin.
Parent, éperdu, cria:
—Tu mens... tu mens... misérable!
Mais elle reprit:
—Imbécile! Tout le monde le sait, excepté toi. Je te dis que voilà son
père. Mais il suffit de regarder pour le voir...
Parent reculait devant elle, chancelant. Puis brusquement, il se retourna,
saisit une bougie, et s’élança dans la chambre voisine.
Il revint presque aussitôt, portant sur son bras le petit Georges enveloppé
dans les couvertures de son lit. L’enfant, réveillé en sursaut, épouvanté,
pleurait. Parent le jeta dans les mains de sa femme, puis, sans ajouter une
parole, il la poussa rudement dehors, vers l’escalier où Limousin attendait
par prudence.
Puis il referma la porte, donna deux tours de clef et poussa les verrous. A
peine rentré dans le salon, il tomba de toute sa hauteur sur le parquet.

II
Parent vécut seul, tout à fait seul. Pendant les premières semaines qui
suivirent la séparation, l’étonnement de sa vie nouvelle l’empêcha de
songer beaucoup. Il avait repris son existence de garçon, ses habitudes de
flânerie, et il mangeait au restaurant, comme autrefois. Ayant voulu éviter
tout scandale, il faisait à sa femme une pension réglée par les hommes
d’affaires. Mais, peu à peu, le souvenir de l’enfant commença à hanter sa
pensée. Souvent, quand il était seul, chez lui, le soir, il s’imaginait tout à
coup entendre Georges crier «papa». Son cœur aussitôt commençait à battre
et il se levait bien vite pour ouvrir la porte de l’escalier et voir si, par
hasard, le petit ne serait pas revenu. Oui, il aurait pu revenir comme
reviennent les chiens et les pigeons. Pourquoi un enfant aurait-il moins
d’instinct qu’une bête?
Après avoir reconnu son erreur il retournait s’asseoir dans son fauteuil,
et il pensait au petit. Il y pensait pendant des heures entières, des jours
entiers. Ce n’était point seulement une obsession morale, mais aussi, et plus
encore, une obsession physique, un besoin sensuel, nerveux de l’embrasser,
de le tenir, de le manier, de l’asseoir sur ses genoux, de le faire sauter et
culbuter dans ses mains. Il s’exaspérait au souvenir enfiévrant des caresses
passées. Il sentait les petits bras serrant son cou, la petite bouche posant un
gros baiser sur sa barbe, les petits cheveux chatouillant sa joue. L’envie de
ces douces câlineries disparues, de la peau fine, chaude et mignonne offerte
aux lèvres, l’affolait comme le désir d’une femme aimée qui s’est enfuie.
Dans la rue, tout à coup, il se mettait à pleurer en songeant qu’il pourrait
l’avoir, trottinant à son côté avec ses petits pieds, son gros Georget, comme
autrefois, quand il le promenait. Il rentrait alors; et, la tête entre ses mains,
sanglotait jusqu’au soir.
Puis, vingt fois, cent fois en un jour il se posait cette question: «Était-il
ou n’était-il pas le père de Georges?» Mais c’était surtout la nuit qu’il se
livrait sur cette idée à des raisonnements interminables. A peine couché, il
recommençait, chaque soir, la même série d’argumentations désespérées.
Après le départ de sa femme, il n’avait plus douté tout d’abord: l’enfant,
certes, appartenait à Limousin. Puis, peu à peu, il se remit à hésiter.
Assurément, l’affirmation d’Henriette ne pouvait avoir aucune valeur. Elle
l’avait bravé, en cherchant à le désespérer. En pesant froidement le pour et
le contre, il y avait bien des chances pour qu’elle eût menti.
Seul Limousin, peut-être, aurait pu dire la vérité. Mais comment savoir,
comment l’interroger, comment le décider à avouer?
Et quelquefois Parent se relevait en pleine nuit, résolu à aller trouver
Limousin, à le prier, à lui offrir tout ce qu’il voudrait, pour mettre fin à cette
abominable angoisse. Puis il se recouchait désespéré, ayant réfléchi que
l’amant aussi mentirait sans doute! Il mentirait même certainement pour
empêcher le père véritable de reprendre son enfant.
Alors que faire? Rien!
Et il se désolait d’avoir ainsi brusqué les événements, de n’avoir point
réfléchi, patienté, de n’avoir pas su attendre et dissimuler pendant un mois
ou deux, afin de se renseigner par ses propres yeux. Il aurait dû feindre de
ne rien soupçonner, et les laisser se trahir tout doucement. Il lui aurait suffi
de voir l’autre embrasser l’enfant pour deviner, pour comprendre. Un ami
n’embrasse pas comme un père. Il les aurait épiés derrière les portes!
Comment n’avait-il pas songé à cela? Si Limousin, demeuré seul avec
Georges, ne l’avait point aussitôt saisi, serré dans ses bras, baisé
passionnément, s’il l’avait laissé jouer avec indifférence, sans s’occuper de
lui, aucune hésitation ne serait demeurée possible: c’est qu’alors il n’était
pas, il ne se croyait pas, il ne se sentait pas le père.
De sorte que lui, Parent, chassant la mère, aurait gardé son fils, et il
aurait été heureux, tout à fait heureux.
Il se retournait dans son lit, suant et torturé, et cherchant à se souvenir
des attitudes de Limousin avec le petit. Mais il ne se rappelait rien,
absolument rien, aucun geste, aucun regard, aucune parole, aucune caresse
suspects. Et puis la mère non plus ne s’occupait guère de son enfant. Si elle
l’avait eu de son amant, elle l’aurait sans doute aimé davantage.
On l’avait donc séparé de son fils par vengeance, par cruauté, pour le
punir de ce qu’il les avait surpris.
Et il se décidait à aller, dès l’aurore, requérir les magistrats pour se faire
rendre Georget.
Mais à peine avait-il pris cette résolution qu’il se sentait envahi par la
certitude contraire. Du moment que Limousin avait été, dès le premier jour,
l’amant d’Henriette, l’amant aimé, elle avait dû se donner à lui avec cet
élan, cet abandon, cette ardeur qui rendent mères les femmes. La réserve
froide qu’elle avait toujours apportée dans ses relations intimes avec lui,
Parent, n’était-elle pas aussi un obstacle à ce qu’elle eût été fécondée par
son baiser!
Alors il allait réclamer, prendre avec lui, conserver toujours et soigner
l’enfant d’un autre. Il ne pourrait pas le regarder, l’embrasser, l’entendre
dire «papa» sans que cette pensée le frappât, le déchirât: «Ce n’est point
mon fils.» Il allait se condamner à ce supplice de tous les instants, à cette
vie de misérable! Non, il valait mieux demeurer seul, vivre seul, vieillir
seul, et mourir seul.
Et chaque jour, chaque nuit recommençaient ces abominables hésitations
et ces souffrances que rien ne pouvait calmer ni terminer. Il redoutait
surtout l’obscurité du soir qui vient, la tristesse des crépuscules. C’était
alors, sur son cœur, comme une pluie de chagrin, une inondation de
désespoir qui tombait avec les ténèbres, le noyait et l’affolait. Il avait peur
de ses pensées comme on a peur des malfaiteurs, et il fuyait devant elles
ainsi qu’une bête poursuivie. Il redoutait surtout son logis vide, si noir,
terrible, et les rues désertes aussi où brille seulement, de place en place, un
bec de gaz, où le passant isolé qu’on entend de loin semble un rôdeur et fait
ralentir ou hâter le pas selon qu’il vient vers vous ou qu’il vous suit.
Et Parent, malgré lui, par instinct, allait vers les grandes rues illuminées
et populeuses. La lumière et la foule l’attiraient, l’occupaient et
l’étourdissaient. Puis, quand il était las d’errer, de vagabonder dans les
remous du public, quand il voyait les passants devenir plus rares, et les
trottoirs plus libres, la terreur de la solitude et du silence le poussait vers un
grand café plein de buveurs et de clarté. Il y allait comme les mouches vont
à la flamme, s’asseyait devant une petite table ronde, et demandait un bock.
Il le buvait lentement, s’inquiétant chaque fois qu’un consommateur se
levait pour s’en aller. Il aurait voulu le prendre par le bras, le retenir, le prier
de rester encore un peu, tant il redoutait l’heure où le garçon, debout devant
lui, prononcerait d’un air furieux: «Allons, Monsieur, on ferme!»
Car, chaque soir, il restait le dernier. Il voyait rentrer les tables, éteindre,
un à un, les becs de gaz, sauf deux, le sien et celui du comptoir. Il regardait
d’un œil navré la caissière compter son argent et l’enfermer dans le tiroir; et
il s’en allait, poussé dehors par le personnel qui murmurait: «En voilà un
empoté! On dirait qu’il ne sait pas où coucher.»
Et dès qu’il se retrouvait seul dans la rue sombre, il recommençait à
penser à Georget et à se creuser la tête, à se torturer la pensée pour
découvrir s’il était ou s’il n’était point le père de son enfant.
Il prit ainsi l’habitude de la brasserie où le coudoiement continu des
buveurs met près de vous un public familier et silencieux, où la grasse
fumée des pipes endort les inquiétudes, tandis que la bière épaisse alourdit
l’esprit et calme le cœur.
 Il y vécut. A peine levé, il allait chercher là des voisins pour occuper son
regard et sa pensée. Puis, par paresse de se mouvoir, il y prit bientôt ses
repas. Vers midi, il frappait avec sa soucoupe sur la table de marbre, et le
garçon apportait vivement une assiette, un verre, une serviette et le déjeuner
du jour. Dès qu’il avait fini de manger, il buvait lentement son café, l’œil
fixé sur le carafon d’eau-de-vie qui lui donnerait bientôt une bonne heure
d’abrutissement. Il trempait d’abord ses lèvres dans le cognac, comme pour
en prendre le goût, cueillant seulement la saveur du liquide avec le bout de
sa langue. Puis il se le versait dans la bouche, goutte à goutte, en renversant
la tête; promenait doucement la forte liqueur sur son palais, sur ses
gencives, sur toute la muqueuse de ses joues, la mêlant avec la salive claire
que ce contact faisait jaillir. Puis, adoucie par ce mélange, il l’avalait avec
recueillement, la sentant couler tout le long de sa gorge, jusqu’au fond de
son estomac.
Après chaque repas, il sirotait ainsi pendant plus d’une heure, trois ou
quatre petits verres qui l’engourdissaient peu à peu. Alors il penchait la tête
sur son ventre, fermait les yeux et somnolait. Il se réveillait vers le milieu
de l’après-midi, et tendait aussitôt la main vers le bock que le garçon avait
posé devant lui pendant son sommeil; puis, l’ayant bu, il se soulevait sur la
banquette de velours rouge, relevait son pantalon, rabaissait son gilet pour
couvrir la ligne blanche aperçue entre les deux, secouait le col de sa
jaquette, tirait les poignets de sa chemise hors des manches, puis reprenait
les journaux qu’il avait déjà lus le matin.
Il les recommençait, de la première ligne à la dernière, y compris les
réclames, demandes d’emploi, annonces, cote de la Bourse et programmes
des théâtres.
Entre quatre et six heures il allait faire un tour sur les boulevards, pour
prendre l’air, disait-il; puis il revenait s’asseoir à la place qu’on lui avait
conservée et demandait son absinthe.
Alors il causait avec les habitués dont il avait fait la connaissance. Ils
commentaient les nouvelles du jour, les faits divers et les événements
politiques: cela le menait à l’heure du dîner. La soirée se passait comme
l’après-midi jusqu’au moment de la fermeture. C’était pour lui l’instant
terrible où il fallait rentrer dans le noir, dans la chambre vide, pleine de
souvenirs affreux, de pensées horribles et d’angoisses. Il ne voyait plus
personne de ses anciens amis, personne de ses parents, personne qui pût lui
rappeler sa vie passée.
Mais comme son appartement devenait un enfer pour lui, il prit une
chambre dans un grand hôtel, une belle chambre d’entresol afin de voir les
passants. Il n’était plus seul en ce vaste logis public; il sentait grouiller des
gens autour de lui; il entendait des voix derrière les cloisons; et quand ses
anciennes souffrances le harcelaient trop cruellement en face de son lit
entr’ouvert et de son feu solitaire, il sortait dans les larges corridors et se
promenait comme un factionnaire, le long de toutes les portes fermées, en
regardant avec tristesse les souliers accouplés devant chacune, les
mignonnes bottines de femmes blotties à côté des fortes bottines d’hommes;
et il pensait que tous ces gens-là étaient heureux, sans doute, et dormaient
tendrement, côte à côte ou embrassés, dans la chaleur de leur couche.
Cinq années se passèrent ainsi; cinq années mornes, sans autres
événements que des amours de deux heures, à deux louis, de temps en
temps.
Or, un jour, comme il faisait sa promenade ordinaire entre la Madeleine
et la rue Drouot, il aperçut tout à coup une femme dont la tournure le
frappa. Un grand monsieur et un enfant l’accompagnaient. Tous les trois
marchaient devant lui. Il se demandait: «Où donc ai-je vu ces personnes-
là?» et, tout à coup, il reconnut un geste de la main: c’était sa femme, sa
femme avec Limousin, et avec son enfant, son petit Georges.
Son cœur battait à l’étouffer; il ne s’arrêta pas cependant; il voulait les
voir; et il les suivit. On eût dit un ménage, un bon ménage de bons
bourgeois. Henriette s’appuyait au bras de Paul, lui parlait doucement en le
regardant parfois de côté. Parent la voyait alors de profil, reconnaissait la
ligne gracieuse de son visage, les mouvements de sa bouche, son sourire, et
la caresse de son regard. L’enfant surtout le préoccupait. Comme il était
grand, et fort! Parent ne pouvait apercevoir la figure, mais seulement de
longs cheveux blonds qui tombaient sur le col en boucles frisées. C’était
Georget, ce haut garçon aux jambes nues, qui allait, ainsi qu’un petit
homme, à côté de sa mère.
Comme ils s’étaient arrêtés devant un magasin, il les vit soudain tous les
trois. Limousin avait blanchi, vieilli, maigri; sa femme, au contraire, plus
fraîche que jamais, avait plutôt engraissé; Georges était devenu
méconnaissable, si différent de jadis!
 Ils se remirent en route. Parent les suivit de nouveau, puis les devança à
grands pas pour revenir et les revoir, de tout près, en face. Quand il passa
contre l’enfant, il eut envie, une envie folle de le saisir dans ses bras et de
l’emporter. Il le toucha, comme par hasard. Le petit tourna la tête et regarda
ce maladroit avec des yeux mécontents. Alors Parent s’enfuit, frappé,
poursuivi, blessé par ce regard. Il s’enfuit à la façon d’un voleur, saisi de la
peur horrible d’avoir été vu et reconnu par sa femme et son amant. Il alla
d’une course jusqu’à sa brasserie, et tomba, haletant, sur sa chaise.
Il but trois absinthes, ce soir-là.
Pendant quatre mois, il garda au cœur la plaie de cette rencontre. Chaque
nuit il les revoyait tous les trois, heureux et tranquilles, père, mère, enfant,
se promenant sur le boulevard, avant de rentrer dîner chez eux. Cette vision
nouvelle effaçait l’ancienne. C’était autre chose, une autre hallucination
maintenant, et aussi une autre douleur. Le petit Georges, son petit Georges,
celui qu’il avait tant aimé et tant embrassé jadis, disparaissait dans un passé
lointain et fini, et il en voyait un nouveau, comme un frère du premier, un
garçonnet aux mollets nus, qui ne le connaissait pas, celui-là! Il souffrait
affreusement de cette pensée. L’amour du petit était mort; aucun lien
n’existait plus entre eux; l’enfant n’avait pas tendu les bras en le voyant. Il
l’avait même regardé d’un œil méchant.
Puis, peu à peu, son âme se calma encore; ses tortures mentales
s’affaiblirent; l’image apparue devant ses yeux et qui hantait ses nuits
devint indécise, plus rare. Il se remit à vivre à peu près comme tout le
monde, comme tous les désœuvrés qui boivent des bocks sur des tables de
marbre et usent leurs culottes par le fond sur le velours râpé des banquettes.
Il vieillit dans la fumée des pipes, perdit ses cheveux sous la flamme du
gaz, considéra comme des événements le bain de chaque semaine, la taille
de cheveux de chaque quinzaine, l’achat d’un vêtement neuf ou d’un
chapeau. Quand il arrivait à sa brasserie coiffé d’un nouveau couvre-chef, il
se contemplait longtemps dans la glace avant de s’asseoir, le mettait et
l’enlevait plusieurs fois de suite, le posait de différentes façons, et
demandait enfin à son amie, la dame du comptoir, qui le regardait avec
intérêt: «Trouvez-vous qu’il me va bien?»
Deux ou trois fois par an il allait au théâtre; et, l’été, il passait
quelquefois ses soirées dans un café-concert des Champs-Élysées. Il en
rapportait dans sa tête des airs qui chantaient au fond de sa mémoire
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