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diff --git a/16146-h/16146-h.htm b/16146-h/16146-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9051cdf --- /dev/null +++ b/16146-h/16146-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9030 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Petty Troubles of Married Life, by Honore de Balzac + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Petty Troubles of Married Life, Complete, by +Honore de Balzac + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Petty Troubles of Married Life, Complete + +Author: Honore de Balzac + +Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley + +Release Date: March 7, 2010 [EBook #16146] +Last Updated: November 23, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARRIED LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Honore De Balzac + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> <b>PART FIRST</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> REVELATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> AXIOMS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE ATTENTIONS OF A WIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SMALL VEXATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE ULTIMATUM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> WOMEN’S LOGIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE JESUITISM OF WOMEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> MEMORIES AND REGRETS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> OBSERVATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE MATRIMONIAL GADFLY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> HARD LABOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> FORCED SMILES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> NOSOGRAPHY OF THE VILLA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> TROUBLE WITHIN TROUBLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> A HOUSEHOLD REVOLUTION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE ART OF BEING A VICTIM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE FRENCH CAMPAIGN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> A SOLO ON THE HEARSE. </a> + </p> + <br /> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART SECOND</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF2"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> DISAPPOINTED AMBITION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> THE PANGS OF INNOCENCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE UNIVERSAL AMADIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> WITHOUT AN OCCUPATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> INDISCRETIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> BRUTAL DISCLOSURES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A TRUCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> USELESS CARE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE DOMESTIC TYRANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> THE AVOWAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> HUMILIATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> THE LAST QUARREL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> A SIGNAL FAILURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> THE CHESTNUTS IN THE FIRE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> ULTIMA RATIO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> COMMENTARY. IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED LA + FELICITA OF FINALES. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + PART FIRST + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IN WHICH EVERY ONE WILL FIND HIS OWN IMPRESSIONS OF MARRIAGE. + + A friend, in speaking to you of a young woman, says: “Good family, + well bred, pretty, and three hundred thousand in her own right.” + You have expressed a desire to meet this charming creature. + + Usually, chance interviews are premeditated. And you speak with + this object, who has now become very timid. + + YOU.—“A delightful evening!” + + SHE.—“Oh! yes, sir.” + + You are allowed to become the suitor of this young person. + + THE MOTHER-IN-LAW (to the intended groom).—“You can’t imagine how + susceptible the dear girl is of attachment.” + + Meanwhile there is a delicate pecuniary question to be discussed + by the two families. + + YOUR FATHER (to the mother-in-law).—“My property is valued at + five hundred thousand francs, my dear madame!” + + YOUR FUTURE MOTHER-IN-LAW.—“And our house, my dear sir, is on a + corner lot.” + + A contract follows, drawn up by two hideous notaries, a small one, + and a big one. + + Then the two families judge it necessary to convoy you to the + civil magistrate’s and to the church, before conducting the bride + to her chamber. + + Then what?... Why, then come a crowd of petty unforeseen + troubles, like the following: +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. + </h2> + <p> + Is it a petty or a profound trouble? I knew not; it is profound for your + sons-in-law or daughters-in-law, but exceedingly petty for you. + </p> + <p> + “Petty! You must be joking; why, a child costs terribly dear!” exclaims a + ten-times-too-happy husband, at the baptism of his eleventh, called the + little last newcomer,—a phrase with which women beguile their + families. + </p> + <p> + “What trouble is this?” you ask me. Well! this is, like many petty + troubles of married life, a blessing for some one. + </p> + <p> + You have, four months since, married off your daughter, whom we will call + by the sweet name of CAROLINE, and whom we will make the type of all + wives. Caroline is, like all other young ladies, very charming, and you + have found for her a husband who is either a lawyer, a captain, an + engineer, a judge, or perhaps a young viscount. But he is more likely to + be what sensible families must seek,—the ideal of their desires—the + only son of a rich landed proprietor. (See the <i>Preface</i>.) + </p> + <p> + This phoenix we will call ADOLPHE, whatever may be his position in the + world, his age, and the color of his hair. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer, the captain, the engineer, the judge, in short, the + son-in-law, Adolphe, and his family, have seen in Miss Caroline: + </p> + <p> + I.—Miss Caroline; + </p> + <p> + II.—The only daughter of your wife and you. + </p> + <p> + Here, as in the Chamber of Deputies, we are compelled to call for a + division of the house: + </p> + <p> + 1.—As to your wife. + </p> + <p> + Your wife is to inherit the property of a maternal uncle, a gouty old + fellow whom she humors, nurses, caresses, and muffles up; to say nothing + of her father’s fortune. Caroline has always adored her uncle,—her + uncle who trotted her on his knee, her uncle who—her uncle whom—her + uncle, in short,—whose property is estimated at two hundred + thousand. + </p> + <p> + Further, your wife is well preserved, though her age has been the subject + of mature reflection on the part of your son-in-law’s grandparents and + other ancestors. After many skirmishes between the mothers-in-law, they + have at last confided to each other the little secrets peculiar to women + of ripe years. + </p> + <p> + “How is it with you, my dear madame?” + </p> + <p> + “I, thank heaven, have passed the period; and you?” + </p> + <p> + “I really hope I have, too!” says your wife. + </p> + <p> + “You can marry Caroline,” says Adolphe’s mother to your future son-in-law; + “Caroline will be the sole heiress of her mother, of her uncle, and her + grandfather.” + </p> + <p> + 2.—As to yourself. + </p> + <p> + You are also the heir of your maternal grandfather, a good old man whose + possessions will surely fall to you, for he has grown imbecile, and is + therefore incapable of making a will. + </p> + <p> + You are an amiable man, but you have been very dissipated in your youth. + Besides, you are fifty-nine years old, and your head is bald, resembling a + bare knee in the middle of a gray wig. + </p> + <p> + III.—A dowry of three hundred thousand. + </p> + <p> + IV.—Caroline’s only sister, a little dunce of twelve, a sickly + child, who bids fair to fill an early grave. + </p> + <p> + V.—Your own fortune, father-in-law (in certain kinds of society they + say <i>papa father-in-law</i>) yielding an income of twenty thousand, and + which will soon be increased by an inheritance. + </p> + <p> + VI.—Your wife’s fortune, which will be increased by two inheritances—from + her uncle and her grandfather. In all, thus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Three inheritances and interest, 750,000 + Your fortune, 250,000 + Your wife’s fortune, 250,000 + __________ + + Total, 1,250,000 +</pre> + <p> + which surely cannot take wing! + </p> + <p> + Such is the autopsy of all those brilliant marriages that conduct their + processions of dancers and eaters, in white gloves, flowering at the + button-hole, with bouquets of orange flowers, furbelows, veils, coaches + and coach-drivers, from the magistrate’s to the church, from the church to + the banquet, from the banquet to the dance, from the dance to the nuptial + chamber, to the music of the orchestra and the accompaniment of the + immemorial pleasantries uttered by relics of dandies, for are there not, + here and there in society, relics of dandies, as there are relics of + English horses? To be sure, and such is the osteology of the most amorous + intent. + </p> + <p> + The majority of the relatives have had a word to say about this marriage. + </p> + <p> + Those on the side of the bridegroom: + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe has made a good thing of it.” + </p> + <p> + Those on the side of the bride: + </p> + <p> + “Caroline has made a splendid match. Adolphe is an only son, and will have + an income of sixty thousand, <i>some day or other</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Some time afterwards, the happy judge, the happy engineer, the happy + captain, the happy lawyer, the happy only son of a rich landed proprietor, + in short Adolphe, comes to dine with you, accompanied by his family. + </p> + <p> + Your daughter Caroline is exceedingly proud of the somewhat rounded form + of her waist. All women display an innocent artfulness, the first time + they find themselves facing motherhood. Like a soldier who makes a + brilliant toilet for his first battle, they love to play the pale, the + suffering; they rise in a certain manner, and walk with the prettiest + affectation. While yet flowers, they bear a fruit; they enjoy their + maternity by anticipation. All those little ways are exceedingly charming—the + first time. + </p> + <p> + Your wife, now the mother-in-law of Adolphe, subjects herself to the + pressure of tight corsets. When her daughter laughs, she weeps; when + Caroline wishes her happiness public, she tries to conceal hers. After + dinner, the discerning eye of the co-mother-in-law divines the work of + darkness. + </p> + <p> + Your wife also is an expectant mother! The news spreads like lightning, + and your oldest college friend says to you laughingly: “Ah! so you are + trying to increase the population again!” + </p> + <p> + You have some hope in a consultation that is to take place to-morrow. You, + kind-hearted man that you are, you turn red, you hope it is merely the + dropsy; but the doctors confirm the arrival of a <i>little last one</i>! + </p> + <p> + In such circumstances some timorous husbands go to the country or make a + journey to Italy. In short, a strange confusion reigns in your household; + both you and your wife are in a false position. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” says a + friend to you on the Boulevard. + </p> + <p> + “Well! do as much if you can,” is your angry retort. + </p> + <p> + “It’s as bad as being robbed on the highway!” says your son-in-law’s + family. “Robbed on the highway” is a flattering expression for the + mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + The family hopes that the child which divides the expected fortune in + three parts, will be, like all old men’s children, scrofulous, feeble, an + abortion. Will it be likely to live? The family awaits the delivery of + your wife with an anxiety like that which agitated the house of Orleans + during the confinement of the Duchess de Berri: a second son would secure + the throne to the younger branch without the onerous conditions of July; + Henry V would easily seize the crown. From that moment the house of + Orleans was obliged to play double or quits: the event gave them the game. + </p> + <p> + The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart. + </p> + <p> + Caroline’s first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not + live. + </p> + <p> + Her mother’s last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds, with + two teeth and luxuriant hair. + </p> + <p> + For sixteen years you have desired a son. This conjugal annoyance is the + only one that makes you beside yourself with joy. For your rejuvenated + wife has attained what must be called the <i>Indian Summer</i> of women; + she nurses, she has a full breast of milk! Her complexion is fresh, her + color is pure pink and white. In her forty-second year, she affects the + young woman, buys little baby stockings, walks about followed by a nurse, + embroiders caps and tries on the cunningest headdresses. Alexandrine has + resolved to instruct her daughter by her example; she is delightful and + happy. And yet this is a trouble, a petty one for you, a serious one for + your son-in-law. This annoyance is of the two sexes, it is common to you + and your wife. In short, in this instance, your paternity renders you all + the more proud from the fact that it is incontestable, my dear sir! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REVELATIONS. + </h2> + <p> + Generally speaking, a young woman does not exhibit her true character till + she has been married two or three years. She hides her faults, without + intending it, in the midst of her first joys, of her first parties of + pleasure. She goes into society to dance, she visits her relatives to show + you off, she journeys on with an escort of love’s first wiles; she is + gradually transformed from girlhood to womanhood. Then she becomes mother + and nurse, and in this situation, full of charming pangs, that leaves + neither a word nor a moment for observation, such are its multiplied + cares, it is impossible to judge of a woman. You require, then, three or + four years of intimate life before you discover an exceedingly melancholy + fact, one that gives you cause for constant terror. + </p> + <p> + Your wife, the young lady in whom the first pleasures of life and love + supplied the place of grace and wit, so arch, so animated, so vivacious, + whose least movements spoke with delicious eloquence, has cast off, + slowly, one by one, her natural artifices. At last you perceive the truth! + You try to disbelieve it, you think yourself deceived; but no: Caroline + lacks intellect, she is dull, she can neither joke nor reason, sometimes + she has little tact. You are frightened. You find yourself forever obliged + to lead this darling through the thorny paths, where you must perforce + leave your self-esteem in tatters. + </p> + <p> + You have already been annoyed several times by replies that, in society, + were politely received: people have held their tongues instead of smiling; + but you were certain that after your departure the women looked at each + other and said: “Did you hear Madame Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + “Your little woman, she is—” + </p> + <p> + “A regular cabbage-head.” + </p> + <p> + “How could he, who is certainly a man of sense, choose—?” + </p> + <p> + “He should educate, teach his wife, or make her hold her tongue.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AXIOMS. + </h2> + <p> + Axiom.—In our system of civilization a man is entirely responsible + for his wife. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—The husband does not mould the wife. + </p> + <p> + Caroline has one day obstinately maintained, at the house of Madame de + Fischtaminel, a very distinguished lady, that her little last one + resembled neither its father nor its mother, but looked like a certain + friend of the family. She perhaps enlightens Monsieur de Fischtaminel, and + overthrows the labors of three years, by tearing down the scaffolding of + Madame de Fischtaminel’s assertions, who, after this visit, will treat you + will coolness, suspecting, as she does, that you have been making + indiscreet remarks to your wife. + </p> + <p> + On another occasion, Caroline, after having conversed with a writer about + his works, counsels the poet, who is already a prolific author, to try to + write something likely to live. Sometimes she complains of the slow + attendance at the tables of people who have but one servant and have put + themselves to great trouble to receive her. Sometimes she speaks ill of + widows who marry again, before Madame Deschars who has married a third + time, and on this occasion, an ex-notary, + Nicolas-Jean-Jerome-Nepomucene-Ange-Marie-Victor-Joseph Deschars, a friend + of your father’s. + </p> + <p> + In short, you are no longer yourself when you are in society with your + wife. Like a man who is riding a skittish horse and glares straight + between the beast’s two ears, you are absorbed by the attention with which + you listen to your Caroline. + </p> + <p> + In order to compensate herself for the silence to which young ladies are + condemned, Caroline talks; or rather babbles. She wants to make a + sensation, and she does make a sensation; nothing stops her. She addresses + the most eminent men, the most celebrated women. She introduces herself, + and puts you on the rack. Going into society is going to the stake. + </p> + <p> + She begins to think you are cross-grained, moody. The fact is, you are + watching her, that’s all! In short, you keep her within a small circle of + friends, for she has already embroiled you with people on whom your + interests depended. + </p> + <p> + How many times have you recoiled from the necessity of a remonstrance, in + the morning, on awakening, when you had put her in a good humor for + listening! A woman rarely listens. How many times have you recoiled from + the burthen of your imperious obligations! + </p> + <p> + The conclusion of your ministerial communication can be no other than: + “You have no sense.” You foresee the effect of your first lesson. Caroline + will say to herself: “Ah I have no sense! Haven’t I though?” + </p> + <p> + No woman ever takes this in good part. Both of you must draw the sword and + throw away the scabbard. Six weeks after, Caroline may prove to you that + she has quite sense enough to <i>minotaurize</i> you without your + perceiving it. + </p> + <p> + Frightened at such a prospect, you make use of all the eloquent phrases to + gild this pill. In short, you find the means of flattering Caroline’s + various self-loves, for: + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—A married woman has several self-loves. + </p> + <p> + You say that you are her best friend, the only one well situated to + enlighten her; the more careful you are, the more watchful and puzzled she + is. At this moment she has plenty of sense. + </p> + <p> + You ask your dear Caroline, whose waist you clasp, how she, who is so + brilliant when alone with you, who retorts so charmingly (you remind her + of sallies that she has never made, which you put in her mouth, and, which + she smilingly accepts), how she can say this, that, and the other, in + society. She is, doubtless, like many ladies, timid in company. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” you say, “many very distinguished men who are just the same.” + </p> + <p> + You cite the case of some who are admirable tea-party oracles, but who + cannot utter half a dozen sentences in the tribune. Caroline should keep + watch over herself; you vaunt silence as the surest method of being witty. + In society, a good listener is highly prized. + </p> + <p> + You have broken the ice, though you have not even scratched its glossy + surface: you have placed your hand upon the croup of the most ferocious + and savage, the most wakeful and clear-sighted, the most restless, the + swiftest, the most jealous, the most ardent and violent, the simplest and + most elegant, the most unreasonable, the most watchful chimera of the + moral world—THE VANITY OF A WOMAN! + </p> + <p> + Caroline clasps you in her arms with a saintly embrace, thanks you for + your advice, and loves you the more for it; she wishes to be beholden to + you for everything, even for her intellect; she may be a dunce, but, what + is better than saying fine things, she knows how to do them! But she + desires also to be your pride! It is not a question of taste in dress, of + elegance and beauty; she wishes to make you proud of her intelligence. You + are the luckiest of men in having successfully managed to escape from this + first dangerous pass in conjugal life. + </p> + <p> + “We are going this evening to Madame Deschars’, where they never know what + to do to amuse themselves; they play all sorts of forfeit games on account + of a troop of young women and girls there; you shall see!” she says. + </p> + <p> + You are so happy at this turn of affairs, that you hum airs and carelessly + chew bits of straw and thread, while still in your shirt and drawers. You + are like a hare frisking on a flowering dew-perfumed meadow. You leave off + your morning gown till the last extremity, when breakfast is on the table. + During the day, if you meet a friend and he happens to speak of women, you + defend them; you consider women charming, delicious, there is something + divine about them. + </p> + <p> + How often are our opinions dictated to us by the unknown events of our + life! + </p> + <p> + You take your wife to Madame Deschars’. Madame Deschars is a mother and is + exceedingly devout. You never see any newspapers at her house: she keeps + watch over her daughters by three different husbands, and keeps them all + the more closely from the fact that she herself has, it is said, some + little things to reproach herself with during the career of her two former + lords. At her house, no one dares risk a jest. Everything there is white + and pink and perfumed with sanctity, as at the houses of widows who are + approaching the confines of their third youth. It seems as if every day + were Sunday there. + </p> + <p> + You, a young husband, join the juvenile society of young women and girls, + misses and young people, in the chamber of Madame Deschars. The serious + people, politicians, whist-players, and tea-drinkers, are in the parlor. + </p> + <p> + In Madame Deschars’ room they are playing a game which consists in hitting + upon words with several meanings, to fit the answers that each player is + to make to the following questions: + </p> + <p> + How do you like it? + </p> + <p> + What do you do with it? + </p> + <p> + Where do you put it? + </p> + <p> + Your turn comes to guess the word, you go into the parlor, take part in a + discussion, and return at the call of a smiling young lady. They have + selected a word that may be applied to the most enigmatical replies. + Everybody knows that, in order to puzzle the strongest heads, the best way + is to choose a very ordinary word, and to invent phrases that will send + the parlor Oedipus a thousand leagues from each of his previous thoughts. + </p> + <p> + This game is a poor substitute for lansquenet or dice, but it is not very + expensive. + </p> + <p> + The word MAL has been made the Sphinx of this particular occasion. Every + one has determined to put you off the scent. The word, among other + acceptations, has that of <i>mal</i> [evil], a substantive that signifies, + in aesthetics, the opposite of good; of <i>mal</i> [pain, disease, + complaint], a substantive that enters into a thousand pathological + expressions; then <i>malle</i> [a mail-bag], and finally <i>malle</i> [a + trunk], that box of various forms, covered with all kinds of skin, made of + every sort of leather, with handles, that journeys rapidly, for it serves + to carry travelling effects in, as a man of Delille’s school would say. + </p> + <p> + For you, a man of some sharpness, the Sphinx displays his wiles; he + spreads his wings and folds them up again; he shows you his lion’s paws, + his woman’s neck, his horse’s loins, and his intellectual head; he shakes + his sacred fillets, he strikes an attitude and runs away, he comes and + goes, and sweeps the place with his terrible equine tail; he shows his + shining claws, and draws them in; he smiles, frisks, and murmurs. He puts + on the looks of a joyous child and those of a matron; he is, above all, + there to make fun of you. + </p> + <p> + You ask the group collectively, “How do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I like it for love’s sake,” says one. + </p> + <p> + “I like it regular,” says another. + </p> + <p> + “I like it with a long mane.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it with a spring lock.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it unmasked.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it on horseback.” + </p> + <p> + “I like it as coming from God,” says Madame Deschars. + </p> + <p> + “How do you like it?” you say to your wife. + </p> + <p> + “I like it legitimate.” + </p> + <p> + This response of your wife is not understood, and sends you a journey into + the constellated fields of the infinite, where the mind, dazzled by the + multitude of creations, finds it impossible to make a choice. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you put it?” + </p> + <p> + “In a carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “In a garret.” + </p> + <p> + “In a steamboat.” + </p> + <p> + “In the closet.” + </p> + <p> + “On a cart.” + </p> + <p> + “In prison.” + </p> + <p> + “In the ears.” + </p> + <p> + “In a shop.” + </p> + <p> + Your wife says to you last of all: “In bed.” + </p> + <p> + You were on the point of guessing it, but you know no word that fits this + answer, Madame Deschars not being likely to have allowed anything + improper. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I make it my sole happiness,” says your wife, after the answers of all + the rest, who have sent you spinning through a whole world of linguistic + suppositions. + </p> + <p> + This response strikes everybody, and you especially; so you persist in + seeking the meaning of it. You think of the bottle of hot water that your + wife has put to her feet when it is cold,—of the warming pan, above + all! Now of her night-cap,—of her handkerchief,—of her curling + paper,—of the hem of her chemise,—of her embroidery,—of + her flannel jacket,—of your bandanna,—of the pillow. + </p> + <p> + In short, as the greatest pleasure of the respondents is to see their + Oedipus mystified, as each word guessed by you throws them into fits of + laughter, superior men, perceiving no word that will fit all the + explanations, will sooner give it up than make three unsuccessful + attempts. According to the law of this innocent game you are condemned to + return to the parlor after leaving a forfeit; but you are so exceedingly + puzzled by your wife’s answers, that you ask what the word was. + </p> + <p> + “Mal,” exclaims a young miss. + </p> + <p> + You comprehend everything but your wife’s replies: she has not played the + game. Neither Madame Deschars, nor any one of the young women understand. + She has cheated. You revolt, there is an insurrection among the girls and + young women. They seek and are puzzled. You want an explanation, and every + one participates in your desire. + </p> + <p> + “In what sense did you understand the word, my dear?” you say to Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “Why, <i>male</i>!” [male.] + </p> + <p> + Madame Deschars bites her lips and manifests the greatest displeasure; the + young women blush and drop their eyes; the little girls open theirs, nudge + each other and prick up their ears. Your feet are glued to the carpet, and + you have so much salt in your throat that you believe in a repetition of + the event which delivered Lot from his wife. + </p> + <p> + You see an infernal life before you; society is out of the question. + </p> + <p> + To remain at home with this triumphant stupidity is equivalent to + condemnation to the state’s prison. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Moral tortures exceed physical sufferings by all the + difference which exists between the soul and the body. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ATTENTIONS OF A WIFE. + </h2> + <p> + Among the keenest pleasures of bachelor life, every man reckons the + independence of his getting up. The fancies of the morning compensate for + the glooms of evening. A bachelor turns over and over in his bed: he is + free to gape loud enough to justify apprehensions of murder, and to scream + at a pitch authorizing the suspicion of joys untold. He can forget his + oaths of the day before, let the fire burn upon the hearth and the candle + sink to its socket,—in short, go to sleep again in spite of pressing + work. He can curse the expectant boots which stand holding their black + mouths open at him and pricking up their ears. He can pretend not to see + the steel hooks which glitter in a sunbeam which has stolen through the + curtains, can disregard the sonorous summons of the obstinate clock, can + bury himself in a soft place, saying: “Yes, I was in a hurry, yesterday, + but am so no longer to-day. Yesterday was a dotard. To-day is a sage: + between them stands the night which brings wisdom, the night which gives + light. I ought to go, I ought to do it, I promised I would—I am + weak, I know. But how can I resist the downy creases of my bed? My feet + feel flaccid, I think I must be sick, I am too happy just here. I long to + see the ethereal horizon of my dreams again, those women without claws, + those winged beings and their obliging ways. In short, I have found the + grain of salt to put upon the tail of that bird that was always flying + away: the coquette’s feet are caught in the line. I have her now—” + </p> + <p> + Your servant, meantime, reads your newspaper, half-opens your letters, and + leaves you to yourself. And you go to sleep again, lulled by the rumbling + of the morning wagons. Those terrible, vexatious, quivering teams, laden + with meat, those trucks with big tin teats bursting with milk, though they + make a clatter most infernal and even crush the paving stones, seem to you + to glide over cotton, and vaguely remind you of the orchestra of Napoleon + Musard. Though your house trembles in all its timbers and shakes upon its + keel, you think yourself a sailor cradled by a zephyr. + </p> + <p> + You alone have the right to bring these joys to an end by throwing away + your night-cap as you twist up your napkin after dinner, and by sitting up + in bed. Then you take yourself to task with such reproaches as these: “Ah, + mercy on me, I must get up!” “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man + healthy—!” “Get up, lazy bones!” + </p> + <p> + All this time you remain perfectly tranquil. You look round your chamber, + you collect your wits together. Finally, you emerge from the bed, + spontaneously! Courageously! of your own accord! You go to the fireplace, + you consult the most obliging of timepieces, you utter hopeful sentences + thus couched: “Whatshisname is a lazy creature, I guess I shall find him + in. I’ll run. I’ll catch him if he’s gone. He’s sure to wait for me. There + is a quarter of an hour’s grace in all appointments, even between debtor + and creditor.” + </p> + <p> + You put on your boots with fury, you dress yourself as if you were afraid + of being caught half-dressed, you have the delight of being in a hurry, + you call your buttons into action, you finally go out like a conqueror, + whistling, brandishing your cane, pricking up your ears and breaking into + a canter. + </p> + <p> + After all, you say to yourself, you are responsible to no one, you are + your own master! + </p> + <p> + But you, poor married man, you were stupid enough to say to your wife, + “To-morrow, my dear” (sometimes she knows it two days beforehand), “I have + got to get up early.” Unfortunate Adolphe, you have especially proved the + importance of this appointment: “It’s to—and to—and above all + to—in short to—” + </p> + <p> + Two hours before dawn, Caroline wakes you up gently and says to you + softly: “Adolphy dear, Adolphy love!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? Fire?” + </p> + <p> + “No, go to sleep again, I’ve made a mistake; but the hour hand was on it, + any way! It’s only four, you can sleep two hours more.” + </p> + <p> + Is not telling a man, “You’ve only got two hours to sleep,” the same + thing, on a small scale, as saying to a criminal, “It’s five in the + morning, the ceremony will be performed at half-past seven”? Such sleep is + troubled by an idea dressed in grey and furnished with wings, which comes + and flaps, like a bat, upon the windows of your brain. + </p> + <p> + A woman in a case like this is as exact as a devil coming to claim a soul + he has purchased. When the clock strikes five, your wife’s voice, too well + known, alas! resounds in your ear; she accompanies the stroke, and says + with an atrocious calmness, “Adolphe, it’s five o’clock, get up, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-e-e-s, ah-h-h-h!” + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe, you’ll be late for your business, you said so yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah-h-h-h, ye-e-e-e-s.” You turn over in despair. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, love. I got everything ready last night; now you must, my + dear; do you want to miss him? There, up, I say; it’s broad daylight.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline throws off the blankets and gets up: she wants to show you that + <i>she</i> can rise without making a fuss. She opens the blinds, she lets + in the sun, the morning air, the noise of the street, and then comes back. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Adolphe, you <i>must</i> get up! Who ever would have supposed you + had no energy! But it’s just like you men! I am only a poor, weak woman, + but when I say a thing, I do it.” + </p> + <p> + You get up grumbling, execrating the sacrament of marriage. There is not + the slightest merit in your heroism; it wasn’t you, but your wife, that + got up. Caroline gets you everything you want with provoking promptitude; + she foresees everything, she gives you a muffler in winter, a blue-striped + cambric shirt in summer, she treats you like a child; you are still + asleep, she dresses you and has all the trouble. She finally thrusts you + out of doors. Without her nothing would go straight! She calls you back to + give you a paper, a pocketbook, you had forgotten. You don’t think of + anything, she thinks of everything! + </p> + <p> + You return five hours afterwards to breakfast, between eleven and noon. + The chambermaid is at the door, or on the stairs, or on the landing, + talking with somebody’s valet: she runs in on hearing or seeing you. Your + servant is laying the cloth in a most leisurely style, stopping to look + out of the window or to lounge, and coming and going like a person who + knows he has plenty of time. You ask for your wife, supposing that she is + up and dressed. + </p> + <p> + “Madame is still in bed,” says the maid. + </p> + <p> + You find your wife languid, lazy, tired and asleep. She had been awake all + night to wake you in the morning, so she went to bed again, and is quite + hungry now. + </p> + <p> + You are the cause of all these disarrangements. If breakfast is not ready, + she says it’s because you went out. If she is not dressed, and if + everything is in disorder, it’s all your fault. For everything which goes + awry she has this answer: “Well, you would get up so early!” “He would get + up so early!” is the universal reason. She makes you go to bed early, + because you got up early. She can do nothing all day, because you would + get up so unusually early. + </p> + <p> + Eighteen months afterwards, she still maintains, “Without me, you would + never get up!” To her friends she says, “My husband get up! If it weren’t + for me, he never <i>would</i> get up!” + </p> + <p> + To this a man whose hair is beginning to whiten, replies, “A graceful + compliment to you, madame!” This slightly indelicate comment puts an end + to her boasts. + </p> + <p> + This petty trouble, repeated several times, teaches you to live alone in + the bosom of your family, not to tell all you know, and to have no + confidant but yourself: and it often seems to you a question whether the + inconveniences of the married state do not exceed its advantages. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SMALL VEXATIONS. + </h2> + <p> + You have made a transition from the frolicsome allegretto of the bachelor + to the heavy andante of the father of a family. + </p> + <p> + Instead of that fine English steed prancing and snorting between the + polished shafts of a tilbury as light as your own heart, and moving his + glistening croup under the quadruple network of the reins and ribbons that + you so skillfully manage with what grace and elegance the Champs Elysees + can bear witness—you drive a good solid Norman horse with a steady, + family gait. + </p> + <p> + You have learned what paternal patience is, and you let no opportunity + slip of proving it. Your countenance, therefore, is serious. + </p> + <p> + By your side is a domestic, evidently for two purposes like the carriage. + The vehicle is four-wheeled and hung upon English springs: it is corpulent + and resembles a Rouen scow: it has glass windows, and an infinity of + economical arrangements. It is a barouche in fine weather, and a brougham + when it rains. It is apparently light, but, when six persons are in it, it + is heavy and tires out your only horse. + </p> + <p> + On the back seat, spread out like flowers, is your young wife in full + bloom, with her mother, a big marshmallow with a great many leaves. These + two flowers of the female species twitteringly talk of you, though the + noise of the wheels and your attention to the horse, joined to your + fatherly caution, prevent you from hearing what they say. + </p> + <p> + On the front seat, there is a nice tidy nurse holding a little girl in her + lap: by her side is a boy in a red plaited shirt, who is continually + leaning out of the carriage and climbing upon the cushions, and who has a + thousand times drawn down upon himself those declarations of every mother, + which he knows to be threats and nothing else: “Be a good boy, Adolphe, or + else—” “I declare I’ll never bring you again, so there!” + </p> + <p> + His mamma is secretly tired to death of this noisy little boy: he has + provoked her twenty times, and twenty times the face of the little girl + asleep has calmed her. + </p> + <p> + “I am his mother,” she says to herself. And so she finally manages to keep + her little Adolphe quiet. + </p> + <p> + You have put your triumphant idea of taking your family to ride into + execution. You left your home in the morning, all the opposite neighbors + having come to their windows, envying you the privilege which your means + give you of going to the country and coming back again without undergoing + the miseries of a public conveyance. So you have dragged your unfortunate + Norman horse through Paris to Vincennes, from Vincennes to Saint Maur, + from Saint Maur to Charenton, from Charenton opposite some island or other + which struck your wife and mother-in-law as being prettier than all the + landscapes through which you had driven them. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go to Maison’s!” somebody exclaims. + </p> + <p> + So you go to Maison’s, near Alfort. You come home by the left bank of the + Seine, in the midst of a cloud of very black Olympian dust. The horse + drags your family wearily along. But alas! your pride has fled, and you + look without emotion upon his sunken flanks, and upon two bones which + stick out on each side of his belly. His coat is roughened by the sweat + which has repeatedly come out and dried upon him, and which, no less than + the dust, has made him gummy, sticky and shaggy. The horse looks like a + wrathy porcupine: you are afraid he will be foundered, and you caress him + with the whip-lash in a melancholy way that he perfectly understands, for + he moves his head about like an omnibus horse, tired of his deplorable + existence. + </p> + <p> + You think a good deal of this horse; your consider him an excellent one + and he cost you twelve hundred francs. When a man has the honor of being + the father of a family, he thinks as much of twelve hundred francs as you + think of this horse. You see at once the frightful amount of your extra + expenses, in case Coco should have to lie by. For two days you will have + to take hackney coaches to go to your business. You wife will pout if she + can’t go out: but she will go out, and take a carriage. The horse will + cause the purchase of numerous extras, which you will find in your + coachman’s bill,—your only coachman, a model coachman, whom you + watch as you do a model anybody. + </p> + <p> + To these thoughts you give expression in the gentle movement of the whip + as it falls upon the animal’s ribs, up to his knees in the black dust + which lines the road in front of La Verrerie. + </p> + <p> + At this moment, little Adolphe, who doesn’t know what to do in this + rolling box, has sadly twisted himself up into a corner, and his + grandmother anxiously asks him, “What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m hungry,” says the child. + </p> + <p> + “He’s hungry,” says the mother to her daughter. + </p> + <p> + “And why shouldn’t he be hungry? It is half-past five, we are not at the + barrier, and we started at two!” + </p> + <p> + “Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country.” + </p> + <p> + “He’d rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get back + to the house.” + </p> + <p> + “The cook might have had the day to herself. But Adolphe is right, after + all: it’s cheaper to dine at home,” adds the mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe,” exclaims your wife, stimulated by the word “cheaper,” “we go so + slow that I shall be seasick, and you keep driving right in this nasty + dust. What are you thinking of? My gown and hat will be ruined!” + </p> + <p> + “Would you rather ruin the horse?” you ask, with the air of a man who + can’t be answered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no matter for your horse; just think of your son who is dying of + hunger: he hasn’t tasted a thing for seven hours. Whip up your old horse! + One would really think you cared more for your nag than for your child!” + </p> + <p> + You dare not give your horse a single crack with the whip, for he might + still have vigor enough left to break into a gallop and run away. + </p> + <p> + “No, Adolphe tries to vex me, he’s going slower,” says the young wife to + her mother. “My dear, go as slow as you like. But I know you’ll say I am + extravagant when you see me buying another hat.” + </p> + <p> + Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket made + by the wheels. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of replying with reasons that haven’t got an ounce of + common-sense?” cries Caroline. + </p> + <p> + You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to the + horse, to avoid an accident. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you’ll be rid of + us. Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger. See how pale he is!” + </p> + <p> + “But Caroline,” puts in the mother-in-law, “he’s doing the best he can.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing annoys you so much as to have your mother-in-law take your part. + She is a hypocrite and is delighted to see you quarreling with her + daughter. Gently and with infinite precaution she throws oil on the fire. + </p> + <p> + When you arrive at the barrier, your wife is mute. She says not a word, + she sits with her arms crossed, and will not look at you. You have neither + soul, heart, nor sentiment. No one but you could have invented such a + party of pleasure. If you are unfortunate enough to remind Caroline that + it was she who insisted on the excursion, that morning, for her children’s + sake, and in behalf of her milk—she nurses the baby—you will + be overwhelmed by an avalanche of frigid and stinging reproaches. + </p> + <p> + You bear it all so as “not to turn the milk of a nursing mother, for whose + sake you must overlook some little things,” so your atrocious + mother-in-law whispers in your ear. + </p> + <p> + All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart. + </p> + <p> + In reply to the sacramental words pronounced by the officer of the + customs, “Have you anything to declare?” your wife says, “I declare a + great deal of ill-humor and dust.” + </p> + <p> + She laughs, the officer laughs, and you feel a desire to tip your family + into the Seine. + </p> + <p> + Unluckily for you, you suddenly remember the joyous and perverse young + woman who wore a pink bonnet and who made merry in your tilbury six years + before, as you passed this spot on your way to the chop-house on the + river’s bank. What a reminiscence! Was Madame Schontz anxious about + babies, about her bonnet, the lace of which was torn to pieces in the + bushes? No, she had no care for anything whatever, not even for her + dignity, for she shocked the rustic police of Vincennes by the somewhat + daring freedom of her style of dancing. + </p> + <p> + You return home, you have frantically hurried your Norman horse, and have + neither prevented an indisposition of the animal, nor an indisposition of + your wife. + </p> + <p> + That evening, Caroline has very little milk. If the baby cries and if your + head is split in consequence, it is all your fault, as you preferred the + health of your horse to that of your son who was dying of hunger, and of + your daughter whose supper has disappeared in a discussion in which your + wife was right, <i>as she always is</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” she says, “men are not mothers!” + </p> + <p> + As you leave the chamber, you hear your mother-in-law consoling her + daughter by these terrible words: “Come, be calm, Caroline: that’s the way + with them all: they are a selfish lot: your father was just like that!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ULTIMATUM. + </h2> + <p> + It is eight o’clock; you make your appearance in the bedroom of your wife. + There is a brilliant light. The chambermaid and the cook hover lightly + about. The furniture is covered with dresses and flowers tried on and laid + aside. + </p> + <p> + The hair-dresser is there, an artist par excellence, a sovereign + authority, at once nobody and everything. You hear the other domestics + going and coming: orders are given and recalled, errands are well or ill + performed. The disorder is at its height. This chamber is a studio from + whence to issue a parlor Venus. + </p> + <p> + Your wife desires to be the fairest at the ball which you are to attend. + Is it still for your sake, or only for herself, or is it for somebody + else? Serious questions these. + </p> + <p> + The idea does not even occur to you. + </p> + <p> + You are squeezed, hampered, harnessed in your ball accoutrement: you count + your steps as you walk, you look around, you observe, you contemplate + talking business on neutral ground with a stock-broker, a notary or a + banker, to whom you would not like to give an advantage over you by + calling at their house. + </p> + <p> + A singular fact which all have probably observed, but the causes of which + can hardly be determined, is the peculiar repugnance which men dressed and + ready to go to a party have for discussions or to answer questions. At the + moment of starting, there are few husbands who are not taciturn and + profoundly absorbed in reflections which vary with their characters. Those + who reply give curt and peremptory answers. + </p> + <p> + But women, at this time, are exceedingly aggravating. They consult you, + they ask your advice upon the best way of concealing the stem of a rose, + of giving a graceful fall to a bunch of briar, or a happy turn to a scarf. + As a neat English expression has it, “they fish for compliments,” and + sometimes for better than compliments. + </p> + <p> + A boy just out of school would discern the motive concealed behind the + willows of these pretexts: but your wife is so well known to you, and you + have so often playfully joked upon her moral and physical perfections, + that you are harsh enough to give your opinion briefly and + conscientiously: you thus force Caroline to put that decisive question, so + cruel to women, even those who have been married twenty years: + </p> + <p> + “So I don’t suit you then?” + </p> + <p> + Drawn upon the true ground by this inquiry, you bestow upon her such + little compliments as you can spare and which are, as it were, the small + change, the sous, the liards of your purse. + </p> + <p> + “The best gown you ever wore!” “I never saw you so well dressed.” “Blue, + pink, yellow, cherry [take your pick], becomes you charmingly.” “Your + head-dress is quite original.” “As you go in, every one will admire you.” + “You will not only be the prettiest, but the best dressed.” “They’ll all + be mad not to have your taste.” “Beauty is a natural gift: taste is like + intelligence, a thing that we may be proud of.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so? Are you in earnest, Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + Your wife is coquetting with you. She chooses this moment to force from + you your pretended opinion of one and another of her friends, and to + insinuate the price of the articles of her dress you so much admire. + Nothing is too dear to please you. She sends the cook out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go,” you say. + </p> + <p> + She sends the chambermaid out after having dismissed the hair-dresser, and + begins to turn round and round before her glass, showing off to you her + most glorious beauties. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go,” you say. + </p> + <p> + “You are in a hurry,” she returns. + </p> + <p> + And she goes on exhibiting herself with all her little airs, setting + herself off like a fine peach magnificently exhibited in a fruiterer’s + window. But since you have dined rather heartily, you kiss her upon the + forehead merely, not feeling able to countersign your opinions. Caroline + becomes serious. + </p> + <p> + The carriage waits. All the household looks at Caroline as she goes out: + she is the masterpiece to which all have contributed, and everybody + admires the common work. + </p> + <p> + Your wife departs highly satisfied with herself, but a good deal + displeased with you. She proceeds loftily to the ball, just as a picture, + caressed by the painter and minutely retouched in the studio, is sent to + the annual exhibition in the vast bazaar of the Louvre. Your wife, alas! + sees fifty women handsomer than herself: they have invented dresses of the + most extravagant price, and more or less original: and that which happens + at the Louvre to the masterpiece, happens to the object of feminine labor: + your wife’s dress seems pale by the side of another very much like it, but + the livelier color of which crushes it. Caroline is nobody, and is hardly + noticed. When there are sixty handsome women in a room, the sentiment of + beauty is lost, beauty is no longer appreciated. Your wife becomes a very + ordinary affair. The petty stratagem of her smile, made perfect by + practice, has no meaning in the midst of countenances of noble expression, + of self-possessed women of lofty presence. She is completely put down, and + no one asks her to dance. She tries to force an expression of pretended + satisfaction, but, as she is not satisfied, she hears people say, “Madame + Adolphe is looking very ill to-night.” Women hypocritically ask her if she + is indisposed and “Why don’t you dance?” They have a whole catalogue of + malicious remarks veneered with sympathy and electroplated with charity, + enough to damn a saint, to make a monkey serious, and to give the devil + the shudders. + </p> + <p> + You, who are innocently playing cards or walking backwards and forwards, + and so have not seen one of the thousand pin-pricks with which your wife’s + self-love has been tattooed, you come and ask her in a whisper, “What is + the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Order <i>my</i> carriage!” + </p> + <p> + This <i>my</i> is the consummation of marriage. For two years she has said + “<i>my husband’s</i> carriage,” “<i>the</i> carriage,” “<i>our</i> + carriage,” and now she says “<i>my</i> carriage.” + </p> + <p> + You are in the midst of a game, you say, somebody wants his revenge, or + you must get your money back. + </p> + <p> + Here, Adolphe, we allow that you have sufficient strength of mind to say + yes, to disappear, and <i>not</i> to order the carriage. + </p> + <p> + You have a friend, you send him to dance with your wife, for you have + commenced a system of concessions which will ruin you. You already dimly + perceive the advantage of a friend. + </p> + <p> + Finally, you order the carriage. You wife gets in with concentrated rage, + she hurls herself into a corner, covers her face with her hood, crosses + her arms under her pelisse, and says not a word. + </p> + <p> + O husbands! Learn this fact; you may, at this fatal moment, repair and + redeem everything: and never does the impetuosity of lovers who have been + caressing each other the whole evening with flaming gaze fail to do it! + Yes, you can bring her home in triumph, she has now nobody but you, you + have one more chance, that of taking your wife by storm! But no, idiot, + stupid and indifferent that you are, you ask her, “What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—A husband should always know what is the matter with his + wife, for she always knows what is not. + </p> + <p> + “I’m cold,” she says. + </p> + <p> + “The ball was splendid.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! nobody of distinction! People have the mania, nowadays, to invite + all Paris into a hole. There were women even on the stairs: their gowns + were horribly smashed, and mine is ruined.” + </p> + <p> + “We had a good time.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you men, you play and that’s the whole of it. Once married, you care + about as much for your wives as a lion does for the fine arts.” + </p> + <p> + “How changed you are; you were so gay, so happy, so charming when we + arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you never understand us women. I begged you to go home, and you left + me there, as if a woman ever did anything without a reason. You are not + without intelligence, but now and then you are so queer I don’t know what + you are thinking about.” + </p> + <p> + Once upon this footing, the quarrel becomes more bitter. When you give + your wife your hand to lift her from the carriage, you grasp a woman of + wood: she gives you a “thank you” which puts you in the same rank as her + servant. You understood your wife no better before than you do after the + ball: you find it difficult to follow her, for instead of going up stairs, + she flies up. The rupture is complete. + </p> + <p> + The chambermaid is involved in your disgrace: she is received with blunt + No’s and Yes’s, as dry as Brussells rusks, which she swallows with a + slanting glance at you. “Monsieur’s always doing these things,” she + mutters. + </p> + <p> + You alone might have changed Madame’s temper. She goes to bed; she has her + revenge to take: you did not comprehend her. Now she does not comprehend + you. She deposits herself on her side of the bed in the most hostile and + offensive posture: she is wrapped up in her chemise, in her sack, in her + night-cap, like a bale of clocks packed for the East Indies. She says + neither good-night, nor good-day, nor dear, nor Adolphe: you don’t exist, + you are a bag of wheat. + </p> + <p> + Your Caroline, so enticing five hours before in this very chamber where + she frisked about like an eel, is now a junk of lead. Were you the + Tropical Zone in person, astride of the Equator, you could not melt the + ice of this little personified Switzerland that pretends to be asleep, and + who could freeze you from head to foot, if she liked. Ask her one hundred + times what is the matter with her, Switzerland replies by an ultimatum, + like the Diet or the Conference of London. + </p> + <p> + Nothing is the matter with her: she is tired: she is going to sleep. + </p> + <p> + The more you insist, the more she erects bastions of ignorance, the more + she isolates herself by chevaux-de-frise. If you get impatient, Caroline + begins to dream! You grumble, you are lost. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Inasmuch as women are always willing and able to explain + their strong points, they leave us to guess at their weak ones. + </p> + <p> + Caroline will perhaps also condescend to assure you that she does not feel + well. But she laughs in her night-cap when you have fallen asleep, and + hurls imprecations upon your slumbering body. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WOMEN’S LOGIC. + </h2> + <p> + You imagine you have married a creature endowed with reason: you are + woefully mistaken, my friend. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Sensitive beings are not sensible beings. + </p> + <p> + Sentiment is not argument, reason is not pleasure, and pleasure is + certainly not a reason. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir!” she says. + </p> + <p> + Reply “Ah! yes! Ah!” You must bring forth this “ah!” from the very depths + of your thoracic cavern, as you rush in a rage from the house, or return, + confounded, to your study. + </p> + <p> + Why? Now? Who has conquered, killed, overthrown you! Your wife’s logic, + which is not the logic of Aristotle, nor that of Ramus, nor that of Kant, + nor that of Condillac, nor that of Robespierre, nor that of Napoleon: but + which partakes of the character of all these logics, and which we must + call the universal logic of women, the logic of English women as it is + that of Italian women, of the women of Normandy and Brittany (ah, these + last are unsurpassed!), of the women of Paris, in short, that of the women + in the moon, if there are women in that nocturnal land, with which the + women of the earth have an evident understanding, angels that they are! + </p> + <p> + The discussion began after breakfast. Discussions can never take place in + a household save at this hour. A man could hardly have a discussion with + his wife in bed, even if he wanted to: she has too many advantages over + him, and can too easily reduce him to silence. On leaving the nuptial + chamber with a pretty woman in it, a man is apt to be hungry, if he is + young. Breakfast is usually a cheerful meal, and cheerfulness is not given + to argument. In short, you do not open the business till you have had your + tea or your coffee. + </p> + <p> + You have taken it into your head, for instance, to send your son to + school. All fathers are hypocrites and are never willing to confess that + their own flesh and blood is very troublesome when it walks about on two + legs, lays its dare-devil hands on everything, and is everywhere at once + like a frisky pollywog. Your son barks, mews, and sings; he breaks, + smashes and soils the furniture, and furniture is dear; he makes toys of + everything, he scatters your papers, and he cuts paper dolls out of the + morning’s newspaper before you have read it. + </p> + <p> + His mother says to him, referring to anything of yours: “Take it!” but in + reference to anything of hers she says: “Take care!” + </p> + <p> + She cunningly lets him have your things that she may be left in peace. Her + bad faith as a good mother seeks shelter behind her child, your son is her + accomplice. Both are leagued against you like Robert Macaire and Bertrand + against the subscribers to their joint stock company. The boy is an axe + with which foraging excursions are performed in your domains. He goes + either boldly or slyly to maraud in your wardrobe: he reappears + caparisoned in the drawers you laid aside that morning, and brings to the + light of day many articles condemned to solitary confinement. He brings + the elegant Madame Fischtaminel, a friend whose good graces you cultivate, + your girdle for checking corpulency, bits of cosmetic for dyeing your + moustache, old waistcoats discolored at the arm-holes, stockings slightly + soiled at the heels and somewhat yellow at the toes. It is quite + impossible to remark that these stains are caused by the leather! + </p> + <p> + Your wife looks at your friend and laughs; you dare not be angry, so you + laugh too, but what a laugh! The unfortunate all know that laugh. + </p> + <p> + Your son, moreover, gives you a cold sweat, if your razors happen to be + out of their place. If you are angry, the little rebel laughs and shows + his two rows of pearls: if you scold him, he cries. His mother rushes in! + And what a mother she is! A mother who will detest you if you don’t give + him the razor! With women there is no middle ground; a man is either a + monster or a model. + </p> + <p> + At certain times you perfectly understand Herod and his famous decrees + relative to the Massacre of the Innocents, which have only been surpassed + by those of the good Charles X! + </p> + <p> + Your wife has returned to her sofa, you walk up and down, and stop, and + you boldly introduce the subject by this interjectional remark: + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, we must send Charles to boarding school.” + </p> + <p> + “Charles cannot go to boarding school,” she returns in a mild tone. + </p> + <p> + “Charles is six years old, the age at which a boy’s education begins.” + </p> + <p> + “In the first place,” she replies, “it begins at seven. The royal princes + are handed over to their governor by their governess when they are seven. + That’s the law and the prophets. I don’t see why you shouldn’t apply to + the children of private people the rule laid down for the children of + princes. Is your son more forward than theirs? The king of Rome—” + </p> + <p> + “The king of Rome is not a case in point.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Is not the king of Rome the son of the Emperor? [Here she changes + the subject.] Well, I declare, you accuse the Empress, do you? Why, Doctor + Dubois himself was present, besides—” + </p> + <p> + “I said nothing of the kind.” + </p> + <p> + “How you do interrupt, Adolphe.” + </p> + <p> + “I say that the king of Rome [here you begin to raise your voice], the + king of Rome, who was hardly four years old when he left France, is no + example for us.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t prevent the fact of the Duke de Bordeaux’s having been + placed in the hands of the Duke de Riviere, his tutor, at seven years.” + [Logic.] + </p> + <p> + “The case of the young Duke of Bordeaux is different.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you confess that a boy can’t be sent to school before he is seven + years old?” she says with emphasis. [More logic.] + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, I don’t confess that at all. There is a great deal of + difference between private and public education.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s precisely why I don’t want to send Charles to school yet. He ought + to be much stronger than he is, to go there.” + </p> + <p> + “Charles is very strong for his age.” + </p> + <p> + “Charles? That’s the way with men! Why, Charles has a very weak + constitution; he takes after you. [Here she changes from <i>tu</i> to <i>vous</i>.] + But if you are determined to get rid of your son, why put him out to + board, of course. I have noticed for some time that the dear child annoys + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Annoys me? The idea! But we are answerable for our children, are we not? + It is time Charles’ education was began: he is getting very bad habits + here, he obeys no one, he thinks himself perfectly free to do as he likes, + he hits everybody and nobody dares to hit him back. He ought to be placed + in the midst of his equals, or he will grow up with the most detestable + temper.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you: so I am bringing Charles up badly!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that: but you will always have excellent reasons for + keeping him at home.” + </p> + <p> + Here the <i>vous</i> becomes reciprocal and the discussion takes a bitter + turn on both sides. Your wife is very willing to wound you by saying <i>vous</i>, + but she feels cross when it becomes mutual. + </p> + <p> + “The long and the short of it is that you want to get my child away, you + find that he is between us, you are jealous of your son, you want to + tyrannize over me at your ease, and you sacrifice your boy! Oh, I am smart + enough to see through you!” + </p> + <p> + “You make me out like Abraham with his knife! One would think there were + no such things as schools! So the schools are empty; nobody sends their + children to school!” + </p> + <p> + “You are trying to make me appear ridiculous,” she retorts. “I know that + there are schools well enough, but people don’t send boys of six there, + and Charles shall not start now.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t get angry, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “As if I ever get angry! I am a woman and know how to suffer in silence.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, let us reason together.” + </p> + <p> + “You have talked nonsense enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It is time that Charles should learn to read and write; later in life, he + will find difficulties sufficient to disgust him.” + </p> + <p> + Here, you talk for ten minutes without interruption, and you close with an + appealing “Well?” armed with an intonation which suggests an interrogation + point of the most crooked kind. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” she replies, “it is not yet time for Charles to go to school.” + </p> + <p> + You have gained nothing at all. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, Monsieur Deschars certainly sent his little Julius to + school at six years. Go and examine the schools and you will find lots of + little boys of six there.” + </p> + <p> + You talk for ten minutes more without the slightest interruption, and then + you ejaculate another “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Little Julius Deschars came home with chilblains,” she says. + </p> + <p> + “But Charles has chilblains here.” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” she replies, proudly. + </p> + <p> + In a quarter of an hour, the main question is blocked by a side discussion + on this point: “Has Charles had chilblains or not?” + </p> + <p> + You bandy contradictory allegations; you no longer believe each other; you + must appeal to a third party. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Every household has its Court of Appeals which takes no + notice of the merits, but judges matters of form only. + </p> + <p> + The nurse is sent for. She comes, and decides in favor of your wife. It is + fully decided that Charles has never had chilblains. + </p> + <p> + Caroline glances triumphantly at you and utters these monstrous words: + “There, you see Charles can’t possibly go to school!” + </p> + <p> + You go out breathless with rage. There is no earthly means of convincing + your wife that there is not the slightest reason for your son’s not going + to school in the fact that he has never had chilblains. + </p> + <p> + That evening, after dinner, you hear this atrocious creature finishing a + long conversation with a woman with these words: “He wanted to send + Charles to school, but I made him see that he would have to wait.” + </p> + <p> + Some husbands, at a conjuncture like this, burst out before everybody; + their wives take their revenge six weeks later, but the husbands gain this + by it, that Charles is sent to school the very day he gets into any + mischief. Other husbands break the crockery, and keep their rage to + themselves. The knowing ones say nothing and bide their time. + </p> + <p> + A woman’s logic is exhibited in this way upon the slightest occasion, + about a promenade or the proper place to put a sofa. This logic is + extremely simple, inasmuch as it consists in never expressing but one + idea, that which contains the expression of their will. Like everything + pertaining to female nature, this system may be resolved into two + algebraic terms—Yes: no. There are also certain little movements of + the head which mean so much that they may take the place of either. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE JESUITISM OF WOMEN. + </h2> + <p> + The most jesuitical Jesuit of Jesuits is yet a thousand times less + jesuitical than the least jesuitical woman,—so you may judge what + Jesuits women are! They are so jesuitical that the cunningest Jesuit + himself could never guess to what extent of jesuitism a woman may go, for + there are a thousand ways of being jesuitical, and a woman is such an + adroit Jesuit, that she has the knack of being a Jesuit without having a + jesuitical look. You can rarely, though you can sometimes, prove to a + Jesuit that he is one: but try once to demonstrate to a woman that she + acts or talks like a Jesuit. She would be cut to pieces rather than + confess herself one. + </p> + <p> + She, a Jesuit! The very soul of honor and loyalty! She a Jesuit! What do + you mean by “Jesuit?” She does not know what a Jesuit is: what is a + Jesuit? She has never seen or heard of a Jesuit! It’s you who are a + Jesuit! And she proves with jesuitical demonstration that you are a subtle + Jesuit. + </p> + <p> + Here is one of the thousand examples of a woman’s jesuitism, and this + example constitutes the most terrible of the petty troubles of married + life; it is perhaps the most serious. + </p> + <p> + Induced by a desire the thousandth time expressed by Caroline, who + complained that she had to go on foot or that she could not buy a new hat, + a new parasol, a new dress, or any other article of dress, often enough: + </p> + <p> + That she could not dress her baby as a sailor, as a lancer, as an + artilleryman of the National Guard, as a Highlander with naked legs and a + cap and feather, in a jacket, in a roundabout, in a velvet sack, in boots, + in trousers: that she could not buy him toys enough, nor mechanical moving + mice and Noah’s Arks enough: + </p> + <p> + That she could not return Madame Deschars or Madame de Fischtaminel their + civilities, a ball, a party, a dinner: nor take a private box at the + theatre, thus avoiding the necessity of sitting cheek by jowl with men who + are either too polite or not enough so, and of calling a cab at the close + of the performance; apropos of which she thus discourses: + </p> + <p> + “You think it cheaper, but you are mistaken: men are all the same! I soil + my shoes, I spoil my hat, my shawl gets wet and my silk stockings get + muddy. You economize twenty francs by not having a carriage,—no not + twenty, sixteen, for your pay four for the cab—and you lose fifty + francs’ worth of dress, besides being wounded in your pride on seeing a + faded bonnet on my head: you don’t see why it’s faded, but it’s those + horrid cabs. I say nothing of the annoyance of being tumbled and jostled + by a crowd of men, for it seems you don’t care for that!” + </p> + <p> + That she could not buy a piano instead of hiring one, nor keep up with the + fashions; (there are some women, she says, who have all the new styles, + but just think what they give in return! She would rather throw herself + out of the window than imitate them! She loves you too much. Here she + sheds tears. She does not understand such women). That she could not ride + in the Champs Elysees, stretched out in her own carriage, like Madame de + Fischtaminel. (There’s a woman who understands life: and who has a + well-taught, well-disciplined and very contented husband: his wife would + go through fire and water for him!) + </p> + <p> + Finally, beaten in a thousand conjugal scenes, beaten by the most logical + arguments (the late logicians Tripier and Merlin were nothing to her, as + the preceding chapter has sufficiently shown you), beaten by the most + tender caresses, by tears, by your own words turned against you, for under + circumstances like these, a woman lies in wait in her house like a jaguar + in the jungle; she does not appear to listen to you, or to heed you; but + if a single word, a wish, a gesture, escapes you, she arms herself with + it, she whets it to an edge, she brings it to bear upon you a hundred + times over; beaten by such graceful tricks as “If you will do so and so, I + will do this and that;” for women, in these cases, become greater + bargainers than the Jews and Greeks (those, I mean, who sell perfumes and + little girls), than the Arabs (those, I mean, who sell little boys and + horses), greater higglers than the Swiss and the Genevese, than bankers, + and, what is worse than all, than the Genoese! + </p> + <p> + Finally, beaten in a manner which may be called beaten, you determine to + risk a certain portion of your capital in a business undertaking. One + evening, at twilight, seated side by side, or some morning on awakening, + while Caroline, half asleep, a pink bud in her white linen, her face + smiling in her lace, is beside you, you say to her, “You want this, you + say, or you want that: you told me this or you told me that:” in short, + you hastily enumerate the numberless fancies by which she has over and + over again broken your heart, for there is nothing more dreadful than to + be unable to satisfy the desires of a beloved wife, and you close with + these words: + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, an opportunity offers of quintupling a hundred thousand + francs, and I have decided to make the venture.” + </p> + <p> + She is wide awake now, she sits up in bed, and gives you a kiss, ah! this + time, a real good one! + </p> + <p> + “You are a dear boy!” is her first word. + </p> + <p> + We will not mention her last, for it is an enormous and unpronounceable + onomatope. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” she says, “tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + You try to explain the nature of the affair. But in the first place, women + do not understand business, and in the next they do not wish to seem to + understand it. Your dear, delighted Caroline says you were wrong to take + her desires, her groans, her sighs for new dresses, in earnest. She is + afraid of your venture, she is frightened at the directors, the shares, + and above all at the running expenses, and doesn’t exactly see where the + dividend comes in. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Women are always afraid of things that have to be divided. + </p> + <p> + In short, Caroline suspects a trap: but she is delighted to know that she + can have her carriage, her box, the numerous styles of dress for her baby, + and the rest. While dissuading you from engaging in the speculation, she + is visibly glad to see you investing your money in it. + </p> + <p> + FIRST PERIOD.—“Oh, I am the happiest woman on the face of the earth! + Adolphe has just gone into the most splendid venture. I am going to have a + carriage, oh! ever so much handsomer than Madame de Fischtaminel’s; hers + is out of fashion. Mine will have curtains with fringes. My horses will be + mouse-colored, hers are bay,—they are as common as coppers.” + </p> + <p> + “What is this venture, madame?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s splendid—the stock is going up; he explained it to me + before he went into it, for Adolphe never does anything without consulting + me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + “Marriage would be intolerable without entire confidence, and Adolphe + tells me everything.” + </p> + <p> + Thus, Adolphe, you are the best husband in Paris, you are adorable, you + are a man of genius, you are all heart, an angel. You are petted to an + uncomfortable degree. You bless the marriage tie. Caroline extols men, + calling them “kings of creation,” women were made for them, man is + naturally generous, and matrimony is a delightful institution. + </p> + <p> + For three, sometimes six, months, Caroline executes the most brilliant + concertos and solos upon this delicious theme: “I shall be rich! I shall + have a thousand a month for my dress: I am going to keep my carriage!” + </p> + <p> + If your son is alluded to, it is merely to ask about the school to which + he shall be sent. + </p> + <p> + SECOND PERIOD.—“Well, dear, how is your business getting on?—What + has become of it?—How about that speculation which was to give me a + carriage, and other things?—It is high time that affair should come + to something.—It is a good while cooking.—When <i>will</i> it + begin to pay? Is the stock going up?—There’s nobody like you for + hitting upon ventures that never amount to anything.” + </p> + <p> + One day she says to you, “Is there really an affair?” + </p> + <p> + If you mention it eight or ten months after, she returns: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Then there really <i>is</i> an affair!” + </p> + <p> + This woman, whom you thought dull, begins to show signs of extraordinary + wit, when her object is to make fun of you. During this period, Caroline + maintains a compromising silence when people speak of you, or else she + speaks disparagingly of men in general: “Men are not what they seem: to + find them out you must try them.” “Marriage has its good and its bad + points.” “Men never can finish anything.” + </p> + <p> + THIRD PERIOD.—<i>Catastrophe</i>.—This magnificent affair + which was to yield five hundred per cent, in which the most cautious, the + best informed persons took part—peers, deputies, bankers—all + of them Knights of the Legion of Honor—this venture has been obliged + to liquidate! The most sanguine expect to get ten per cent of their + capital back. You are discouraged. + </p> + <p> + Caroline has often said to you, “Adolphe, what is the matter? Adolphe, + there is something wrong.” + </p> + <p> + Finally, you acquaint Caroline with the fatal result: she begins by + consoling you. + </p> + <p> + “One hundred thousand francs lost! We shall have to practice the strictest + economy,” you imprudently add. + </p> + <p> + The jesuitism of woman bursts out at this word “economy.” It sets fire to + the magazine. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that’s what comes of speculating! How is it that <i>you, ordinarily + so prudent</i>, could go and risk a hundred thousand francs! <i>You know I + was against it from the beginning!</i> BUT YOU WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME!” + </p> + <p> + Upon this, the discussion grows bitter. + </p> + <p> + You are good for nothing—you have no business capacity; women alone + take clear views of things. You have risked your children’s bread, though + she tried to dissuade you from it.—You cannot say it was for her. + Thank God, she has nothing to reproach herself with. A hundred times a + month she alludes to your disaster: “If my husband had not thrown away his + money in such and such a scheme, I could have had this and that.” “The + next time you want to go into an affair, perhaps you’ll consult me!” + Adolphe is accused and convicted of having foolishly lost one hundred + thousand francs, without an object in view, like a dolt, and without + having consulted his wife. Caroline advises her friends not to marry. She + complains of the incapacity of men who squander the fortunes of their + wives. Caroline is vindictive, she makes herself generally disagreeable. + Pity Adolphe! Lament, ye husbands! O bachelors, rejoice and be exceeding + glad! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MEMORIES AND REGRETS. + </h2> + <p> + After several years of wedded life, your love has become so placid, that + Caroline sometimes tries, in the evening, to wake you up by various little + coquettish phrases. There is about you a certain calmness and tranquillity + which always exasperates a lawful wife. Women see in it a sort of + insolence: they look upon the indifference of happiness as the fatuity of + confidence, for of course they never imagine their inestimable equalities + can be regarded with disdain: their virtue is therefore enraged at being + so cordially trusted in. + </p> + <p> + In this situation, which is what every couple must come to, and which both + husband and wife must expect, no husband dares confess that the constant + repetition of the same dish has become wearisome; but his appetite + certainly requires the condiments of dress, the ideas excited by absence, + the stimulus of an imaginary rivalry. + </p> + <p> + In short, at this period, you walk very comfortably with your wife on your + arm, without pressing hers against your heart with the solicitous and + watchful cohesion of a miser grasping his treasure. You gaze carelessly + round upon the curiosities in the street, leading your wife in a loose and + distracted way, as if you were towing a Norman scow. Come now, be frank! + If, on passing your wife, an admirer were gently to press her, + accidentally or purposely, would you have the slightest desire to discover + his motives? Besides, you say, no woman would seek to bring about a + quarrel for such a trifle. Confess this, too, that the expression “such a + trifle” is exceedingly flattering to both of you. + </p> + <p> + You are in this position, but you have as yet proceeded no farther. Still, + you have a horrible thought which you bury in the depths of your heart and + conscience: Caroline has not come up to your expectations. Caroline has + imperfections, which, during the high tides of the honey-moon, were + concealed under the water, but which the ebb of the gall-moon has laid + bare. You have several times run against these breakers, your hopes have + been often shipwrecked upon them, more than once your desires—those + of a young marrying man—(where, alas, is that time!) have seen their + richly laden gondolas go to pieces there: the flower of the cargo went to + the bottom, the ballast of the marriage remained. In short, to make use of + a colloquial expression, as you talk over your marriage with yourself you + say, as you look at Caroline, “<i>She is not what I took her to be!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Some evening, at a ball, in society, at a friend’s house, no matter where, + you meet a sublime young woman, beautiful, intellectual and kind: with a + soul, oh! a soul of celestial purity, and of miraculous beauty! Yes, there + is that unchangeable oval cut of face, those features which time will + never impair, that graceful and thoughtful brow. The unknown is rich, + well-educated, of noble birth: she will always be what she should be, she + knows when to shine, when to remain in the background: she appears in all + her glory and power, the being you have dreamed of, your wife that should + have been, she whom you feel you could love forever. She would always have + flattered your little vanities, she would understand and admirably serve + your interests. She is tender and gay, too, this young lady who reawakens + all your better feelings, who rekindles your slumbering desires. + </p> + <p> + You look at Caroline with gloomy despair, and here are the phantom-like + thoughts which tap, with wings of a bat, the beak of a vulture, the body + of a death’s-head moth, upon the walls of the palace in which, enkindled + by desire, glows your brain like a lamp of gold: + </p> + <p> + FIRST STANZA. Ah, dear me, why did I get married? Fatal idea! I allowed + myself to be caught by a small amount of cash. And is it really over? + Cannot I have another wife? Ah, the Turks manage things better! It is + plain enough that the author of the Koran lived in the desert! + </p> + <p> + SECOND STANZA. My wife is sick, she sometimes coughs in the morning. If it + is the design of Providence to remove her from the world, let it be + speedily done for her sake and for mine. The angel has lived long enough. + </p> + <p> + THIRD STANZA. I am a monster! Caroline is the mother of my children! + </p> + <p> + You go home, that night, in a carriage with your wife: you think her + perfectly horrible: she speaks to you, but you answer in monosyllables. + She says, “What is the matter?” and you answer, “Nothing.” She coughs, you + advise her to see the doctor in the morning. Medicine has its hazards. + </p> + <p> + FOURTH STANZA. I have been told that a physician, poorly paid by the heirs + of his deceased patient, imprudently exclaimed, “What! they cut down my + bill, when they owe me forty thousand a year.” <i>I</i> would not haggle + over fees! + </p> + <p> + “Caroline,” you say to her aloud, “you must take care of yourself; cross + your shawl, be prudent, my darling angel.” + </p> + <p> + Your wife is delighted with you since you seem to take such an interest in + her. While she is preparing to retire, you lie stretched out upon the + sofa. You contemplate the divine apparition which opens to you the ivory + portals of your castles in the air. Delicious ecstasy! ‘Tis the sublime + young woman that you see before you! She is as white as the sail of the + treasure-laden galleon as it enters the harbor of Cadiz. Your wife, happy + in your admiration, now understands your former taciturnity. You still + see, with closed eyes, the sublime young woman; she is the burden of your + thoughts, and you say aloud: + </p> + <p> + FIFTH AND LAST STANZA. Divine! Adorable! Can there be another woman like + her? Rose of Night! Column of ivory! Celestial maiden! Morning and Evening + Star! + </p> + <p> + Everyone says his prayers; you have said four. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, your wife is delightful, she coughs no more, she has no + need of a doctor; if she dies, it will be of good health; you launched + four maledictions upon her, in the name of your sublime young woman, and + four times she blessed you for it. Caroline does not know that in the + depths of your heart there wriggles a little red fish like a crocodile, + concealed beneath conjugal love like the other would be hid in a basin. + </p> + <p> + A few days before, your wife had spoken of you in rather equivocal terms + to Madame de Fischtaminel: your fair friend comes to visit her, and + Caroline compromises you by a long and humid gaze; she praises you and + says she never was happier. + </p> + <p> + You rush out in a rage, you are beside yourself, and are glad to meet a + friend, that you may work off your bile. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you ever marry, George; it’s better to see your heirs carrying away + your furniture while the death-rattle is in your throat, better to go + through an agony of two hours without a drop to cool your tongue, better + to be assassinated by inquiries about your will by a nurse like the one in + Henry Monnier’s terrible picture of a ‘Bachelor’s Last Moments!’ Never + marry under any pretext!” + </p> + <p> + Fortunately you see the sublime young woman no more. You are saved from + the tortures to which a criminal passion was leading you. You fall back + again into the purgatory of your married bliss; but you begin to be + attentive to Madame de Fischtaminel, with whom you were dreadfully in + love, without being able to get near her, while you were a bachelor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OBSERVATIONS. + </h2> + <p> + When you have arrived at this point in the latitude or longitude of the + matrimonial ocean, there appears a slight chronic, intermittent affection, + not unlike the toothache. Here, I see, you stop me to ask, “How are we to + find the longitude in this sea? When can a husband be sure he has attained + this nautical point? And can the danger be avoided?” + </p> + <p> + You may arrive at this point, look you, as easily after ten months as ten + years of wedlock; it depends upon the speed of the vessel, its style of + rigging, upon the trade winds, the force of the currents, and especially + upon the composition of the crew. You have this advantage over the + mariner, that he has but one method of calculating his position, while + husbands have at least a thousand of reckoning theirs. + </p> + <p> + EXAMPLE: Caroline, your late darling, your late treasure, who is now + merely your humdrum wife, leans much too heavily upon your arm while + walking on the boulevard, or else says it is much more elegant not to take + your arm at all; + </p> + <p> + Or else she notices men, older or younger as the case may be, dressed with + more or less taste, whereas she formerly saw no one whatever, though the + sidewalk was black with hats and traveled by more boots than slippers; + </p> + <p> + Or, when you come home, she says, “It’s no one but my husband:” instead of + saying “Ah! ‘tis Adolphe!” as she used to say with a gesture, a look, an + accent which caused her admirers to think, “Well, here’s a happy woman at + last!” This last exclamation of a woman is suitable for two eras,—first, + while she is sincere; second, while she is hypocritical, with her “Ah! + ‘tis Adolphe!” When she exclaims, “It’s only my husband,” she no longer + deigns to play a part. + </p> + <p> + Or, if you come home somewhat late—at eleven, or at midnight—you + find her—snoring! Odious symptom! + </p> + <p> + Or else she puts on her stockings in your presence. Among English couples, + this never happens but once in a lady’s married life; the next day she + leaves for the Continent with some captain or other, and no longer thinks + of putting on her stockings at all. + </p> + <p> + Or else—but let us stop here. + </p> + <p> + This is intended for the use of mariners and husbands who are weatherwise. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MATRIMONIAL GADFLY. + </h2> + <p> + Very well! In this degree of longitude, not far from a tropical sign upon + the name of which good taste forbids us to make a jest at once coarse and + unworthy of this thoughtful work, a horrible little annoyance appears, + ingeniously called the Matrimonial Gadfly, the most provoking of all + gnats, mosquitoes, blood-suckers, fleas and scorpions, for no net was ever + yet invented that could keep it off. The gadfly does not immediately sting + you; it begins by buzzing in your ears, and <i>you do not at first know + what it is</i>. + </p> + <p> + Thus, apropos of nothing, in the most natural way in the world, Caroline + says: “Madame Deschars had a lovely dress on, yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “She is a woman of taste,” returns Adolphe, though he is far from thinking + so. + </p> + <p> + “Her husband gave it to her,” resumes Caroline, with a shrug of her + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a four hundred franc dress! It’s the very finest quality of velvet.” + </p> + <p> + “Four hundred francs!” cries Adolphe, striking the attitude of the apostle + Thomas. + </p> + <p> + “But then there are two extra breadths and enough for a high waist!” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Deschars does things on a grand scale,” replies Adolphe, taking + refuge in a jest. + </p> + <p> + “All men don’t pay such attentions to their wives,” says Caroline, curtly. + </p> + <p> + “What attentions?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Adolphe, thinking of extra breadths and of a waist to make the dress + good again, when it is no longer fit to be worn low in the neck.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe says to himself, “Caroline wants a dress.” + </p> + <p> + Poor man! + </p> + <p> + Some time afterward, Monsieur Deschars furnishes his wife’s chamber anew. + Then he has his wife’s diamonds set in the prevailing fashion. Monsieur + Deschars never goes out without his wife, and never allows his wife to go + out without offering her his arm. + </p> + <p> + If you bring Caroline anything, no matter what, it is never equal to what + Monsieur Deschars has done. If you allow yourself the slightest gesture or + expression a little livelier than usual, if you speak a little bit loud, + you hear the hissing and viper-like remark: + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t see Monsieur Deschars behaving like this! Why don’t you take + Monsieur Deschars for a model?” + </p> + <p> + In short, this idiotic Monsieur Deschars is forever looming up in your + household on every conceivable occasion. + </p> + <p> + The expression—“Do you suppose Monsieur Deschars ever allows + himself”—is a sword of Damocles, or what is worse, a Damocles pin: + and your self-love is the cushion into which your wife is constantly + sticking it, pulling it out, and sticking it in again, under a variety of + unforeseen pretexts, at the same time employing the most winning terms of + endearment, and with the most agreeable little ways. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, stung till he finds himself tattooed, finally does what is done + by police authorities, by officers of government, by military tacticians. + He casts his eye on Madame de Fischtaminel, who is still young, elegant + and a little bit coquettish, and places her (this had been the rascal’s + intention for some time) like a blister upon Caroline’s extremely ticklish + skin. + </p> + <p> + O you, who often exclaim, “I don’t know what is the matter with my wife!” + you will kiss this page of transcendent philosophy, for you will find in + it <i>the key to every woman’s character</i>! But as to knowing women as + well as I know them, it will not be knowing them much; they don’t know + themselves! In fact, as you well know, God was Himself mistaken in the + only one that He attempted to manage and to whose manufacture He had given + personal attention. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is very willing to sting Adolphe at all hours, but this privilege + of letting a wasp off now and then upon one’s consort (the legal term), is + exclusively reserved to the wife. Adolphe is a monster if he starts off a + single fly at Caroline. On her part, it is a delicious joke, a new jest to + enliven their married life, and one dictated by the purest intentions; + while on Adolphe’s part, it is a piece of cruelty worthy a Carib, a + disregard of his wife’s heart, and a deliberate plan to give her pain. But + that is nothing. + </p> + <p> + “So you are really in love with Madame de Fischtaminel?” Caroline asks. + “What is there so seductive in the mind or the manners of the spider?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Caroline—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t undertake to deny your eccentric taste,” she returns, checking + a negation on Adolphe’s lips. “I have long seen that you prefer that + Maypole [Madame de Fischtaminel is thin] to me. Very well! go on; you will + soon see the difference.” + </p> + <p> + Do you understand? You cannot suspect Caroline of the slightest + inclination for Monsieur Deschars, a low, fat, red-faced man, formerly a + notary, while you are in love with Madame de Fischtaminel! Then Caroline, + the Caroline whose simplicity caused you such agony, Caroline who has + become familiar with society, Caroline becomes acute and witty: you have + two gadflies instead of one. + </p> + <p> + The next day she asks you, with a charming air of interest, “How are you + coming on with Madame de Fischtaminel?” + </p> + <p> + When you go out, she says: “Go and drink something calming, my dear.” For, + in their anger with a rival, all women, duchesses even, will use + invectives, and even venture into the domain of Billingsgate; they make an + offensive weapon of anything and everything. + </p> + <p> + To try to convince Caroline that she is mistaken and that you are + indifferent to Madame de Fischtaminel, would cost you dear. This is a + blunder that no sensible man commits; he would lose his power and spike + his own guns. + </p> + <p> + Oh! Adolphe, you have arrived unfortunately at that season so ingeniously + called the <i>Indian Summer of Marriage</i>. + </p> + <p> + You must now—pleasing task!—win your wife, your Caroline, over + again, seize her by the waist again, and become the best of husbands by + trying to guess at things to please her, so as to act according to her + whims instead of according to your will. This is the whole question + henceforth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HARD LABOR. + </h2> + <p> + Let us admit this, which, in our opinion, is a truism made as good as new: + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Most men have some of the wit required by a difficult + position, when they have not the whole of it. + </p> + <p> + As for those husbands who are not up to their situation, it is impossible + to consider their case here: without any struggle whatever they simply + enter the numerous class of the <i>Resigned</i>. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe says to himself: “Women are children: offer them a lump of sugar, + and you will easily get them to dance all the dances that greedy children + dance; but you must always have a sugar plum in hand, hold it up pretty + high, and—take care that their fancy for sweetmeats does not leave + them. Parisian women—and Caroline is one—are very vain, and as + for their voracity—don’t speak of it. Now you cannot govern men and + make friends of them, unless you work upon them through their vices, and + flatter their passions: my wife is mine!” + </p> + <p> + Some days afterward, during which Adolphe has been unusually attentive to + his wife, he discourses to her as follows: + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, dear, suppose we have a bit of fun: you’ll put on your new gown—the + one like Madame Deschars!—and we’ll go to see a farce at the + Varieties.” + </p> + <p> + This kind of proposition always puts a wife in the best possible humor. So + away you go! Adolphe has ordered a dainty little dinner for two, at + Borrel’s <i>Rocher de Cancale</i>. + </p> + <p> + “As we are going to the Varieties, suppose we dine at the tavern,” + exclaims Adolphe, on the boulevard, with the air of a man suddenly struck + by a generous idea. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, delighted with this appearance of good fortune, enters a little + parlor where she finds the cloth laid and that neat little service set, + which Borrel places at the disposal of those who are rich enough to pay + for the quarters intended for the great ones of the earth, who make + themselves small for an hour. + </p> + <p> + Women eat little at a formal dinner: their concealed harness hampers them, + they are laced tightly, and they are in the presence of women whose eyes + and whose tongues are equally to be dreaded. They prefer fancy eating to + good eating, then: they will suck a lobster’s claw, swallow a quail or + two, punish a woodcock’s wing, beginning with a bit of fresh fish, + flavored by one of those sauces which are the glory of French cooking. + France is everywhere sovereign in matters of taste: in painting, fashions, + and the like. Gravy is the triumph of taste, in cookery. So that + grisettes, shopkeepers’ wives and duchesses are delighted with a tasty + little dinner washed down with the choicest wines, of which, however, they + drink but little, the whole concluded by fruit such as can only be had at + Paris; and especially delighted when they go to the theatre to digest the + little dinner, and listen, in a comfortable box, to the nonsense uttered + upon the stage, and to that whispered in their ears to explain it. But + then the bill of the restaurant is one hundred francs, the box costs + thirty, the carriage, dress, gloves, bouquet, as much more. This gallantry + amounts to the sum of one hundred and sixty francs, which is hard upon + four thousand francs a month, if you go often to the Comic, the Italian, + or the Grand, Opera. Four thousand francs a month is the interest of a + capital of two millions. But then the honor of being a husband is fully + worth the price! + </p> + <p> + Caroline tells her friends things which she thinks exceedingly flattering, + but which cause a sagacious husband to make a wry face. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe has been delightful for some time past. I don’t know what I have + done to deserve so much attention, but he overpowers me. He gives value to + everything by those delicate ways which have such an effect upon us women. + After taking me Monday to the <i>Rocher de Cancale</i> to dine, he + declared that Very was as good a cook as Borrel, and he gave me the little + party of pleasure that I told you of all over again, presenting me at + dessert with a ticket for the opera. They sang ‘William Tell,’ which, you + know, is my craze.” + </p> + <p> + “You are lucky indeed,” returns Madame Deschars with evident jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “Still, a wife who discharges all her duties, deserves such luck, it seems + to me.” + </p> + <p> + When this terrible sentiment falls from the lips of a married woman, it is + clear that she <i>does her duty</i>, after the manner of school-boys, for + the reward she expects. At school, a prize is the object: in marriage, a + shawl or a piece of jewelry. No more love, then! + </p> + <p> + “As for me,”—Madame Deschars is piqued—“I am reasonable. + Deschars committed such follies once, but I put a stop to it. You see, my + dear, we have two children, and I confess that one or two hundred francs + are quite a consideration for me, as the mother of a family.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, madame,” says Madame de Fischtaminel, “it’s better that our + husbands should have cosy little times with us than with—” + </p> + <p> + “Deschars!—” suddenly puts in Madame Deschars, as she gets up and + says good-bye. + </p> + <p> + The individual known as Deschars (a man nullified by his wife) does not + hear the end of the sentence, by which he might have learned that a man + may spend his money with other women. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, flattered in every one of her vanities, abandons herself to the + pleasures of pride and high living, two delicious capital sins. Adolphe is + gaining ground again, but alas! (this reflection is worth a whole sermon + in Lent) sin, like all pleasure, contains a spur. Vice is like an + Autocrat, and let a single harsh fold in a rose-leaf irritate it, it + forgets a thousand charming bygone flatteries. With Vice a man’s course + must always be crescendo!—and forever. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Vice, Courtiers, Misfortune and Love, care only for the + PRESENT. + </p> + <p> + At the end of a period of time difficult to determine, Caroline looks in + the glass, at dessert, and notices two or three pimples blooming upon her + cheeks, and upon the sides, lately so pure, of her nose. She is out of + humor at the theatre, and you do not know why, you, so proudly striking an + attitude in your cravat, you, displaying your figure to the best + advantage, as a complacent man should. + </p> + <p> + A few days after, the dressmaker arrives. She tries on a gown, she exerts + all her strength, but cannot make the hooks and eyes meet. The waiting + maid is called. After a two horse-power pull, a regular thirteenth labor + of Hercules, a hiatus of two inches manifests itself. The inexorable + dressmaker cannot conceal from Caroline the fact that her form is altered. + Caroline, the aerial Caroline, threatens to become like Madame Deschars. + In vulgar language, she is getting stout. The maid leaves her in a state + of consternation. + </p> + <p> + “What! am I to have, like that fat Madame Deschars, cascades of flesh a la + Rubens! That Adolphe is an awful scoundrel. Oh, I see, he wants to make me + an old mother Gigogne, and destroy my powers of fascination!” + </p> + <p> + Thenceforward Caroline is willing to go to the opera, she accepts two + seats in a box, but she considers it very distingue to eat sparingly, and + declines the dainty dinners of her husband. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she says, “a well-bred woman should not go often to these + places; you may go once for a joke; but as for making a habitual thing of + it—fie, for shame!” + </p> + <p> + Borrel and Very, those masters of the art, lose a thousand francs a day by + not having a private entrance for carriages. If a coach could glide under + an archway, and go out by another door, after leaving its fair occupants + on the threshold of an elegant staircase, how many of them would bring the + landlord fine, rich, solid old fellows for customers! + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Vanity is the death of good living. + </p> + <p> + Caroline very soon gets tired of the theatre, and the devil alone can tell + the cause of her disgust. Pray excuse Adolphe! A husband is not the devil. + </p> + <p> + Fully one-third of the women of Paris are bored by the theatre. Many of + them are tired to death of music, and go to the opera for the singers + merely, or rather to notice the difference between them in point of + execution. What supports the theatre is this: the women are a spectacle + before and after the play. Vanity alone will pay the exorbitant price of + forty francs for three hours of questionable pleasure, in a bad atmosphere + and at great expense, without counting the colds caught in going out. But + to exhibit themselves, to see and be seen, to be the observed of five + hundred observers! What a glorious mouthful! as Rabelais would say. + </p> + <p> + To obtain this precious harvest, garnered by self-love, a woman must be + looked at. Now a woman with her husband is very little looked at. Caroline + is chagrined to see the audience entirely taken up with women who are <i>not</i> + with their husbands, with eccentric women, in short. Now, as the very + slight return she gets from her efforts, her dresses, and her attitudes, + does not compensate, in her eyes, for her fatigue, her display and her + weariness, it is very soon the same with the theatre as it was with the + good cheer; high living made her fat, the theatre is making her yellow. + </p> + <p> + Here Adolphe—or any other man in Adolphe’s place—resembles a + certain Languedocian peasant who suffered agonies from an agacin, or, in + French, corn,—but the term in Lanquedoc is so much prettier, don’t + you think so? This peasant drove his foot at each step two inches into the + sharpest stones along the roadside, saying to the agacin, “Devil take you! + Make me suffer again, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word,” says Adolphe, profoundly disappointed, the day when he + receives from his wife a refusal, “I should like very much to know what + would please you!” + </p> + <p> + Caroline looks loftily down upon her husband, and says, after a pause + worthy of an actress, “I am neither a Strasburg goose nor a giraffe!” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis true, I might lay out four thousand francs a month to better + effect,” returns Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “With the quarter of that sum, presented to estimable burglars, youthful + jail-birds and honorable criminals, I might become somebody, a Man in the + Blue Cloak on a small scale; and then a young woman is proud of her + husband,” Adolphe replies. + </p> + <p> + This answer is the grave of love, and Caroline takes it in very bad part. + An explanation follows. This must be classed among the thousand + pleasantries of the following chapter, the title of which ought to make + lovers smile as well as husbands. If there are yellow rays of light, why + should there not be whole days of this extremely matrimonial color? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORCED SMILES. + </h2> + <p> + On your arrival in this latitude, you enjoy numerous little scenes, which, + in the grand opera of marriage, represent the intermezzos, and of which + the following is a type: + </p> + <p> + You are one evening alone after dinner, and you have been so often alone + already that you feel a desire to say sharp little things to each other, + like this, for instance: + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Caroline,” says Adolphe, who has not forgotten his many vain + efforts to please her. “I think your nose has the impertinence to redden + at home quite well as at the restaurant.” + </p> + <p> + “This is not one of your amiable days!” + </p> + <p> + General Rule.—No man has ever yet discovered the way to give + friendly advice to any woman, not even to his own wife. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it’s because you are laced too tight. Women make themselves sick + that way.” + </p> + <p> + The moment a man utters these words to a woman, no matter whom, that + woman,—who knows that stays will bend,—seizes her corset by + the lower end, and bends it out, saying, with Caroline: + </p> + <p> + “Look, you can get your hand in! I never lace tight.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it must be your stomach.” + </p> + <p> + “What has the stomach got to do with the nose?” + </p> + <p> + “The stomach is a centre which communicates with all the organs.” + </p> + <p> + “So the nose is an organ, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Your organ is doing you a poor service at this moment.” She raises her + eyes and shrugs her shoulders. “Come, Adolphe, what have I done?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I’m only joking, and I am unfortunate enough not to please you,” + returns Adolphe, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “My misfortune is being your wife! Oh, why am I not somebody else’s!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what <i>I</i> say!” + </p> + <p> + “If I were, and if I had the innocence to say to you, like a coquette who + wishes to know how far she has got with a man, ‘the redness of my nose + really gives me anxiety,’ you would look at me in the glass with all the + affectations of an ape, and would reply, ‘O madame, you do yourself an + injustice; in the first place, nobody sees it: besides, it harmonizes with + your complexion; then again we are all so after dinner!’ and from this you + would go on to flatter me. Do I ever tell you that you are growing fat, + that you are getting the color of a stone-cutter, and that I prefer thin + and pale men?” + </p> + <p> + They say in London, “Don’t touch the axe!” In France we ought to say, + “Don’t touch a woman’s nose.” + </p> + <p> + “And all this about a little extra natural vermilion!” exclaims Adolphe. + “Complain about it to Providence, whose office it is to put a little more + color in one place than another, not to me, who loves you, who desires you + to be perfect, and who merely says to you, take care!” + </p> + <p> + “You love me too much, then, for you’ve been trying, for some time past, + to find disagreeable things to say to me. You want to run me down under + the pretext of making me perfect—people said I <i>was</i> perfect, + five years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you are better than perfect, you are stunning!” + </p> + <p> + “With too much vermilion?” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, who sees the atmosphere of the north pole upon his wife’s face, + sits down upon a chair by her side. Caroline, unable decently to go away, + gives her gown a sort of flip on one side, as if to produce a separation. + This motion is performed by some women with a provoking impertinence: but + it has two significations; it is, as whist players would say, either a + signal <i>for trumps</i> or a <i>renounce</i>. At this time, Caroline + renounces. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” says Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “Will you have a glass of sugar and water?” asks Caroline, busying herself + about your health, and assuming the part of a servant. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “You are not amiable while digesting, you must be in pain. Perhaps you + would like a drop of brandy in your sugar and water? The doctor spoke of + it as an excellent remedy.” + </p> + <p> + “How anxious you are about my stomach!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a centre, it communicates with the other organs, it will act upon + your heart, and through that perhaps upon your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe gets up and walks about without saying a word, but he reflects + upon the acuteness which his wife is acquiring: he sees her daily gaining + in strength and in acrimony: she is getting to display an art in vexation + and a military capacity for disputation which reminds him of Charles XII + and the Russians. Caroline, during this time, is busy with an alarming + piece of mimicry: she looks as if she were going to faint. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sick?” asks Adolphe, attacked in his generosity, the place where + women always have us. + </p> + <p> + “It makes me sick at my stomach, after dinner, to see a man going back and + forth so, like the pendulum of a clock. But it’s just like you: you are + always in a fuss about something. You are a queer set: all men are more or + less cracked.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe sits down by the fire opposite to his wife, and remains there + pensive: marriage appears to him like an immense dreary plain, with its + crop of nettles and mullen stalks. + </p> + <p> + “What, are you pouting?” asks Caroline, after a quarter of an hour’s + observation of her husband’s countenance. + </p> + <p> + “No, I am meditating,” replied Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what an infernal temper you’ve got!” she returns, with a shrug of the + shoulders. “Is it for what I said about your stomach, your shape and your + digestion? Don’t you see that I was only paying you back for your + vermilion? You’ll make me think that men are as vain as women. [Adolphe + remains frigid.] It is really quite kind in you to take our qualities. + [Profound silence.] I made a joke and you got angry [she looks at + Adolphe], for you are angry. I am not like you: I cannot bear the idea of + having given you pain! Nevertheless, it’s an idea that a man never would + have had, that of attributing your impertinence to something wrong in your + digestion. It’s not my Dolph, it’s his stomach that was bold enough to + speak. I did not know you were a ventriloquist, that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline looks at Adolphe and smiles: Adolphe is as stiff as if he were + glued. + </p> + <p> + “No, he won’t laugh! And, in your jargon, you call this having character. + Oh, how much better we are!” + </p> + <p> + She goes and sits down in Adolphe’s lap, and Adolphe cannot help smiling. + This smile, extracted as if by a steam engine, Caroline has been on the + watch for, in order to make a weapon of it. + </p> + <p> + “Come, old fellow, confess that you are wrong,” she says. “Why pout? Dear + me, I like you just as you are: in my eyes you are as slender as when I + married you, and slenderer perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, when people get to deceive themselves in these little matters, + where one makes concessions and the other does not get angry, do you know + what it means?” + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” asks Caroline, alarmed at Adolphe’s dramatic + attitude. + </p> + <p> + “That they love each other less.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you monster, I understand you: you were angry so as to make me + believe you loved me!” + </p> + <p> + Alas! let us confess it, Adolphe tells the truth in the only way he can—by + a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Why give me pain?” she says. “If I am wrong in anything, isn’t it better + to tell me of it kindly, than brutally to say [here she raises her voice], + ‘Your nose is getting red!’ No, that is not right! To please you, I will + use an expression of the fair Fischtaminel, ‘It’s not the act of a + gentleman!’” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe laughs and pays the expenses of the reconciliation; but instead of + discovering therein what will please Caroline and what will attach her to + him, he finds out what attaches him to her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOSOGRAPHY OF THE VILLA. + </h2> + <p> + Is it advantageous for a man not to know what will please his wife after + their marriage? Some women (this still occurs in the country) are innocent + enough to tell promptly what they want and what they like. But in Paris, + nearly every woman feels a kind of enjoyment in seeing a man wistfully + obedient to her heart, her desires, her caprices—three expressions + for the same thing!—and anxiously going round and round, half crazy + and desperate, like a dog that has lost his master. + </p> + <p> + They call this <i>being loved</i>, poor things! And a good many of them + say to themselves, as did Caroline, “How will he manage?” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe has come to this. In this situation of things, the worthy and + excellent Deschars, that model of the citizen husband, invites the couple + known as Adolphe and Caroline to help him and his wife inaugurate a + delightful country house. It is an opportunity that the Deschars have + seized upon, the folly of a man of letters, a charming villa upon which he + lavished one hundred thousand francs and which has been sold at auction + for eleven thousand. Caroline has a new dress to air, or a hat with a + weeping willow plume—things which a tilbury will set off to a charm. + Little Charles is left with his grandmother. The servants have a holiday. + The youthful pair start beneath the smile of a blue sky, flecked with + milk-while clouds merely to heighten the effect. They breathe the pure + air, through which trots the heavy Norman horse, animated by the influence + of spring. They soon reach Marnes, beyond Ville d’Avray, where the + Deschars are spreading themselves in a villa copied from one at Florence, + and surrounded by Swiss meadows, though without all the objectionable + features of the Alps. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! what a delightful thing a country house like this must be!” + exclaims Caroline, as she walks in the admirable wood that skirts Marnes + and Ville d’Avray. “It makes your eyes as happy as if they had a heart in + them.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline, having no one to take but Adolphe, takes Adolphe, who becomes + her Adolphe again. And then you should see her run about like a fawn, and + act once more the sweet, pretty, innocent, adorable school-girl that she + was! Her braids come down! She takes off her bonnet, and holds it by the + strings! She is young, pink and white again. Her eyes smile, her mouth is + a pomegranate endowed with sensibility, with a sensibility which seems + quite fresh. + </p> + <p> + “So a country house would please you very much, would it, darling?” says + Adolphe, clasping Caroline round the waist, and noticing that she leans + upon him as if to show the flexibility of her form. + </p> + <p> + “What, will you be such a love as to buy me one? But remember, no + extravagance! Seize an opportunity like the Deschars.” + </p> + <p> + “To please you and to find out what is likely to give you pleasure, such + is the constant study of your own Dolph.” + </p> + <p> + They are alone, at liberty to call each other their little names of + endearment, and run over the whole list of their secret caresses. + </p> + <p> + “Does he really want to please his little girly?” says Caroline, resting + her head on the shoulder of Adolphe, who kisses her forehead, saying to + himself, “Gad! I’ve got her now!” + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—When a husband and a wife have got each other, the devil only + knows which has got the other. + </p> + <p> + The young couple are captivating, whereupon the stout Madame Deschars + gives utterance to a remark somewhat equivocal for her, usually so stern, + prudish and devout. + </p> + <p> + “Country air has one excellent property: it makes husbands very amiable.” + </p> + <p> + M. Deschars points out an opportunity for Adolphe to seize. A house is to + be sold at Ville d’Avray, for a song, of course. Now, the country house is + a weakness peculiar to the inhabitant of Paris. This weakness, or disease, + has its course and its cure. Adolphe is a husband, but not a doctor. He + buys the house and takes possession with Caroline, who has become once + more his Caroline, his Carola, his fawn, his treasure, his girly girl. + </p> + <p> + The following alarming symptoms now succeed each other with frightful + rapidity: a cup of milk, baptized, costs five sous; when it is anhydrous, + as the chemists say, ten sous. Meat costs more at Sevres than at Paris, if + you carefully examine the qualities. Fruit cannot be had at any price. A + fine pear costs more in the country than in the (anhydrous!) garden that + blooms in Chevet’s window. + </p> + <p> + Before being able to raise fruit for oneself, from a Swiss meadow + measuring two square yards, surrounded by a few green trees which look as + if they were borrowed from the scenic illusions of a theatre, the most + rural authorities, being consulted on the point, declare that you must + spend a great deal of money, and—wait five years! Vegetables dash + out of the husbandman’s garden to reappear at the city market. Madame + Deschars, who possesses a gate-keeper that is at the same time a gardener, + confesses that the vegetables raised on her land, beneath her glass + frames, by dint of compost and top-soil, cost her twice as much as those + she used to buy at Paris, of a woman who had rent and taxes to pay, and + whose husband was an elector. Despite the efforts and pledges of the + gate-keeper-gardener, early peas and things at Paris are a month in + advance of those in the country. + </p> + <p> + From eight in the evening to eleven our couple don’t know what to do, on + account of the insipidity of the neighbors, their small ideas, and the + questions of self-love which arise out of the merest trifles. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Deschars remarks, with that profound knowledge of figures which + distinguishes the ex-notary, that the cost of going to Paris and back, + added to the interest of the cost of his villa, to the taxes, wages of the + gate-keeper and his wife, are equal to a rent of three thousand francs a + year. He does not see how he, an ex-notary, allowed himself to be so + caught! For he has often drawn up leases of chateaux with parks and + out-houses, for three thousand a year. + </p> + <p> + It is agreed by everybody in the parlor of Madame Deschars, that a country + house, so far from being a pleasure, is an unmitigated nuisance. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how they sell a cabbage for one sou at market, which has to + be watered every day from its birth to the time you eat it,” says + Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “The way to get along in the country,” replies a little retired grocer, + “is to stay there, to live there, to become country-folks, and then + everything changes.” + </p> + <p> + On going home, Caroline says to her poor Adolphe, “What an idea that was + of yours, to buy a country house! The best way to do about the country is + to go there on visits to other people.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe remembers an English proverb, which says, “Don’t have a newspaper + or a country seat of your own: there are plenty of idiots who will have + them for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” returns Adolph, who was enlightened once for all upon women’s logic + by the Matrimonial Gadfly, “you are right: but then you know the baby is + in splendid health, here.” + </p> + <p> + Though Adolphe has become prudent, this reply awakens Caroline’s + susceptibilities. A mother is very willing to think exclusively of her + child, but she does not want him to be preferred to herself. She is + silent; the next day, she is tired to death of the country. Adolphe being + absent on business, she waits for him from five o’clock to seven, and goes + alone with little Charles to the coach office. She talks for + three-quarters of an hour of her anxieties. She was afraid to go from the + house to the office. Is it proper for a young woman to be left alone, so? + She cannot support such an existence. + </p> + <p> + The country house now creates a very peculiar phase; one which deserves a + chapter to itself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TROUBLE WITHIN TROUBLE. + </h2> + <h3> + Axiom.—There are parentheses in worry. + </h3> + <p> + EXAMPLE—A great deal of evil has been said of the stitch in the + side; but it is nothing to the stitch to which we now refer, which the + pleasures of the matrimonial second crop are everlastingly reviving, like + the hammer of a note in the piano. This constitutes an irritant, which + never flourishes except at the period when the young wife’s timidity gives + place to that fatal equality of rights which is at once devastating France + and the conjugal relation. Every season has its peculiar vexation. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, after a week spent in taking note of her husband’s absences, + perceives that he passes seven hours a day away from her. At last, + Adolphe, who comes home as gay as an actor who has been applauded, + observes a slight coating of hoar frost upon Caroline’s visage. After + making sure that the coldness of her manner has been observed, Caroline + puts on a counterfeit air of interest,—the well-known expression of + which possesses the gift of making a man inwardly swear,—and says: + “You must have had a good deal of business to-day, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, lots!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you take many cabs?” + </p> + <p> + “I took seven francs’ worth.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you find everybody in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, those with whom I had appointments.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you make appointments with them? The ink in your inkstand is + dried up; it’s like glue; I wanted to write, and spent a whole hour in + moistening it, and even then only produced a thick mud fit to mark bundles + with for the East Indies.” + </p> + <p> + Here any and every husband looks suspiciously at his better half. + </p> + <p> + “It is probable that I wrote them at Paris—” + </p> + <p> + “What business was it, Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought you knew. Shall I run over the list? First, there’s + Chaumontel’s affair—” + </p> + <p> + “I thought Monsieur Chaumontel was in Switzerland—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he has representatives, a lawyer—” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you do anything else but business?” asks Caroline, interrupting + Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + Here she gives him a direct, piercing look, by which she plunges into her + husband’s eyes when he least expects it: a sword in a heart. + </p> + <p> + “What could I have done? Made a little counterfeit money, run into debt, + or embroidered a sampler?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, I don’t know. And I can’t even guess. I am too dull, you’ve + told me so a hundred times.” + </p> + <p> + “There you go, and take an expression of endearment in bad part. How like + a woman that is!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you concluded anything?” she asks, pretending to take an interest in + business. + </p> + <p> + “No, nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “How many persons have you seen?” + </p> + <p> + “Eleven, without counting those who were walking in the streets.” + </p> + <p> + “How you answer me!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and how you question me! As if you’d been following the trade of an + examining judge for the last ten years!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, tell me all you’ve done to-day, it will amuse me. You ought to try + to please me while you are here! I’m dull enough when you leave me alone + all day long.” + </p> + <p> + “You want me to amuse you by telling you about business?” + </p> + <p> + “Formerly, you told me everything—” + </p> + <p> + This friendly little reproach disguises the certitude that Caroline wishes + to enjoy respecting the serious matters which Adolphe wishes to conceal. + Adolphe then undertakes to narrate how he has spent the day. Caroline + affects a sort of distraction sufficiently well played to induce the + belief that she is not listening. + </p> + <p> + “But you said just now,” she exclaims, at the moment when Adolphe is + getting into a snarl, “that you had paid seven francs for cabs, and you + now talk of a hack! You took it by the hour, I suppose? Did you do your + business in a hack?” she asks, railingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why should hacks be interdicted?” inquires Adolphe, resuming his + narrative. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you been to Madame de Fischtaminel’s?” she asks in the middle of + an exceedingly involved explanation, insolently taking the words out of + your mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I have been there?” + </p> + <p> + “It would have given me pleasure: I wanted to know whether her parlor is + done.” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! then you <i>have</i> been there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, her upholsterer told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her upholsterer?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Braschon.” + </p> + <p> + “So you met the upholsterer?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you only went in carriages.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear, but to get carriages, you have to go and—” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! I dare say Braschon was in the carriage, or the parlor was—one + or the other is equally probable.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t listen,” exclaims Adolphe, who thinks that a long story will + lull Caroline’s suspicions. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve listened too much already. You’ve been lying for the last hour, + worse than a drummer.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll say nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + “I know enough. I know all I wanted to know. You say you’ve seen lawyers, + notaries, bankers: now you haven’t seen one of them! Suppose I were to go + to-morrow to see Madame de Fischtaminel, do you know what she would say?” + </p> + <p> + Here, Caroline watches Adolphe closely: but Adolphe affects a delusive + calmness, in the middle of which Caroline throws out her line to fish up a + clue. + </p> + <p> + “Why, she would say that she had had the pleasure of seeing you! How + wretched we poor creatures are! We never know what you are doing: here we + are stuck, chained at home, while you are off at your business! Fine + business, truly! If I were in your place, I would invent business a little + bit better put together than yours! Ah, you set us a worthy example! They + say women are perverse. Who perverted them?” + </p> + <p> + Here Adolphe tries, by looking fixedly at Caroline, to arrest the torrent + of words. Caroline, like a horse who has just been touched up by the lash, + starts off anew, and with the animation of one of Rossini’s codas: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s a very neat idea, to put your wife out in the country so that + you may spend the day as you like at Paris. So this is the cause of your + passion for a country house! Snipe that I was, to be caught in the trap! + You are right, sir, a villa is very convenient: it serves two objects. But + the wife can get along with it as well as the husband. You may take Paris + and its hacks! I’ll take the woods and their shady groves! Yes, Adolphe, I + am really satisfied, so let’s say no more about it.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe listens to sarcasm for an hour by the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Have you done, dear?” he asks, profiting by an instant in which she + tosses her head after a pointed interrogation. + </p> + <p> + Then Caroline concludes thus: “I’ve had enough of the villa, and I’ll + never set foot in it again. But I know what will happen: you’ll keep it, + probably, and leave me in Paris. Well, at Paris, I can at least amuse + myself, while you go with Madame de Fischtaminel to the woods. What is a + <i>Villa Adolphini</i> where you get nauseated if you go six times round + the lawn? where they’ve planted chair-legs and broom-sticks on the pretext + of producing shade? It’s like a furnace: the walls are six inches thick! + and my gentleman is absent seven hours a day! That’s what a country seat + means!” + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, Caroline.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t so much mind, if you would only confess what you did to-day. + You don’t know me yet: come, tell me, I won’t scold you. I pardon you + beforehand for all that you’ve done.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, who knows the consequences of a confession too well to make one + to his wife, replies—“Well, I’ll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good fellow—I shall love you better.” + </p> + <p> + “I was three hours—” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure of it—at Madame de Fischtaminel’s!” + </p> + <p> + “No, at our notary’s, as he had got me a purchaser; but we could not come + to terms: he wanted our villa furnished. When I left there, I went to + Braschon’s, to see how much we owed him—” + </p> + <p> + “You made up this romance while I was talking to you! Look me in the face! + I’ll go to see Braschon to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe cannot restrain a nervous shudder. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t help laughing, you monster!” + </p> + <p> + “I laugh at your obstinacy.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to-morrow to Madame de Fischtaminel’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go wherever you like!” + </p> + <p> + “What brutality!” says Caroline, rising and going away with her + handkerchief at her eyes. + </p> + <p> + The country house, so ardently longed for by Caroline, has now become a + diabolical invention of Adolphe’s, a trap into which the fawn has fallen. + </p> + <p> + Since Adolphe’s discovery that it is impossible to reason with Caroline, + he lets her say whatever she pleases. + </p> + <p> + Two months after, he sells the villa which cost him twenty-two thousand + francs for seven thousand! But he gains this by the adventure—he + finds out that the country is not the thing that Caroline wants. + </p> + <p> + The question is becoming serious. Nature, with its woods, its forests, its + valleys, the Switzerland of the environs of Paris, the artificial rivers, + have amused Caroline for barely six months. Adolphe is tempted to abdicate + and take Caroline’s part himself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A HOUSEHOLD REVOLUTION. + </h2> + <p> + One morning, Adolphe is seized by the triumphant idea of letting Caroline + find out for herself what she wants. He gives up to her the control of the + house, saying, “Do as you like.” He substitutes the constitutional system + for the autocratic system, a responsible ministry for an absolute conjugal + monarchy. This proof of confidence—the object of much secret envy—is, + to women, a field-marshal’s baton. Women are then, so to speak, mistresses + at home. + </p> + <p> + After this, nothing, not even the memory of the honey-moon, can be + compared to Adolphe’s happiness for several days. A woman, under such + circumstances, is all sugar. She is too sweet: she would invent the art of + petting and cosseting and of coining tender little names, if this + matrimonial sugar-plummery had not existed ever since the Terrestrial + Paradise. At the end of the month, Adolphe’s condition is like that of + children towards the close of New Year’s week. So Caroline is beginning to + say, not in words, but in acts, in manner, in mimetic expressions: “It’s + difficult to tell <i>what</i> to do to please a man!” + </p> + <p> + Giving up the helm of the boat to one’s wife, is an exceedingly ordinary + idea, and would hardly deserve the qualification of “triumphant,” which we + have given it at the commencement of this chapter, if it were not + accompanied by that of taking it back again. Adolphe was seduced by a + wish, which invariably seizes persons who are the prey of misfortune, to + know how far an evil will go!—to try how much damage fire will do + when left to itself, the individual possessing, or thinking he possesses, + the power to arrest it. This curiosity pursues us from the cradle to the + grave. Then, after his plethora of conjugal felicity, Adolphe, who is + treating himself to a farce in his own house, goes through the following + phases: + </p> + <p> + FIRST EPOCH. Things go on altogether too well. Caroline buys little + account books to keep a list of her expenses in, she buys a nice little + piece of furniture to store her money in, she feeds Adolphe superbly, she + is happy in his approbation, she discovers that very many articles are + needed in the house. It is her ambition to be an incomparable housekeeper. + Adolphe, who arrogates to himself the right of censorship, no longer finds + the slightest suggestion to make. + </p> + <p> + When he dresses himself, everything is ready to his hands. Not even in + Armide’s garden was more ingenious tenderness displayed than that of + Caroline. For her phoenix husband, she renews the wax upon his razor + strap, she substitutes new suspenders for old ones. None of his + button-holes are ever widowed. His linen is as well cared for as that of + the confessor of the devotee, all whose sins are venial. His stockings are + free from holes. At table, his tastes, his caprices even, are studied, + consulted: he is getting fat! There is ink in his inkstand, and the sponge + is always moist. He never has occasion to say, like Louis XIV, “I came + near having to wait!” In short, he hears himself continually called <i>a + love of a man</i>. He is obliged to reproach Caroline for neglecting + herself: she does not pay sufficient attention to her own needs. Of this + gentle reproach Caroline takes note. + </p> + <p> + SECOND EPOCH. The scene changes, at table. Everything is exceedingly dear. + Vegetables are beyond one’s means. Wood sells as if it came from Campeche. + Fruit? Oh! as to fruit, princes, bankers and great lords alone can eat it. + Dessert is a cause of ruin. Adolphe often hears Caroline say to Madame + Deschars: “How do you manage?” Conferences are held in your presence upon + the proper way to keep cooks under the thumb. + </p> + <p> + A cook who entered your service without effects, without clothes, and + without talent, has come to get her wages in a blue merino gown, set off + by an embroidered neckerchief, her ears embellished with a pair of + ear-rings enriched with small pearls, her feet clothed in comfortable + shoes which give you a glimpse of neat cotton stockings. She has two + trunks full of property, and keeps an account at the savings bank. + </p> + <p> + Upon this Caroline complains of the bad morals of the lower classes: she + complains of the education and the knowledge of figures which distinguish + domestics. From time to time she utters little axioms like the following: + There are some mistakes you <i>must</i> make!—It’s only those who do + nothing who do everything well.—She has the anxieties that belong to + power.—Ah! men are fortunate in not having a house to keep.—Women + bear the burden of the innumerable details. + </p> + <p> + THIRD EPOCH. Caroline, absorbed in the idea that you should eat merely to + live, treats Adolphe to the delights of a cenobitic table. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe’s stockings are either full of holes or else rough with the lichen + of hasty mendings, for the day is not long enough for all that his wife + has to do. He wears suspenders blackened by use. His linen is old and + gapes like a door-keeper, or like the door itself. At a time when Adolphe + is in haste to conclude a matter of business, it takes him an hour to + dress: he has to pick out his garments one by one, opening many an article + before finding one fit to wear. But Caroline is charmingly dressed. She + has pretty bonnets, velvet boots, mantillas. She has made up her mind, she + conducts her administration in virtue of this principle: Charity well + understood begins at home. When Adolphe complains of the contrast between + his poverty-stricken wardrobe and Caroline’s splendor, she says, “Why, you + reproached me with buying nothing for myself!” + </p> + <p> + The husband and the wife here begin to bandy jests more or less + acrimonious. One evening Caroline makes herself very agreeable, in order + to insinuate an avowal of a rather large deficit, just as the ministry + begins to eulogize the tax-payers, and boast of the wealth of the country, + when it is preparing to bring forth a bill for an additional + appropriation. There is this further similitude that both are done in the + chamber, whether in administration or in housekeeping. From this springs + the profound truth that the constitutional system is infinitely dearer + than the monarchical system. For a nation as for a household, it is the + government of the happy balance, of mediocrity, of chicanery. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, enlightened by his past annoyances, waits for an opportunity to + explode, and Caroline slumbers in a delusive security. + </p> + <p> + What starts the quarrel? Do we ever know what electric current + precipitates the avalanche or decides a revolution? It may result from + anything or nothing. But finally, Adolphe, after a period to be determined + in each case by the circumstances of the couple, utters this fatal phrase, + in the midst of a discussion: “Ah! when I was a bachelor!” + </p> + <p> + Her husband’s bachelor life is to a woman what the phrase, “My dear + deceased,” is to a widow’s second husband. These two stings produce wounds + which are never completely healed. + </p> + <p> + Then Adolphe goes on like General Bonaparte haranguing the Five Hundred: + “We are on a volcano!—The house no longer has a head, the time to + come to an understanding has arrived.—You talk of happiness, + Caroline, but you have compromised, imperiled it by your exactions, you + have violated the civil code: you have mixed yourself up in the + discussions of business, and you have invaded the conjugal authority.—We + must reform our internal affairs.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline does not shout, like the Five Hundred, “Down with the dictator!” + For people never shout a man down, when they feel that they can put him + down. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a bachelor I had none but new stockings! I had a clean napkin + every day on my plate. The restaurateur only fleeced me of a determinate + sum. I have given up to you my beloved liberty! What have you done with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I then so very wrong, Adolphe, to have sought to spare you numerous + cares?” says Caroline, taking an attitude before her husband. “Take the + key of the money-box back,—but do you know what will happen? I am + ashamed, but you will compel me to go on to the stage to get the merest + necessaries of life. Is this what you want? Degrade your wife, or bring in + conflict two contrary, hostile interests—” + </p> + <p> + Such, for three quarters of the French people is an exact definition of + marriage. + </p> + <p> + “Be perfectly easy, dear,” resumes Caroline, seating herself in her chair + like Marius on the ruins of Carthage, “I will never ask you for anything. + I am not a beggar! I know what I’ll do—you don’t know me yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what will you do?” asks Adolphe; “it seems impossible to joke or + have an explanation with you women. What will you do?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t concern you at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, madame, quite the contrary. Dignity, honor—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, have no fear of that, sir. For your sake more than for my own, I will + keep it a dead secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Caroline, my own Carola, what do you mean to do?” + </p> + <p> + Caroline darts a viper-like glance at Adolphe, who recoils and proceeds to + walk up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “There now, tell me, what will you do?” he repeats after much too + prolonged a silence. + </p> + <p> + “I shall go to work, sir!” + </p> + <p> + At this sublime declaration, Adolphe executes a movement in retreat, + detecting a bitter exasperation, and feeling the sharpness of a north wind + which had never before blown in the matrimonial chamber. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ART OF BEING A VICTIM. + </h2> + <p> + On and after the Revolution, our vanquished Caroline adopts an infernal + system, the effect of which is to make you regret your victory every hour. + She becomes the opposition! Should Adolphe have one more such triumph, he + would appear before the Court of Assizes, accused of having smothered his + wife between two mattresses, like Shakespeare’s Othello. Caroline puts on + the air of a martyr; her submission is positively killing. On every + occasion she assassinates Adolphe with a “Just as you like!” uttered in + tones whose sweetness is something fearful. No elegiac poet could compete + with Caroline, who utters elegy upon elegy: elegy in action, elegy in + speech: her smile is elegiac, her silence is elegiac, her gestures are + elegiac. Here are a few examples, wherein every household will find some + of its impressions recorded: + </p> + <p> + AFTER BREAKFAST. “Caroline, we go to-night to the Deschars’ grand ball you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, love.” + </p> + <p> + AFTER DINNER. “What, not dressed yet, Caroline?” exclaims Adolphe, who has + just made his appearance, magnificently equipped. + </p> + <p> + He finds Caroline arrayed in a gown fit for an elderly lady of strong + conversational powers, a black moire with an old-fashioned fan-waist. + Flowers, too badly imitated to deserve the name of artificial, give a + gloomy aspect to a head of hair which the chambermaid has carelessly + arranged. Caroline’s gloves have already seen wear and tear. + </p> + <p> + “I am ready, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “What, in that dress?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no other. A new dress would have cost three hundred francs.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I, ask you for anything, after what has happened!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go alone,” says Adolphe, unwilling to be humiliated in his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you are very glad to,” returns Caroline, in a captious tone, + “it’s plain enough from the way you are got up.” + </p> + <p> + Eleven persons are in the parlor, all invited to dinner by Adolphe. + Caroline is there, looking as if her husband had invited her too. She is + waiting for dinner to be served. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” says the parlor servant in a whisper to his master, “the cook + doesn’t know what on earth to do!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “You said nothing to her, sir: and she has only two side-dishes, the beef, + a chicken, a salad and vegetables.” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, didn’t you give the necessary orders?” + </p> + <p> + “How did I know that you had company, and besides I can’t take it upon + myself to give orders here! You delivered me from all care on that point, + and I thank heaven for it every day of my life.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Fischtaminel has called to pay Madame Caroline a visit. She + finds her coughing feebly and nearly bent double over her embroidery. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, so you are working those slippers for your dear Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe is standing before the fire-place as complacently as may be. + </p> + <p> + “No, madame, it’s for a tradesman who pays me for them: like the convicts, + my labor enables me to treat myself to some little comforts.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe reddens; he can’t very well beat his wife, and Madame de + Fischtaminel looks at him as much as to say, “What does this mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You cough a good deal, my darling,” says Madame de Fischtaminel. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” returns Caroline, “what is life to me?” + </p> + <p> + Caroline is seated, conversing with a lady of your acquaintance, whose + good opinion you are exceedingly anxious to retain. From the depths of the + embrasure where you are talking with some friends, you gather, from the + mere motion of her lips, these words: “My husband would have it so!” + uttered with the air of a young Roman matron going to the circus to be + devoured. You are profoundly wounded in your several vanities, and wish to + attend to this conversation while listening to your guests: you thus make + replies which bring you back such inquiries as: “Why, what are you + thinking of?” For you have lost the thread of the discourse, and you + fidget nervously with your feet, thinking to yourself, “What is she + telling her about me?” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe is dining with the Deschars: twelve persons are at table, and + Caroline is seated next to a nice young man named Ferdinand, Adolphe’s + cousin. Between the first and second course, conjugal happiness is the + subject of conversation. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing easier than for a woman to be happy,” says Caroline in + reply to a woman who complains of her husband. + </p> + <p> + “Tell us your secret, madame,” says M. de Fischtaminel agreeably. + </p> + <p> + “A woman has nothing to do but to meddle with nothing to consider herself + as the first servant in the house or as a slave that the master takes care + of, to have no will of her own, and never to make an observation: thus all + goes well.” + </p> + <p> + This, delivered in a bitter tone and with tears in her voice, alarms + Adolphe, who looks fixedly at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “You forget, madame, the happiness of telling about one’s happiness,” he + returns, darting at her a glance worthy of the tyrant in a melodrama. + </p> + <p> + Quite satisfied with having shown herself assassinated or on the point of + being so, Caroline turns her head aside, furtively wipes away a tear, and + says: + </p> + <p> + “Happiness cannot be described!” + </p> + <p> + This incident, as they say at the Chamber, leads to nothing, but Ferdinand + looks upon his cousin as an angel about to be offered up. + </p> + <p> + Some one alludes to the frightful prevalence of inflammation of the + stomach, or to the nameless diseases of which young women die. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, too happy they!” exclaims Caroline, as if she were foretelling the + manner of her death. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe’s mother-in-law comes to see her daughter. Caroline says, “My + husband’s parlor:” “Your master’s chamber.” Everything in the house + belongs to “My husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what’s the matter, children?” asks the mother-in-law; “you seem to + be at swords’ points.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me,” says Adolphe, “nothing but that Caroline has had the + management of the house and didn’t manage it right, that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “She got into debt, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dearest mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Adolphe,” says the mother-in-law, after having waited to be + left alone with her son, “would you prefer to have my daughter + magnificently dressed, to have everything go on smoothly, <i>without its + costing you anything</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Imagine, if you can, the expression of Adolphe’s physiognomy, as he hears + <i>this declaration of woman’s rights</i>! + </p> + <p> + Caroline abandons her shabby dress and appears in a splendid one. She is + at the Deschars’: every one compliments her upon her taste, upon the + richness of her materials, upon her lace, her jewels. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you have a charming husband!” says Madame Deschars. Adolphe tosses + his head proudly, and looks at Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “My husband, madame! I cost that gentleman nothing, thank heaven! All I + have was given me by my mother.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe turns suddenly about and goes to talk with Madame de Fischtaminel. + </p> + <p> + After a year of absolute monarchy, Caroline says very mildly one morning: + </p> + <p> + “How much have you spent this year, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Examine your accounts.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe discovers that he has spent a third more than during Caroline’s + worst year. + </p> + <p> + “And I’ve cost you nothing for my dress,” she adds. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is playing Schubert’s melodies. Adolphe takes great pleasure in + hearing these compositions well-executed: he gets up and compliments + Caroline. She bursts into tears. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, I’m nervous.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you were subject to that.” + </p> + <p> + “O Adolphe, you won’t see anything! Look, my rings come off my fingers: + you don’t love me any more—I’m a burden to you—” + </p> + <p> + She weeps, she won’t listen, she weeps afresh at every word Adolphe + utters. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you take the management of the house back again?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” she exclaims, rising sharply to her feet, like a spring figure in a + box, “now that you’ve had enough of your experience! Thank you! Do you + suppose it’s money that I want? Singular method, yours, of pouring balm + upon a wounded heart. No, go away.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, just as you like, Caroline.” + </p> + <p> + This “just as you like” is the first expression of indifference towards a + wife: and Caroline sees before her an abyss towards which she had been + walking of her own free will. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FRENCH CAMPAIGN. + </h2> + <p> + The disasters of 1814 afflict every species of existence. After brilliant + days of conquest, after the period during which obstacles change to + triumphs, and the slightest check becomes a piece of good fortune, there + comes a time when the happiest ideas turn out blunders, when courage leads + to destruction, and when your very fortifications are a stumbling-block. + Conjugal love, which, according to authors, is a peculiar phase of love, + has, more than anything else, its French Campaign, its fatal 1814. The + devil especially loves to dangle his tail in the affairs of poor desolate + women, and to this Caroline has come. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is trying to think of some means of bringing her husband back. + She spends many solitary hours at home, and during this time her + imagination works. She goes and comes, she gets up, and often stands + pensively at the window, looking at the street and seeing nothing, her + face glued to the panes, and feeling as if in a desert, in the midst of + her friends, in the bosom of her luxuriously furnished apartments. + </p> + <p> + Now, in Paris, unless a person occupy a house of his own, enclosed between + a court and a garden, all life is double. At every story, a family sees + another family in the opposite house. Everybody plunges his gaze at will + into his neighbor’s domains. There is a necessity for mutual observation, + a common right of search from which none can escape. At a given time, in + the morning, you get up early, the servant opposite is dusting the parlor, + she has left the windows open and has put the rugs on the railing; you + divine a multitude of things, and vice-versa. Thus, in a given time, you + are acquainted with the habits of the pretty, the old, the young, the + coquettish, the virtuous woman opposite, or the caprices of the coxcomb, + the inventions of the old bachelor, the color of the furniture, and the + cat of the two pair front. Everything furnishes a hint, and becomes matter + for divination. At the fourth story, a grisette, taken by surprise, finds + herself—too late, like the chaste Susanne,—the prey of the + delighted lorgnette of an aged clerk, who earns eighteen hundred francs a + year, and who becomes criminal gratis. On the other hand, a handsome young + gentleman, who, for the present, works without wages, and is only nineteen + years old, appears before the sight of a pious old lady, in the simple + apparel of a man engaged in shaving. The watch thus kept up is never + relaxed, while prudence, on the contrary, has its moments of + forgetfulness. Curtains are not always let down in time. A woman, just + before dark, approaches the window to thread her needle, and the married + man opposite may then admire a head that Raphael might have painted, and + one that he considers worthy of himself—a National Guard truly + imposing when under arms. Oh, sacred private life, where art thou! Paris + is a city ever ready to exhibit itself half naked, a city essentially + libertine and devoid of modesty. For a person’s life to be decorous in it, + the said person should have a hundred thousand a year. Virtues are dearer + than vices in Paris. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, whose gaze sometimes steals between the protecting muslins which + hide her domestic life from the five stories opposite, at last discovers a + young couple plunged in the delights of the honey-moon, and newly + established in the first story directly in view of her window. She spends + her time in the most exciting observations. The blinds are closed early, + and opened late. One day, Caroline, who has arisen at eight o’clock + notices, by accident, of course, the maid preparing a bath or a morning + dress, a delicious deshabille. Caroline sighs. She lies in ambush like a + hunter at the cover; she surprises the young woman, her face actually + illuminated with happiness. Finally, by dint of watching the charming + couple, she sees the gentleman and lady open the window, and lean gently + one against the other, as, supported by the railing, they breathe the + evening air. Caroline gives herself a nervous headache, by endeavoring to + interpret the phantasmagorias, some of them having an explanation and + others not, made by the shadows of these two young people on the curtains, + one night when they have forgotten to close the shutters. The young woman + is often seated, melancholy and pensive, waiting for her absent husband; + she hears the tread of a horse, or the rumble of a cab at the street + corner; she starts from the sofa, and from her movements, it is easy for + Caroline to see that she exclaims: “‘Tis he!” + </p> + <p> + “How they love each other!” says Caroline to herself. + </p> + <p> + By dint of nervous headache, Caroline conceives an exceedingly ingenious + plan: this plan consists in using the conjugal bliss of the opposite + neighbors as a tonic to stimulate Adolphe. The idea is not without + depravity, but then Caroline’s intention sanctifies the means! + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe,” she says, “we have a neighbor opposite, the loveliest woman, a + brunette—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” returns Adolphe, “I know her. She is a friend of Madame de + Fischtaminel’s: Madame Foullepointe, the wife of a broker, a charming man + and a good fellow, very fond of his wife: he’s crazy about her. His office + and rooms are here, in the court, while those on the street are madame’s. + I know of no happier household. Foullepointe talks about his happiness + everywhere, even at the Exchange; he’s really quite tiresome.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, be good enough to present Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe to + me. I should be delighted to learn how she manages to make her husband + love her so much: have they been married long?” + </p> + <p> + “Five years, just like us.” + </p> + <p> + “O Adolphe, dear, I am dying to know her: make us intimately acquainted. + Am I as pretty as she?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I were to meet you at an opera ball, and if you weren’t my wife, + I declare, I shouldn’t know which—” + </p> + <p> + “You are real sweet to-day. Don’t forget to invite them to dinner + Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do it to-night. Foullepointe and I often meet on ‘Change.” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” says Caroline, “this young woman will doubtless tell me what her + method of action is.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline resumes her post of observation. At about three she looks through + the flowers which form as it were a bower at the window, and exclaims, + “Two perfect doves!” + </p> + <p> + For the Saturday in question, Caroline invites Monsieur and Madame + Deschars, the worthy Monsieur Fischtaminel, in short, the most virtuous + couples of her society. She has brought out all her resources: she has + ordered the most sumptuous dinner, she has taken the silver out of the + chest: she means to do all honor to the model of wives. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you will see to-night,” she says to Madame Deschars, at the + moment when all the women are looking at each other in silence, “the most + admirable young couple in the world, our opposite neighbors: a young man + of fair complexion, so graceful and with <i>such</i> manners! His head is + like Lord Byron’s, and he’s a real Don Juan, only faithful: he’s + discovered the secret of making love eternal: I shall perhaps obtain a + second crop of it from her example. Adolphe, when he sees them, will blush + at his conduct, and—” + </p> + <p> + The servant announces: “Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Foullepointe, a pretty brunette, a genuine Parisian, slight and + erect in form, the brilliant light of her eye quenched by her long lashes, + charmingly dressed, sits down upon the sofa. Caroline bows to a fat + gentleman with thin gray hair, who follows this Paris Andalusian, and who + exhibits a face and paunch fit for Silenus, a butter-colored pate, a + deceitful, libertine smile upon his big, heavy lips,—in short, a + philosopher! Caroline looks upon this individual with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Foullepointe, my dear,” says Adolphe, presenting the worthy + quinquagenarian. + </p> + <p> + “I am delighted, madame,” says Caroline, good-naturedly, “that you have + brought your father-in-law [profound sensation], but we shall soon see + your husband, I trust—” + </p> + <p> + “Madame—!” + </p> + <p> + Everybody listens and looks. Adolphe becomes the object of every one’s + attention; he is literally dumb with amazement: if he could, he would + whisk Caroline off through a trap, as at the theatre. + </p> + <p> + “This is Monsieur Foullepointe, my husband,” says Madame Foullepointe. + </p> + <p> + Caroline turns scarlet as she sees her ridiculous blunder, and Adolphe + scathes her with a look of thirty-six candlepower. + </p> + <p> + “You said he was young and fair,” whispers Madame Deschars. Madame + Foullepointe,—knowing lady that she is,—boldly stares at the + ceiling. + </p> + <p> + A month after, Madame Foullepointe and Caroline become intimate. Adolphe, + who is taken up with Madame de Fischtaminel, pays no attention to this + dangerous friendship, a friendship which will bear its fruits, for—pray + learn this— + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Women have corrupted more women than men have ever loved. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SOLO ON THE HEARSE. + </h2> + <p> + After a period, the length of which depends on the strength of Caroline’s + principles, she appears to be languishing; and when Adolphe, anxious for + decorum’s sake, as he sees her stretched out upon the sofa like a snake in + the sun, asks her, “What is the matter, love? What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was dead!” she replies. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a merry and agreeable wish!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t death that frightens me, it’s suffering.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that means that I don’t make you happy! That’s the way with + women!” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe strides about the room, talking incoherently: but he is brought to + a dead halt by seeing Caroline dry her tears, which are really flowing + artistically, in an embroidered handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel sick?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t feel well. [Silence.] I only hope that I shall live long enough + to see my daughter married, for I know the meaning, now, of the expression + so little understood by the young—<i>the choice of a husband</i>! Go + to your amusements, Adolphe: a woman who thinks of the future, a woman who + suffers, is not at all diverting: come, go and have a good time.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you feel bad?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t feel bad, dear: I never was better. I don’t feel anything. No, + really, I am better. There, leave me to myself.” + </p> + <p> + This time, being the first, Adolphe goes away almost sad. + </p> + <p> + A week passes, during which Caroline orders all the servants to conceal + from her husband her deplorable situation: she languishes, she rings when + she feels she is going off, she uses a great deal of ether. The domestics + finally acquaint their master with madame’s conjugal heroism, and Adolphe + remains at home one evening after dinner, and sees his wife passionately + kissing her little Marie. + </p> + <p> + “Poor child! I regret the future only for your sake! What is life, I + should like to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, my dear,” says Adolphe, “don’t take on so.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not taking on. Death doesn’t frighten me—I saw a funeral this + morning, and I thought how happy the body was! How comes it that I think + of nothing but death? Is it a disease? I have an idea that I shall die by + my own hand.” + </p> + <p> + The more Adolphe tries to divert Caroline, the more closely she wraps + herself up in the crape of her hopeless melancholy. This second time, + Adolphe stays at home and is wearied to death. At the third attack of + forced tears, he goes out without the slightest compunction. He finally + gets accustomed to these everlasting murmurs, to these dying postures, + these crocodile tears. So he says: + </p> + <p> + “If you are sick, Caroline, you’d better have a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like! It will end quicker, so. But bring a famous one, if you + bring any.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of a month, Adolphe, worn out by hearing the funereal air that + Caroline plays him on every possible key, brings home a famous doctor. At + Paris, doctors are all men of discernment, and are admirably versed in + conjugal nosography. + </p> + <p> + “Well, madame,” says the great physician, “how happens it that so pretty a + woman allows herself to be sick?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! sir, like the nose of old father Aubry, I aspire to the tomb—” + </p> + <p> + Caroline, out of consideration for Adolphe, makes a feeble effort to + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Tut, tut! But your eyes are clear: they don’t seem to need our infernal + drugs.” + </p> + <p> + “Look again, doctor, I am eaten up with fever, a slow, imperceptible fever—” + </p> + <p> + And she fastens her most roguish glance upon the illustrious doctor, who + says to himself, “What eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, let me see your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline puts out her taper tongue between two rows of teeth as white as + those of a dog. + </p> + <p> + “It is a little bit furred at the root: but you have breakfasted—” + observes the great physician, turning toward Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, a mere nothing,” returns Caroline; “two cups of tea—” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe and the illustrious leech look at each other, for the doctor + wonders whether it is the husband or the wife that is trifling with him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you feel?” gravely inquires the physician. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” + </p> + <p> + “I have no appetite.” + </p> + <p> + “Well!” + </p> + <p> + “I have a pain, here.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor examines the part indicated. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, we’ll look at that by and by.” + </p> + <p> + “Now and then a shudder passes over me—” + </p> + <p> + “Very good!” + </p> + <p> + “I have melancholy fits, I am always thinking of death, I feel promptings + of suicide—” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me! Really!” + </p> + <p> + “I have rushes of heat to the face: look, there’s a constant trembling in + my eyelid.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital! We call that a trismus.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor goes into an explanation, which lasts a quarter of an hour, of + the trismus, employing the most scientific terms. From this it appears + that the trismus is the trismus: but he observes with the greatest modesty + that if science knows that the trismus is the trismus, it is entirely + ignorant of the cause of this nervous affection, which comes and goes, + appears and disappears—“and,” he adds, “we have decided that it is + altogether nervous.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it very dangerous?” asks Caroline, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. How do you lie at night?” + </p> + <p> + “Doubled up in a heap.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. On which side?” + </p> + <p> + “The left.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. How many mattresses are there on your bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Three.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Is there a spring bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the spring bed stuffed with?” + </p> + <p> + “Horse hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital. Let me see you walk. No, no, naturally, and as if we weren’t + looking at you.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline walks like Fanny Elssler, communicating the most Andalusian + little motions to her tournure. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel a sensation of heaviness in your knees?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no—” she returns to her place. “Ah, no that I think of it, it + seems to me that I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Have you been in the house a good deal lately?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, sir, a great deal too much—and alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. I thought so. What do you wear on your head at night?” + </p> + <p> + “An embroidered night-cap, and sometimes a handkerchief over it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you feel a heat there, a slight perspiration?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I, when I’m asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you find your night-cap moist on your forehead, when you wake up?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “Capital. Give me your hand.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor takes out his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Did I tell you that I have a vertigo?” asks Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” says the doctor, counting the pulse. “In the evening?” + </p> + <p> + “No, in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, bless me, a vertigo in the morning,” says the doctor, looking at + Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “The Duke of G. has not gone to London,” says the great physician, while + examining Caroline’s skin, “and there’s a good deal to be said about it in + the Faubourg St. Germain.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you patients there?” asks Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “Nearly all my patients are there. Dear me, yes; I’ve got seven to see + this morning; some of them are in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of me, sir?” says Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, you need attention, a great deal of attention, you must take + quieting liquors, plenty of syrup of gum, a mild diet, white meat, and a + good deal of exercise.” + </p> + <p> + “There go twenty francs,” says Adolphe to himself with a smile. + </p> + <p> + The great physician takes Adolphe by the arm, and draws him out with him, + as he takes his leave: Caroline follows them on tiptoe. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir,” says the great physician, “I have just prescribed very + insufficiently for your wife. I did not wish to frighten her: this affair + concerns you more nearly than you imagine. Don’t neglect her; she has a + powerful temperament, and enjoys violent health; all this reacts upon her. + Nature has its laws, which, when disregarded, compel obedience. She may + get into a morbid state, which would cause you bitterly to repent having + neglected her. If you love her, why, love her: but if you don’t love her, + and nevertheless desire to preserve the mother of your children, the + resolution to come to is a matter of hygiene, but it can only proceed from + you!” + </p> + <p> + “How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself. She opens the door + and says: “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!” + </p> + <p> + The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into his + pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and says: + </p> + <p> + “What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?” + </p> + <p> + “Bah! He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + Caroline retires to her sofa to weep. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, now?” + </p> + <p> + “So I am to live a long time—I am in the way—you don’t love me + any more—I won’t consult that doctor again—I don’t know why + Madame Foullepointe advised me to see him, he told me nothing but trash—I + know better than he what I need!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you need?” + </p> + <p> + “Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on Adolphe’s + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself: “The doctor’s right, she may + get to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me? Here I am + compelled to choose between Caroline’s physical extravagance, or some + young cousin or other.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert’s melodies with all + the agitation of a hypochondriac. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + PART SECOND + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF2" id="link2H_PREF2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,—and + infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest + author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends, + the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good + nor the harm it may do—if, then, you have bestowed some attention + upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed + their color— + + “What color?” some grocer will doubtless ask; “books are bound in + yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white—” + + Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author, + and certain writers borrow their dye. Some books let their color + come off on to others. More than this. Books are dark or fair, + light brown or red. They have a sex, too! I know of male books, + and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which + we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this + collection of nosographic sketches the honor of calling it a book. + + Thus far, the troubles we have described have been exclusively + inflicted by the wife upon the husband. You have therefore seen + only the masculine side of the book. And if the author really has + the sense of hearing for which we give him credit, he has already + caught more than one indignant exclamation or remonstrance: + + “He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as + if we didn’t have our petty troubles, too!” + + Oh, women! You have been heard, for if you do not always make + yourselves understood, you are always sure to make yourselves + heard. + + It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the + reproaches that every being brought under the yoke (<i>conjugium</i>) + has the right to heap upon that necessary, sacred, useful, + eminently conservative institution,—one, however, that is often + somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, though + sometimes it is also too loose there. + + I will go further! Such partiality would be a piece of idiocy. + + A man,—not a writer, for in a writer there are many men,—an + author, rather, should resemble Janus, see behind and before, + become a spy, examine an idea in all its phases, delve alternately + into the soul of Alceste and into that of Philaenete, know + everything though he does not tell it, never be tiresome, and— + + We will not conclude this programme, for we should tell the whole, + and that would be frightful for those who reflect upon the present + condition of literature. + + Furthermore, an author who speaks for himself in the middle of his + book, resembles the old fellow in “The Speaking Picture,” when he + puts his face in the hole cut in the painting. The author does not + forget that in the Chamber, no one can take the floor <i>between two + votes</i>. Enough, therefore! + + Here follows the female portion of the book: for, to resemble + marriage perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH. + </h2> + <p> + Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early + friends at M’lle Machefer’s boarding school, one of the most celebrated + educational institutions in the Faubourg St. Honore, met at a ball given + by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took place in a + window-seat in the boudoir. + </p> + <p> + It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe the + fresh night air, some time before the two young women. He had placed + himself in the angle of the balcony, and, as there were many flowers + before the window, the two friends thought themselves alone. This man was + the author’s best friend. + </p> + <p> + One of the two ladies, standing at the corner of the embrasure, kept watch + by looking at the boudoir and the parlors. The other had so placed herself + as not to be in the draft, which was nevertheless tempered by the muslin + and silk curtains. + </p> + <p> + The boudoir was empty, the ball was just beginning, the gaming-tables were + open, offering their green cloths and their packs of cards still + compressed in the frail case placed upon them by the customs office. The + second quadrille was in progress. + </p> + <p> + All who go to balls will remember that phase of large parties when the + guests are not yet all arrived, but when the rooms are already filled—a + moment which gives the mistress of the house a transitory pang of terror. + This moment is, other points of comparison apart, like that which decides + a victory or the loss of a battle. + </p> + <p> + You will understand, therefore, how what was meant to be a secret now + obtains the honors of publicity. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Caroline?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Stephanie?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + A double sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Have you forgotten our agreement?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why haven’t you been to see me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I am never left alone. Even here we shall hardly have time to talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! if Adolphe were to get into such habits as that!” exclaimed Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “You saw us, Armand and me, when he paid me what is called, I don’t know + why, his court.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I admired him, I thought you very happy, you had found your ideal, a + fine, good-sized man, always well dressed, with yellow gloves, his beard + well shaven, patent leather boots, a clean shirt, exquisitely neat, and so + attentive—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, go on.” + </p> + <p> + “In short, quite an elegant man: his voice was femininely sweet, and then + such gentleness! And his promises of happiness and liberty! His sentences + were veneered with rosewood. He stocked his conversation with shawls and + laces. In his smallest expression you heard the rumbling of a coach and + four. Your wedding presents were magnificent. Armand seemed to me like a + husband of velvet, of a robe of birds’ feathers in which you were to be + wrapped.” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, my husband uses tobacco.” + </p> + <p> + “So does mine; that is, he smokes.” + </p> + <p> + “But mine, dear, uses it as they say Napoleon did: in short, he chews, and + I hold tobacco in horror. The monster found it out, and went without out + it for seven months.” + </p> + <p> + “All men have their habits. They absolutely must use something.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no idea of the tortures I endure. At night I am awakened with a + start by one of my own sneezes. As I go to sleep my motions bring the + grains of snuff scattered over the pillow under my nose, I inhale, and + explode like a mine. It seems that Armand, the wretch, is used to these <i>surprises</i>, + and doesn’t wake up. I find tobacco everywhere, and I certainly didn’t + marry the customs office.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear child, what does this trifling inconvenience amount to, if + your husband is kind and possesses a good disposition?” + </p> + <p> + “He is as cold as marble, as particular as an old bachelor, as + communicative as a sentinel; and he’s one of those men who say yes to + everything, but who never do anything but what they want to.” + </p> + <p> + “Deny him, once.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve tried it.” + </p> + <p> + “What came of it?” + </p> + <p> + “He threatened to reduce my allowance, and to keep back a sum big enough + for him to get along without me.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Stephanie! He’s not a man, he’s a monster.” + </p> + <p> + “A calm and methodical monster, who wears a scratch, and who, every night—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, every night—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute!—who takes a tumbler every night, and puts seven + false teeth in it.” + </p> + <p> + “What a trap your marriage was! At any rate, Armand is rich.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! Why, you seem to me on the point of becoming very unhappy—or + very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, how is it with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as for me, I have nothing as yet but a pin that pricks me: but it is + intolerable.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor creature! You don’t know your own happiness: come, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Here the young woman whispered in the other’s ear, so that it was + impossible to catch a single word. The conversation recommenced, or rather + finished by a sort of inference. + </p> + <p> + “So, your Adolphe is jealous?” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous of whom? We never leave each other, and that, in itself, is an + annoyance. I can’t stand it. I don’t dare to gape. I am expected to be + forever enacting the woman in love. It’s fatiguing.” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Resign myself. What are you? + </p> + <p> + “Fight the customs office.” + </p> + <p> + This little trouble tends to prove that in the matter of personal + deception, the two sexes can well cry quits. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DISAPPOINTED AMBITION. + </h2> + <p> + I. CHODOREILLE THE GREAT. + </p> + <p> + A young man has forsaken his natal city in the depths of one of the + departments, rather clearly marked by M. Charles Dupin. He felt that glory + of some sort awaited him: suppose that of a painter, a novelist, a + journalist, a poet, a great statesman. + </p> + <p> + Young Adolphe de Chodoreille—that we may be perfectly understood—wished + to be talked about, to become celebrated, to be somebody. This, therefore, + is addressed to the mass of aspiring individuals brought to Paris by all + sorts of vehicles, whether moral or material, and who rush upon the city + one fine morning with the hydrophobic purpose of overturning everybody’s + reputation, and of building themselves a pedestal with the ruins they are + to make,—until disenchantment follows. As our intention is to + specify this peculiarity so characteristic of our epoch, let us take from + among the various personages the one whom the author has elsewhere called + <i>A Distinguished Provencal</i>. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe has discovered that the most admirable trade is that which + consists in buying a bottle of ink, a bunch of quills, and a ream of + paper, at a stationer’s for twelve francs and a half, and in selling the + two thousand sheets in the ream over again, for something like fifty + thousand francs, after having, of course, written upon each leaf fifty + lines replete with style and imagination. + </p> + <p> + This problem,—twelve francs and a half metamorphosed into fifty + thousand francs, at the rate of five sous a line—urges numerous + families who might advantageously employ their members in the retirement + of the provinces, to thrust them into the vortex of Paris. + </p> + <p> + The young man who is the object of this exportation, invariably passes in + his natal town for a man of as much imagination as the most famous author. + He has always studied well, he writes very nice poetry, he is considered a + fellow of parts: he is besides often guilty of a charming tale published + in the local paper, which obtains the admiration of the department. + </p> + <p> + His poor parents will never know what their son has come to Paris to learn + at great cost, namely: That it is difficult to be a writer and to + understand the French language short of a dozen years of heculean labor: + That a man must have explored every sphere of social life, to become a + genuine novelist, inasmuch as the novel is the private history of nations: + That the great story-tellers, Aesop, Lucian, Boccaccio, Rabelais, + Cervantes, Swift, La Fontaine, Lesage, Sterne, Voltaire, Walter Scott, the + unknown Arabians of the <i>Thousand and One Nights</i>, were all men of + genius as well as giants of erudition. + </p> + <p> + Their Adolphe serves his literary apprenticeship in two or three + coffee-houses, becomes a member of the Society of Men of Letters, attacks, + with or without reason, men of talent who don’t read his articles, assumes + a milder tone on seeing the powerlessness of his criticisms, offers + novelettes to the papers which toss them from one to the other as if they + were shuttlecocks: and, after five or six years of exercises more or less + fatiguing, of dreadful privations which seriously tax his parents, he + attains a certain position. + </p> + <p> + This position may be described as follows: Thanks to a sort of reciprocal + support extended to each other, and which an ingenious writer has called + “Mutual Admiration,” Adolphe often sees his name cited among the names of + celebrities, either in the prospectuses of the book-trade, or in the lists + of newspapers about to appear. Publishers print the title of one of his + works under the deceitful heading “IN PRESS,” which might be called the + typographical menagerie of bears.[*] Chodoreille is sometimes mentioned + among the promising young men of the literary world. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [*] A bear (<i>ours</i>) is a play which has been refused by a + multitude of theatres, but which is finally represented at a + time when some manager or other feels the need of one. The + word has necessarily passed from the language of the stage + into the jargon of journalism, and is applied to novels + which wander the streets in search of a publisher. +</pre> + <p> + For eleven years Adolphe Chodoreille remains in the ranks of the promising + young men: he finally obtains a free entrance to the theatres, thanks to + some dirty work or certain articles of dramatic criticism: he tries to + pass for a good fellow; and as he loses his illusions respecting glory and + the world of Paris, he gets into debt and his years begin to tell upon + him. + </p> + <p> + A paper which finds itself in a tight place asks him for one of his bears + revised by his friends. This has been retouched and revamped every five + years, so that it smells of the pomatum of each prevailing and then + forgotten fashion. To Adolphe it becomes what the famous cap, which he was + constantly staking, was to Corporal Trim, for during five years “Anything + for a Woman” (the title decided upon) “will be one of the most + entertaining productions of our epoch.” + </p> + <p> + After eleven years, Chodoreille is regarded as having written some + respectable things, five or six tales published in the dismal magazines, + in ladies’ newspapers, or in works intended for children of tender age. + </p> + <p> + As he is a bachelor, and possesses a coat and a pair of black cassimere + trousers, and when he pleases may thus assume the appearance of an elegant + diplomat, and as he is not without a certain intelligent air, he is + admitted to several more or less literary salons: he bows to the five or + six academicians who possess genius, influence or talent, he visits two or + three of our great poets, he allows himself, in coffee-rooms, to call the + two or three justly celebrated women of our epoch by their Christian + names; he is on the best of terms with the blue stockings of the second + grade,—who ought to be called <i>socks</i>,—and he shakes + hands and takes glasses of absinthe with the stars of the smaller + newspapers. + </p> + <p> + Such is the history of every species of ordinary men—men who have + been denied what they call good luck. This good luck is nothing less than + unyielding will, incessant labor, contempt for an easily won celebrity, + immense learning, and that patience which, according to Buffon, is the + whole of genius, but which certainly is the half of it. + </p> + <p> + You do not yet see any indication of a petty trouble for Caroline. You + imagine that this history of five hundred young men engaged at this moment + in wearing smooth the paving stones of Paris, was written as a sort of + warning to the families of the eighty-six departments of France: but read + these two letters which lately passed between two girls differently + married, and you will see that it was as necessary as the narrative by + which every true melodrama was until lately expected to open. You will + divine the skillful manoeuvres of the Parisian peacock spreading his tail + in the recesses of his native village, and polishing up, for matrimonial + purposes, the rays of his glory, which, like those of the sun, are only + warm and brilliant at a distance. + </p> + <p> + From Madame Claire de la Roulandiere, nee Jugault, to Madame Adolphe de + Chodoreille, nee Heurtaut. + </p> + <p> + “VIVIERS. + </p> + <p> + “You have not yet written to me, and it’s real unkind in you. Don’t you + remember that the happier was to write first and to console her who + remained in the country? + </p> + <p> + “Since your departure for Paris, I have married Monsieur de la + Roulandiere, the president of the tribunal. You know him, and you can + judge whether I am happy or not, with my heart <i>saturated</i>, as it is, + with our ideas. I was not ignorant what my lot would be: I live with the + ex-president, my husband’s uncle, and with my mother-in-law, who has + preserved nothing of the ancient parliamentary society of Aix but its + pride and its severity of manners. I am seldom alone, I never go out + unless accompanied by my mother-in-law or my husband. We receive the heavy + people of the city in the evening. They play whist at two sous a point, + and I listen to conversations of this nature: + </p> + <p> + “‘Monsieur Vitremont is dead, and leaves two hundred and eighty thousand + francs,’ says the associate judge, a young man of forty-seven, who is as + entertaining as a northwest wind. + </p> + <p> + “‘Are you quite sure of that?’ + </p> + <p> + “The <i>that</i> refers to the two hundred and eighty thousand francs. A + little judge then holds forth, he runs over the investments, the others + discuss their value, and it is definitely settled that if he has not left + two hundred and eighty thousand, he left something near it. + </p> + <p> + “Then comes a universal concert of eulogy heaped upon the dead man’s body, + for having kept his bread under lock and key, for having shrewdly invested + his little savings accumulated sou by sou, in order, probably, that the + whole city and those who expect legacies may applaud and exclaim in + admiration, ‘He leaves two hundred and eighty thousand francs!’ Now + everybody has rich relations of whom they say ‘Will he leave anything like + it?’ and thus they discuss the quick as they have discussed the dead. + </p> + <p> + “They talk of nothing but the prospects of fortune, the prospects of a + vacancy in office, the prospects of the harvest. + </p> + <p> + “When we were children, and used to look at those pretty little white + mice, in the cobbler’s window in the rue St. Maclou, that turned and + turned the circular cage in which they were imprisoned, how far I was from + thinking that they would one day be a faithful image of my life! + </p> + <p> + “Think of it, my being in this condition!—I who fluttered my wings + so much more than you, I whose imagination was so vagabond! My sins have + been greater than yours, and I am the more severely punished. I have + bidden farewell to my dreams: I am <i>Madame la Presidente</i> in all my + glory, and I resign myself to giving my arm for forty years to my big + awkward Roulandiere, to living meanly in every way, and to having forever + before me two heavy brows and two wall-eyes pierced in a yellow face, + which is destined never to know what it is to smile. + </p> + <p> + “But you, Caroline dear, you who, between ourselves, were admitted among + the big girls while I still gamboled among the little ones, you whose only + sin was pride, you,—at the age of twenty-seven, and with a dowry of + two hundred thousand francs,—capture and captivate a truly great + man, one of the wittiest men in Paris, one of the two talented men that + our village has produced.—What luck! + </p> + <p> + “You now circulate in the most brilliant society of Paris. Thanks to the + sublime privileges of genius. You may appear in all the salons of the + Faubourg St. Germain, and be cordially received. You have the exquisite + enjoyment of the company of the two or three celebrated women of our age, + where so many good things are said, where the happy speeches which arrive + out here like Congreve rockets, are first fired off. You go to the Baron + Schinner’s of whom Adolphe so often spoke to us, whom all the great + artists and foreigners of celebrity visit. In short, before long, you will + be one of the queens of Paris, if you wish. You can receive, too, and have + at your house the lions of literature, fashion and finance, whether male + or female, for Adolphe spoke in such terms about his illustrious + friendships and his intimacy with the favorites of the hour, that I + imagine you giving and receiving honors. + </p> + <p> + “With your ten thousand francs a year, and the legacy from your Aunt + Carabas, added to the twenty thousand francs that your husband earns, you + must keep a carriage; and since you go to all the theatres without paying, + since journalists are the heroes of all the inaugurations so ruinous for + those who keep up with the movement of Paris, and since they are + constantly invited to dinner, you live as if you had an income of sixty + thousand francs a year! Happy Caroline! I don’t wonder you forget me! + </p> + <p> + “I can understand how it is that you have not a moment to yourself. Your + bliss is the cause of your silence, so I pardon you. Still, if, fatigued + with so many pleasures, you one day, upon the summit of your grandeur, + think of your poor Claire, write to me, tell me what a marriage with a + great man is, describe those great Parisian ladies, especially those who + write. Oh! I should <i>so</i> much like to know what they are made of! + Finally don’t forget anything, unless you forget that you are loved, as + ever, by your poor + </p> + <p> + “CLAIRE JUGAULT.” + </p> + <p> + From Madame Adolphe de Chodoreille to Madame la Presidente de la + Roulandiere, at Viviers. + </p> + <p> + “PARIS. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! my poor Claire, could you have known how many wretched little griefs + your innocent letter would awaken, you never would have written it. + Certainly no friend, and not even an enemy, on seeing a woman with a + thousand mosquito-bites and a plaster over them, would amuse herself by + tearing it off and counting the stings. + </p> + <p> + “I will begin by telling you that for a woman of twenty-seven, with a face + still passable, but with a form a little too much like that of the Emperor + Nicholas for the humble part I play, I am happy! Let me tell you why: + Adolphe, rejoicing in the deceptions which have fallen upon me like a + hail-storm, smoothes over the wounds in my self-love by so much affection, + so many attentions, and such charming things, that, in good truth, women—so + far as they are simply women—would be glad to find in the man they + marry defects so advantageous. But all men of letters (Adolphe, alas! is + barely a man of letters), who are beings not a bit less irritable, + nervous, fickle and eccentric than women, are far from possessing such + solid qualities as those of Adolphe, and I hope they have not all been as + unfortunate as he. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Claire, we love each other well enough for me to tell you the simple + truth. I have saved my husband, dear, from profound but skillfully + concealed poverty. Far from receiving twenty thousand francs a year, he + has not earned that sum in the entire fifteen years that he has been at + Paris. We occupy a third story in the rue Joubert, and pay twelve hundred + francs for it; we have some eighty-five hundred francs left, with which I + endeavor to keep house honorably. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought Adolphe luck; for since our marriage, he has obtained the + control of a feuilleton which is worth four hundred francs a month to him, + though it takes but a small portion of his time. He owes this situation to + an investment. We employed the seventy thousand francs left me by my Aunt + Carabas in giving security for a newspaper; on this we get nine per cent, + and we have stock besides. Since this transaction, which was concluded + some ten months ago, our income has doubled, and we now possess a + competence, I can complain of my marriage in a pecuniary point of view no + more than as regards my affections. My vanity alone has suffered, and my + ambition has been swamped. You will understand the various petty troubles + which have assailed me, by a single specimen. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe, you remember, appeared to us on intimate terms with the famous + Baroness Schinner, so renowned for her wit, her influence, her wealth and + her connection with celebrated men. I supposed that he was welcomed at her + house as a friend: my husband presented me, and I was coldly received. I + saw that her rooms were furnished with extravagant luxury; and instead of + Madame Schinner’s returning my call, I received a card, twenty days + afterward, and at an insolently improper hour. + </p> + <p> + “On arriving at Paris, I went to walk upon the boulevard, proud of my + anonymous great man. He nudged me with his elbow, and said, pointing out a + fat little ill-dressed man, ‘There’s so and so!’ He mentioned one of the + seven or eight illustrious men in France. I got ready my look of + admiration, and I saw Adolphe rapturously doffing his hat to the truly + great man, who replied by the curt little nod that you vouchsafe a person + with whom you have doubtless exchanged hardly four words in ten years. + Adolphe had begged a look for my sake. ‘Doesn’t he know you?’ I said to my + husband. ‘Oh, yes, but he probably took me for somebody else,’ replied he. + </p> + <p> + “And so of poets, so of celebrated musicians, so of statesmen. But, as a + compensation, we stop and talk for ten minutes in front of some arcade or + other, with Messieurs Armand du Cantal, George Beaunoir, Felix Verdoret, + of whom you have never heard. Mesdames Constantine Ramachard, Anais + Crottat, and Lucienne Vouillon threaten me with their <i>blue</i> + friendship. We dine editors totally unknown in our province. Finally I + have had the painful happiness of seeing Adolphe decline an invitation to + an evening party to which I was not bidden. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Claire dear, talent is still the rare flower of spontaneous growth, + that no greenhouse culture can produce. I do not deceive myself: Adolphe + is an ordinary man, known, estimated as such: he has no other chance, as + he himself says, than to take his place among the <i>utilities</i> of + literature. He was not without wit at Viviers: but to be a man of wit at + Paris, you must possess every kind of wit in formidable doses. + </p> + <p> + “I esteem Adolphe: for, after some few fibs, he frankly confessed his + position, and, without humiliating himself too deeply, he promised that I + should be happy. He hopes, like numerous other ordinary men, to obtain + some place, that of an assistant librarian, for instance, or the pecuniary + management of a newspaper. Who knows but we may get him elected deputy for + Viviers, in the course of time? + </p> + <p> + “We live in obscurity; we have five or six friends of either sex whom we + like, and such is the brilliant style of life which your letter gilded + with all the social splendors. + </p> + <p> + “From time to time I am caught in a squall, or am the butt of some + malicious tongue. Thus, yesterday, at the opera, I heard one of our most + ill-natured wits, Leon de Lora, say to one of our most famous critics, ‘It + takes Chodoreille to discover the Caroline poplar on the banks of the + Rhone!’ They had heard my husband call me by my Christian name. At Viviers + I was considered handsome. I am tall, well made, and fat enough to satisfy + Adolphe! In this way I learn that the beauty of women from the country is, + at Paris, precisely like the wit of country gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “In short, I am absolutely nobody, if that is what you wish to know: but + if you desire to learn how far my philosophy goes, understand that I am + really happy in having found an ordinary man in my pretended great one. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, dear Claire! It is still I, you see, who, in spite of my + delusions and the petty troubles of my life, am the most favorably + situated: for Adolphe is young, and a charming fellow. + </p> + <p> + “CAROLINE HEURTAUT.” + </p> + <p> + Claire’s reply contained, among other passages, the following: “I hope + that the indescribable happiness which you enjoy, will continue, thanks to + your philosophy.” Claire, as any intimate female friend would have done, + consoled herself for her president by insinuations respecting Adolphe’s + prospects and future conduct. + </p> + <p> + II. ANOTHER GLANCE AT CHODOREILLE. + </p> + <p> + (Letter discovered one day in a casket, while she was making me wait a + long time and trying to get rid of a hanger-on who could not be made to + understand hidden meanings. I caught cold—but I got hold of this + letter.) + </p> + <p> + This fatuous note was found on a paper which the notary’s clerks had + thought of no importance in the inventory of the estate of M. Ferdinand de + Bourgarel, who was mourned of late by politics, arts and amours, and in + whom is ended the great Provencal house of Borgarelli; for as is generally + known the name Bourgarel is a corruption of Borgarelli just as the French + Girardin is the Florentine Gherardini. + </p> + <p> + An intelligent reader will find little difficulty in placing this letter + in its proper epoch in the lives of Adolphe and Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Friend: + </p> + <p> + “I thought myself lucky indeed to marry an artist as superior in his + talent as in his personal attributes, equally great in soul and mind, + worldly-wise, and likely to rise by following the public road without + being obliged to wander along crooked, doubtful by-paths. However, you + knew Adolphe; you appreciated his worth. I am loved, he is a father, I + idolize our children. Adolphe is kindness itself to me; I admire and love + him. But, my dear, in this complete happiness lurks a thorn. The roses + upon which I recline have more than one fold. In the heart of a woman, + folds speedily turn to wounds. These wounds soon bleed, the evil spreads, + we suffer, the suffering awakens thoughts, the thoughts swell and change + the course of sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear, you shall know all about it, though it is a cruel thing to + say—but we live as much by vanity as by love. To live by love alone, + one must dwell somewhere else than in Paris. What difference would it make + to us whether we had only one white percale gown, if the man we love did + not see other women dressed differently, more elegantly than we—women + who inspire ideas by their ways, by a multitude of little things which + really go to make up great passions? Vanity, my dear, is cousin-german to + jealousy, to that beautiful and noble jealousy which consists in not + allowing one’s empire to be invaded, in reigning undisturbed in a soul, + and passing one’s life happily in a heart. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, my woman’s vanity is on the rack. Though some troubles may seem + petty indeed, I have learned, unfortunately, that in the home there are no + petty troubles. For everything there is magnified by incessant contact + with sensations, with desires, with ideas. Such then is the secret of that + sadness which you have surprised in me and which I did not care to + explain. It is one of those things in which words go too far, and where + writing holds at least the thought within bounds by establishing it. The + effects of a moral perspective differ so radically between what is said + and what is written! All is so solemn, so serious on paper! One cannot + commit any more imprudences. Is it not this fact which makes a treasure + out of a letter where one gives one’s self over to one’s thoughts? + </p> + <p> + “You doubtless thought me wretched, but I am only wounded. You discovered + me sitting alone by the fire, and no Adolphe. I had just finished putting + the children to bed; they were asleep. Adolphe for the tenth time had been + invited out to a house where I do not go, where they want Adolphe without + his wife. There are drawing-rooms where he goes without me, just at there + are many pleasures in which he alone is the guest. If he were M. de + Navarreins and I a d’Espard, society would never think of separating us; + it would want us always together. His habits are formed; he does not + suspect the humiliation which weighs upon my heart. Indeed, if he had the + slightest inkling of this small sorrow which I am ashamed to own, he would + drop society, he would become more of a prig than the people who come + between us. But he would hamper his progress, he would make enemies, he + would raise up obstacles by imposing me upon the salons where I would be + subject to a thousand slights. That is why I prefer my sufferings to what + would happen were they discovered. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe will succeed! He carries my revenge in his beautiful head, does + this man of genius. One day the world shall pay for all these slights. But + when? Perhaps I shall be forty-five. My beautiful youth will have passed + in my chimney-corner, and with this thought: Adolphe smiles, he is + enjoying the society of fair women, he is playing the devoted to them, + while none of these attentions come my way. + </p> + <p> + “It may be that these will finally take him from me! + </p> + <p> + “No one undergoes slight without feeling it, and I feel that I am + slighted, though young, beautiful and virtuous. Now, can I keep from + thinking this way? Can I control my anger at the thought that Adolphe is + dining in the city without me? I take no part in his triumphs; I do not + hear the witty or profound remarks made to others! I could no longer be + content with bourgeois receptions whence he rescued me, upon finding me <i>distinguee</i>, + wealthy, young, beautiful and witty. There lies the evil, and it is + irremediable. + </p> + <p> + “In a word, for some cause, it is only since I cannot go to a certain + salon that I want to go there. Nothing is more natural of the ways of a + human heart. The ancients were wise in having their <i>gyneceums</i>. The + collisions between the pride of the women, caused by these gatherings, + though it dates back only four centuries, has cost our own day much + disaffection and numerous bitter debates. + </p> + <p> + “Be that as it may, my dear, Adolphe is always warmly welcomed when he + comes back home. Still, no nature is strong enough to await always with + the same ardor. What a morrow that will be, following the evening when his + welcome is less warm! + </p> + <p> + “Now do you see the depth of the fold which I mentioned? A fold in the + heart is an abyss, like a crevasse in the Alps—a profundity whose + depth and extent we have never been able to calculate. Thus it is between + two beings, no matter how near they may be drawn to each other. One never + realizes the weight of suffering which oppresses his friend. This seems + such a little thing, yet one’s life is affected by it in all its length, + in all its breadth. I have thus argued with myself; but the more I have + argued, the more thoroughly have I realized the extent of this hidden + sorrow. And I can only let the current carry me whither it will. + </p> + <p> + “Two voices struggle for supremacy when—by a rarely fortunate chance—I + am alone in my armchair waiting for Adolphe. One, I would wager, comes + from Eugene Delacroix’s <i>Faust</i> which I have on my table. + Mephistopheles speaks, that terrible aide who guides the swords so + dexterously. He leaves the engraving, and places himself diabolically + before me, grinning through the hole which the great artist has placed + under his nose, and gazing at me with that eye whence fall rubies, + diamonds, carriages, jewels, laces, silks, and a thousand luxuries to feed + the burning desire within me. + </p> + <p> + “‘Are you not fit for society?’ he asks. ‘You are the equal of the fairest + duchesses. Your voice is like a siren’s, your hands command respect and + love. Ah! that arm!—place bracelets upon it, and how pleasingly it + would rest upon the velvet of a robe! Your locks are chains which would + fetter all men. And you could lay all your triumphs at Adolphe’s feet, + show him your power and never use it. Then he would fear, where now he + lives in insolent certainty. Come! To action! Inhale a few mouthfuls of + disdain and you will exhale clouds of incense. Dare to reign! Are you not + next to nothing here in your chimney-corner? Sooner or later the pretty + spouse, the beloved wife will die, if you continue like this, in a + dressing-gown. Come, and you shall perpetuate your sway through the arts + of coquetry! Show yourself in salons, and your pretty foot shall trample + down the love of your rivals.’ + </p> + <p> + “The other voice comes from my white marble mantel, which rustles like a + garment. I think I see a veritable goddess crowned with white roses, and + bearing a palm-branch in her hand. Two blue eyes smile down on me. This + simple image of virtue says to me: + </p> + <p> + “‘Be content! Remain good always, and make this man happy. That is the + whole of your mission. The sweetness of angels triumphs over all pain. + Faith in themselves has enabled the martyrs to obtain solace even on the + brasiers of their tormentors. Suffer a moment; you shall be happy in the + end.’ + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes Adolphe enters at that moment and I am content. But, my dear, I + have less patience than love. I almost wish to tear in pieces the woman + who can go everywhere, and whose society is sought out by men and women + alike. What profound thought lies in the line of Moliere: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘The world, dear Agnes, is a curious thing!’ +</pre> + <p> + “You know nothing of this petty trouble, you fortunate Mathilde! You are + well born. You can do a great deal for me. Just think! I can write you + things that I dared not speak about. Your visits mean so much; come often + to see your poor + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Caroline.” + </pre> + <p> + “Well,” said I to the notary’s clerk, “do you know what was the nature of + this letter to the late Bourgarel?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “A note of exchange.” + </p> + <p> + Neither clerk nor notary understood my meaning. Do you? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PANGS OF INNOCENCE. + </h2> + <p> + “Yes, dear, in the married state, many things will happen to you which you + are far from expecting: but then others will happen which you expect still + less. For instance—” + </p> + <p> + The author (may we say the ingenious author?) <i>qui castigat ridendo + mores</i>, and who has undertaken the <i>Petty Troubles of Married Life</i>, + hardly needs to remark, that, for prudence’ sake, he here allows a lady of + high distinction to speak, and that he does not assume the responsibility + of her language, though he professes the most sincere admiration for the + charming person to whom he owes his acquaintance with this petty trouble. + </p> + <p> + “For instance—” she says. + </p> + <p> + He nevertheless thinks proper to avow that this person is neither Madame + Foullepointe, nor Madame de Fischtaminel, nor Madame Deschars. + </p> + <p> + Madame Deschars is too prudish, Madame Foullepointe too absolute in her + household, and she knows it; indeed, what doesn’t she know? She is + good-natured, she sees good society, she wishes to have the best: people + overlook the vivacity of her witticisms, as, under louis XIV, they + overlooked the remarks of Madame Cornuel. They overlook a good many things + in her; there are some women who are the spoiled children of public + opinion. + </p> + <p> + As to Madame de Fischtaminel, who is, in fact, connected with the affair, + as you shall see, she, being unable to recriminate, abstains from words + and recriminates in acts. + </p> + <p> + We give permission to all to think that the speaker is Caroline herself, + not the silly little Caroline of tender years. But Caroline when she has + become a woman of thirty. + </p> + <p> + “For instance,” she remarks to a young woman whom she is edifying, “you + will have children, God willing.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” I say, “don’t let us mix the deity up in this, unless it is an + allusion—” + </p> + <p> + “You are impertinent,” she replies, “you shouldn’t interrupt a woman—” + </p> + <p> + “When she is busy with children, I know: but, madame, you ought not to + trifle with the innocence of young ladies. Mademoiselle is going to be + married, and if she were led to count upon the intervention of the Supreme + Being in this affair, she would fall into serious errors. We should not + deceive the young. Mademoiselle is beyond the age when girls are informed + that their little brother was found under a cabbage.” + </p> + <p> + “You evidently want to get me confused,” she replies, smiling and showing + the loveliest teeth in the world. “I am not strong enough to argue with + you, so I beg you to let me go on with Josephine. What was I saying?” + </p> + <p> + “That if I get married, I shall have children,” returns the young lady. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I will not represent things to you worse than they are, but it + is extremely probable that each child will cost you a tooth. With every + baby I have lost a tooth.” + </p> + <p> + “Happily,” I remark at this, “this trouble was with you less than petty, + it was positively nothing.”—They were side teeth.—“But take + notice, miss, that this vexation has no absolute, unvarying character as + such. The annoyance depends upon the condition of the tooth. If the baby + causes the loss of a decayed tooth, you are fortunate to have a baby the + more and a bad tooth the less. Don’t let us confound blessings with + bothers. Ah! if you were to lose one of your magnificent front teeth, that + would be another thing! And yet there is many a woman that would give the + best tooth in her head for a fine, healthy boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” resumes Caroline, with animation, “at the risk of destroying your + illusions, poor child, I’ll just show you a petty trouble that counts! Ah, + it’s atrocious! And I won’t leave the subject of dress which this + gentleman considers the only subject we women are equal to.” + </p> + <p> + I protest by a gesture. + </p> + <p> + “I had been married about two years,” continues Caroline, “and I loved my + husband. I have got over it since and acted differently for his happiness + and mine. I can boast of having one of the happiest homes in Paris. In + short, my dear, I loved the monster, and, even when out in society, saw no + one but him. My husband had already said to me several times, ‘My dear, + young women never dress well; your mother liked to have you look like a + stick,—she had her reasons for it. If you care for my advice, take + Madame de Fischtaminel for a model: she is a lady of taste.’ I, + unsuspecting creature that I was, saw no perfidy in the recommendation. + </p> + <p> + “One evening as we returned from a party, he said, ‘Did you notice how + Madame de Fischtaminel was dressed!’ ‘Yes, very neatly.’ And I said to + myself, ‘He’s always talking about Madame de Fischtaminel; I must really + dress just like her.’ I had noticed the stuff and the make of the dress, + and the style of the trimmings. I was as happy as could be, as I went + trotting about town, doing everything I could to obtain the same articles. + I sent for the very same dressmaker. + </p> + <p> + “‘You work for Madame de Fischtaminel,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, madame.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, I will employ you as my dressmaker, but on one condition: you see + I have procured the stuff of which her gown is made, and I want you to + make me one exactly like it.’ + </p> + <p> + “I confess that I did not at first pay any attention to a rather shrewd + smile of the dressmaker, though I saw it and afterwards accounted for it. + ‘So like it,’ I added, ‘that you can’t tell them apart.’ + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” says Caroline, interrupting herself and looking at me, “you men + teach us to live like spiders in the depths of their webs, to see + everything without seeming to look at it, to investigate the meaning and + spirit of words, movements, looks. You say, ‘How cunning women are!’ But + you should say, ‘How deceitful men are!’ + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you how much care, how many days, how many manoeuvres, it + cost me to become Madame de Fischtaminel’s duplicate! But these are our + battles, child,” she adds, returning to Josephine. “I could not find a + certain little embroidered neckerchief, a very marvel! I finally learned + that it was made to order. I unearthed the embroideress, and ordered a + kerchief like Madame de Fischtaminel’s. The price was a mere trifle, one + hundred and fifty francs! It had been ordered by a gentleman who had made + a present of it to Madame de Fischtaminel. All my savings were absorbed by + it. Now we women of Paris are all of us very much restricted in the + article of dress. There is not a man worth a hundred thousand francs a + year, that loses ten thousand a winter at whist, who does not consider his + wife extravagant, and is not alarmed at her bills for what he calls + ‘rags’! ‘Let my savings go,’ I said. And they went. I had the modest pride + of a woman in love: I would not speak a word to Adolphe of my dress; I + wanted it to be a surprise, goose that I was! Oh, how brutally you men + take away our blessed ignorance!” + </p> + <p> + This remark is meant for me, for me who had taken nothing from the lady, + neither tooth, nor anything whatever of the things with a name and without + a name that may be taken from a woman. + </p> + <p> + “I must tell you that my husband took me to Madame de Fischtaminel’s, + where I dined quite often. I heard her say to him, ‘Why, your wife looks + very well!’ She had a patronizing way with me that I put up with: Adolphe + wished that I could have her wit and preponderance in society. In short, + this phoenix of women was my model. I studied and copied her, I took + immense pains not to be myself—oh!—it was a poem that no one + but us women can understand! Finally, the day of my triumph dawned. My + heart beat for joy, as if I were a child, as if I were what we all are at + twenty-two. My husband was going to call for me for a walk in the + Tuileries: he came in, I looked at him radiant with joy, but he took no + notice. Well, I can confess it now, it was one of those frightful + disasters—but I will say nothing about it—this gentleman here + would make fun of me.” + </p> + <p> + I protest by another movement. + </p> + <p> + “It was,” she goes on, for a woman never stops till she has told the whole + of a thing, “as if I had seen an edifice built by a fairy crumble into + ruins. Adolphe manifested not the slightest surprise. We got into the + carriage. Adolphe noticed my sadness, and asked me what the matter was: I + replied as we always do when our hearts are wrung by these petty + vexations, ‘Oh, nothing!’ Then he took his eye-glass, and stared at the + promenaders on the Champs Elysees, for we were to go the rounds of the + Champs Elysees, before taking our walk at the Tuileries. Finally, a fit of + impatience seized me. I felt a slight attack of fever, and when I got + home, I composed myself to smile. ‘You haven’t said a word about my + dress!’ I muttered. ‘Ah, yes, your gown is somewhat like Madame de + Fischtaminel’s.’ He turned on his heel and went away. + </p> + <p> + “The next day I pouted a little, as you may readily imagine. Just as we + were finishing breakfast by the fire in my room—I shall never forget + it—the embroideress called to get her money for the neckerchief. I + paid her. She bowed to my husband as if she knew him. I ran after her on + pretext of getting her to receipt the bill, and said: ‘You didn’t ask <i>him</i> + so much for Madame de Fischtaminel’s kerchief!’ ‘I assure you, madame, + it’s the same price, the gentleman did not beat me down a mite.’ I + returned to my room where I found my husband looking as foolish as—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitates and then resumes: “As a miller just made a bishop. ‘I + understand, love, now, that I shall never be anything more than <i>somewhat + like</i> Madame de Fischtaminel.’ ‘You refer to her neckerchief, I + suppose: well, I <i>did</i> give it to her,—it was for her birthday. + You see, we were formerly—’ ‘Ah, you were formerly more intimate + than you are now!’ Without replying to this, he added, ‘<i>But it’s + altogether moral.</i>’ + </p> + <p> + “He took his hat and went out, leaving me with this fine declaration of + the Rights of Man. He did not return and came home late at night. I + remained in my chamber and wept like a Magdalen, in the chimney-corner. + You may laugh at me, if you will,” she adds, looking at me, “but I shed + tears over my youthful illusions, and I wept, too, for spite, at having + been taken for a dupe. I remembered the dressmaker’s smile! Ah, that smile + reminded me of the smiles of a number of women, who laughed at seeing me + so innocent and unsuspecting at Madame de Fischtaminel’s! I wept + sincerely. Until now I had a right to give my husband credit for many + things which he did not possess, but in the existence of which young + married women pertinaciously believe. + </p> + <p> + “How many great troubles are included in this petty one! You men are a + vulgar set. There is not a woman who does not carry her delicacy so far as + to embroider her past life with the most delightful fibs, while you—but + I have had my revenge.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” I say, “you are giving this young lady too much information.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” she returns, “I will tell you the sequel some other time.” + </p> + <p> + “Thus, you see, mademoiselle,” I say, “you imagine you are buying a + neckerchief and you find a <i>petty trouble</i> round your neck: if you + get it given to you—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a <i>great</i> trouble,” retorts the woman of distinction. “Let us + stop here.” + </p> + <p> + The moral of this fable is that you must wear your neckerchief without + thinking too much about it. The ancient prophets called this world, even + in their time, a valley of woe. Now, at that period, the Orientals had, + with the permission of the constituted authorities, a swarm of comely + slaves, besides their wives! What shall we call the valley of the Seine + between Calvary and Charenton, where the law allows but one lawful wife. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNIVERSAL AMADIS. + </h2> + <p> + You will understand at once that I began to gnaw the head of my cane, to + consult the ceiling, to gaze at the fire, to examine Caroline’s foot, and + I thus held out till the marriageable young lady was gone. + </p> + <p> + “You must excuse me,” I said, “if I have remained behind, perhaps in spite + of you: but your vengeance would lose by being recounted by and by, and if + it constituted a petty trouble for your husband, I have the greatest + interest in hearing it, and you shall know why.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she returned, “that expression, ‘<i>it’s altogether moral,</i>’ + which he gave as an excuse, shocked me to the last degree. It was a great + consolation, truly, to me, to know that I held the place, in his + household, of a piece of furniture, a block; that my kingdom lay among the + kitchen utensils, the accessories of my toilet, and the physicians’ + prescriptions; that our conjugal love had been assimilated to dinner + pills, to veal soup and white mustard; that Madame de Fischtaminel + possessed my husband’s soul, his admiration, and that she charmed and + satisfied his intellect, while I was a kind of purely physical necessity! + What do you think of a woman’s being degraded to the situation of a soup + or a plate of boiled beef, and without parsley, at that! Oh, I composed a + catilinic, that evening—” + </p> + <p> + “Philippic is better.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, either. I’ll say anything you like, for I was perfectly furious, + and I don’t remember what I screamed in the desert of my bedroom. Do you + suppose that this opinion that husbands have of their wives, the parts + they give them, is not a singular vexation for us? Our petty troubles are + always pregnant with greater ones. My Adolphe needed a lesson. You know + the Vicomte de Lustrac, a desperate amateur of women and music, an + epicure, one of those ex-beaux of the Empire, who live upon their earlier + successes, and who cultivate themselves with excessive care, in order to + secure a second crop?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said, “one of those laced, braced, corseted old fellows of sixty, + who work such wonders by the grace of their forms, and who might give a + lesson to the youngest dandies among us.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Lustrac is as selfish as a king, but gallant and pretentious, + spite of his jet black wig.” + </p> + <p> + “As to his whiskers, he dyes them.” + </p> + <p> + “He goes to ten parties in an evening: he’s a butterfly.” + </p> + <p> + “He gives capital dinners and concerts, and patronizes inexperienced + songstresses.” + </p> + <p> + “He takes bustle for pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he makes off with incredible celerity whenever a misfortune + occurs. Are you in mourning, he avoids you. Are you confined, he awaits + your churching before he visits you. He possesses a mundane frankness and + a social intrepidity which challenge admiration.” + </p> + <p> + “But does it not require courage to appear to be what one really is?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she resumed, after we had exchanged our observations on this + point, “this young old man, this universal Amadis, whom we call among + ourselves Chevalier <i>Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore</i>, became the object + of my admiration. I made him a few of those advances which never + compromise a woman; I spoke of the good taste exhibited in his latest + waistcoats and in his canes, and he thought me a lady of extreme + amiability. I thought him a chevalier of extreme youth; he called upon me; + I put on a number of little airs, and pretended to be unhappy at home, and + to have deep sorrows. You know what a woman means when she talks of her + sorrows, and complains that she is not understood. The old ape replied + much better than a young man would, and I had the greatest difficulty in + keeping a straight face while I listened to him. + </p> + <p> + “‘Ah, that’s the way with husbands, they pursue the very worst polity, + they respect their wives, and, sooner or later, every woman is enraged at + finding herself respected, and divines the secret education to which she + is entitled. Once married, you ought not to live like a little + school-girl, etc.’ + </p> + <p> + “As he spoke, he leaned over me, he squirmed, he was horrible to see. He + looked like a wooden Nuremberg doll, he stuck out his chin, he stuck out + his chair, he stuck out his hand—in short, after a variety of + marches and countermarches, of declarations that were perfectly angelic—” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. <i>Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore</i> had abandoned the classicism of + his youth for the romanticism now in fashion: he spoke of the soul, of + angels, of adoration, of submission, he became ethereal, and of the + darkest blue. He took me to the opera, and handed me to my carriage. This + old young man went when I went, his waistcoats multiplied, he compressed + his waist, he excited his horse to a gallop in order to catch and + accompany my carriage to the promenade: he compromised me with the grace + of a young collegian, and was considered madly in love with me. I was + steadfastly cruel, but accepted his arm and his bouquets. We were talked + about. I was delighted, and managed before long to be surprised by my + husband, with the viscount on the sofa in my boudoir, holding my hands in + his, while I listened in a sort of external ecstasy. It is incredible how + much a desire for vengeance will induce us to put up with! I appeared + vexed at the entrance of my husband, who made a scene on the viscount’s + departure: ‘I assure you, sir,’ said I, after having listened to his + reproaches, ‘that <i>it’s altogether moral</i>.’ My husband saw the point + and went no more to Madame de Fischtaminel’s. I received Monsieur de + Lustrac no more, either.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” I interrupted, “this Lustrac that you, like many others, take for a + bachelor, is a widower, and childless.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + “No man ever buried his wife deeper than he buried his: she will hardly be + found at the day of judgment. He married before the Revolution, and your + <i>altogether moral</i> reminds me of a speech of his that I shall have to + repeat for your benefit. Napoleon appointed Lustrac to an important + office, in a conquered province. Madame de Lustrac, abandoned for + governmental duties, took a private secretary for her private affairs, + though it was altogether moral: but she was wrong in selecting him without + informing her husband. Lustrac met this secretary in a state of some + excitement, in consequence of a lively discussion in his wife’s chamber, + and at an exceedingly early hour in the morning. The city desired nothing + better than to laugh at its governor, and this adventure made such a + sensation that Lustrac himself begged the Emperor to recall him. Napoleon + desired his representatives to be men of morality, and he held that such + disasters as this must inevitably take from a man’s consideration. You + know that among the Emperor’s unhappy passions, was that of reforming his + court and his government. Lustrac’s request was granted, therefore, but + without compensation. When he returned to Paris, he reappeared at his + mansion, with his wife; he took her into society—a step which is + certainly conformable to the most refined habits of the aristocracy—but + then there are always people who want to find out about it. They inquired + the reason of this chivalrous championship. ‘So you are reconciled, you + and Madame de Lustrac,’ some one said to him in the lobby of the Emperor’s + theatre, ‘you have pardoned her, have you? So much the better.’ ‘Oh,’ + replied he, with a satisfied air, ‘I became convinced—’ ‘Ah, that + she was innocent, very good.’ ‘No, I became convinced that it was + altogether physical.’” + </p> + <p> + Caroline smiled. + </p> + <p> + “The opinion of your admirer reduced this weighty trouble to what is, in + this case as in yours, a very petty one.” + </p> + <p> + “A petty trouble!” she exclaimed, “and pray for what do you take the + fatigue of coquetting with a de Lustrac, of whom I have made an enemy! Ah, + women often pay dearly enough for the bouquets they receive and the + attentions they accept. Monsieur de Lustrac said of me to Monsieur de + Bourgarel, ‘I would not advise you to pay court to that woman; she is too + dear.’” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WITHOUT AN OCCUPATION. + </h2> + <p> + “PARIS, 183- “You ask me, dear mother, whether I am happy with my husband. + Certainly Monsieur de Fischtaminel was not the ideal of my dreams. I + submitted to your will, as you know. His fortune, that supreme + consideration, spoke, indeed, sufficiently loud. With these arguments,—a + marriage, without stooping, with the Count de Fischtaminel, his having + thirty thousand a year, and a home at Paris—you were strongly armed + against your poor daughter. Besides, Monsieur de Fischtaminel is good + looking for a man of thirty-six years; he received the cross of the Legion + of Honor from Napoleon upon the field of battle, he is an ex-colonel, and + had it not been for the Restoration, which put him upon half-pay, he would + be a general. These are certainly extenuating circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “Many women consider that I have made a good match, and I am bound to + confess that there is every appearance of happiness,—for the public, + that is. But you will acknowledge that if you had known of the return of + my Uncle Cyrus and of his intention to leave me his money, you would have + given me the privilege of choosing for myself. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to say against Monsieur de Fischtaminel: he does not + gamble, he is indifferent to women, he doesn’t like wine, and he has no + expensive fancies: he possesses, as you said, all the negative qualities + which make husbands passable. Then, what is the matter with him? Well, + mother, he has nothing to do. We are together the whole blessed day! Would + you believe that it is during the night, when we are the most closely + united, that I am the most alone? His sleep is my asylum, my liberty + begins when he slumbers. This state of siege will yet make me sick: I am + never alone. If Monsieur de Fischtaminel were jealous, I should have a + resource. There would then be a struggle, a comedy: but how could the + aconite of jealousy have taken root in his soul? He has never left me + since our marriage. He feels no shame in stretching himself out upon a + sofa and remaining there for hours together. + </p> + <p> + “Two felons pinioned to the same chain do not find time hang heavy: for + they have their escape to think of. But we have no subject of + conversation; we have long since talked ourselves out. A little while ago + he was so far reduced as to talk politics. But even politics are + exhausted, Napoleon, unfortunately for me, having died at St. Helena, as + is well known. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Fischtaminel abhors reading. If he sees me with a book, he + comes and says a dozen times an hour—‘Nina, dear, haven’t you + finished yet?’ + </p> + <p> + “I endeavored to persuade this innocent persecutor to ride out every day + on horseback, and I alleged a consideration usually conclusive with men of + forty years,—his health! But he said that after having been twelve + years on horseback, he felt the need of repose. + </p> + <p> + “My husband, dear mother, is a man who absorbs you, he uses up the vital + fluid of his neighbor, his ennui is gluttonous: he likes to be amused by + those who call upon us, and, after five years of wedlock, no one ever + comes: none visit us but those whose intentions are evidently dishonorable + for him, and who endeavor, unsuccessfully, to amuse him, in order to earn + the right to weary his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Fischtaminel, mother, opens the door of my chamber, or of the + room to which I have flown for refuge, five or six times an hour, and + comes up to me in an excited way, and says, ‘Well, what are you doing, my + belle?’ (the expression in fashion during the Empire) without perceiving + that he is constantly repeating the same phrase, which is to me like the + one pint too much that the executioner formerly poured into the torture by + water. + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s another bore! We can’t go to walk any more. A promenade + without conversation, without interest, is impossible. My husband walks + with me for the walk, as if he were alone. I have the fatigue without the + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “The interval between getting up and breakfast is employed in my toilet, + in my household duties; and I manage to get through with this part of the + day. But between breakfast and dinner, there is a whole desert to plough, + a waste to traverse. My husband’s want of occupation does not leave me a + moment of repose, he overpowers me by his uselessness; his idle life + positively wears me out. His two eyes always open and gazing at mine + compel me to keep them lowered. Then his monotonous remarks: + </p> + <p> + “‘What o’clock is it, love? What are you doing now? What are you thinking + of? What do you mean to do? Where shall we go this evening? Anything new? + What weather! I don’t feel well, etc., etc.’ + </p> + <p> + “All these variations upon the same theme—the interrogation point—which + compose Fischtaminel’s repertory, will drive me mad. Add to these leaden + arrows everlastingly shot off at me, one last trait which will complete + the description of my happiness, and you will understand my life. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur de Fischtaminel, who went away in 1809, with the rank of + sub-lieutenant, at the age of eighteen, has had no other education than + that due to discipline, to the natural sense of honor of a noble and a + soldier: but though he possesses tact, the sentiment of probity, and a + proper subordination, his ignorance is gross, he knows absolutely nothing, + and he has a horror of learning anything. Oh, dear mother, what an + accomplished door-keeper this colonel would have made, had he been born in + indigence! I don’t think a bit the better of him for his bravery, for he + did not fight against the Russians, the Austrians, or the Prussians: he + fought against ennui. When he rushed upon the enemy, Captain + Fischtaminel’s purpose was to get away from himself. He married because he + had nothing else to do. + </p> + <p> + “We have another slight difficulty to content with: my husband harasses + the servants to such a degree that we change them every six months. + </p> + <p> + “I so ardently desire, dear mother, to remain a virtuous woman, that I am + going to try the effect of traveling for half the year. During the winter, + I shall go every evening to the Italian or the French opera, or to + parties: but I don’t know whether our fortune will permit such an + expenditure. Uncle Cyrus ought to come to Paris—I would take care of + him as I would of an inheritance. + </p> + <p> + “If you discover a cure for my woes, let your daughter know of it—your + daughter who loves you as much as she deplores her misfortunes, and who + would have been glad to call herself by some other name than that of + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “NINA FISCHTAMINEL.” + </pre> + <p> + Besides the necessity of describing this petty trouble, which could only + be described by the pen of a woman,—and what a woman she was!—it + was necessary to make you acquainted with a character whom you saw only in + profile in the first half of this book, the queen of the particular set in + which Caroline lived,—a woman both envied and adroit, who succeeded + in conciliating, at an early date, what she owed to the world with the + requirements of the heart. This letter is her absolution. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDISCRETIONS. + </h2> + <p> + Women are either chaste—or vain—or simply proud. They are + therefore all subject to the following petty trouble: + </p> + <p> + Certain husbands are so delighted to have, in the form of a wife, a woman + to themselves,—a possession exclusively due to the legal ceremony,—that + they dread the public’s making a mistake, and they hasten to brand their + consort, as lumber-dealers brand their logs while floating down stream, or + as the Berry stock-raisers brand their sheep. They bestow names of + endearment, right before people, upon their wives: names taken, after the + Roman fashion (columbella), from the animal kingdom, as: my chick, my + duck, my dove, my lamb; or, choosing from the vegetable kingdom, they call + them: my cabbage, my fig (this only in Provence), my plum (this only in + Alsatia). Never:—My flower! Pray note this discretion. + </p> + <p> + Or else, which is more serious, they call their wives:—Bobonne,—mother,—daughter,—good + woman,—old lady: this last when she is very young. + </p> + <p> + Some venture upon names of doubtful propriety, such as: Mon bichon, ma + niniche, Tronquette! + </p> + <p> + We once heard one of our politicians, a man extremely remarkable for his + ugliness, call his wife, <i>Moumoutte</i>! + </p> + <p> + “I would rather he would strike me,” said this unfortunate to her + neighbor. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little woman, she is really unhappy,” resumed the neighbor, looking + at me when Moumoutte had gone: “when she is in company with her husband + she is upon pins and needles, and keeps out of his way. One evening, he + actually seized her by the neck and said: ‘Come fatty, let’s go home!’” + </p> + <p> + It has been alleged that the cause of a very famous husband-poisoning with + arsenic, was nothing less than a series of constant indiscretions like + these that the wife had to bear in society. This husband used to give the + woman he had won at the point of the Code, public little taps on her + shoulder, he would startle her by a resounding kiss, he dishonored her by + a conspicuous tenderness, seasoned by those impertinent attentions the + secret of which belongs to the French savages who dwell in the depths of + the provinces, and whose manners are very little known, despite the + efforts of the realists in fiction. It was, it is said, this shocking + situation,—one perfectly appreciated by a discerning jury,—which + won the prisoner a verdict softened by the extenuating circumstances. + </p> + <p> + The jurymen said to themselves: + </p> + <p> + “For a wife to murder her husband for these conjugal offences, is + certainly going rather far; but then a woman is very excusable, when she + is so harassed!” + </p> + <p> + We deeply regret, in the interest of elegant manners, that these arguments + are not more generally known. Heaven grant, therefore, that our book may + have an immense success, as women will obtain this advantage from it, that + they will be treated as they deserve, that is, as queens. + </p> + <p> + In this respect, love is much superior to marriage, it is proud of + indiscreet sayings and doings. There are some women that seek them, fish + for them, and woe to the man who does not now and then commit one! + </p> + <p> + What passion lies in an accidental <i>thou</i>! + </p> + <p> + Out in the country I heard a husband call his wife: “Ma berline!” She was + delighted with it, and saw nothing ridiculous in it: she called her + husband, “Mon fiston!” This delicious couple were ignorant of the + existence of such things as petty troubles. + </p> + <p> + It was in observing this happy pair that the author discovered this axiom: + </p> + <p> + Axiom:—In order to be happy in wedlock, you must either be a man of + genius married to an affectionate and intellectual woman, or, by a chance + which is not as common as might be supposed, you must both of you be + exceedingly stupid. + </p> + <p> + The too celebrated history of the cure of a wounded self-love by arsenic, + proves that, properly speaking, there are no petty troubles for women in + married life. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Woman exists by sentiment where man exists by action. + </p> + <p> + Now, sentiment can at any moment render a petty trouble either a great + misfortune, or a wasted life, or an eternal misery. Should Caroline begin, + in her ignorance of life and the world, by inflicting upon her husband the + vexations of her stupidity (re-read REVELATIONS), Adolphe, like any other + man, may find a compensation in social excitement: he goes out, comes + back, goes here and there, has business. But for Caroline, the question + everywhere is, To love or not to love, to be or not to be loved. + </p> + <p> + Indiscretions are in harmony with the character of the individuals, with + times and places. Two examples will suffice. + </p> + <p> + Here is the first. A man is by nature dirty and ugly: he is ill-made and + repulsive. There are men, and often rich ones, too, who, by a sort of + unobserved constitution, soil a new suit of clothes in twenty-four hours. + They were born disgusting. It is so disgraceful for a women to be anything + more than just simply a wife to this sort of Adolphe, that a certain + Caroline had long ago insisted upon the suppression of the modern <i>thee</i> + and <i>thou</i> and all other insignia of the wifely dignity. Society had + been for five or six years accustomed to this sort of thing, and supposed + Madame and Monsieur completely separated, and all the more so as it had + noticed the accession of a Ferdinand II. + </p> + <p> + One evening, in the presence of a dozen persons, this man said to his + wife: “Caroline, hand me the tongs, there’s a love.” It is nothing, and + yet everything. It was a domestic revelation. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Lustrac, the Universal Amadis, hurried to Madame de + Fischtaminel’s, narrated this little scene with all the spirit at his + command, and Madame de Fischtaminel put on an air something like + Celimene’s and said: “Poor creature, what an extremity she must be in!” + </p> + <p> + I say nothing of Caroline’s confusion,—you have already divined it. + </p> + <p> + Here is the second. Think of the frightful situation in which a lady of + great refinement was lately placed: she was conversing agreeably at her + country seat near Paris, when her husband’s servant came and whispered in + her ear, “Monsieur has come, madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Benoit.” + </p> + <p> + Everybody had heard the rumblings of the vehicle. It was known that the + husband had been at Paris since Monday, and this took place on Saturday, + at four in the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got something important to say to you, madame.” + </p> + <p> + Though this dialogue was held in a whisper, it was perfectly understood, + and all the more so from the fact that the lady of the house turned from + the pale hue of the Bengal rose to the brilliant crimson of the wheatfield + poppy. She nodded and went on with the conversation, and managed to leave + her company on the pretext of learning whether her husband had succeeded + in an important undertaking or not: but she seemed plainly vexed at + Adolphe’s want of consideration for the company who were visiting her. + </p> + <p> + During their youth, women want to be treated as divinities, they love the + ideal; they cannot bear the idea of being what nature intended them to be. + </p> + <p> + Some husbands, on retiring to the country, after a week in town, are worse + than this: they bow to the company, put their arm round their wife’s + waist, take a little walk with her, appear to be talking confidentially, + disappear in a clump of trees, get lost, and reappear half an hour + afterward. + </p> + <p> + This, ladies, is a genuine petty trouble for a young woman, but for a + woman beyond forty, this sort of indiscretion is so delightful, that the + greatest prudes are flattered by it, for, be it known: + </p> + <p> + That women of a certain age, women on the shady side, want to be treated + as mortals, they love the actual; they cannot bear the idea of no longer + being what nature intended them to be. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Modesty is a relative virtue; there is the modesty of the + woman of twenty, the woman of thirty, the woman of forty-five. + </p> + <p> + Thus the author said to a lady who told him to guess at her age: “Madame, + yours is the age of indiscretion.” + </p> + <p> + This charming woman of thirty-nine was making a Ferdinand much too + conspicuous, while her daughter was trying to conceal her Ferdinand I. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BRUTAL DISCLOSURES. + </h2> + <p> + FIRST STYLE. Caroline adores Adolphe, she thinks him handsome, she thinks + him superb, especially in his National Guard uniform. She starts when a + sentinel presents arms to him, she considers him moulded like a model, she + regards him as a man of wit, everything he does is right, nobody has + better taste than he, in short, she is crazy about Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + It’s the old story of Cupid’s bandage. This is washed every ten years, and + newly embroidered by the altered manners of the period, but it has been + the same old bandage since the days of Greece. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is at a ball with one of her young friends. A man well known for + his bluntness, whose acquaintance she is to make later in life, but whom + she now sees for the first time, Monsieur Foullepointe, has commenced a + conversation with Caroline’s friend. According to the custom of society, + Caroline listens to this conversation without mingling in it. + </p> + <p> + “Pray tell me, madame,” says Monsieur Foullepointe, “who is that queer man + who has been talking about the Court of Assizes before a gentleman whose + acquittal lately created such a sensation: he is all the while blundering, + like an ox in a bog, against everybody’s sore spot. A lady burst into + tears at hearing him tell of the death of a child, as she lost her own two + months ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Who do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that fat man, dressed like a waiter in a cafe, frizzled like a + barber’s apprentice, there, he’s trying now to make himself agreeable to + Madame de Fischtaminel.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush,” whispers the lady quite alarmed, “it’s the husband of the little + woman next to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it’s your husband?” says Monsieur Foullepointe. “I am delighted, + madame, he’s a charming man, so vivacious, gay and witty. I am going to + make his acquaintance immediately.” + </p> + <p> + And Foullepointe executes his retreat, leaving a bitter suspicion in + Caroline’s soul, as to the question whether her husband is really as + handsome as she thinks him. + </p> + <p> + SECOND STYLE. Caroline, annoyed by the reputation of Madame Schinner, who + is credited with the possession of epistolary talents, and styled the + “Sevigne of the note”, tired of hearing about Madame de Fischtaminel, who + has ventured to write a little 32mo book on the education of the young, in + which she has boldly reprinted Fenelon, without the style:—Caroline + has been working for six months upon a tale tenfold poorer than those of + Berquin, nauseatingly moral, and flamboyant in style. + </p> + <p> + After numerous intrigues such as women are skillful in managing in the + interest of their vanity, and the tenacity and perfection of which would + lead you to believe that they have a third sex in their head, this tale, + entitled “The Lotus,” appears in three installments in a leading daily + paper. It is signed Samuel Crux. + </p> + <p> + When Adolphe takes up the paper at breakfast, Caroline’s heart beats up in + her very throat: she blushes, turns pale, looks away and stares at the + ceiling. When Adolphe’s eyes settle upon the feuilleton, she can bear it + no longer: she gets up, goes out, comes back, having replenished her stock + of audacity, no one knows where. + </p> + <p> + “Is there a feuilleton this morning?” she asks with an air that she thinks + indifferent, but which would disturb a husband still jealous of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, one by a beginner, Samuel Crux. The name is a disguise, clearly: the + tale is insignificant enough to drive an insect to despair, if he could + read: and vulgar, too: the style is muddy, but then it’s—” + </p> + <p> + Caroline breathes again. “It’s—” she suggests. + </p> + <p> + “It’s incomprehensible,” resumes Adolphe. “Somebody must have paid + Chodoreille five or six hundred francs to insert it; or else it’s the + production of a blue-stocking in high society who has promised to invite + Madame Chodoreille to her house; or perhaps it’s the work of a woman in + whom the editor is personally interested. Such a piece of stupidity cannot + be explained any other way. Imagine, Caroline, that it’s all about a + little flower picked on the edge of a wood in a sentimental walk, which a + gentleman of the Werther school has sworn to keep, which he has had + framed, and which the lady claims again eleven years after (the poor man + has had time to change his lodgings three times). It’s quite new, about as + old as Sterne or Gessner. What makes me think it’s a woman, is that the + first literary idea of the whole sex is to take vengeance on some one.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe might go on pulling “The Lotus” to pieces; Caroline’s ears are + full of the tinkling of bells. She is like the woman who threw herself + over the Pont des Arts, and tried to find her way ten feet below the level + of the Seine. + </p> + <p> + ANOTHER STYLE. Caroline, in her paroxysms of jealousy, has discovered a + hiding place used by Adolphe, who, as he can’t trust his wife, and as he + knows she opens his letters and rummages in his drawers, has endeavored to + save his correspondence with Hector from the hooked fingers of the + conjugal police. + </p> + <p> + Hector is an old schoolmate, who has married in the Loire Inferieure. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe lifts up the cloth of his writing desk, a cloth the border of + which has been embroidered by Caroline, the ground being blue, black or + red velvet,—the color, as you see, is perfectly immaterial,—and + he slips his unfinished letters to Madame de Fischtaminel, to his friend + Hector, between the table and the cloth. + </p> + <p> + The thickness of a sheet of paper is almost nothing, velvet is a downy, + discreet material, but, no matter, these precautions are in vain. The male + devil is fairly matched by the female devil: Tophet will furnish them of + all genders. Caroline has Mephistopheles on her side, the demon who causes + tables to spurt forth fire, and who, with his ironic finger points out the + hiding place of keys—the secret of secrets. + </p> + <p> + Caroline has noticed the thickness of a letter sheet between this velvet + and this table: she hits upon a letter to Hector instead of hitting upon + one to Madame de Fischtaminel, who has gone to Plombieres Springs, and + reads the following: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Hector: + </p> + <p> + “I pity you, but you have acted wisely in entrusting me with a knowledge + of the difficulties in which you have voluntarily involved yourself. You + never would see the difference between the country woman and the woman of + Paris. In the country, my dear boy, you are always face to face with your + wife, and, owing to the ennui which impels you, you rush headforemost into + the enjoyment of your bliss. This is a great error: happiness is an abyss, + and when you have once reached the bottom, you never get back again, in + wedlock. + </p> + <p> + “I will show you why. Let me take, for your wife’s sake, the shortest path—the + parable. + </p> + <p> + “I remember having made a journey from Paris to Ville-Parisis, in that + vehicle called a ‘bus: distance, twenty miles: ‘bus, lumbering: horse, + lame. Nothing amuses me more than to draw from people, by the aid of that + gimlet called the interrogation, and to obtain, by means of an attentive + air, the sum of information, anecdotes and learning that everybody is + anxious to part with: and all men have such a sum, the peasant as well as + the banker, the corporal as well as the marshal of France. + </p> + <p> + “I have often noticed how ready these casks, overflowing with wit, are to + open their sluices while being transported by diligence or ‘bus, or by any + vehicle drawn by horses, for nobody talks in a railway car. + </p> + <p> + “At the rate of our exit from Paris, the journey would take full seven + hours: so I got an old corporal to talk, for my diversion. He could + neither read nor write: he was entirely illiterate. Yet the journey seemed + short. The corporal had been through all the campaigns, he told me of + things perfectly unheard of, that historians never trouble themselves + about. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Hector, how superior is practice to theory! Among other things, and + in reply to a question relative to the infantry, whose courage is much + more tried by marching than by fighting, he said this, which I give you + free from circumlocution: + </p> + <p> + “‘Sir, when Parisians were brought to our 45th, which Napoleon called The + Terrible (I am speaking of the early days of the Empire, when the infantry + had legs of steel, and when they needed them), I had a way of telling + beforehand which of them would remain in the 45th. They marched without + hurrying, they did their little six leagues a day, neither more nor less, + and they pitched camp in condition to begin again on the morrow. The + plucky fellows who did ten leagues and wanted to run to the victory, + stopped half way at the hospital.’ + </p> + <p> + “The worthy corporal was talking of marriage while he thought he was + talking of war, and you have stopped half way, Hector, at the hospital. + </p> + <p> + “Remember the sympathetic condolence of Madame de Sevigne counting out + three hundred thousand francs to Monsieur de Grignan, to induce him to + marry one of the prettiest girls in France! ‘Why,’ said she to herself, + ‘he will have to marry her every day, as long as she lives! Decidedly, I + don’t think three hundred francs too much.’ Is it not enough to make the + bravest tremble? + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, conjugal happiness is founded, like that of nations, upon + ignorance. It is a felicity full of negative conditions. + </p> + <p> + “If I am happy with my little Caroline, it is due to the strictest + observance of that salutary principle so strongly insisted upon in the <i>Physiology + of Marriage</i>. I have resolved to lead my wife through paths beaten in + the snow, until the happy day when infidelity will be difficult. + </p> + <p> + “In the situation in which you have placed yourself, and which resembles + that of Duprez, who, on his first appearance at Paris, went to singing + with all the voice his lungs would yield, instead of imitating Nourrit, + who gave the audience just enough to enchant them, the following, I think, + is your proper course to—” + </p> + <p> + The letter broke off here: Caroline returned it to its place, at the same + time wondering how she would make her dear Adolphe expiate his obedience + to the execrable precepts of the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i>. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TRUCE. + </h2> + <p> + This trouble doubtless occurs sufficiently often and in different ways + enough in the existence of married women, for this personal incident to + become the type of the genus. + </p> + <p> + The Caroline in question here is very pious, she loves her husband very + much, her husband asserts that she loves him too much, even: but this is a + piece of marital conceit, if, indeed, it is not a provocation, as he only + complains to his wife’s young lady friends. + </p> + <p> + When a person’s conscience is involved, the least thing becomes + exceedingly serious. Madame de ——- has told her young friend, + Madame de Fischtaminel, that she had been compelled to make an + extraordinary confession to her spiritual director, and to perform + penance, the director having decided that she was in a state of mortal + sin. This lady, who goes to mass every morning, is a woman of thirty-six + years, thin and slightly pimpled. She has large soft black eyes, her upper + lip is strongly shaded: still her voice is sweet, her manners gentle, her + gait noble—she is a woman of quality. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Fischtaminel, whom Madame de ——- has made her friend + (nearly all pious women patronize a woman who is considered worldly, on + the pretext of converting her),—Madame de Fischtaminel asserts that + these qualities, in this Caroline of the Pious Sort, are a victory of + religion over a rather violent natural temper. + </p> + <p> + These details are necessary to describe the trouble in all its horror. + </p> + <p> + This lady’s Adolphe had been compelled to leave his wife for two months, + in April, immediately after the forty days’ fast that Caroline + scrupulously observes. Early in June, therefore, madame expected her + husband, she expected him day by day. From one hope to another, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Conceived every morn and deferred every eve.” + </pre> + <p> + She got along as far as Sunday, the day when her presentiments, which had + now reached a state of paroxysm, told her that the longed-for husband + would arrive at an early hour. + </p> + <p> + When a pious woman expects her husband, and that husband has been absent + from home nearly four months, she takes much more pains with her toilet + than a young girl does, though waiting for her first betrothed. + </p> + <p> + This virtuous Caroline was so completely absorbed in exclusively personal + preparations, that she forgot to go to eight o’clock mass. She proposed to + hear a low mass, but she was afraid of losing the delight of her dear + Adolphe’s first glance, in case he arrived at early dawn. Her chambermaid—who + respectfully left her mistress alone in the dressing-room where pious and + pimpled ladies let no one enter, not even their husbands, especially if + they are thin—her chambermaid heard her exclaim several times, “If + it’s your master, let me know!” + </p> + <p> + The rumbling of a vehicle having made the furniture rattle, Caroline + assumed a mild tone to conceal the violence of her legitimate emotions. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! ‘tis he! Run, Justine: tell him I am waiting for him here.” Caroline + trembled so that she dropped into an arm-chair. + </p> + <p> + The vehicle was a butcher’s wagon. + </p> + <p> + It was in anxieties like this that the eight o’clock mass slipped by, like + an eel in his slime. Madame’s toilet operations were resumed, for she was + engaged in dressing. The chambermaid’s nose had already been the recipient + of a superb muslin chemise, with a simple hem, which Caroline had thrown + at her from the dressing-room, though she had given her the same kind for + the last three months. + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking of, Justine? I told you to choose from the chemises + that are not numbered.” + </p> + <p> + The unnumbered chemises were only seven or eight, in the most magnificent + trousseau. They are chemises gotten up and embroidered with the greatest + care: a woman must be a queen, a young queen, to have a dozen. Each one of + Caroline’s was trimmed with valenciennes round the bottom, and still more + coquettishly garnished about the neck. This feature of our manners will + perhaps serve to suggest a suspicion, in the masculine world, of the + domestic drama revealed by this exceptional chemise. + </p> + <p> + Caroline had put on a pair of Scotch thread stockings, little prunella + buskins, and her most deceptive corsets. She had her hair dressed in the + fashion that most became her, and embellished it with a cap of the most + elegant form. It is unnecessary to speak of her morning gown. A pious lady + who lives at Paris and who loves her husband, knows as well as a coquette + how to choose those pretty little striped patterns, have them cut with an + open waist, and fastened by loops to buttons in a way which compels her to + refasten them two or three times in an hour, with little airs more or less + charming, as the case may be. + </p> + <p> + The nine o’clock mass, the ten o’clock mass, every mass, went by in these + preparations, which, for women in love, are one of their twelve labors of + Hercules. + </p> + <p> + Pious women rarely go to church in a carriage, and they are right. Except + in the case of a pouring shower, or intolerably bad weather, a person + ought not to appear haughty in the place where it is becoming to be + humble. Caroline was afraid to compromise the freshness of her dress and + the purity of her thread stockings. Alas! these pretexts concealed a + reason. + </p> + <p> + “If I am at church when Adolphe comes, I shall lose the pleasure of his + first glance: and he will think I prefer high mass to him.” + </p> + <p> + She made this sacrifice to her husband in a desire to please him—a + fearfully worldly consideration. Prefer the creature to the Creator! A + husband to heaven! Go and hear a sermon and you will learn what such an + offence will cost you. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” says Caroline, quoting her confessor, “society is founded + upon marriage, which the Church has included among its sacraments.” + </p> + <p> + And this is the way in which religious instruction may be put aside in + favor of a blind though legitimate love. Madame refused breakfast, and + ordered the meal to be kept hot, just as she kept herself ready, at a + moment’s notice, to welcome the precious absentee. + </p> + <p> + Now these little things may easily excite a laugh: but in the first place + they are continually occurring with couples who love each other, or where + one of them loves the other: besides, in a woman so strait-laced, so + reserved, so worthy, as this lady, these acknowledgments of affection went + beyond the limits imposed upon her feelings by the lofty self-respect + which true piety induces. When Madame de Fischtaminel narrated this little + scene in a devotee’s life, dressing it up with choice by-play, acted out + as ladies of the world know how to act out their anecdotes, I took the + liberty of saying that it was the Canticle of canticles in action. + </p> + <p> + “If her husband doesn’t come,” said Justine to the cook, “what will become + of us? She has already thrown her chemise in my face.” + </p> + <p> + At last, Caroline heard the crack of a postilion’s whip, the well-known + rumbling of a traveling carriage, the racket made by the hoofs of + post-horses, and the jingling of their bells! Oh, she could doubt no + longer, the bells made her burst forth, as thus: + </p> + <p> + “The door! Open the door! ‘Tis he, my husband! Will you never go to the + door!” And the pious woman stamped her foot and broke the bell-rope. + </p> + <p> + “Why, madame,” said Justine, with the vivacity of a servant doing her + duty, “it’s some people going away.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word,” replied Caroline, half ashamed, to herself, “I will never + let Adolphe go traveling again without me.” + </p> + <p> + A Marseilles poet—it is not known whether it was Mery or Barthelemy—acknowledged + that if his best fried did not arrive punctually at the dinner hour, he + waited patiently five minutes: at the tenth minute, he felt a desire to + throw the napkin in his face: at the twelfth he hoped some great calamity + would befall him: at the fifteenth, he would not be able to restrain + himself from stabbing him several times with a dirk. + </p> + <p> + All women, when expecting somebody, are Marseilles poets, if, indeed, we + may compare the vulgar throes of hunger to the sublime Canticle of + canticles of a pious wife, who is hoping for the joys of a husband’s first + glance after a three months’ absence. Let all those who love and who have + met again after an absence ten thousand times accursed, be good enough to + recall their first glance: it says so many things that the lovers, if in + the presence of a third party, are fain to lower their eyes! This poem, in + which every man is as great as Homer, in which he seems a god to the woman + who loves him, is, for a pious, thin and pimpled lady, all the more + immense, from the fact that she has not, like Madame de Fischtaminel, the + resource of having several copies of it. In her case, her husband is all + she’s got! + </p> + <p> + So you will not be surprised to learn that Caroline missed every mass and + had no breakfast. This hunger and thirst for Adolphe gave her a violent + cramp in the stomach. She did not think of religion once during the hours + of mass, nor during those of vespers. She was not comfortable when she + sat, and she was very uncomfortable when she stood: Justine advised her to + go to bed. Caroline, quite overcome, retired at about half past five in + the evening, after having taken a light soup: but she ordered a dainty + supper at ten. + </p> + <p> + “I shall doubtless sup with my husband,” she said. + </p> + <p> + This speech was the conclusion of dreadful catalinics, internally + fulminated. She had reached the Marseilles poet’s several stabs with a + dirk. So she spoke in a tone that was really terrible. At three in the + morning Caroline was in a profound sleep: Adolphe arrived without her + hearing either carriage, or horse, or bell, or opening door! + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, who would not permit her to be disturbed, went to bed in the + spare room. When Caroline heard of his return in the morning, two tears + issued from her eyes; she rushed to the spare room without the slightest + preparatory toilet; a hideous attendant, posted on the threshold, informed + her that her husband, having traveled two hundred leagues and been two + nights without sleep, requested that he might not be awakened: he was + exceedingly tired. + </p> + <p> + Caroline—pious woman that she was—opened the door violently + without being able to wake the only husband that heaven had given her, and + then hastened to church to listen to a thanksgiving mass. + </p> + <p> + As she was visibly snappish for three whole days, Justine remarked, in + reply to an unjust reproach, and with a chambermaid’s finesse: + </p> + <p> + “Why, madame, your husband’s got back!” + </p> + <p> + “He has only got back to Paris,” returned the pious Caroline. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + USELESS CARE. + </h2> + <p> + Put yourself in the place of a poor woman of doubtful beauty, who owes her + husband to the weight of her dowry, who gives herself infinite pains, and + spends a great deal of money to appear to advantage and follow the + fashions, who does her best to keep house sumptuously and yet economically—a + house, too, not easy to manage—who, from morality and dire + necessity, perhaps, loves no one but her husband, who has no other study + but the happiness of this precious husband, who, to express all in one + word, joins the maternal sentiment <i>to the sentiment of her duties</i>. + This underlined circumlocution is the paraphrase of the word love in the + language of prudes. + </p> + <p> + Have you put yourself in her place? Well, this too-much-loved husband by + chance remarked at his friend Monsieur de Fischtaminel’s, that he was very + fond of mushrooms <i>a l’Italienne</i>. + </p> + <p> + If you have paid some attention to the female nature, in its good, great, + and grand manifestations, you know that for a loving wife there is no + greater pleasure than that of seeing the beloved one absorbing his + favorite viands. This springs from the fundamental idea upon which the + affection of women is based: that of being the source of all his + pleasures, big and little. Love animates everything in life, and conjugal + love has a peculiar right to descend to the most trivial details. + </p> + <p> + Caroline spends two or three days in inquiries before she learns how the + Italians dress mushrooms. She discovers a Corsican abbe who tells her that + at Biffi’s, in the rue de Richelieu, she will not only learn how the + Italians dress mushrooms, but that she will be able to obtain some + Milanese mushrooms. Our pious Caroline thanks the Abbe Serpolini, and + resolves to send him a breviary in acknowledgment. + </p> + <p> + Caroline’s cook goes to Biffi’s, comes back from Biffi’s, and exhibits to + the countess a quantity of mushrooms as big as the coachman’s ears. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” she says, “did he explain to you how to cook them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for us cooks, them’s a mere nothing,” replies the cook. + </p> + <p> + As a general rule, cooks know everything, in the cooking way, except how a + cook may feather his nest. + </p> + <p> + At evening, during the second course, all Caroline’s fibres quiver with + pleasure at observing the servant bringing to the table a certain + suggestive dish. She has positively waited for this dinner as she had + waited for her husband. + </p> + <p> + But between waiting with certainty and expecting a positive pleasure, + there is, to the souls of the elect—and everybody will include a + woman who adores her husband among the elect—there is, between these + two worlds of expectation, the difference that exists between a fine night + and a fine day. + </p> + <p> + The dish is presented to the beloved Adolphe, he carelessly plunges his + spoon in and helps himself, without perceiving Caroline’s extreme emotion, + to several of those soft, fat, round things, that travelers who visit + Milan do not for a long time recognize; they take them for some kind of + shell-fish. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you recognize them?” + </p> + <p> + “Recognize what?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mushrooms <i>a l’Italienne</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “These mushrooms! I thought they were—well, yes, they <i>are</i> + mushrooms!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and <i>a l’Italienne</i>, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh, they are old preserved mushrooms, <i>a la milanaise</i>. I + abominate them!” + </p> + <p> + “What kind is it you like, then?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Fungi trifolati</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Let us observe—to the disgrace of an epoch which numbers and labels + everything, which puts the whole creation in bottles, which is at this + moment classifying one hundred and fifty thousand species of insects, + giving them all the termination <i>us</i>, so that a <i>Silbermanus</i> is + the same individual in all countries for the learned men who dissect a + butterfly’s legs with pincers—that we still want a nomenclature for + the chemistry of the kitchen, to enable all the cooks in the world to + produce precisely similar dishes. It would be diplomatically agreed that + French should be the language of the kitchen, as Latin has been adopted by + the scientific for botany and entomology, unless it were desired to + imitate them in that, too, and thus really have kitchen Latin. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” resumes Adolphe, on seeing the clouded and lengthened face of + his chaste Caroline, “in France the dish in question is called Mushrooms + <i>a l’Italienne, a la provencale, a la bordelaise</i>. The mushrooms are + minced, fried in oil with a few ingredients whose names I have forgotten. + You add a taste of garlic, I believe—” + </p> + <p> + Talk about calamities, of petty troubles! This, do you see, is, to a + woman’s heart, what the pain of an extracted tooth is to a child of eight. + <i>Ab uno disce omnes</i>: which means, “There’s one of them: find the + rest in your memory.” For we have taken this culinary description as a + prototype of the vexations which afflict loving but indifferently loved + women. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE. + </h2> + <p> + A woman full of faith in the man she loves is a romancer’s fancy. This + feminine personage no more exists than does a rich dowry. A woman’s + confidence glows perhaps for a few moments, at the dawn of love, and + disappears in a trice like a shooting star. + </p> + <p> + With women who are neither Dutch, nor English, nor Belgian, nor from any + marshy country, love is a pretext for suffering, an employment for the + superabundant powers of their imaginations and their nerves. + </p> + <p> + Thus the second idea that takes possession of a happy woman, one who is + really loved, is the fear of losing her happiness, for we must do her the + justice to say that her first idea is to enjoy it. All who possess + treasures are in dread of thieves, but they do not, like women, lend wings + and feet to their golden stores. + </p> + <p> + The little blue flower of perfect felicity is not so common, that the + heaven-blessed man who possesses it, should be simpleton enough to abandon + it. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—A woman is never deserted without a reason. + </p> + <p> + This axiom is written in the heart of hearts of every woman. Hence the + rage of a woman deserted. + </p> + <p> + Let us not infringe upon the petty troubles of love: we live in a + calculating epoch when women are seldom abandoned, do what they may: for, + of all wives or women, nowadays, the legitimate is the least expensive. + Now, every woman who is loved, has gone through the petty annoyance of + suspicion. This suspicion, whether just or unjust, engenders a multitude + of domestic troubles, and here is the biggest of all. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is one day led to notice that her cherished Adolphe leaves her + rather too often upon a matter of business, that eternal Chaumontel’s + affair, which never comes to an end. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Every household has its Chaumontel’s affair. (See TROUBLE + WITHIN TROUBLE.) + </p> + <p> + In the first place, a woman no more believes in matters of business than + publishers and managers do in the illness of actresses and authors. The + moment a beloved creature absents himself, though she has rendered him + even too happy, every woman straightway imagines that he has hurried away + to some easy conquest. In this respect, women endow men with superhuman + faculties. Fear magnifies everything, it dilates the eyes and the heart: + it makes a woman mad. + </p> + <p> + “Where is my husband going? What is my husband doing? Why has he left me? + Why did he not take me with him?” + </p> + <p> + These four questions are the four cardinal points of the compass of + suspicion, and govern the stormy sea of soliloquies. From these frightful + tempests which ravage a woman’s heart springs an ignoble, unworthy + resolution, one which every woman, the duchess as well as the shopkeeper’s + wife, the baroness as well as the stockbroker’s lady, the angel as well as + the shrew, the indifferent as well as the passionate, at once puts into + execution. They imitate the government, every one of them; they resort to + espionage. What the State has invented in the public interest, they + consider legal, legitimate and permissible, in the interest of their love. + This fatal woman’s curiosity reduces them to the necessity of having + agents, and the agent of any woman who, in this situation, has not lost + her self-respect,—a situation in which her jealousy will not permit + her to respect anything: neither your little boxes, nor your clothes, nor + the drawers of your treasury, of your desk, of your table, of your bureau, + nor your pocketbook with private compartments, nor your papers, nor your + traveling dressing-case, nor your toilet articles (a woman discovers in + this way that her husband dyed his moustache when he was a bachelor), nor + your india-rubber girdles—her agent, I say, the only one in whom a + woman trusts, is her maid, for her maid understands her, excuses her, and + approves her. + </p> + <p> + In the paroxysm of excited curiosity, passion and jealousy, a woman makes + no calculations, takes no observations. She simply wishes to know the + whole truth. + </p> + <p> + And Justine is delighted: she sees her mistress compromising herself with + her, and she espouses her passion, her dread, her fears and her + suspicions, with terrible friendship. Justine and Caroline hold councils + and have secret interviews. All espionage involves such relationships. In + this pass, a maid becomes the arbitress of the fate of the married couple. + Example: Lord Byron. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” Justine one day observes, “monsieur really <i>does</i> go out to + see a woman.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline turns pale. + </p> + <p> + “But don’t be alarmed, madame, it’s an old woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Justine, to some men no women are old: men are inexplicable.” + </p> + <p> + “But, madame, it isn’t a lady, it’s a woman, quite a common woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Justine, Lord Byron loved a fish-wife at Venice, Madame de + Fischtaminel told me so.” + </p> + <p> + And Caroline bursts into tears. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been pumping Benoit.” + </p> + <p> + “What is Benoit’s opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “Benoit thinks that the woman is a go-between, for monsieur keeps his + secret from everybody, even from Benoit.” + </p> + <p> + For a week Caroline lives the life of the damned; all her savings go to + pay spies and to purchase reports. + </p> + <p> + Finally, Justine goes to see the woman, whose name is Madame Mahuchet; she + bribes her and learns at last that her master has preserved a witness of + his youthful follies, a nice little boy that looks very much like him, and + that this woman is his nurse, the second-hand mother who has charge of + little Frederick, who pays his quarterly school-bills, and through whose + hands pass the twelve hundred or two thousand francs which Adolphe is + supposed annually to lose at cards. + </p> + <p> + “What of the mother?” exclaims Caroline. + </p> + <p> + To end the matter, Justine, Caroline’s good genius, proves to her that + M’lle Suzanne Beauminet, formerly a grisette and somewhat later Madame + Sainte-Suzanne, died at the hospital, or else that she has made her + fortune, or else, again, that her place in society is so low there is no + danger of madame’s ever meeting her. + </p> + <p> + Caroline breathes again: the dirk has been drawn from her heart, she is + quite happy; but she had no children but daughters, and would like a boy. + This little drama of unjust suspicions, this comedy of the conjectures to + which Mother Mahuchet gives rise, these phases of a causeless jealousy, + are laid down here as the type of a situation, the varieties of which are + as innumerable as characters, grades and sorts. + </p> + <p> + This source of petty troubles is pointed out here, in order that women + seated upon the river’s bank may contemplate in it the course of their own + married life, following its ascent or descent, recalling their own + adventures to mind, their untold disasters, the foibles which caused their + errors, and the peculiar fatalities to which were due an instant of + frenzy, a moment of unnecessary despair, or sufferings which they might + have spared themselves, happy in their self-delusions. + </p> + <p> + This vexation has a corollary in the following, one which is much more + serious and often without remedy, especially when its root lies among + vices of another kind, and which do not concern us, for, in this work, + women are invariably esteemed honest—until the end. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOMESTIC TYRANT. + </h2> + <p> + “My dear Caroline,” says Adolphe one day to his wife, “are you satisfied + with Justine?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear, quite so.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think she speaks to you rather impertinently?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I would notice a maid? But it seems <i>you</i> notice + her!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you say?” asks Adolphe in an indignant way that is always + delightful to women. + </p> + <p> + Justine is a genuine maid for an actress, a woman of thirty stamped by the + small-pox with innumerable dimples, in which the loves are far from + sporting: she is as brown as opium, has a good deal of leg and not much + body, gummy eyes, and a tournure to match. She would like to have Benoit + marry her, but at this unexpected suggestion, Benoit asked for his + discharge. Such is the portrait of the domestic tyrant enthroned by + Caroline’s jealousy. + </p> + <p> + Justine takes her coffee in the morning, in bed, and manages to have it as + good as, not to say better than, that of her mistress. Justine sometimes + goes out without asking leave, dressed like the wife of a second-class + banker. She sports a pink hat, one of her mistress’ old gowns made over, + an elegant shawl, shoes of bronze kid, and jewelry of doubtful character. + </p> + <p> + Justine is sometimes in a bad humor, and makes her mistress feel that she + too is a woman like herself, though she is not married. She has her whims, + her fits of melancholy, her caprices. She even dares to have her nerves! + She replies curtly, she makes herself insupportable to the other servants, + and, to conclude, her wages have been considerably increased. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, this girl is getting more intolerable every day,” says Adolphe + one morning to his wife, on noticing Justine listening at the key-hole, + “and if you don’t send her away, I will!” + </p> + <p> + Caroline, greatly alarmed, is obliged to give Justine a talking to, while + her husband is out. + </p> + <p> + “Justine, you take advantage of my kindness to you: you have high wages, + here, you have perquisites, presents: try to keep your place, for my + husband wants to send you away.” + </p> + <p> + The maid humbles herself to the earth, she sheds tears: she is so attached + to madame! Ah! she would rush into the fire for her: she would let herself + be chopped into mince-meat: she is ready for anything. + </p> + <p> + “If you had anything to conceal, madame, I would take it on myself and say + it was me!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Justine, very good, my girl,” says Caroline, terrified: “but + that’s not the point: just try to keep in your place.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ha!” says Justine to herself, “monsieur wants to send me away, does + he? Wait and see the deuce of a life I’ll lead you, you old curmudgeon!” + </p> + <p> + A week after, Justine, who is dressing her mistress’ hair, looks in the + glass to make sure that Caroline can see all the grimaces of her + countenance: and Caroline very soon inquires, “Why, what’s the matter, + Justine?” + </p> + <p> + “I would tell you, readily, madame, but then, madame, you are so weak with + monsieur!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, go on, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I know now, madame, why master wanted to show me the door: he has + confidence in nobody but Benoit, and Benoit is playing the mum with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what does that prove? Has anything been discovered?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure that between the two they are plotting something against you + madame,” returns the maid with authority. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, whom Justine watches in the glass, turns pale: all the tortures + of the previous petty trouble return, and Justine sees that she has become + as indispensable to her mistress as spies are to the government when a + conspiracy is discovered. Still, Caroline’s friends do not understand why + she keeps so disagreeable a servant girl, one who wears a hat, whose + manners are impertinent, and who gives herself the airs of a lady. + </p> + <p> + This stupid domination is talked of at Madame Deschars’, at Madame de + Fischtaminel’s, and the company consider it funny. A few ladies think they + can see certain monstrous reasons for it, reasons which compromise + Caroline’s honor. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—In society, people can put cloaks on every kind of truth, + even the prettiest. + </p> + <p> + In short the <i>aria della calumnia</i> is executed precisely as if + Bartholo were singing it. + </p> + <p> + It is averred that Caroline cannot discharge her maid. + </p> + <p> + Society devotes itself desperately to discovering the secret of this + enigma. Madame de Fischtaminel makes fun of Adolphe who goes home in a + rage, has a scene with Caroline and discharges Justine. + </p> + <p> + This produces such an effect upon Justine, that she falls sick, and takes + to her bed. Caroline observes to her husband, that it would be awkward to + turn a girl in Justine’s condition into the street, a girl who is so much + attached to them, too, and who has been with them sine their marriage. + </p> + <p> + “Let her go then as soon as she is well!” says Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, reassured in regard to Adolphe, and indecently swindled by + Justine, at last comes to desire to get rid of her: she applies a violent + remedy to the disease, and makes up her mind to go under the Caudine Forks + of another petty trouble, as follows: + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AVOWAL. + </h2> + <p> + One morning, Adolphe is petted in a very unusual manner. The too happy + husband wonders what may be the cause of this development of affection, + and he hears Caroline, in her most winning tones, utter the word: + “Adolphe?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he replies, in alarm at the internal agitation betrayed by + Caroline’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “Promise not to be angry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to be vexed with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Never. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “To forgive me and never say anything about it.” + </p> + <p> + “But tell me what it is!” + </p> + <p> + “Besides, you are the one that’s in the wrong—” + </p> + <p> + “Speak, or I’ll go away.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no one but you that can get me out of the scrape—and it was + you that got me into it.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s about—” + </p> + <p> + “About—” + </p> + <p> + “About Justine!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of her, she’s discharged. I won’t see her again, her style of + conduct exposes your reputation—” + </p> + <p> + “What can people say—what have they said?” + </p> + <p> + The scene changes, the result of which is a secondary explanation which + makes Caroline blush, as she sees the bearing of the suppositions of her + best friends. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, Adolphe, it’s to you I owe all this. Why didn’t you tell me + about Frederick?” + </p> + <p> + “Frederick the Great? The King of Prussia?” + </p> + <p> + “What creatures men are! Hypocrite, do you want to make me believe that + you have forgotten your son so soon, M’lle Suzanne Beauminet’s son?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know—?” + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing! And old other Mahuchet, and your absences from home to + give him a good dinner on holidays.” + </p> + <p> + “How like moles you pious women can be if you try!” exclaims Adolphe, in + his terror. + </p> + <p> + “It was Justine that found it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Now I understand the reason of her insolence.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your Caroline has been very wretched, dear, and this spying system, + which was produced by my love for you, for I do love you, and madly too,—if + you deceived me, I would fly to the extremity of creation,—well, as + I was going to say, this unfounded jealousy has put me in Justine’s power, + so, my precious, get me out of it the best way you can!” + </p> + <p> + “Let this teach you, my angel, never to make use of your servants, if you + want them to be of use to you. It is the lowest of tyrannies, this being + at the mercy of one’s people.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe takes advantage of this circumstance to alarm Caroline, he thinks + of future Chaumontel’s affairs, and would be glad to have no more + espionage. + </p> + <p> + Justine is sent for, Adolphe peremptorily dismisses her without waiting to + hear her explanation. Caroline imagines her vexations at an end. She gets + another maid. + </p> + <p> + Justine, whose twelve or fifteen thousand francs have attracted the notice + of a water carrier, becomes Madame Chavagnac, and goes into the apple + business. Ten months after, in Adolphe’s absence, Caroline receives a + letter written upon school-boy paper, in strides which would require + orthopedic treatment for three months, and thus conceived: + </p> + <p> + “Madam! + </p> + <p> + “Yu ar shaimphoolly diseeved bi yure huzban fur mame Deux fischtaminelle, + hee goze their evry eavning, yu ar az blynde az a Batt. Your gott wott yu + dizzurv, and I am Glad ovit, and I have thee honur ov prezenting yu the + assurunz ov Mi moaste ds Sting guischt respecks.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline starts like a lion who has been stung by a bumble-bee; she places + herself once more, and of her own accord, upon the griddle of suspicion, + and begins her struggle with the unknown all over again. + </p> + <p> + When she has discovered the injustice of her suspicions, there comes + another letter with an offer to furnish her with details relative to a + Chaumontel’s affair which Justine has unearthed. + </p> + <p> + The petty trouble of avowals, ladies, is often more serious than this, as + you perhaps have occasion to remember. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HUMILIATIONS. + </h2> + <p> + To the glory of women, let it be said, they care for their husbands even + when their husbands care no more for them, not only because there are more + ties, socially speaking, between a married woman and a man, than between + the man and the wife; but also because woman has more delicacy and honor + than man, the chief conjugal question apart, as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—In a husband, there is only a man; in a married woman, there + is a man, a father, a mother and a woman. + </p> + <p> + A married woman has sensibility enough for four, or for five even, if you + look closely. + </p> + <p> + Now, it is not improper to observe in this place, that, in a woman’s eyes, + love is a general absolution: the man who is a good lover may commit + crimes, if he will, he is always as pure as snow in the eyes of her who + loves him, if he truly loves her. As to a married woman, loved or not, she + feels so deeply that the honor and consideration of her husband are the + fortune of her children, that she acts like the woman in love,—so + active is the sense of community of interest. + </p> + <p> + This profound sentiment engenders, for certain Carolines, petty troubles + which, unfortunately for this book, have their dismal side. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe is compromised. We will not enumerate all the methods of + compromising oneself, for we might become personal. Let us take, as an + example, the social error which our epoch excuses, permits, understands + and commits the most of any—the case of an honest robbery, of + skillfully concealed corruption in office, or of some misrepresentation + that becomes excusable when it has succeeded, as, for instance, having an + understanding with parties in power, for the sale of property at the + highest possible price to a city, or a country. + </p> + <p> + Thus, in a bankruptcy, Adolphe, in order to protect himself (this means to + recover his claims), has become mixed up in certain unlawful doings which + may bring a man to the necessity of testifying before the Court of + Assizes. In fact, it is not known that the daring creditor will not be + considered a party. + </p> + <p> + Take notice that in all cases of bankruptcy, protecting oneself is + regarded as the most sacred of duties, even by the most respectable + houses: the thing is to keep the bad side of the protection out of sight, + as they do in prudish England. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe does not know what to do, as his counsel has told him not to + appear in the matter: so he has recourse to Caroline. He gives her a + lesson, he coaches her, he teaches her the Code, he examines her dress, he + equips her as a brig sent on a voyage, and despatches her to the office of + some judge, or some syndic. The judge is apparently a man of severe + morality, but in reality a libertine: he retains his serious expression on + seeing a pretty woman enter, and makes sundry very uncomplimentary remarks + about Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + “I pity you, madame, you belong to a man who may involve you in numerous + unpleasant affairs: a few more matters like this, and he will be quite + disgraced. Have you any children? Excuse my asking; you are so young, it + is perfectly natural.” And the judge comes as near to Caroline as + possible. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, great heavens! what a prospect is yours! My first thought was for the + woman, but now I pity you doubly, I think of the mother. Ah, how you must + have suffered in coming here! Poor, poor woman!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, sir, you take an interest in me, do you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Alas, what can I do?” says the judge, darting a glance sidewise at + Caroline. “What you ask of me is a dereliction of duty, and I am a + magistrate before I am a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, only be a man—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you aware of the full bearing of that request, fair creature?” At + this point the magistrate tremblingly takes Caroline’s hand. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, who remembers that the honor of her husband and children is at + stake, says to herself that this is not the time to play the prude. She + abandons her hand, making just resistance enough for the old man (happily + he is an old man) to consider it a favor. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, my beauty,” resumes the judge, “I should be loath to cause so + lovely a woman to shed tears; we’ll see about it. You shall come to-morrow + evening and tell me the whole affair. We must look at the papers, we will + examine them together—” + </p> + <p> + “Sir—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s indispensable.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be alarmed, my dear, a judge is likely to know how to grant what is + due to justice and—” he puts on a shrewd look here—“to + beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Be quite at your ease,” he adds, holding her hand closely in his, “and + we’ll try to reduce this great crime down to a peccadillo.” And he goes to + the door with Caroline, who is frightened to death at an appointment thus + proposed. + </p> + <p> + The syndic is a lively young man, and he receives Madame Adolphe with a + smile. He smiles at everything, and he smiles as he takes her round the + waist with an agility which leaves Caroline no time to resist, especially + as she says to herself, “Adolphe particularly recommended me not to vex + the syndic.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless Caroline escapes, in the interest of the syndic himself, and + again pronounces the “Sir!” which she had said three times to the judge. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be angry with me, you are irresistible, you are an angel, and your + husband is a monster: for what does he mean by sending a siren to a young + man whom he knows to be inflammable!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, my husband could not come himself; he is in bed, very sick, and you + threatened him so terribly that the urgency of the matter—” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t he got a lawyer, an attorney?” + </p> + <p> + Caroline is terrified by this remark which reveals Adolphe’s profound + rascality. + </p> + <p> + “He supposed, sir, that you would have pity upon the mother of a family, + upon her children—” + </p> + <p> + “Ta, ta, ta,” returns the syndic. “You have come to influence my + independence, my conscience, you want me to give the creditors up to you: + well, I’ll do more, I give you up my heart, my fortune! Your husband wants + to save <i>his</i> honor, <i>my</i> honor is at your disposal!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” cries Caroline, as she tries to raise the syndic who has thrown + himself at her feet. “You alarm me!” + </p> + <p> + She plays the terrified female and thus reaches the door, getting out of a + delicate situation as women know how to do it, that is, without + compromising anything or anybody. + </p> + <p> + “I will come again,” she says smiling, “when you behave better.” + </p> + <p> + “You leave me thus! Take care! Your husband may yet find himself seated at + the bar of the Court of Assizes: he is accessory to a fraudulent + bankruptcy, and we know several things about him that are not by any means + honorable. It is not his first departure from rectitude; he has done a + good many dirty things, he has been mixed up in disgraceful intrigues, and + you are singularly careful of the honor of a man who cares as little for + his own honor as he does for yours.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline, alarmed by these words, lets go the door, shuts it and comes + back. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, sir?” she exclaims, furious at this outrageous + broadside. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this affair—” + </p> + <p> + “Chaumontel’s affair?” + </p> + <p> + “No, his speculations in houses that he had built by people that were + insolvent.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline remembers the enterprise undertaken by Adolphe to double his + income: (See <i>The Jesuitism of Women</i>) she trembles. Her curiosity is + in the syndic’s favor. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down here. There, at this distance, I will behave well, but I can + look at you.” + </p> + <p> + And he narrates, at length, the conception due to du Tillet the banker, + interrupting himself to say: “Oh, what a pretty, cunning, little foot; no + one but you could have such a foot as that—<i>Du Tillet, therefore, + compromised.</i> What an ear, too! You have been doubtless told that you + had a delicious ear—<i>And du Tillet was right, for judgment had + already been given</i>—I love small ears, but let me have a model of + yours, and I will do anything you like—<i>du Tillet profited by this + to throw the whole loss on your idiotic husband</i>: oh, what a charming + silk, you are divinely dressed!” + </p> + <p> + “Where were we, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I remember while admiring your Raphaelistic head?” + </p> + <p> + At the twenty-seventh compliment, Caroline considers the syndic a man of + wit: she makes him a polite speech, and goes away without learning much + more of the enterprise which, not long before had swallowed up three + hundred thousand francs. + </p> + <p> + There are many huge variations of this petty trouble. + </p> + <p> + EXAMPLE. Adolphe is brave and susceptible: he is walking on the Champs + Elysees, where there is a crowd of people; in this crowd are several + ill-mannered young men who indulge in jokes of doubtful propriety: + Caroline puts up with them and pretends not to hear them, in order to keep + her husband out of a duel. + </p> + <p> + ANOTHER EXAMPLE. A child belonging to the genus Terrible, exclaims in the + presence of everybody: + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, would you let Justine hit me?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask, my little man?” inquires Madame Foullepointe. + </p> + <p> + “Because she just gave father a big slap, and he’s ever so much stronger + than me.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Foullepointe laughs, and Adolphe, who intended to pay court to her, + is cruelly joked by her, after having had a first last quarrel with + Caroline. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST QUARREL. + </h2> + <p> + In every household, husbands and wives must one day hear the striking of a + fatal hour. It is a knell, the death and end of jealousy, a great, noble + and charming passion, the only true symptom of love, if it is not even its + double. When a woman is no longer jealous of her husband, all is over, she + loves him no more. So, conjugal love expires in the last quarrel that a + woman gives herself the trouble to raise. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—When a woman ceases to quarrel with her husband, the Minotaur + has seated himself in a corner arm-chair, tapping his boots with his cane. + </p> + <p> + Every woman must remember her last quarrel, that supreme petty trouble + which often explodes about nothing, but more often still on some occasion + of a brutal fact or of a decisive proof. This cruel farewell to faith, to + the childishness of love, to virtue even, is in a degree as capricious as + life itself. Like life it varies in every house. + </p> + <p> + Here, the author ought perhaps to search out all the varieties of + quarrels, if he desires to be precise. + </p> + <p> + Thus, Caroline may have discovered that the judicial robe of the syndic in + Chaumontel’s affair, hides a robe of infinitely softer stuff, of an + agreeable, silky color: that Chaumontel’s hair, in short, is fair, and + that his eyes are blue. + </p> + <p> + Or else Caroline, who arose before Adolphe, may have seen his greatcoat + thrown wrong side out across a chair; the edge of a little perfumed paper, + just peeping out of the side-pocket, may have attracted her by its + whiteness, like a ray of the sun entering a dark room through a crack in + the window: or else, while taking Adolphe in her arms and feeling his + pocket, she may have caused the note to crackle: or else she may have been + informed of the state of things by a foreign odor that she has long + noticed upon him, and may have read these lines: + </p> + <p> + “Ungraitfull wun, wot du yu supoz I no About Hipolite. Kum, and yu shal se + whether I Love yu.” + </p> + <p> + Or this: + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday, love, you made me wait for you: what will it be to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + Or this: + </p> + <p> + “The women who love you, my dear sir, are very unhappy in hating you so, + when you are not with them: take care, for the hatred which exists during + your absence, may possibly encroach upon the hours you spend in their + company.” + </p> + <p> + Or this: + </p> + <p> + “You traitorous Chodoreille, what were you doing yesterday on the + boulevard with a woman hanging on your arm? If it was your wife, accept my + compliments of condolence upon her absent charms: she has doubtless + deposited them at the pawnbroker’s, and the ticket to redeem them with is + lost.” + </p> + <p> + Four notes emanating from the grisette, the lady, the pretentious woman in + middle life, and the actress, among whom Adolphe has chosen his <i>belle</i> + (according to the Fischtaminellian vocabulary). + </p> + <p> + Or else Caroline, taken veiled by Ferdinand to Ranelagh Garden, sees with + her own eyes Adolphe abandoning himself furiously to the polka, holding + one of the ladies of honor to Queen Pomare in his arms; or else, again, + Adolphe has for the seventh time, made a mistake in the name, and called + his wife Juliette, Charlotte or Lisa: or, a grocer or restaurateur sends + to the house, during Adolphe’s absence, certain damning bills which fall + into Caroline’s hands. + </p> + <p> + PAPERS RELATING TO CHAUMONTEL’S AFFAIR. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Private Tables Served.) + + M. Adolphe to Perrault, + + To 1 Pate de Foie Gras delivered at Madame + Schontz’s, the 6th of January, fr. 22.50 + Six bottle of assorted wines, 70.00 + To one special breakfast delivered at Congress + Hotel, the 11th of February, at No. 21—— + Stipulated price, 100.00 + ______ + + Total, Francs, 192.50 +</pre> + <p> + Caroline examines the dates and remembers them as appointments made for + business connected with Chaumontel’s affair. Adolphe had designated the + sixth of January as the day fixed for a meeting at which the creditors in + Chaumontel’s affair were to receive the sums due them. On the eleventh of + February he had an appointment with the notary, in order to sign a receipt + relative to Chaumontel’s affair. + </p> + <p> + Or else—but an attempt to mention all the chances of discovery would + be the undertaking of a madman. + </p> + <p> + Every woman will remember to herself how the bandage with which her eyes + were bound fell off: how, after many doubts, and agonies of heart, she + made up her mind to have a final quarrel for the simple purpose of + finishing the romance, putting the seal to the book, stipulating for her + independence, or beginning life over again. + </p> + <p> + Some women are fortunate enough to have anticipated their husbands, and + they then have the quarrel as a sort of justification. + </p> + <p> + Nervous women give way to a burst of passion and commit acts of violence. + </p> + <p> + Women of mild temper assume a decided tone which appalls the most intrepid + husbands. Those who have no vengeance ready shed a great many tears. + </p> + <p> + Those who love you forgive you. Ah, they conceive so readily, like the + woman called “Ma berline,” that their Adolphe must be loved by the women + of France, that they are rejoiced to possess, legally, a man about whom + everybody goes crazy. + </p> + <p> + Certain women with lips tight shut like a vise, with a muddy complexion + and thin arms, treat themselves to the malicious pleasure of promenading + their Adolphe through the quagmire of falsehood and contradiction: they + question him (see <i>Troubles within Troubles</i>), like a magistrate + examining a criminal, reserving the spiteful enjoyment of crushing his + denials by positive proof at a decisive moment. Generally, in this supreme + scene of conjugal life, the fair sex is the executioner, while, in the + contrary case, man is the assassin. + </p> + <p> + This is the way of it: This last quarrel (you shall know why the author + has called it the <i>last</i>), is always terminated by a solemn, sacred + promise, made by scrupulous, noble, or simply intelligent women (that is + to say, by all women), and which we give here in its grandest form. + </p> + <p> + “Enough, Adolphe! We love each other no more; you have deceived me, and I + shall never forget it. I may forgive it, but I can never forget it.” + </p> + <p> + Women represent themselves as implacable only to render their forgiveness + charming: they have anticipated God. + </p> + <p> + “We have now to live in common like two friends,” continues Caroline. + “Well, let us live like two comrades, two brothers, I do not wish to make + your life intolerable, and I never again will speak to you of what has + happened—” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe gives Caroline his hand: she takes it, and shakes it in the + English style. Adolphe thanks Caroline, and catches a glimpse of bliss: he + has converted his wife into a sister, and hopes to be a bachelor again. + </p> + <p> + The next day Caroline indulges in a very witty allusion (Adolphe cannot + help laughing at it) to Chaumontel’s affair. In society she makes general + remarks which, to Adolphe, are very particular remarks, about their last + quarrel. + </p> + <p> + At the end of a fortnight a day never passes without Caroline’s recalling + their last quarrel by saying: “It was the day when I found Chaumontel’s + bill in your pocket:” or “it happened since our last quarrel:” or, “it was + the day when, for the first time, I had a clear idea of life,” etc. She + assassinates Adolphe, she martyrizes him! In society she gives utterance + to terrible things. + </p> + <p> + “We are happy, my dear [to a lady], when we love each other no longer: + it’s then that we learn how to make ourselves beloved,” and she looks at + Ferdinand. + </p> + <p> + In short, the last quarrel never comes to an end, and from this fact flows + the following axiom: + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Putting yourself in the wrong with your lawful wife, is + solving the problem of Perpetual Motion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SIGNAL FAILURE. + </h2> + <p> + Women, and especially married women, stick ideas into their brain-pan + precisely as they stick pins into a pincushion, and the devil himself,—do + you mind?—could not get them out: they reserve to themselves the + exclusive right of sticking them in, pulling them out, and sticking them + in again. + </p> + <p> + Caroline is riding home one evening from Madame Foullepointe’s in a + violent state of jealousy and ambition. + </p> + <p> + Madame Foullepointe, the lioness—but this word requires an + explanation. It is a fashionable neologism, and gives expression to + certain rather meagre ideas relative to our present society: you must use + it, if you want to describe a woman who is all the rage. This lioness + rides on horseback every day, and Caroline has taken it into her head to + learn to ride also. + </p> + <p> + Observe that in this conjugal phase, Adolphe and Caroline are in the + season which we have denominated <i>A Household Revolution</i>, and that + they have had two or three <i>Last Quarrels</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe,” she says, “do you want to do me a favor?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you refuse?” + </p> + <p> + “If your request is reasonable, I am willing—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, already—that’s a true husband’s word—if—” + </p> + <p> + “Come, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to learn to ride on horseback.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, is it a possible thing, Caroline?” + </p> + <p> + Caroline looks out of the window, and tries to wipe away a dry tear. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” resumes Adolphe; “I cannot let you go alone to the + riding-school; and I cannot go with you while business gives me the + annoyance it does now. What’s the matter? I think I have given you + unanswerable reasons.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe foresees the hiring of a stable, the purchase of a pony, the + introduction of a groom and of a servant’s horse into the establishment—in + short, all the nuisance of female lionization. + </p> + <p> + When a man gives a woman reasons instead of giving her what she wants—well, + few men have ventured to descend into that small abyss called the heart, + to test the power of the tempest that suddenly bursts forth there. + </p> + <p> + “Reasons! If you want reasons, here they are!” exclaims Caroline. “I am + your wife: you don’t seem to care to please me any more. And as to the + expenses, you greatly overrate them, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Women have as many inflections of voice to pronounce these words, <i>My + dear</i>, as the Italians have to say <i>Amico</i>. I have counted + twenty-nine which express only various degrees of hatred. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’ll see,” resumes Caroline, “I shall be sick, and you will pay + the apothecary and the doctor as much as the price of a horse. I shall be + walled up here at home, and that’s all you want. I asked the favor of you, + though I was sure of a refusal: I only wanted to know how you would go to + work to give it.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Caroline—” + </p> + <p> + “Leave me alone at the riding-school!” she continues without listening. + “Is that a reason? Can’t I go with Madame de Fischtaminel? Madame de + Fischtaminel is learning to ride on horseback, and I don’t imagine that + Monsieur de Fischtaminel goes with her.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Caroline—” + </p> + <p> + “I am delighted with your solicitude. You think a great deal of me, + really. Monsieur de Fischtaminel has more confidence in his wife, than you + have in yours. He does not go with her, not he! Perhaps it’s on account of + this confidence that you don’t want me at the school, where I might see + your goings on with the fair Fischtaminel.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe tries to hide his vexation at this torrent of words, which begins + when they are still half way from home, and has no sea to empty into. When + Caroline is in her room, she goes on in the same way. + </p> + <p> + “You see that if reasons could restore my health or prevent me from + desiring a kind of exercise pointed out by nature herself, I should not be + in want of reasons, and that I know all the reasons that there are, and + that I went over with the reasons before I spoke to you.” + </p> + <p> + This, ladies, may with the more truth be called the prologue to the + conjugal drama, from the fact that it is vigorously delivered, embellished + with a commentary of gestures, ornamented with glances and all the other + vignettes with which you usually illustrate such masterpieces. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, when she has once planted in Adolphe’s heart the apprehension of + a scene of constantly reiterated demands, feels her hatred for his control + largely increase. Madame pouts, and she pouts so fiercely, that Adolphe is + forced to notice it, on pain of very disagreeable consequences, for all is + over, be sure of that, between two beings married by the mayor, or even at + Gretna Green, when one of them no longer notices the sulkings of the + other. + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—A sulk that has struck in is a deadly poison. + </p> + <p> + It was to prevent this suicide of love that our ingenious France invented + boudoirs. Women could not well have Virgil’s willows in the economy of our + modern dwellings. On the downfall of oratories, these little cubbies + become boudoirs. + </p> + <p> + This conjugal drama has three acts. The act of the prologue is already + played. Then comes the act of false coquetry: one of those in which French + women have the most success. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe is walking about the room, divesting himself of his apparel, and + the man thus engaged, divests himself of his strength as well as of his + clothing. To every man of forty, this axiom will appear profoundly just: + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—The ideas of a man who has taken his boots and his suspenders + off, are no longer those of a man who is still sporting these two tyrants + of the mind. + </p> + <p> + Take notice that this is only an axiom in wedded life. In morals, it is + what we call a relative theorem. + </p> + <p> + Caroline watches, like a jockey on the race course, the moment when she + can distance her adversary. She makes her preparations to be irresistibly + fascinating to Adolphe. + </p> + <p> + Women possess a power of mimicking pudicity, a knowledge of secrets which + might be those of a frightened dove, a particular register for singing, + like Isabella, in the fourth act of <i>Robert le Diable: “Grace pour toi! + Grace pour moi!”</i> which leave jockeys and horse trainers whole miles + behind. As usual, the <i>Diable</i> succumbs. It is the eternal history, + the grand Christian mystery of the bruised serpent, of the delivered woman + becoming the great social force, as the Fourierists say. It is especially + in this that the difference between the Oriental slave and the Occidental + wife appears. + </p> + <p> + Upon the conjugal pillow, the second act ends by a number of onomatopes, + all of them favorable to peace. Adolphe, precisely like children in the + presence of a slice of bread and molasses, promises everything that + Caroline wants. + </p> + <p> + THIRD ACT. As the curtain rises, the stage represents a chamber in a state + of extreme disorder. Adolphe, in his dressing gown, tries to go out + furtively and without waking Caroline, who is sleeping profoundly, and + finally does go out. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, exceedingly happy, gets up, consults her mirror, and makes + inquiries about breakfast. An hour afterward, when she is ready she learns + that breakfast is served. + </p> + <p> + “Tell monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame, he is in the little parlor.” + </p> + <p> + “What a nice man he is,” she says, going up to Adolphe, and talking the + babyish, caressing language of the honey-moon. + </p> + <p> + “What for, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to let his little Liline ride the horsey.” + </p> + <p> + OBSERVATION. During the honey-moon, some few married couples,—very + young ones,—make use of languages, which, in ancient days, Aristotle + classified and defined. (See his Pedagogy.) Thus they are perpetually + using such terminations as <i>lala</i>, <i>nana</i>, <i>coachy-poachy</i>, + just as mothers and nurses use them to babies. This is one of the secret + reasons, discussed and recognized in big quartos by the Germans, which + determined the Cabires, the creators of the Greek mythology, to represent + Love as a child. There are other reasons very well known to women, the + principal of which is, that, in their opinion, love in men is always <i>small</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get that idea, my sweet? You must have dreamed it!” + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + Caroline stands stark still: she opens wide her eyes which are already + considerably widened by amazement. Being inwardly epileptic, she says not + a word: she merely gazes at Adolphe. Under the satanic fires of their + gaze, Adolphe turns half way round toward the dining-room; but he asks + himself whether it would not be well to let Caroline take one lesson, and + to tip the wink to the riding-master, to disgust her with equestrianism by + the harshness of his style of instruction. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing so terrible as an actress who reckons upon a success, and + who <i>fait four</i>. + </p> + <p> + In the language of the stage, to <i>faire four</i> is to play to a + wretchedly thin house, or to obtain not the slightest applause. It is + taking great pains for nothing, in short a <i>signal failure</i>. + </p> + <p> + This petty trouble—it is very petty—is reproduced in a + thousand ways in married life, when the honey-moon is over, and when the + wife has no personal fortune. + </p> + <p> + In spite of the author’s repugnance to inserting anecdotes in an + exclusively aphoristic work, the tissue of which will bear nothing but the + most delicate and subtle observations,—from the nature of the + subject at least,—it seems to him necessary to illustrate this page + by an incident narrated by one of our first physicians. This repetition of + the subject involves a rule of conduct very much in use with the doctors + of Paris. + </p> + <p> + A certain husband was in our Adolphe’s situation. His Caroline, having + once made a signal failure, was determined to conquer, for Caroline often + does conquer! (See <i>The Physiology of Marriage</i>, Meditation XXVI, + Paragraph <i>Nerves</i>.) She had been lying about on the sofas for two + months, getting up at noon, taking no part in the amusements of the city. + She would not go to the theatre,—oh, the disgusting atmosphere!—the + lights, above all, the lights! Then the bustle, coming out, going in, the + music,—it might be fatal, it’s so terribly exciting! + </p> + <p> + She would not go on excursions to the country, oh, certainly it was her + desire to do so!—but she would like (desiderata) a carriage of her + own, horses of her own—her husband would not give her an equipage. + And as to going in hacks, in hired conveyances, the bare thought gave her + a rising at the stomach! + </p> + <p> + She would not have any cooking—the smell of the meats produced a + sudden nausea. She drank innumerable drugs that her maid never saw her + take. + </p> + <p> + In short, she expended large amounts of time and money in attitudes, + privations, effects, pearl-white to give her the pallor of a corpse, + machinery, and the like, precisely as when the manager of a theatre + spreads rumors about a piece gotten up in a style of Oriental + magnificence, without regard to expense! + </p> + <p> + This couple had got so far as to believe that even a journey to the + springs, to Ems, to Hombourg, to Carlsbad, would hardly cure the invalid: + but madame would not budge, unless she could go in her own carriage. + Always that carriage! + </p> + <p> + Adolphe held out, and would not yield. + </p> + <p> + Caroline, who was a woman of great sagacity, admitted that her husband was + right. + </p> + <p> + “Adolphe is right,” she said to her friends, “it is I who am unreasonable: + he can not, he ought not, have a carriage yet: men know better than we do + the situation of their business.” + </p> + <p> + At times Adolphe was perfectly furious! Women have ways about them that + demand the justice of Tophet itself. Finally, during the third month, he + met one of his school friends, a lieutenant in the corps of physicians, + modest as all young doctors are: he had had his epaulettes one day only, + and could give the order to fire! + </p> + <p> + “For a young woman, a young doctor,” said our Adolphe to himself. + </p> + <p> + And he proposed to the future Bianchon to visit his wife and tell him the + truth about her condition. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it is time that you should have a physician,” said Adolphe that + evening to his wife, “and here is the best for a pretty woman.” + </p> + <p> + The novice makes a conscientious examination, questions madame, feels her + pulse discreetly, inquires into the slightest symptoms, and, at the end, + while conversing, allows a smile, an expression, which, if not ironical, + are extremely incredulous, to play involuntarily upon his lips, and his + lips are quite in sympathy with his eyes. He prescribes some insignificant + remedy, and insists upon its importance, promising to call again to + observe its effect. In the ante-chamber, thinking himself alone with his + school-mate, he indulges in an inexpressible shrug of the shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing the matter with your wife, my boy,” he says: “she is + trifling with both you and me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought so.” + </p> + <p> + “But if she continues the joke, she will make herself sick in earnest: I + am too sincerely your friend to enter into such a speculation, for I am + determined that there shall be an honest man beneath the physician, in me—” + </p> + <p> + “My wife wants a carriage.” + </p> + <p> + As in the <i>Solo on the Hearse</i>, this Caroline listened at the door. + </p> + <p> + Even at the present day, the young doctor is obliged to clear his path of + the calumnies which this charming woman is continually throwing into it: + and for the sake of a quiet life, he has been obliged to confess his + little error—a young man’s error—and to mention his enemy by + name, in order to close her lips. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHESTNUTS IN THE FIRE. + </h2> + <p> + No one can tell how many shades and gradations there are in misfortune, + for everything depends upon the character of the individual, upon the + force of the imagination, upon the strength of the nerves. If it is + impossible to catch these so variable shades, we may at least point out + the most striking colors, and the principal attendant incidents. The + author has therefore reserved this petty trouble for the last, for it is + the only one that is at once comic and disastrous. + </p> + <p> + The author flatters himself that he has mentioned the principal examples. + Thus, women who have arrived safely at the haven, the happy age of forty, + the period when they are delivered from scandal, calumny, suspicion, when + their liberty begins: these women will certainly do him the justice to + state that all the critical situations of a family are pointed out or + represented in this book. + </p> + <p> + Caroline has her Chaumontel’s affair. She has learned how to induce + Adolphe to go out unexpectedly, and has an understanding with Madame de + Fischtaminel. + </p> + <p> + In every household, within a given time, ladies like Madame de + Fischtaminel become Caroline’s main resource. + </p> + <p> + Caroline pets Madame de Fischtaminel with all the tenderness that the + African army is now bestowing upon Abd-el-Kader: she is as solicitous in + her behalf as a physician is anxious to avoid curing a rich hypochondriac. + Between the two, Caroline and Madame de Fischtaminel invent occupations + for dear Adolphe, when neither of them desire the presence of that demigod + among their penates. Madame de Fischtaminel and Caroline, who have become, + through the efforts of Madame Foullepointe, the best friends in the world, + have even gone so far as to learn and employ that feminine free-masonry, + the rites of which cannot be made familiar by any possible initiation. + </p> + <p> + If Caroline writes the following little note to Madame de Fischtaminel: + </p> + <p> + “Dearest Angel: + </p> + <p> + “You will probably see Adolphe to-morrow, but do not keep him too long, + for I want to go to ride with him at five: but if you are desirous of + taking him to ride yourself, do so and I will take him up. You ought to + teach me your secret for entertaining used-up people as you do.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Fischtaminel says to herself: “Gracious! So I shall have that + fellow on my hands to-morrow from twelve o’clock to five.” + </p> + <p> + Axiom.—Men do not always know a woman’s positive request when they + see it; but another woman never mistakes it: she does the contrary. + </p> + <p> + Those sweet little beings called women, and especially Parisian women, are + the prettiest jewels that social industry has invented. Those who do not + adore them, those who do not feel a constant jubilation at seeing them + laying their plots while braiding their hair, creating special idioms for + themselves and constructing with their slender fingers machines strong + enough to destroy the most powerful fortunes, must be wanting in a + positive sense. + </p> + <p> + On one occasion Caroline takes the most minute precautions. She writes the + day before to Madame Foullepointe to go to St. Maur with Adolphe, to look + at a piece of property for sale there. Adolphe would go to breakfast with + her. She aids Adolphe in dressing. She twits him with the care he bestows + upon his toilet, and asks absurd questions about Madame Foullepointe. + </p> + <p> + “She’s real nice, and I think she is quite tired of Charles: you’ll + inscribe her yet upon your catalogue, you old Don Juan: but you won’t have + any further need of Chaumontel’s affair; I’m no longer jealous, you’ve got + a passport. Do you like that better than being adored? Monster, observe + how considerate I am.” + </p> + <p> + So soon as her husband has gone, Caroline, who had not omitted, the + previous evening, to write to Ferdinand to come to breakfast with her, + equips herself in a costume which, in that charming eighteenth century so + calumniated by republicans, humanitarians and idiots, women of quality + called their fighting-dress. + </p> + <p> + Caroline has taken care of everything. Love is the first house servant in + the world, so the table is set with positively diabolic coquetry. There is + the white damask cloth, the little blue service, the silver gilt urn, the + chiseled milk pitcher, and flowers all round! + </p> + <p> + If it is winter, she has got some grapes, and has rummaged the cellar for + the very best old wine. The rolls are from the most famous baker’s. The + succulent dishes, the <i>pate de foie gras</i>, the whole of this elegant + entertainment, would have made the author of the Glutton’s Almanac neigh + with impatience: it would make a note-shaver smile, and tell a professor + of the old University what the matter in hand is. + </p> + <p> + Everything is prepared. Caroline has been ready since the night before: + she contemplates her work. Justine sighs and arranges the furniture. + Caroline picks off the yellow leaves of the plants in the windows. A + woman, in these cases, disguises what we may call the prancings of the + heart, by those meaningless occupations in which the fingers have all the + grip of pincers, when the pink nails burn, and when this unspoken + exclamation rasps the throat: “He hasn’t come yet!” + </p> + <p> + What a blow is this announcement by Justine: “Madame, here’s a letter!” + </p> + <p> + A letter in place of Ferdinand! How does she ever open it? What ages of + life slip by as she unfolds it! Women know this by experience! As to men, + when they are in such maddening passes, they murder their shirt-frills. + </p> + <p> + “Justine, Monsieur Ferdinand is ill!” exclaims Caroline. “Send for a + carriage.” + </p> + <p> + As Justine goes down stairs, Adolphe comes up. + </p> + <p> + “My poor mistress!” observes Justine. “I guess she won’t want the carriage + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh my! Where have you come from?” cries Caroline, on seeing Adolphe + standing in ecstasy before her voluptuous breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe, whose wife long since gave up treating <i>him</i> to such + charming banquets, does not answer. But he guesses what it all means, as + he sees the cloth inscribed with the delightful ideas which Madame de + Fischtaminel or the syndic of Chaumontel’s affair have often inscribed for + him upon tables quite as elegant. + </p> + <p> + “Whom are you expecting?” he asks in his turn. + </p> + <p> + “Who could it be, except Ferdinand?” replies Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “And is he keeping you waiting?” + </p> + <p> + “He is sick, poor fellow.” + </p> + <p> + A quizzical idea enters Adolphe’s head, and he replies, winking with one + eye only: “I have just seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In front of the Cafe de Paris, with some friends.” + </p> + <p> + “But why have you come back?” says Caroline, trying to conceal her + murderous fury. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Foullepointe, who was tired of Charles, you said, has been with + him at Ville d’Avray since yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + Adolphe sits down, saying: “This has happened very appropriately, for I’m + as hungry as two bears.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline sits down, too, and looks at Adolphe stealthily: she weeps + internally: but she very soon asks, in a tone of voice that she manages to + render indifferent, “Who was Ferdinand with?” + </p> + <p> + “With some fellows who lead him into bad company. The young man is getting + spoiled: he goes to Madame Schontz’s. You ought to write to your uncle. It + was probably some breakfast or other, the result of a bet made at M’lle + Malaga’s.” He looks slyly at Caroline, who drops her eyes to conceal her + tears. “How beautiful you have made yourself this morning,” Adolphe + resumes. “Ah, you are a fair match for your breakfast. I don’t think + Ferdinand will make as good a meal as I shall,” etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe manages the joke so cleverly that he inspires his wife with the + idea of punishing Ferdinand. Adolphe, who claims to be as hungry as two + bears, causes Caroline to forget that a carriage waits for her at the + door. + </p> + <p> + The female that tends the gate at the house Ferdinand lives in, arrives at + about two o’clock, while Adolphe is asleep on a sofa. That Iris of + bachelors comes to say to Caroline that Monsieur Ferdinand is very much in + need of some one. + </p> + <p> + “He’s drunk, I suppose,” says Caroline in a rage. + </p> + <p> + “He fought a duel this morning, madame.” + </p> + <p> + Caroline swoons, gets up and rushes to Ferdinand, wishing Adolphe at the + bottom of the sea. + </p> + <p> + When women are the victims of these little inventions, which are quite as + adroit as their own, they are sure to exclaim, “What abominable monsters + men are!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ULTIMA RATIO. + </h2> + <p> + We have come to our last observation. Doubtless this work is beginning to + tire you quite as much as its subject does, if you are married. + </p> + <p> + This work, which, according to the author, is to the <i>Physiology of + Marriage</i> what Fact is to Theory, or History to Philosophy, has its + logic, as life, viewed as a whole, has its logic, also. + </p> + <p> + This logic—fatal, terrible—is as follows. At the close of the + first part of the book—a book filled with serious pleasantry—Adolphe + has reached, as you must have noticed, a point of complete indifference in + matrimonial matters. + </p> + <p> + He has read novels in which the writers advise troublesome husbands to + embark for the other world, or to live in peace with the fathers of their + children, to pet and adore them: for if literature is the reflection of + manners, we must admit that our manners recognize the defects pointed out + by the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> in this fundamental institution. More + than one great genius has dealt this social basis terrible blows, without + shaking it. + </p> + <p> + Adolphe has especially read his wife too closely, and disguises his + indifference by this profound word: indulgence. He is indulgent with + Caroline, he sees in her nothing but the mother of his children, a good + companion, a sure friend, a brother. + </p> + <p> + When the petty troubles of the wife cease, Caroline, who is more clever + than her husband, has come to profit by this advantageous indulgence: but + she does not give her dear Adolphe up. It is woman’s nature never to yield + any of her rights. DIEU ET MON DROIT—CONJUGAL! is, as is well known, + the motto of England, and is especially so to-day. + </p> + <p> + Women have such a love of domination that we will relate an anecdote, not + ten years old, in point. It is a very young anecdote. + </p> + <p> + One of the grand dignitaries of the Chamber of Peers had a Caroline, as + lax as Carolines usually are. The name is an auspicious one for women. + This dignitary, extremely old at the time, was on one side of the + fireplace, and Caroline on the other. Caroline was hard upon the lustrum + when women no longer tell their age. A friend came in to inform them of + the marriage of a general who had lately been intimate in their house. + </p> + <p> + Caroline at once had a fit of despair, with genuine tears; she screamed + and made the grand dignitary’s head ache to such a degree, that he tried + to console her. In the midst of his condolences, the count forgot himself + so far as to say—“What can you expect, my dear, he really could not + marry you!” + </p> + <p> + And this was one of the highest functionaries of the state, but a friend + of Louis XVIII, and necessarily a little bit Pompadour. + </p> + <p> + The whole difference, then, between the situation of Adolphe and that of + Caroline, consists in this: though he no longer cares about her, she + retains the right to care about him. + </p> + <p> + Now, let us listen to “What <i>they</i> say,” the theme of the concluding + chapter of this work. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COMMENTARY. IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED LA FELICITA OF FINALES. + </h2> + <p> + Who has not heard an Italian opera in the course of his life? You must + then have noticed the musical abuse of the word <i>felicita</i>, so + lavishly used by the librettist and the chorus at the moment when + everybody is deserting his box or leaving the house. + </p> + <p> + Frightful image of life. We quit it just when we hear <i>la felicita</i>. + </p> + <p> + Have you reflected upon the profound truth conveyed by this finale, at the + instant when the composer delivers his last note and the author his last + line, when the orchestra gives the last pull at the fiddle-bow and the + last puff at the bassoon, when the principal singers say “Let’s go to + supper!” and the chorus people exclaim “How lucky, it doesn’t rain!” Well, + in every condition in life, as in an Italian opera, there comes a time + when the joke is over, when the trick is done, when people must make up + their minds to one thing or the other, when everybody is singing his own + <i>felicita</i> for himself. After having gone through with all the duos, + the solos, the stretti, the codas, the concerted pieces, the duettos, the + nocturnes, the phases which these few scenes, chosen from the ocean of + married life, exhibit you, and which are themes whose variations have + doubtless been divined by persons with brains as well as by the shallow—for + so far as suffering is concerned, we are all equal—the greater part + of Parisian households reach, without a given time, the following final + chorus: + </p> + <p> + THE WIFE, <i>to a young woman in the conjugal Indian Summer</i>. My dear, + I am the happiest woman in the world. Adolphe is the model of husbands, + kind, obliging, not a bit of a tease. Isn’t he, Ferdinand? + </p> + <p> + Caroline addresses Adolphe’s cousin, a young man with a nice cravat, + glistening hair and patent leather boots: his coat is cut in the most + elegant fashion: he has a crush hat, kid gloves, something very choice in + the way of a waistcoat, the very best style of moustaches, whiskers, and a + goatee a la Mazarin; he is also endowed with a profound, mute, attentive + admiration of Caroline. + </p> + <p> + FERDINAND. Adolphe is happy to have a wife like you! What does he want? + Nothing. + </p> + <p> + THE WIFE. In the beginning, we were always vexing each other: but now we + get along marvelously. Adolphe no longer does anything but what he likes, + he never puts himself out: I never ask him where he is going nor what he + has seen. Indulgence, my dear, is the great secret of happiness. You, + doubtless, are still in the period of petty troubles, causeless + jealousies, cross-purposes, and all sorts of little botherations. What is + the good of all this? We women have but a short life, at the best. How + much? Ten good years! Why should we fill them with vexation? I was like + you. But, one fine morning, I made the acquaintance of Madame de + Fischtaminel, a charming woman, who taught me how to make a husband happy. + Since then, Adolphe has changed radically; he has become perfectly + delightful. He is the first to say to me, with anxiety, with alarm, even, + when I am going to the theatre, and he and I are still alone at seven + o’clock: “Ferdinand is coming for you, isn’t he?” Doesn’t he, Ferdinand? + </p> + <p> + FERDINAND. We are the best cousins in the world. + </p> + <p> + THE INDIAN SUMMER WIFE, <i>very much affected</i>. Shall I ever come to + that? + </p> + <p> + THE HUSBAND, <i>on the Italian Boulevard</i>. My dear boy [he has + button-holed Monsieur de Fischtaminel], you still believe that marriage is + based upon passion. Let me tell you that the best way, in conjugal life, + is to have a plenary indulgence, one for the other, on condition that + appearances be preserved. I am the happiest husband in the world. Caroline + is a devoted friend, she would sacrifice everything for me, even my cousin + Ferdinand, if it were necessary: oh, you may laugh, but she is ready to do + anything. You entangle yourself in your laughable ideas of dignity, honor, + virtue, social order. We can’t have our life over again, so we must cram + it full of pleasure. Not the smallest bitter word has been exchanged + between Caroline and me for two years past. I have, in Caroline, a friend + to whom I can tell everything, and who would be amply able to console me + in a great emergency. There is not the slightest deceit between us, and we + know perfectly well what the state of things is. We have thus changed our + duties into pleasures. We are often happier, thus, than in that insipid + season called the honey-moon. She says to me, sometimes, “I’m out of + humor, go away.” The storm then falls upon my cousin. Caroline never puts + on her airs of a victim, now, but speaks in the kindest manner of me to + the whole world. In short, she is happy in my pleasures. And as she is a + scrupulously honest woman, she is conscientious to the last degree in her + use of our fortune. My house is well kept. My wife leaves me the right to + dispose of my reserve without the slightest control on her part. That’s + the way of it. We have oiled our wheels and cogs, while you, my dear + Fischtaminel, have put gravel in yours. + </p> + <p> + CHORUS, <i>in a parlor during a ball</i>. Madame Caroline is a charming + woman. + </p> + <p> + A WOMAN IN A TURBAN. Yes, she is very proper, very dignified. + </p> + <p> + A WOMAN WHO HAS SEVEN CHILDREN. Ah! she learned early how to manage her + husband. + </p> + <p> + ONE OF FERDINAND’S FRIENDS. But she loves her husband exceedingly. + Besides, Adolphe is a man of great distinction and experience. + </p> + <p> + ONE OF MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL’S FRIENDS. He adores his wife. There’s no + fuss at their house, everybody is at home there. + </p> + <p> + MONSIEUR FOULLEPOINTE. Yes, it’s a very agreeable house. + </p> + <p> + A WOMAN ABOUT WHOM THERE IS A GOOD DEAL OF SCANDAL. Caroline is kind and + obliging, and never talks scandal of anybody. + </p> + <p> + A YOUNG LADY, <i>returning to her place after a dance</i>. Don’t you + remember how tiresome she was when she visited the Deschars? + </p> + <p> + MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL. Oh! She and her husband were two bundles of briars—continually + quarreling. [She goes away.] + </p> + <p> + AN ARTIST. I hear that the individual known as Deschars is getting + dissipated: he goes round town— + </p> + <p> + A WOMAN, <i>alarmed at the turn the conversation is taking, as her + daughter can hear</i>. Madame de Fischtaminel is charming, this evening. + </p> + <p> + A WOMAN OF FORTY, <i>without employment</i>. Monsieur Adolphe appears to + be as happy as his wife. + </p> + <p> + A YOUNG LADY. Oh! what a sweet man Monsieur Ferdinand is! [Her mother + reproves her by a sharp nudge with her foot.] What’s the matter, mamma? + </p> + <p> + HER MOTHER, <i>looking at her fixedly</i>. A young woman should not speak + so, my dear, of any one but her betrothed, and Monsieur Ferdinand is not a + marrying man. + </p> + <p> + A LADY DRESSED RATHER LOW IN THE NECK, <i>to another lady dressed equally + low, in a whisper</i>. The fact is, my dear, the moral of all this is that + there are no happy couples but couples of four. + </p> + <p> + A FRIEND, <i>whom the author was so imprudent as to consult</i>. Those + last words are false. + </p> + <p> + THE AUTHOR. Do you think so? + </p> + <p> + THE FRIEND, <i>who has just been married</i>. You all of you use your ink + in depreciating social life, on the pretext of enlightening us! Why, there + are couples a hundred, a thousand times happier than your boasted couples + of four. + </p> + <p> + THE AUTHOR. Well, shall I deceive the marrying class of the population, + and scratch the passage out? + </p> + <p> + THE FRIEND. No, it will be taken merely as the point of a song in a + vaudeville. + </p> + <p> + THE AUTHOR. Yes, a method of passing truths off upon society. + </p> + <p> + THE FRIEND, <i>who sticks to his opinion</i>. Such truths as are destined + to be passed off upon it. + </p> + <p> + THE AUTHOR, <i>who wants to have the last word</i>. Who and what is there + that does not pass off, or become passe? When your wife is twenty years + older, we will resume this conversation. + </p> + <p> + THE FRIEND. You revenge yourself cruelly for your inability to write the + history of happy homes. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Petty Troubles of Married Life, +Complete, by Honore de Balzac + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARRIED LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 16146-h.htm or 16146-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/1/4/16146/ + +Produced by Dagny, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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