diff options
Diffstat (limited to '16206-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 16206-0.txt | 19588 |
1 files changed, 19588 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/16206-0.txt b/16206-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..044078a --- /dev/null +++ b/16206-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19588 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Analytical Studies, by Honoré de Balzac + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Analytical Studies + +Author: Honoré de Balzac + +Release Date: July 4, 2005 [eBook #16206] +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: Dagny and John Bickers + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANALYTICAL STUDIES *** + + + + +ANALYTICAL STUDIES + +BY HONORÉ DE BALZAC + + +DEDICATION + +Notice the words: _The man of distinction to whom this book is +dedicated_. Need I say: “You are that man.”—THE AUTHOR. + + +The woman who may be induced by the title of this book to open it, can +save herself the trouble; she has already read the work without knowing +it. A man, however malicious he may possibly be, can never say about a +woman as much good or as much evil as they themselves think. If, in +spite of this notice, a woman will persist in reading the volume, she +ought to be prevented by delicacy from despising the author, from the +very moment that he, forfeiting the praise which most artists welcome, +has in a certain way engraved on the title page of his book the prudent +inscription written on the portal of certain establishments: _Ladies +must not enter_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + INTRODUCTION + THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MARRIAGE + PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +The two Analytical Studies, _Physiology of Marriage_ and _Petty +Troubles of Married Life_, belong quite apart from the action of the +_Comedie Humaine_, and can only be included therein by virtue of a +special dispensation on the part of their author, who made for them an +eighth division therein, thus giving them a local habitation and a +name. Although they come far down in the list of titles, their creation +belongs almost to the formative era. Balzac had just shaken his skirts +clear of the immature dust of the _Oeuvres de Jeunesse_, and by the +publication, in 1829, of _The Chouans_, had made his first real bow to +his larger public. In December of that same year appeared the +_Physiology of Marriage_, followed eleven months later by a few papers +belonging to _Petty Troubles of Married Life_. Meanwhile, between these +two Analytical Studies, came a remarkable novelette, _At the Sign of +the Cat and Racket_, followed soon after by one of the most famous +stories of the entire _Comedie_, _The Magic Skin_. + +We are thus particular to place the two Analytical Studies in time and +in environment, that the wonderful versatility of the author may become +apparent—and more: that Balzac may be vindicated from the charge of +dullness and inaccuracy at this period. Such traits might have been +charged against him had he left only the Analytical Studies. But when +they are preceded by the faithful though heavy scene of military life, +and succeeded by the searching and vivid philosophical study, their +faults and failures may be considered for the sake of their company. + +It is hard to determine Balzac’s full purpose in including the +Analytical Studies in the _Comedie_. They are not novels. The few, +lightly-sketched characters are not connected with those of the +_Comedie_, save in one or two remote instances. They must have been +included in order to make one more room in the gigantic mansion which +the author had planned. His seventh sense of subdivision saw here fresh +material to classify. And so these grim, almost sardonic essays were +placed where they now appear. + +In all kindness, the Balzac novitiate is warned against beginning an +acquaintance with the author through the medium of the Analytical +Studies. He would be almost certain to misjudge Balzac’s attitude, and +might even be tempted to forsake his further cultivation. The mistake +would be serious for the reader and unjust to the author. These studies +are chiefly valuable as outlining a peculiar—and, shall we say, +forced?—mood that sought expression in an isolated channel. All his +life long, Balzac found time for miscellaneous writings —critiques, +letters, reviews, essays, political diatribes and sketches. In early +life they were his “pot-boilers,” and he never ceased writing them, +probably urged partly by continued need of money, partly through +fondness for this sort of thing. His _Physiology_ is fairly +representative of the material, being analysis in satirical vein of +sundry foibles of society. This class of composition was very popular +in the time of Louis Philippe. + +The _Physiology of Marriage_ is couched in a spirit of +pseudo-seriousness that leaves one in doubt as to Balzac’s faith with +the reader. At times he seems honestly to be trying to analyze a +particular phase of his subject; at other times he appears to be +ridiculing the whole institution of marriage. If this be not the case, +then he would seem unfitted for his task—through the ignorance of a +bachelor—and adds to error the element of slander. He is at fault +through lack of intimate experience. And yet the flashes of keen +penetration preclude such a charge as this. A few bold touches of his +pen, and a picture is drawn which glows with convincing reality. While +here and there occur paragraphs of powerful description or searching +philosophy which proclaim Balzac the mature, Balzac the observant. + +On the publication of _Petty Troubles of Married Life_ in _La Presse_, +the publishers of that periodical had this to say: “M. de Balzac has +already produced, as you know, the _Physiology of Marriage_, a book +full of diabolical ingenuity and an analysis of society that would +drive to despair Leuwenhoech and Swammerdam, who beheld the entire +universe in a drop of water. This inexhaustible subject has again +inspired an entertaining book full of Gallic malice and English humor, +where Rabelais and Sterne meet and greet him at the same moment.” + +In _Petty Troubles_ we have the sardonic vein fully developed. The +whole edifice of romance seems but a card house, and all virtue merely +a question of utility. We must not err, however, in taking sentiments +at their apparent value, for the real Balzac lies deeper; and here and +there a glimpse of his true spirit and greater power becomes apparent. +The bitter satire yields place to a vein of feeling true and fine, and +gleaming like rich gold amid baser metal. Note “Another Glimpse of +Adolphus” with its splendid vein of reverie and quiet inspiration to +higher living. It is touches like this which save the book and reveal +the author. + +_Petty Troubles of Married Life_ is a pendant or sequel to _Physiology +of Marriage_. It is, as Balzac says, to the _Physiology_ “what Fact is +to Theory, or History to Philosophy, and has its logic, as life, viewed +as a whole, has its logic also.” We must then say with the author, that +“if literature is the reflection of manners, we must admit that our +manners recognize the defects pointed out by the _Physiology of +Marriage_ in this fundamental institution;” and we must concede for +_Petty Troubles_ one of those “terrible blows dealt this social basis.” + +The _Physiologie du Mariage, ou Meditations de philosophie eclectique +sur le bonheur et le malheur conjugal_ is dated at Paris, 1824-29. It +first appeared anonymously, December, 1829, dated 1830, from the press +of Charles Gosselin and Urbain Canel, in two octavo volumes with its +present introduction and a note of correction now omitted. Its next +appearance was signed, in 1834, in a two-volume edition of Ollivier. In +1846 it was entered, with its dedication to the reader, in the first +edition of _Etudes Analytiques_—the first edition also of the _Comedie +Humaine_—as Volume XVI. All the subsequent editions have retained the +original small division heads, called Meditations. + +_Petites Miseres de la Vie Conjugale_ is not dated. Its composition was +achieved piecemeal, beginning shortly after its predecessor appeared. +But it was not till long after—in 1845-46—that its present two-part +form was published in a single octavo volume by Chlendowski. A break +had ensued between the first and second parts, the latter having +appeared practically in full in _La Presse_ of December, 1845. The +sub-headings have remained unchanged since the original printing. + +J. WALKER MCSPADDEN. + + + + +THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MARRIAGE; +OR, +THE MUSINGS OF AN ECLECTIC PHILOSOPHER ON THE HAPPINESS AND +UNHAPPINESS OF MARRIED LIFE + +INTRODUCTION + + +“Marriage is not an institution of nature. The family in the east is +entirely different from the family in the west. Man is the servant of +nature, and the institutions of society are grafts, not spontaneous +growths of nature. Laws are made to suit manners, and manners vary. + +“Marriage must therefore undergo the gradual development towards +perfection to which all human affairs submit.” + +These words, pronounced in the presence of the Conseil d’Etat by +Napoleon during the discussion of the civil code, produced a profound +impression upon the author of this book; and perhaps unconsciously he +received the suggestion of this work, which he now presents to the +public. And indeed at the period during which, while still in his +youth, he studied French law, the word ADULTERY made a singular +impression upon him. Taking, as it did, a prominent place in the code, +this word never occurred to his mind without conjuring up its mournful +train of consequences. Tears, shame, hatred, terror, secret crime, +bloody wars, families without a head, and social misery rose like a +sudden line of phantoms before him when he read the solemn word +ADULTERY! Later on, when he became acquainted with the most cultivated +circles of society, the author perceived that the rigor of marriage +laws was very generally modified by adultery. He found that the number +of unhappy homes was larger than that of happy marriages. In fact, he +was the first to notice that of all human sciences that which relates +to marriage was the least progressive. But this was the observation of +a young man; and with him, as with so many others, this thought, like a +pebble flung into the bosom of a lake, was lost in the abyss of his +tumultuous thoughts. Nevertheless, in spite of himself the author was +compelled to investigate, and eventually there was gathered within his +mind, little by little, a swarm of conclusions, more or less just, on +the subject of married life. Works like the present one are formed in +the mind of the author with as much mystery as that with which truffles +grow on the scented plains of Perigord. Out of the primitive and holy +horror which adultery caused him and the investigation which he had +thoughtlessly made, there was born one morning a trifling thought in +which his ideas were formulated. This thought was really a satire upon +marriage. It was as follows: A husband and wife found themselves in +love with each other for the first time after twenty-seven years of +marriage. + +He amused himself with this little axiom and passed a whole week in +delight, grouping around this harmless epigram the crowd of ideas which +came to him unconsciously and which he was astonished to find that he +possessed. His humorous mood yielded at last to the claims of serious +investigation. Willing as he was to take a hint, the author returned to +his habitual idleness. Nevertheless, this slight germ of science and of +joke grew to perfection, unfostered, in the fields of thought. Each +phase of the work which had been condemned by others took root and +gathered strength, surviving like the slight branch of a tree which, +flung upon the sand by a winter’s storm, finds itself covered at +morning with white and fantastic icicles, produced by the caprices of +nightly frosts. So the sketch lived on and became the starting point of +myriad branching moralizations. It was like a polypus which multiplies +itself by generation. The feelings of youth, the observations which a +favorable opportunity led him to make, were verified in the most +trifling events of his after life. Soon this mass of ideas became +harmonized, took life, seemed, as it were, to become a living +individual and moved in the midst of those domains of fancy, where the +soul loves to give full rein to its wild creations. Amid all the +distractions of the world and of life, the author always heard a voice +ringing in his ears and mockingly revealing the secrets of things at +the very moment he was watching a woman as she danced, smiled, or +talked. Just as Mephistopheles pointed out to Faust in that terrific +assemblage at the Brocken, faces full of frightful augury, so the +author was conscious in the midst of the ball of a demon who would +strike him on the shoulder with a familiar air and say to him: “Do you +notice that enchanting smile? It is a grin of hatred.” And then the +demon would strut about like one of the captains in the old comedies of +Hardy. He would twitch the folds of a lace mantle and endeavor to make +new the fretted tinsel and spangles of its former glory. And then like +Rabelais he would burst into loud and unrestrainable laughter, and +would trace on the street-wall a word which might serve as a pendant to +the “Drink!” which was the only oracle obtainable from the heavenly +bottle. This literary Trilby would often appear seated on piles of +books, and with hooked fingers would point out with a grin of malice +two yellow volumes whose title dazzled the eyes. Then when he saw he +had attracted the author’s attention he spelt out, in a voice alluring +as the tones of an harmonica, _Physiology of Marriage_! But, almost +always he appeared at night during my dreams, gentle as some fairy +guardian; he tried by words of sweetness to subdue the soul which he +would appropriate to himself. While he attracted, he also scoffed at +me; supple as a woman’s mind, cruel as a tiger, his friendliness was +more formidable than his hatred, for he never yielded a caress without +also inflicting a wound. One night in particular he exhausted the +resources of his sorceries, and crowned all by a last effort. He came, +he sat on the edge of the bed like a young maiden full of love, who at +first keeps silence but whose eyes sparkle, until at last her secret +escapes her. + +“This,” said he, “is a prospectus of a new life-buoy, by means of which +one can pass over the Seine dry-footed. This other pamphlet is the +report of the Institute on a garment by wearing which we can pass +through flames without being burnt. Have you no scheme which can +preserve marriage from the miseries of excessive cold and excessive +heat? Listen to me! Here we have a book on the _Art_ of preserving +foods; on the _Art_ of curing smoky chimneys; on the _Art_ of making +good mortar; on the _Art_ of tying a cravat; on the _Art_ of carving +meat.” + +In a moment he had named such a prodigious number of books that the +author felt his head go round. + +“These myriads of books,” says he, “have been devoured by readers; and +while everybody does not build a house, and some grow hungry, and +others have no cravat, or no fire to warm themselves at, yet everybody +to some degree is married. But come look yonder.” + +He waved his hand, and appeared to bring before me a distant ocean +where all the books of the world were tossing up and down like agitated +waves. The octodecimos bounded over the surface of the water. The +octavos as they were flung on their way uttered a solemn sound, sank to +the bottom, and only rose up again with great difficulty, hindered as +they were by duodecimos and works of smaller bulk which floated on the +top and melted into light foam. The furious billows were crowded with +journalists, proof-readers, paper-makers, apprentices, printers’ +agents, whose hands alone were seen mingled in the confusion among the +books. Millions of voices rang in the air, like those of schoolboys +bathing. Certain men were seen moving hither and thither in canoes, +engaged in fishing out the books, and landing them on the shore in the +presence of a tall man, of a disdainful air, dressed in black, and of a +cold, unsympathetic expression. The whole scene represented the +libraries and the public. The demon pointed out with his finger a skiff +freshly decked out with all sails set and instead of a flag bearing a +placard. Then with a peal of sardonic laughter, he read with a +thundering voice: _Physiology of Marriage_. + +The author fell in love, the devil left him in peace, for he would have +undertaken more than he could handle if he had entered an apartment +occupied by a woman. Several years passed without bringing other +torments than those of love, and the author was inclined to believe +that he had been healed of one infirmity by means of another which took +its place. But one evening he found himself in a Parisian drawing-room +where one of the men among the circle who stood round the fireplace +began the conversation by relating in a sepulchral voice the following +anecdote: + +A peculiar thing took place at Ghent while I was staying there. A lady +ten years a widow lay on her bed attacked by mortal sickness. The three +heirs of collateral lineage were waiting for her last sigh. They did +not leave her side for fear that she would make a will in favor of the +convent of Beguins belonging to the town. The sick woman kept silent, +she seemed dozing and death appeared to overspread very gradually her +mute and livid face. Can’t you imagine those three relations seated in +silence through that winter midnight beside her bed? An old nurse is +with them and she shakes her head, and the doctor sees with anxiety +that the sickness has reached its last stage, and holds his hat in one +hand and with the other makes a sign to the relations, as if to say to +them: “I have no more visits to make here.” Amid the solemn silence of +the room is heard the dull rustling of a snow-storm which beats upon +the shutters. For fear that the eyes of the dying woman might be +dazzled by the light, the youngest of the heirs had fitted a shade to +the candle which stood near that bed so that the circle of light +scarcely reached the pillow of the deathbed, from which the sallow +countenance of the sick woman stood out like a figure of Christ +imperfectly gilded and fixed upon a cross of tarnished silver. The +flickering rays shed by the blue flames of a crackling fire were +therefore the sole light of this sombre chamber, where the denouement +of a drama was just ending. A log suddenly rolled from the fire onto +the floor, as if presaging some catastrophe. At the sound of it the +sick woman quickly rose to a sitting posture. She opened two eyes, +clear as those of a cat, and all present eyed her in astonishment. She +saw the log advance, and before any one could check an unexpected +movement which seemed prompted by a kind of delirium, she bounded from +her bed, seized the tongs and threw the coal back into the fireplace. +The nurse, the doctor, the relations rushed to her assistance; they +took the dying woman in their arms. They put her back in bed; she laid +her head upon her pillow and after a few minutes died, keeping her eyes +fixed even after her death upon that plank in the floor which the +burning brand had touched. Scarcely had the Countess Van Ostroem +expired when the three co-heirs exchanged looks of suspicion, and +thinking no more about their aunt, began to examine the mysterious +floor. As they were Belgians their calculations were as rapid as their +glances. An agreement was made by three words uttered in a low voice +that none of them should leave the chamber. A servant was sent to fetch +a carpenter. Their collateral hearts beat excitedly as they gathered +round the treasured flooring, and watched their young apprentice giving +the first blow with his chisel. The plank was cut through. + +“My aunt made a sign,” said the youngest of the heirs. + +“No; it was merely the quivering light that made it appear so,” replied +the eldest, who kept one eye on the treasure and the other on the +corpse. + +The afflicted relations discovered exactly on the spot where the brand +had fallen a certain object artistically enveloped in a mass of +plaster. + +“Proceed,” said the eldest of the heirs. + +The chisel of the apprentice then brought to light a human head and +some odds and ends of clothing, from which they recognized the count +whom all the town believed to have died at Java, and whose loss had +been bitterly deplored by his wife. + +The narrator of this old story was a tall spare man, with light eyes +and brown hair, and the author thought he saw in him a vague +resemblance to the demon who had before this tormented him; but the +stranger did not show the cloven foot. Suddenly the word ADULTERY +sounded in the ears of the author; and this word woke up in his +imagination the most mournful countenances of that procession which +before this had streamed by on the utterance of the magic syllables. +From that evening he was haunted and persecuted by dreams of a work +which did not yet exist; and at no period of his life was the author +assailed with such delusive notions about the fatal subject of this +book. But he bravely resisted the fiend, although the latter referred +the most unimportant incidents of life to this unknown work, and like a +customhouse officer set his stamp of mockery upon every occurrence. + +Some days afterwards the author found himself in the company of two +ladies. The first of them had been one of the most refined and the most +intellectual women of Napoleon’s court. In his day she occupied a lofty +position, but the sudden appearance of the Restoration caused her +downfall; she became a recluse. The second, who was young and +beautiful, was at that time living at Paris the life of a fashionable +woman. They were friends, because, the one being forty and the other +twenty-two years old, they were seldom rivals on the same field. The +author was considered quite insignificant by the first of the two +ladies, and since the other soon discovered this, they carried on in +his presence the conversation which they had begun in a frank +discussion of a woman’s lot. + +“Have you noticed, dear, that women in general bestow their love only +upon a fool?” + +“What do you mean by that, duchess? And how can you make your remark +fit in with the fact that they have an aversion for their husbands?” + +“These women are absolute tyrants!” said the author to himself. “Has +the devil again turned up in a mob cap?” + +“No, dear, I am not joking,” replied the duchess, “and I shudder with +fear for myself when I coolly consider people whom I have known in +other times. Wit always has a sparkle which wounds us, and the man who +has much of it makes us fear him perhaps, and if he is a proud man he +will be capable of jealousy, and is not therefore to our taste. In +fact, we prefer to raise a man to our own height rather than to have to +climb up to his. Talent has great successes for us to share in, but the +fool affords enjoyment to us; and we would sooner hear said ‘that is a +very handsome man’ than to see our lover elected to the Institute.” + +“That’s enough, duchess! You have absolutely startled me.” + +And the young coquette began to describe the lovers about whom all the +women of her acquaintance raved; there was not a single man of +intellect among them. + +“But I swear by my virtue,” she said, “their husbands are worth more.” + +“But these are the sort of people they choose for husbands,” the +duchess answered gravely. + +“Tell me,” asked the author, “is the disaster which threatens the +husband in France quite inevitable?” + +“It is,” replied the duchess, with a smile; “and the rage which certain +women breathe out against those of their sex, whose unfortunate +happiness it is to entertain a passion, proves what a burden to them is +their chastity. If it were not for fear of the devil, one would be +Lais; another owes her virtue to the dryness of her selfish heart; a +third to the silly behaviour of her first lover; another still—” + +The author checked this outpour of revelation by confiding to the two +ladies his design for the work with which he had been haunted; they +smiled and promised him their assistance. The youngest, with an air of +gaiety suggested one of the first chapters of the undertaking, by +saying that she would take upon herself to prove mathematically that +women who are entirely virtuous were creatures of reason. + +When the author got home he said at once to his demon: + +“Come! I am ready; let us sign the compact.” + +But the demon never returned. + +If the author has written here the biography of his book he has not +acted on the prompting of fatuity. He relates facts which may furnish +material for the history of human thought, and will without doubt +explain the work itself. It may perhaps be important to certain +anatomists of thought to be told that the soul is feminine. Thus +although the author made a resolution not to think about the book which +he was forced to write, the book, nevertheless, was completed. One page +of it was found on the bed of a sick man, another on the sofa of a +boudoir. The glances of women when they turned in the mazes of a waltz +flung to him some thoughts; a gesture or a word filled his disdainful +brain with others. On the day when he said to himself, “This work, +which haunts me, shall be achieved,” everything vanished; and like the +three Belgians, he drew forth a skeleton from the place over which he +had bent to seize a treasure. + +A mild, pale countenance took the place of the demon who had tempted +me; it wore an engaging expression of kindliness; there were no sharp +pointed arrows of criticism in its lineaments. It seemed to deal more +with words than with ideas, and shrank from noise and clamor. It was +perhaps the household genius of the honorable deputies who sit in the +centre of the Chamber. + +“Wouldn’t it be better,” it said, “to let things be as they are? Are +things so bad? We ought to believe in marriage as we believe in the +immortality of the soul; and you are certainly not making a book to +advertise the happiness of marriage. You will surely conclude that +among a million of Parisian homes happiness is the exception. You will +find perhaps that there are many husbands disposed to abandon their +wives to you; but there is not a single son who will abandon his +mother. Certain people who are hit by the views which you put forth +will suspect your morals and will misrepresent your intentions. In a +word, in order to handle social sores, one ought to be a king, or a +first consul at least.” + +Reason, although it appeared under a form most pleasing to the author, +was not listened to; for in the distance Folly tossed the coxcomb of +Panurge, and the author wished to seize it; but, when he tried to catch +it, he found that it was as heavy as the club of Hercules. Moreover, +the cure of Meudon adorned it in such fashion that a young man who was +less pleased with producing a good work than with wearing fine gloves +could not even touch it. + +“Is our work completed?” asked the younger of the two feminine +assistants of the author. + +“Alas! madame,” I said, “will you ever requite me for all the hatreds +which that work will array against me?” + +She waved her hand, and then the author replied to her doubt by a look +of indifference. + +“What do you mean? Would you hesitate? You must publish it without +fear. In the present day we accept a book more because it is in fashion +than because it has anything in it.” + +Although the author does not here represent himself as anything more +than the secretary of two ladies, he has in compiling their +observations accomplished a double task. With regard to marriage he has +here arranged matters which represent what everybody thinks but no one +dares to say; but has he not also exposed himself to public displeasure +by expressing the mind of the public? Perhaps, however, the eclecticism +of the present essay will save it from condemnation. All the while that +he indulges in banter the author has attempted to popularize certain +ideas which are particularly consoling. He has almost always endeavored +to lay bare the hidden springs which move the human soul. While +undertaking to defend the most material interests of man, judging them +or condemning them, he will perhaps bring to light many sources of +intellectual delight. But the author does not foolishly claim always to +put forth his pleasantries in the best of taste; he has merely counted +upon the diversity of intellectual pursuits in expectation of receiving +as much blame as approbation. The subject of his work was so serious +that he is constantly launched into anecdote; because at the present +day anecdotes are the vehicle of all moral teaching, and the +anti-narcotic of every work of literature. In literature, analysis and +investigation prevail, and the wearying of the reader increases in +proportion with the egotism of the writer. This is one of the greatest +misfortunes that can befall a book, and the present author has been +quite aware of it. He has therefore so arranged the topics of this long +essay as to afford resting places for the reader. This method has been +successfully adopted by a writer, who produced on the subject of Taste +a work somewhat parallel to that which is here put forth on the subject +of Marriage. From the former the present writer may be permitted to +borrow a few words in order to express a thought which he shares with +the author of them. This quotation will serve as an expression of +homage to his predecessor, whose success has been so swiftly followed +by his death: + +“When I write and speak of myself in the singular, this implies a +confidential talk with the reader; he can examine the statement, +discuss it, doubt and even ridicule it; but when I arm myself with the +formidable WE, I become the professor and demand submission.”— +Brillat-Savarin, Preface to the _Physiology of Taste_. + +DECEMBER 5, 1829. + +FIRST PART. + +A GENERAL CONSIDERATION. + +We will declaim against stupid laws until they are changed, and in the +meantime blindly submit to them.—Diderot, _Supplement to the Voyage of +Bougainville_. + +MEDITATION I. + +THE SUBJECT. + + +Physiology, what must I consider your meaning? + +Is not your object to prove that marriage unites for life two beings +who do not know each other? + +That life consists in passion, and that no passion survives marriage? + +That marriage is an institution necessary for the preservation of +society, but that it is contrary to the laws of nature? + +That divorce, this admirable release from the misfortunes of marriage, +should with one voice be reinstated? + +That, in spite of all its inconveniences, marriage is the foundation on +which property is based? + +That it furnishes invaluable pledges for the security of government? + +That there is something touching in the association of two human beings +for the purpose of supporting the pains of life? + +That there is something ridiculous in the wish that one and the same +thoughts should control two wills? + +That the wife is treated as a slave? + +That there has never been a marriage entirely happy? + +That marriage is filled with crimes and that the known murders are not +the worst? + +That fidelity is impossible, at least to the man? + +That an investigation if it could be undertaken would prove that in the +transmission of patrimonial property there was more risk than security? + +That adultery does more harm than marriage does good? + +That infidelity in a woman may be traced back to the earliest ages of +society, and that marriage still survives this perpetuation of +treachery? + +That the laws of love so strongly link together two human beings that +no human law can put them asunder? + +That while there are marriages recorded on the public registers, there +are others over which nature herself has presided, and they have been +dictated either by the mutual memory of thought, or by an utter +difference of mental disposition, or by corporeal affinity in the +parties named; that it is thus that heaven and earth are constantly at +variance? + +That there are many husbands fine in figure and of superior intellect +whose wives have lovers exceedingly ugly, insignificant in appearance +or stupid in mind? + +All these questions furnish material for books; but the books have been +written and the questions are constantly reappearing. + +Physiology, what must I take you to mean? + +Do you reveal new principles? Would you pretend that it is the right +thing that woman should be made common? Lycurgus and certain Greek +peoples as well as Tartars and savages have tried this. + +Can it possibly be right to confine women? The Ottomans once did so, +and nowadays they give them their liberty. + +Would it be right to marry young women without providing a dowry and +yet exclude them from the right of succeeding to property? Some English +authors and some moralists have proved that this with the admission of +divorce is the surest method of rendering marriage happy. + +Should there be a little Hagar in each marriage establishment? There is +no need to pass a law for that. The provision of the code which makes +an unfaithful wife liable to a penalty in whatever place the crime be +committed, and that other article which does not punish the erring +husband unless his concubine dwells beneath the conjugal roof, +implicitly admits the existence of mistresses in the city. + +Sanchez has written a dissertation on the penal cases incident to +marriage; he has even argued on the illegitimacy and the opportuneness +of each form of indulgence; he has outlined all the duties, moral, +religious and corporeal, of the married couple; in short his work would +form twelve volumes in octavo if the huge folio entitled _De +Matrimonio_ were thus represented. + +Clouds of lawyers have flung clouds of treatises over the legal +difficulties which are born of marriage. There exist several works on +the judicial investigation of impotency. + +Legions of doctors have marshaled their legions of books on the subject +of marriage in its relation to medicine and surgery. + +In the nineteenth century the _Physiology of Marriage_ is either an +insignificant compilation or the work of a fool written for other +fools; old priests have taken their balances of gold and have weighed +the most trifling scruples of the marriage consciences; old lawyers +have put on their spectacles and have distinguished between every kind +of married transgression; old doctors have seized the scalpel and drawn +it over all the wounds of the subject; old judges have mounted to the +bench and have decided all the cases of marriage dissolution; whole +generations have passed unuttered cries of joy or of grief on the +subject, each age has cast its vote into the urn; the Holy Spirit, +poets and writers have recounted everything from the days of Eve to the +Trojan war, from Helen to Madame de Maintenon, from the mistress of +Louis XIV to the woman of their own day. + +Physiology, what must I consider your meaning? + +Shall I say that you intend to publish pictures more or less skillfully +drawn, for the purpose of convincing us that a man marries: + +From ambition—that is well known; + +From kindness, in order to deliver a girl from the tyranny of her +mother; + +From rage, in order to disinherit his relations; + +From scorn of a faithless mistress; + +From weariness of a pleasant bachelor life; + +From folly, for each man always commits one; + +In consequence of a wager, which was the case with Lord Byron; + +From interest, which is almost always the case; + +From youthfulness on leaving college, like a blockhead; + +From ugliness,—fear of some day failing to secure a wife; + +Through Machiavelism, in order to be the heir of some old woman at an +early date; + +From necessity, in order to secure the standing to _our_ son; + +From obligation, the damsel having shown herself weak; + +From passion, in order to become more surely cured of it; + +On account of a quarrel, in order to put an end to a lawsuit; + +From gratitude, by which he gives more than he has received; + +From goodness, which is the fate of doctrinaires; + +From the condition of a will when a dead uncle attaches his legacy to +some girl, marriage with whom is the condition of succession; + +From custom, in imitation of his ancestors; + +From old age, in order to make an end of life; + +From _yatidi_, that is the hour of going to bed and signifies amongst +the Turks all bodily needs; + +From religious zeal, like the Duke of Saint-Aignan, who did not wish to +commit sin?[*] + +[*] The foregoing queries came in (untranslatable) alphabetic order in +the original.—Editor + +But these incidents of marriage have furnished matter for thirty +thousand comedies and a hundred thousand romances. + +Physiology, for the third and last time I ask you—What is your meaning? + +So far everything is commonplace as the pavement of the street, +familiar as a crossway. Marriage is better known than the Barabbas of +the Passion. All the ancient ideas which it calls to light permeate +literature since the world is the world, and there is not a single +opinion which might serve to the advantage of the world, nor a +ridiculous project which could not find an author to write it up, a +printer to print it, a bookseller to sell it and a reader to read it. + +Allow me to say to you like Rabelais, who is in every sense our master: + +“Gentlemen, God save and guard you! Where are you? I cannot see you; +wait until I put on my spectacles. Ah! I see you now; you, your wives, +your children. Are you in good health? I am glad to hear it.” + +But it is not for you that I am writing. Since you have grown-up +children that ends the matter. + +Ah! it is you, illustrious tipplers, pampered and gouty, and you, +tireless pie-cutters, favorites who come dear; day-long pantagruellists +who keep your private birds, gay and gallant, and who go to tierce, to +sexts, to nones, and also to vespers and compline and never tire of +going. + +It is not for you that the _Physiology of Marriage_ is addressed, for +you are not married and may you never be married. You herd of bigots, +snails, hypocrites, dotards, lechers, booted for pilgrimage to Rome, +disguised and marked, as it were, to deceive the world. Go back, you +scoundrels, out of my sight! Gallows birds are ye all—now in the +devil’s name will you not begone? There are none left now but the good +souls who love to laugh; not the snivelers who burst into tears in +prose or verse, whatever their subject be, who make people sick with +their odes, their sonnets, their meditation; none of these dreamers, +but certain old-fashioned pantagruellists who don’t think twice about +it when they are invited to join a banquet or provoked to make a +repartee, who can take pleasure in a book like _Pease and the Lard_ +with commentary of Rabelais, or in the one entitled _The Dignity of +Breeches_, and who esteem highly the fair books of high degree, a +quarry hard to run down and redoubtable to wrestle with. + +It no longer does to laugh at a government, my friend, since it has +invented means to raise fifteen hundred millions by taxation. High +ecclesiastics, monks and nuns are no longer so rich that we can drink +with them; but let St. Michael come, he who chased the devil from +heaven, and we shall perhaps see the good time come back again! There +is only one thing in France at the present moment which remains a +laughing matter, and that is marriage. Disciples of Panurge, ye are the +only readers I desire. You know how seasonably to take up and lay down +a book, how to get the most pleasure out of it, to understand the hint +in a half word—how to suck nourishment from a marrow-bone. + +The men of the microscope who see nothing but a speck, the +census-mongers—have they reviewed the whole matter? Have they +pronounced without appeal that it is as impossible to write a book on +marriage as to make new again a broken pot? + +Yes, master fool. If you begin to squeeze the marriage question you +squirt out nothing but fun for the bachelors and weariness for the +married men. It is everlasting morality. A million printed pages would +have no other matter in them. + +In spite of this, here is my first proposition: marriage is a fight to +the death, before which the wedded couple ask a blessing from heaven, +because it is the rashest of all undertakings to swear eternal love; +the fight at once commences and victory, that is to say liberty, +remains in the hands of the cleverer of the two. + +Undoubtedly. But do you see in this a fresh idea? + +Well, I address myself to the married men of yesterday and of to-day; +to those who on leaving the Church or the registration office indulge +the hope of keeping their wives for themselves alone; to those whom +some form or other of egotism or some indefinable sentiment induces to +say when they see the marital troubles of another, “This will never +happen to me.” + +I address myself to those sailors who after witnessing the foundering +of other ships still put to sea; to those bachelors who after +witnessing the shipwreck of virtue in a marriage of another venture +upon wedlock. And this is my subject, eternally now, yet eternally old! + +A young man, or it may be an old one, in love or not in love, has +obtained possession by a contract duly recorded at the registration +office in heaven and on the rolls of the nation, of a young girl with +long hair, with black liquid eyes, with small feet, with dainty +tapering fingers, with red lips, with teeth of ivory, finely formed, +trembling with life, tempting and plump, white as a lily, loaded with +the most charming wealth of beauty. Her drooping eyelashes seem like +the points of the iron crown; her skin, which is as fresh as the calyx +of a white camelia, is streaked with the purple of the red camelia; +over her virginal complexion one seems to see the bloom of young fruit +and the delicate down of a young peach; the azure veins spread a +kindling warmth over this transparent surface; she asks for life and +she gives it; she is all joy and love, all tenderness and candor; she +loves her husband, or at least believes she loves him. + +The husband who is in love says in the bottom of his heart: “Those eyes +will see no one but me, that mouth will tremble with love for me alone, +that gentle hand will lavish the caressing treasures of delight on me +alone, that bosom will heave at no voice but mine, that slumbering soul +will awake at my will alone; I only will entangle my fingers in those +shining tresses; I alone will indulge myself in dreamily caressing that +sensitive head. I will make death the guardian of my pillow if only I +may ward off from the nuptial couch the stranger who would violate it; +that throne of love shall swim in the blood of the rash or of my own. +Tranquillity, honor, happiness, the ties of home, the fortune of my +children, all are at stake there; I would defend them as a lioness +defends her cubs. Woe unto him who shall set foot in my lair!” + +Well now, courageous athlete, we applaud your intention. Up to the +present moment no geographer has ventured to trace the lines of +longitude and latitude in the ocean of marriage. Old husbands have been +ashamed to point out the sand banks, the reefs, the shallows, the +breakers, the monsoons, the coasts and currents which have wrecked +their ships, for their shipwrecks brought them shame. There was no +pilot, no compass for those pilgrims of marriage. This work is intended +to supply the desideratum. + +Without mentioning grocers and drapers, there are so many people +occupied in discovering the secret motives of women, that it is really +a work of charity to classify for them, by chapter and verse, all the +secret situations of marriage; a good table of contents will enable +them to put their finger on each movement of their wives’ heart, as a +table of logarithms tells them the product of a given multiplication. + +And now what do you think about that? Is not this a novel undertaking, +and one which no philosopher has as yet approached, I mean this attempt +to show how a woman may be prevented from deceiving her husband? Is not +this the comedy of comedies? Is it not a second _speculum vitae +humanae_. We are not now dealing with the abstract questions which we +have done justice to already in this Meditation. At the present day in +ethics as in exact science, the world asks for facts for the results of +observation. These we shall furnish. + +Let us begin then by examining the true condition of things, by +analyzing the forces which exist on either side. Before arming our +imaginary champion let us reckon up the number of his enemies. Let us +count the Cossacks who intend to invade his little domain. + +All who wish may embark with us on this voyage, all who can may laugh. +Weigh anchor; hoist sail! You know exactly the point from which you +start. You have this advantage over a great many books that are +written. + +As for our fancy of laughing while we weep, and of weeping while we +laugh, as the divine Rabelais drank while he ate and ate while he +drank; as for our humor, to put Heraclitus and Democritus on the same +page and to discard style or premeditated phrase—if any of the crew +mutiny, overboard with the doting cranks, the infamous classicists, the +dead and buried romanticists, and steer for the blue water! + +Everybody perhaps will jeeringly remark that we are like those who say +with smiling faces, “I am going to tell you a story that will make you +laugh!” But it is the proper thing to joke when speaking of marriage! +In short, can you not understand that we consider marriage as a +trifling ailment to which all of us are subject and upon which this +volume is a monograph? + +“But you, your bark or your work starts off like those postilions who +crack their whips because their passengers are English. You will not +have galloped at full speed for half a league before you dismount to +mend a trace or to breathe your horses. What is the good of blowing the +trumpet before victory?” + +Ah! my dear pantagruellists, nowadays to claim success is to obtain it, +and since, after all, great works are only due to the expansion of +little ideas, I do not see why I should not pluck the laurels, if only +for the purpose of crowning those dirty bacon faces who join us in +swallowing a dram. One moment, pilot, let us not start without making +one little definition. + +Reader, if from time to time you meet in this work the terms virtue or +virtuous, let us understand that virtue means a certain labored +facility by which a wife keeps her heart for her husband; at any rate, +that the word is not used in a general sense, and I leave this +distinction to the natural sagacity of all. + +MEDITATION II. + +MARRIAGE STATISTICS. + + +The administration has been occupied for nearly twenty years in +reckoning how many acres of woodland, meadow, vineyard and fallow are +comprised in the area of France. It has not stopped there, but has also +tried to learn the number and species of the animals to be found there. +Scientific men have gone still further; they have reckoned up the cords +of wood, the pounds of beef, the apples and eggs consumed in Paris. But +no one has yet undertaken either in the name of marital honor or in the +interest of marriageable people, or for the advantage of morality and +the progress of human institutions, to investigate the number of honest +wives. What! the French government, if inquiry is made of it, is able +to say how many men it has under arms, how many spies, how many +employees, how many scholars; but, when it is asked how many virtuous +women, it can answer nothing! If the King of France took into his head +to choose his august partner from among his subjects, the +administration could not even tell him the number of white lambs from +whom he could make his choice. It would be obliged to resort to some +competition which awards the rose of good conduct, and that would be a +laughable event. + +Were the ancients then our masters in political institutions as in +morality? History teaches us that Ahasuerus, when he wished to take a +wife from among the damsels of Persia, chose Esther, the most virtuous +and the most beautiful. His ministers therefore must necessarily have +discovered some method of obtaining the cream of the population. +Unfortunately the Bible, which is so clear on all matrimonial +questions, has omitted to give us a rule for matrimonial choice. + +Let us try to supply this gap in the work of the administration by +calculating the sum of the female sex in France. Here we call the +attention of all friends to public morality, and we appoint them judges +of our method of procedure. We shall attempt to be particularly liberal +in our estimations, particularly exact in our reasoning, in order that +every one may accept the result of this analysis. + +The inhabitants of France are generally reckoned at thirty millions. + +Certain naturalists think that the number of women exceeds that of men; +but as many statisticians are of the opposite opinion, we will make the +most probable calculation by allowing fifteen millions for the women. + +We will begin by cutting down this sum by nine millions, which stands +for those who seem to have some resemblance to women, but whom we are +compelled to reject upon serious considerations. + +Let us explain: + +Naturalists consider man to be no more than a unique species of the +order bimana, established by Dumeril in his _Analytic Zoology_, page +16; and Bory de Saint Vincent thinks that the ourang-outang ought to be +included in the same order if we would make the species complete. + +If these zoologists see in us nothing more than a mammal with +thirty-two vertebrae possessing the hyoid bone and more folds in the +hemispheres of the brain than any other animal; if in their opinion no +other differences exist in this order than those produced by the +influence of climate, on which are founded the nomenclature of fifteen +species whose scientific names it is needless to cite, the +physiologists ought also to have the right of making species and +sub-species in accordance with definite degrees of intelligence and +definite conditions of existence, oral and pecuniary. + +Now the nine millions of human creatures which we here refer to present +at first sight all the attributes of the human race; they have the +hyoid bone, the coracoid process, the acromion, the zygomatic arch. It +is therefore permitted for the gentlemen of the Jardin des Plantes to +classify them with the bimana; but our Physiology will never admit that +women are to be found among them. In our view, and in the view of those +for whom this book is intended, a woman is a rare variety of the human +race, and her principal characteristics are due to the special care men +have bestowed upon its cultivation,—thanks to the power of money and +the moral fervor of civilization! She is generally recognized by the +whiteness, the fineness and softness of her skin. Her taste inclines to +the most spotless cleanliness. Her fingers shrink from encountering +anything but objects which are soft, yielding and scented. Like the +ermine she sometimes dies for grief on seeing her white tunic soiled. +She loves to twine her tresses and to make them exhale the most +attractive scents; to brush her rosy nails, to trim them to an almond +shape, and frequently to bathe her delicate limbs. She is not satisfied +to spend the night excepting on the softest down, and excepting on +hair-cushioned lounges, she loves best to take a horizontal position. +Her voice is of penetrating sweetness; her movements are full of grace. +She speaks with marvelous fluency. She does not apply herself to any +hard work; and, nevertheless, in spite of her apparent weakness, there +are burdens which she can bear and move with miraculous ease. She +avoids the open sunlight and wards it off by ingenious appliances. For +her to walk is exhausting. Does she eat? This is a mystery. Has she the +needs of other species? It is a problem. Although she is curious to +excess she allows herself easily to be caught by any one who can +conceal from her the slightest thing, and her intellect leads her to +seek incessantly after the unknown. Love is her religion; she thinks +how to please the one she loves. To be beloved is the end of all her +actions; to excite desire is the motive of every gesture. She dreams of +nothing excepting how she may shine, and moves only in a circle filled +with grace and elegance. It is for her the Indian girl has spun the +soft fleece of Thibet goats, Tarare weaves its airy veils, Brussels +sets in motion those shuttles which speed the flaxen thread that is +purest and most fine, Bidjapour wrenches from the bowels of the earth +its sparkling pebbles, and the Sevres gilds its snow-white clay. Night +and day she reflects upon new costumes and spends her life in +considering dress and in plaiting her apparel. She moves about +exhibiting her brightness and freshness to people she does not know, +but whose homage flatters her, while the desire she excites charms her, +though she is indifferent to those who feel it. During the hours which +she spends in private, in pleasure, and in the care of her person, she +amuses herself by caroling the sweetest strains. For her France and +Italy ordain delightful concerts and Naples imparts to the strings of +the violin an harmonious soul. This species is in fine at once the +queen of the world and the slave of passion. She dreads marriage +because it ends by spoiling her figure, but she surrenders herself to +it because it promises happiness. If she bears children it is by pure +chance, and when they are grown up she tries to conceal them. + +These characteristics taken at random from among a thousand others are +not found amongst those beings whose hands are as black as those of +apes and their skin tanned like the ancient parchments of an _olim_; +whose complexion is burnt brown by the sun and whose neck is wrinkled +like that of a turkey; who are covered with rags; whose voice is +hoarse; whose intelligence is nil; who think of nothing but the bread +box, and who are incessantly bowed in toil towards the ground; who dig; +who harrow; who make hay, glean, gather in the harvest, knead the bread +and strip hemp; who, huddled among domestic beasts, infants and men, +dwell in holes and dens scarcely covered with thatch; to whom it is of +little importance from what source children rain down into their homes. +Their work it is to produce many and to deliver them to misery and +toil, and if their love is not like their labor in the fields it is at +least as much a work of chance. + +Alas! if there are throughout the world multitudes of trades-women who +sit all day long between the cradle and the sugar-cask, farmers’ wives +and daughters who milk the cows, unfortunate women who are employed +like beasts of burden in the manufactories, who all day long carry the +loaded basket, the hoe and the fish-crate, if unfortunately there exist +these common human beings to whom the life of the soul, the benefits of +education, the delicious tempests of the heart are an unattainable +heaven; and if Nature has decreed that they should have coracoid +processes and hyoid bones and thirty-two vertebrae, let them remain for +the physiologist classed with the ourang-outang. And here we make no +stipulations for the leisure class; for those who have the time and the +sense to fall in love; for the rich who have purchased the right of +indulging their passions; for the intellectual who have conquered a +monopoly of fads. Anathema on all those who do not live by thought. We +say Raca and fool to all those who are not ardent, young, beautiful and +passionate. This is the public expression of that secret sentiment +entertained by philanthropists who have learned to read and can keep +their own carriage. Among the nine millions of the proscribed, the +tax-gatherer, the magistrate, the law-maker and the priest doubtless +see living souls who are to be ruled and made subject to the +administration of justice. But the man of sentiment, the philosopher of +the boudoir, while he eats his fine bread, made of corn, sown and +harvested by these creatures, will reject them and relegate them, as we +do, to a place outside the genus Woman. For them, there are no women +excepting those who can inspire love; and there is no living being but +the creature invested with the priesthood of thought by means of a +privileged education, and with whom leisure has developed the power of +imagination; in other words that only is a human being whose soul +dreams, in love, either of intellectual enjoyments or of physical +delights. + +We would, however, make the remark that these nine million female +pariahs produce here and there a thousand peasant girls who from +peculiar circumstances are as fair as Cupids; they come to Paris or to +the great cities and end up by attaining the rank of _femmes comme il +faut_; but to set off against these two or three thousand favored +creatures, there are one hundred thousand others who remain servants or +abandon themselves to frightful irregularities. Nevertheless, we are +obliged to count these Pompadours of the village among the feminine +population. + +Our first calculation is based upon the statistical discovery that in +France there are eighteen millions of the poor, ten millions of people +in easy circumstances and two millions of the rich. + +There exist, therefore, in France only six millions of women in whom +men of sentiment are now interested, have been interested, or will be +interested. + +Let us subject this social elite to a philosophic examination. + +We think, without fear of being deceived, that married people who have +lived twenty years together may sleep in peace without fear of having +their love trespassed upon or of incurring the scandal of a lawsuit for +criminal conversation. + +From these six millions of individuals we must subtract about two +millions of women who are extremely attractive, because for the last +forty years they have seen the world; but since they have not the power +to make any one fall in love with them, they are on the outside of the +discussion now before us. If they are unhappy enough to receive no +attention for the sake of amiability, they are soon seized with ennui; +they fall back upon religion, upon the cultivation of pets, cats, +lap-dogs, and other fancies which are no more offensive than their +devoutness. + +The calculations made at the Bureau of Longitudes concerning population +authorize us again to subtract from the total mentioned two millions of +young girls, pretty enough to kill; they are at present in the A B C of +life and innocently play with other children, without dreading that +these little hobbledehoys, who now make them laugh, will one day make +them weep. + +Again, of the two millions of the remaining women, what reasonable man +would not throw out a hundred thousand poor girls, humpbacked, plain, +cross-grained, rickety, sickly, blind, crippled in some way, well +educated but penniless, all bound to be spinsters, and by no means +tempted to violate the sacred laws of marriage? + +Nor must we retain the one hundred thousand other girls who become +sisters of St. Camille, Sisters of Charity, monastics, teachers, +ladies’ companions, etc. And we must put into this blessed company a +number of young people difficult to estimate, who are too grown up to +play with little boys and yet too young to sport their wreath of orange +blossoms. + +Finally, of the fifteen million subjects which remain at the bottom of +our crucible we must eliminate five hundred thousand other individuals, +to be reckoned as daughters of Baal, who subserve the appetites of the +base. We must even comprise among those, without fear that they will be +corrupted by their company, the kept women, the milliners, the shop +girls, saleswomen, actresses, singers, the girls of the opera, the +ballet-dancers, upper servants, chambermaids, etc. Most of these +creatures excite the passions of many people, but they would consider +it immodest to inform a lawyer, a mayor, an ecclesiastic or a laughing +world of the day and hour when they surrendered to a lover. Their +system, justly blamed by an inquisitive world, has the advantage of +laying upon them no obligations towards men in general, towards the +mayor or the magistracy. As these women do not violate any oath made in +public, they have no connection whatever with a work which treats +exclusively of lawful marriage. + +Some one will say that the claims made by this essay are very slight, +but its limitations make just compensation for those which amateurs +consider excessively padded. If any one, through love for a wealthy +dowager, wishes to obtain admittance for her into the remaining +million, he must classify her under the head of Sisters of Charity, +ballet-dancers, or hunchbacks; in fact we have not taken more than five +hundred thousand individuals in forming this last class, because it +often happens, as we have seen above, that the nine millions of peasant +girls make a large accession to it. We have for the same reason omitted +the working-girl class and the hucksters; the women of these two +sections are the product of efforts made by nine millions of female +bimana to rise to the higher civilization. But for its scrupulous +exactitude many persons might regard this statistical meditation as a +mere joke. + +We have felt very much inclined to form a small class of a hundred +thousand individuals as a crowning cabinet of the species, to serve as +a place of shelter for women who have fallen into a middle estate, like +widows, for instance; but we have preferred to estimate in round +figures. + +It would be easy to prove the fairness of our analysis: let one +reflection be sufficient. + +The life of a woman is divided into three periods, very distinct from +each other: the first begins in the cradle and ends on the attainment +of a marriageable age; the second embraces the time during which a +woman belongs to marriage; the third opens with the critical period, +the ending with which nature closes the passions of life. These three +spheres of existence, being almost equal in duration, might be employed +for the classification into equal groups of a given number of women. +Thus in a mass of six millions, omitting fractions, there are about two +million girls between one and eighteen, two millions women between +eighteen and forty and two millions of old women. The caprices of +society have divided the two millions of marriageable women into three +main classes, namely: those who remain spinsters for reasons which we +have defined; those whose virtue does not reckon in the obtaining of +husbands, and the million of women lawfully married, with whom we have +to deal. + +You see then, by the exact sifting out of the feminine population, that +there exists in France a little flock of barely a million white lambs, +a privileged fold into which every wolf is anxious to enter. + +Let us put this million of women, already winnowed by our fan, through +another examination. + +To arrive at the true idea of the degree of confidence which a man +ought to have in his wife, let us suppose for a moment that all wives +will deceive their husbands. + +On this hypothesis, it will be proper to cut out about one-twentieth, +viz., young people who are newly married and who will be faithful to +their vows for a certain time. + +Another twentieth will be in ill-health. This will be to make a very +modest allowance for human infirmities. + +Certain passions, which we are told destroy the dominion of the man +over the heart of his wife, namely, aversion, grief, the bearing of +children, will account for another twentieth. + +Adultery does not establish itself in the heart of a married woman with +the promptness of a pistol-shot. Even when sympathy with another rouses +feelings on first sight, a struggle always takes place, whose duration +discounts the total sum of conjugal infidelities. It would be an insult +to French modesty not to admit the duration of this struggle in a +country so naturally combative, without referring to at least a +twentieth in the total of married women; but then we will suppose that +there are certain sickly women who preserve their lovers while they are +using soothing draughts, and that there are certain wives whose +confinement makes sarcastic celibates smile. In this way we shall +vindicate the modesty of those who enter upon the struggle from motives +of virtue. For the same reason we should not venture to believe that a +woman forsaken by her lover will find a new one on the spot; but this +discount being much more uncertain than the preceding one, we will +estimate it at one-fortieth. + +These several rebates will reduce our sum total to eight hundred +thousand women, when we come to calculate the number of those who are +likely to violate married faith. Who would not at the present moment +wish to retain the persuasion that wives are virtuous? Are they not the +supreme flower of the country? Are they not all blooming creatures, +fascinating the world by their beauty, their youth, their life and +their love? To believe in their virtue is a sort of social religion, +for they are the ornament of the world, and form the chief glory of +France. + +It is in the midst of this million we are bound to investigate: + +The number of honest women; + +The number of virtuous women. + +The work of investigating this and of arranging the results under two +categories requires whole meditations, which may serve as an appendix +to the present one. + +MEDITATION III. + +OF THE HONEST WOMAN. + + +The preceding meditation has proved that we possess in France a +floating population of one million women reveling in the privilege of +inspiring those passions which a gallant man avows without shame, or +dissembles with delight. It is then among this million of women that we +must carry our lantern of Diogenes in order to discover the honest +women of the land. + +This inquiry suggests certain digressions. + +Two young people, well dressed, whose slender figures and rounded arms +suggest a paver’s tool, and whose boots are elegantly made, meet one +morning on the boulevard, at the end of the Passage des Panoramas. + +“What, is this you?” + +“Yes, dear boy; it looks like me, doesn’t it?” + +Then they laugh, with more or less intelligence, according to the +nature of the joke which opens the conversation. + +When they have examined each other with the sly curiosity of a police +officer on the lookout for a clew, when they are quite convinced of the +newness of each other’s gloves, of each other’s waistcoat and of the +taste with which their cravats are tied; when they are pretty certain +that neither of them is down in the world, they link arms and if they +start from the Theater des Varietes, they have not reached Frascati’s +before they have asked each other a roundabout question whose free +translation may be this: + +“Whom are you living with now?” + +As a general rule she is a charming woman. + +Who is the infantryman of Paris into whose ear there have not dropped, +like bullets in the day of battle, thousands of words uttered by the +passer-by, and who has not caught one of those numberless sayings +which, according to Rabelais, hang frozen in the air? But the majority +of men take their way through Paris in the same manner as they live and +eat, that is, without thinking about it. There are very few skillful +musicians, very few practiced physiognomists who can recognize the key +in which these vagrant notes are set, the passion that prompts these +floating words. Ah! to wander over Paris! What an adorable and +delightful existence is that! To saunter is a science; it is the +gastronomy of the eye. To take a walk is to vegetate; to saunter is to +live. The young and pretty women, long contemplated with ardent eyes, +would be much more admissible in claiming a salary than the cook who +asks for twenty sous from the Limousin whose nose with inflated +nostrils took in the perfumes of beauty. To saunter is to enjoy life; +it is to indulge the flight of fancy; it is to enjoy the sublime +pictures of misery, of love, of joy, of gracious or grotesque +physiognomies; it is to pierce with a glance the abysses of a thousand +existences; for the young it is to desire all, and to possess all; for +the old it is to live the life of the youthful, and to share their +passions. Now how many answers have not the sauntering artists heard to +the categorical question which is always with us? + +“She is thirty-five years old, but you would not think she was more +than twenty!” said an enthusiastic youth with sparkling eyes, who, +freshly liberated from college, would, like Cherubin, embrace all. + +“Zounds! Mine has dressing-gowns of batiste and diamond rings for the +evening!” said a lawyer’s clerk. + +“But she has a box at the Francais!” said an army officer. + +“At any rate,” cried another one, an elderly man who spoke as if he +were standing on the defence, “she does not cost me a sou! In our case +—wouldn’t you like to have the same chance, my respected friend?” + +And he patted his companion lightly on the shoulder. + +“Oh! she loves me!” said another. “It seems too good to be true; but +she has the most stupid of husbands! Ah!—Buffon has admirably described +the animals, but the biped called husband—” + +What a pleasant thing for a married man to hear! + +“Oh! what an angel you are, my dear!” is the answer to a request +discreetly whispered into the ear. + +“Can you tell me her name or point her out to me?” + +“Oh! no; she is an honest woman.” + +When a student is loved by a waitress, he mentions her name with pride +and takes his friends to lunch at her house. If a young man loves a +woman whose husband is engaged in some trade dealing with articles of +necessity, he will answer, blushingly, “She is the wife of a +haberdasher, of a stationer, of a hatter, of a linen-draper, of a +clerk, etc.” + +But this confession of love for an inferior which buds and blows in the +midst of packages, loaves of sugar, or flannel waistcoats is always +accompanied with an exaggerated praise of the lady’s fortune. The +husband alone is engaged in the business; he is rich; he has fine +furniture. The loved one comes to her lover’s house; she wears a +cashmere shawl; she owns a country house, etc. + +In short, a young man is never wanting in excellent arguments to prove +that his mistress is very nearly, if not quite, an honest woman. This +distinction originates in the refinement of our manners and has become +as indefinite as the line which separates _bon ton_ from vulgarity. +What then is meant by an honest woman? + +On this point the vanity of women, of their lovers, and even that of +their husbands, is so sensitive that we had better here settle upon +some general rules, which are the result of long observation. + +Our one million of privileged women represent a multitude who are +eligible for the glorious title of honest women, but by no means all +are elected to it. The principles on which these elections are based +may be found in the following axioms: + +APHORISMS. + +I. +An honest woman is necessarily a married woman. + +II. +An honest woman is under forty years old. + +III. +A married woman whose favors are to be paid for is not an honest +woman. + +IV. +A married woman who keeps a private carriage is an honest woman. + +V. +A woman who does her own cooking is not an honest woman. + +VI. When a man has made enough to yield an income of twenty thousand +francs, his wife is an honest woman, whatever the business in which his +fortune was made. + +VII. A woman who says “letter of change” for letter of exchange, who +says of a man, “He is an elegant gentleman,” can never be an honest +woman, whatever fortune she possesses. + +VIII. +An honest woman ought to be in a financial condition such as forbids +her lover to think she will ever cost him anything. + +IX. +A woman who lives on the third story of any street excepting the Rue +de Rivoli and the Rue de Castiglione is not an honest woman. + +X. The wife of a banker is always an honest woman, but the woman who +sits at the cashier’s desk cannot be one, unless her husband has a very +large business and she does not live over his shop. + +XI. The unmarried niece of a bishop when she lives with him can pass +for an honest woman, because if she has an intrigue she has to deceive +her uncle. + +XII. +An honest woman is one whom her lover fears to compromise. + +XIII. +The wife of an artist is always an honest woman. + +By the application of these principles even a man from Ardeche can +resolve all the difficulties which our subject presents. + +In order that a woman may be able to keep a cook, may be finely +educated, may possess the sentiment of coquetry, may have the right to +pass whole hours in her boudoir lying on a sofa, and may live a life of +soul, she must have at least six thousand francs a year if she lives in +the country, and twenty thousand if she lives at Paris. These two +financial limits will suggest to you how many honest women are to be +reckoned on in the million, for they are really a mere product of our +statistical calculations. + +Now three hundred thousand independent people, with an income of +fifteen thousand francs, represent the sum total of those who live on +pensions, on annuities and the interest of treasury bonds and +mortgages. + +Three hundred thousand landed proprietors enjoy an income of three +thousand five hundred francs and represent all territorial wealth. + +Two hundred thousand payees, at the rate of fifteen hundred francs +each, represent the distribution of public funds by the state budget, +by the budgets of the cities and departments, less the national debt, +church funds and soldier’s pay, (i.e. five sous a day with allowances +for washing, weapons, victuals, clothes, etc.). + +Two hundred thousand fortunes amassed in commerce, reckoning the +capital at twenty thousand francs in each case, represent all the +commercial establishments possible in France. + +Here we have a million husbands represented. + +But at what figure shall we count those who have an income of fifty, of +a hundred, of two, three, four, five, and six hundred francs only, from +consols or some other investment? + +How many landed proprietors are there who pay taxes amounting to no +more than a hundred sous, twenty francs, one hundred francs, two +hundred, or two hundred and eighty? + +At what number shall we reckon those of the governmental leeches, who +are merely quill-drivers with a salary of six hundred francs a year? + +How many merchants who have nothing but a fictitious capital shall we +admit? These men are rich in credit and have not a single actual sou, +and resemble the sieves through which Pactolus flows. And how many +brokers whose real capital does not amount to more than a thousand, two +thousand, four thousand, five thousand francs? Business!—my respects to +you! + +Let us suppose more people to be fortunate than actually are so. Let us +divide this million into parts; five hundred thousand domestic +establishments will have an income ranging from a hundred to three +thousand francs, and five thousand women will fulfill the conditions +which entitle them to be called honest women. + +After these observations, which close our meditation on statistics, we +are entitled to cut out of this number one hundred thousand +individuals; consequently we can consider it to be proven +mathematically that there exist in France no more than four hundred +thousand women who can furnish to men of refinement the exquisite and +exalted enjoyments which they look for in love. + +And here it is fitting to make a remark to the adepts for whom we +write, that love does not consist in a series of eager conversations, +of nights of pleasure, of an occasional caress more or less well-timed +and a spark of _amour-propre_ baptized by the name of jealousy. Our +four hundred thousand women are not of those concerning whom it may be +said, “The most beautiful girl in the world can give only what she +has.” No, they are richly endowed with treasures which appeal to our +ardent imaginations, they know how to sell dear that which they do not +possess, in order to compensate for the vulgarity of that which they +give. + +Do we feel more pleasure in kissing the glove of a grisette than in +draining the five minutes of pleasure which all women offer to us? + +Is it the conversation of a shop-girl which makes you expect boundless +delights? + +In your intercourse with a woman who is beneath you, the delight of +flattered _amour-propre_ is on her side. You are not in the secret of +the happiness which you give. + +In a case of a woman above you, either in fortune or social position, +the ticklings of vanity are not only intense, but are equally shared. A +man can never raise his mistress to his own level; but a woman always +puts her lover in the position that she herself occupies. “I can make +princes and you can make nothing but bastards,” is an answer sparkling +with truth. + +If love is the first of passions, it is because it flatters all the +rest of them at the same time. We love with more or less intensity in +proportion to the number of chords which are touched by the fingers of +a beautiful mistress. + +Biren, the jeweler’s son, climbing into the bed of the Duchesse de +Courlande and helping her to sign an agreement that he should be +proclaimed sovereign of the country, as he was already of the young and +beautiful queen, is an example of the happiness which ought to be given +to their lovers by our four hundred thousand women. + +If a man would have the right to make stepping-stones of all the heads +which crowd a drawing-room, he must be the lover of some artistic woman +of fashion. Now we all love more or less to be at the top. + +It is on this brilliant section of the nation that the attack is made +by men whose education, talent or wit gives them the right to be +considered persons of importance with regard to that success of which +people of every country are so proud; and only among this class of +women is the wife to be found whose heart has to be defended at all +hazard by our husband. + +What does it matter whether the considerations which arise from the +existence of a feminine aristocracy are or are not equally applicable +to other social classes? That which is true of all women exquisite in +manners, language and thought, in whom exceptional educational +facilities have developed a taste for art and a capacity for feeling, +comparing and thinking, who have a high sense of propriety and +politeness and who actually set the fashion in French manners, ought to +be true also in the case of women whatever their nation and whatever +their condition. The man of distinction to whom this book is dedicated +must of necessity possess a certain mental vision, which makes him +perceive the various degrees of light that fill each class and +comprehend the exact point in the scale of civilization to which each +of our remarks is severally applicable. + +Would it not be then in the highest interests of morality, that we +should in the meantime try to find out the number of virtuous women who +are to be found among these adorable creatures? Is not this a question +of marito-national importance? + +MEDITATION IV. + +OF THE VIRTUOUS WOMAN. + + +The question, perhaps, is not so much how many virtuous women there +are, as what possibility there is of an honest woman remaining +virtuous. + +In order to throw light upon a point so important, let us cast a rapid +glance over the male population. + +From among our fifteen millions of men we must cut off, in the first +place, the nine millions of bimana of thirty-two vertebrae and exclude +from our physiological analysis all but six millions of people. The +Marceaus, the Massenas, the Rousseaus, the Diderots and the Rollins +often sprout forth suddenly from the social swamp, when it is in a +condition of fermentation; but, here we plead guilty of deliberate +inaccuracy. These errors in calculation are likely, however, to give +all their weight to our conclusion and to corroborate what we are +forced to deduce in unveiling the mechanism of passion. + +From the six millions of privileged men, we must exclude three millions +of old men and children. + +It will be affirmed by some one that this subtraction leaves a +remainder of four millions in the case of women. + +This difference at first sight seems singular, but is easily accounted +for. + +The average age at which women are married is twenty years and at forty +they cease to belong to the world of love. + +Now a young bachelor of seventeen is apt to make deep cuts with his +penknife in the parchment of contracts, as the chronicles of scandal +will tell you. + +On the other hand, a man at fifty-two is more formidable than at any +other age. It is at this fair epoch of life that he enjoys an +experience dearly bought, and probably all the fortune that he will +ever require. The passions by which his course is directed being the +last under whose scourge he will move, he is unpitying and determined, +like the man carried away by a current who snatches at a green and +pliant branch of willow, the young nursling of the year. + +XIV. +Physically a man is a man much longer than a woman is a woman. + +With regard to marriage, the difference in duration of the life of love +with a man and with a woman is fifteen years. This period is equal to +three-fourths of the time during which the infidelities of the woman +can bring unhappiness to her husband. Nevertheless, the remainder in +our subtraction from the sum of men only differs by a sixth or so from +that which results in our subtraction from the sum of women. + +Great is the modest caution of our estimates. As to our arguments, they +are founded on evidence so widely known, that we have only expounded +them for the sake of being exact and in order to anticipate all +criticism. + +It has, therefore, been proved to the mind of every philosopher, +however little disposed he may be to forming numerical estimates, that +there exists in France a floating mass of three million men between +seventeen and fifty-two, all perfectly alive, well provided with teeth, +quite resolved on biting, in fact, biting and asking nothing better +than the opportunity of walking strong and upright along the way to +Paradise. + +The above observations entitle us to separate from this mass of men a +million husbands. Suppose for an instant that these, being satisfied +and always happy, like our model husband, confine themselves to +conjugal love. + +Our remainder of two millions do not require five sous to make love. + +It is quite sufficient for a man to have a fine foot and a clear eye in +order to dismantle the portrait of a husband. + +It is not necessary that he should have a handsome face nor even a good +figure; + +Provided that a man appears to be intellectual and has a distinguished +expression of face, women never look where he comes from but where he +is going to; + +The charms of youth are the unique equipage of love; + +A coat made by Brisson, a pair of gloves bought from Boivin, elegant +shoes, for whose payment the dealer trembles, a well-tied cravat are +sufficient to make a man king of the drawing-room; + +And soldiers—although the passion for gold lace and aiguillettes has +died away—do not soldiers form of themselves a redoubtable legion of +celibates? Not to mention Eginhard—for he was a private secretary —has +not a newspaper recently recorded how a German princess bequeathed her +fortune to a simple lieutenant of cuirassiers in the imperial guard? + +But the notary of the village, who in the wilds of Gascony does not +draw more than thirty-six deeds a year, sends his son to study law at +Paris; the hatter wishes his son to be a notary, the lawyer destines +his to be a judge, the judge wishes to become a minister in order that +his sons may be peers. At no epoch in the world’s history has there +been so eager a thirst for education. To-day it is not intellect but +cleverness that promenades the streets. From every crevice in the rocky +surface of society brilliant flowers burst forth as the spring brings +them on the walls of a ruin; even in the caverns there droop from the +vaulted roof faintly colored tufts of green vegetation. The sun of +education permeates all. Since this vast development of thought, this +even and fruitful diffusion of light, we have scarcely any men of +superiority, because every single man represents the whole education of +his age. We are surrounded by living encyclopaedias who walk about, +think, act and wish to be immortalized. Hence the frightful +catastrophes of climbing ambitions and insensate passions. We feel the +want of other worlds; there are more hives needed to receive the +swarms, and especially are we in need of more pretty women. + +But the maladies by which a man is afflicted do not nullify the sum +total of human passion. To our shame be it spoken, a woman is never so +much attached to us as when we are sick. + +With this thought, all the epigrams written against the little sex —for +it is antiquated nowadays to say the fair sex—ought to be disarmed of +their point and changed into madrigals of eulogy! All men ought to +consider that the sole virtue of a woman is to love and that all women +are prodigiously virtuous, and at that point to close the book and end +their meditation. + +Ah! do you not remember that black and gloomy hour when lonely and +suffering, making accusations against men and especially against your +friends, weak, discouraged, and filled with thoughts of death, your +head supported by a fevered pillow and stretched upon a sheet whose +white trellis-work of linen was stamped upon your skin, you traced with +your eyes the green paper which covered the walls of your silent +chamber? Do you recollect, I say, seeing some one noiselessly open your +door, exhibiting her fair young face, framed with rolls of gold, and a +bonnet which you had never seen before? She seemed like a star in a +stormy night, smiling and stealing towards you with an expression in +which distress and happiness were blended, and flinging herself into +your arms! + +“How did you manage it? What did you tell your husband?” you ask. + +“Your husband!”—Ah! this brings us back again into the depths of our +subject. + +XV. +Morally the man is more often and longer a man than the woman is a +women. + +On the other hand we ought to consider that among these two millions of +celibates there are many unhappy men, in whom a profound sense of their +misery and persistent toil have quenched the instinct of love; + +That they have not all passed through college, that there are many +artisans among them, many footmen—the Duke of Gevres, an extremely +plain and short man, as he walked through the park of Versailles saw +several lackeys of fine appearance and said to his friends, “Look how +these fellows are made by us, and how they imitate us”—that there are +many contractors, many trades people who think of nothing but money; +many drudges of the shop; + +That there are men more stupid and actually more ugly than God would +have made them; + +That there are those whose character is like a chestnut without a +kernel; + +That the clergy are generally chaste; + +That there are men so situated in life that they can never enter the +brilliant sphere in which honest women move, whether for want of a +coat, or from their bashfulness, or from the failure of a mahout to +introduce them. + +But let us leave to each one the task of adding to the number of these +exceptions in accordance with his personal experience—for the object of +a book is above all things to make people think—and let us instantly +suppress one-half of the sum total and admit only that there are one +million of hearts worthy of paying homage to honest women. This number +approximately includes those who are superior in all departments. Women +love only the intellectual, but justice must be done to virtue. + +As for these amiable celibates, each of them relates a string of +adventures, all of which seriously compromise honest women. It would be +a very moderate and reserved computation to attribute no more than +three adventures to each celibate; but if some of them count their +adventures by the dozen, there are many more who confine themselves to +two or three incidents of passion and some to a single one in their +whole life, so that we have in accordance with the statistical method +taken the average. Now if the number of celibates be multiplied by the +number of their excesses in love the result will be three millions of +adventures; to set against this we have only four hundred thousand +honest women! + +If the God of goodness and indulgence who hovers over the worlds does +not make a second washing of the human race, it is doubtless because so +little success attended the first. + +Here then we have a people, a society which has been sifted, and you +see the result! + +XVI. +Manners are the hypocrisy of nations, and hypocrisy is more or less +perfect. + +XVII. +Virtue, perhaps, is nothing more than politeness of soul. + +Physical love is a craving like hunger, excepting that man eats all the +time, and in love his appetite is neither so persistent nor so regular +as at the table. + +A piece of bread and a carafe of water will satisfy the hunger of any +man; but our civilization has brought to light the science of +gastronomy. + +Love has its piece of bread, but it has also its science of loving, +that science which we call coquetry, a delightful word which the French +alone possess, for that science originated in this country. + +Well, after all, isn’t it enough to enrage all husbands when they think +that man is so endowed with an innate desire to change from one food to +another, that in some savage countries, where travelers have landed, +they have found alcoholic drinks and ragouts? + +Hunger is not so violent as love; but the caprices of the soul are more +numerous, more bewitching, more exquisite in their intensity than the +caprices of gastronomy; but all that the poets and the experiences of +our own life have revealed to us on the subject of love, arms us +celibates with a terrible power: we are the lion of the Gospel seeking +whom we may devour. + +Then, let every one question his conscience on this point, and search +his memory if he has ever met a man who confined himself to the love of +one woman only! + +How, alas! are we to explain, while respecting the honor of all the +peoples, the problem which results from the fact that three millions of +burning hearts can find no more than four hundred thousand women on +which they can feed? Should we apportion four celibates for each woman +and remember that the honest women would have already established, +instinctively and unconsciously, a sort of understanding between +themselves and the celibates, like that which the presidents of royal +courts have initiated, in order to make their partisans in each chamber +enter successively after a certain number of years? + +That would be a mournful way of solving the difficulty! + +Should we make the conjecture that certain honest women act in dividing +up the celibates, as the lion in the fable did? What! Surely, in that +case, half at least of our altars would become whited sepulchres! + +Ought one to suggest for the honor of French ladies that in the time of +peace all other countries should import into France a certain number of +their honest women, and that these countries should mainly consist of +England, Germany and Russia? But the European nations would in that +case attempt to balance matters by demanding that France should export +a certain number of her pretty women. + +Morality and religion suffer so much from such calculations as this, +that an honest man, in an attempt to prove the innocence of married +women, finds some reason to believe that dowagers and young people are +half of them involved in this general corruption, and are liars even +more truly than are the celibates. + +But to what conclusion does our calculation lead us? Think of our +husbands, who to the disgrace of morals behave almost all of them like +celibates and glory _in petto_ over their secret adventures. + +Why, then we believe that every married man, who is at all attached to +his wife from honorable motives, can, in the words of the elder +Corneille, seek a rope and a nail; _foenum habet in cornu_. + +It is, however, in the bosom of these four hundred thousand honest +women that we must, lantern in hand, seek for the number of the +virtuous women in France! As a matter of fact, we have by our +statistics of marriage so far only set down the number of those +creatures with which society has really nothing to do. Is it not true +that in France the honest people, the people _comme il faut_, form a +total of scarcely three million individuals, namely, our one million of +celibates, five hundred thousand honest women, five hundred thousand +husbands, and a million of dowagers, of infants and of young girls? + +Are you then astonished at the famous verse of Boileau? This verse +proves that the poet had cleverly fathomed the discovery mathematically +propounded to you in these tiresome meditations and that his language +is by no means hyperbolical. + +Nevertheless, virtuous women there certainly are: + +Yes, those who have never been tempted and those who die at their first +child-birth, assuming that their husbands had married them virgins; + +Yes, those who are ugly as the Kaifakatadary of the Arabian Nights; + +Yes, those whom Mirabeau calls “fairy cucumbers” and who are composed +of atoms exactly like those of strawberry and water-lily roots. +Nevertheless, we need not believe that! + +Further, we acknowledge that, to the credit of our age, we meet, ever +since the revival of morality and religion and during our own times, +some women, here and there, so moral, so religious, so devoted to their +duties, so upright, so precise, so stiff, so virtuous, so—that the +devil himself dare not even look at them; they are guarded on all sides +by rosaries, hours of prayer and directors. Pshaw! + +We will not attempt to enumerate the women who are virtuous from +stupidity, for it is acknowledged that in love all women have +intellect. + +In conclusion, we may remark that it is not impossible that there exist +in some corner of the earth women, young, pretty and virtuous, whom the +world does not suspect. + +But you must not give the name of virtuous woman to her who, in her +struggle against an involuntary passion, has yielded nothing to her +lover whom she idolizes. She does injury in the most cruel way in which +it can possibly be done to a loving husband. For what remains to him of +his wife? A thing without name, a living corpse. In the very midst of +delight his wife remains like the guest who has been warned by Borgia +that certain meats were poisoned; he felt no hunger, he ate sparingly +or pretended to eat. He longed for the meat which he had abandoned for +that provided by the terrible cardinal, and sighed for the moment when +the feast was over and he could leave the table. + +What is the result which these reflections on the feminine virtue lead +to? Here they are; but the last two maxims have been given us by an +eclectic philosopher of the eighteenth century. + +XVIII. +A virtuous woman has in her heart one fibre less or one fibre more than +other women; she is either stupid or sublime. + +XIX. +The virtue of women is perhaps a question of temperament. + +XX. +The most virtuous women have in them something which is never chaste. + +XXI. +“That a man of intellect has doubts about his mistress is conceivable, +but about his wife!—that would be too stupid.” + +XXII. +“Men would be insufferably unhappy if in the presence of women they +thought the least bit in the world of that which they know by heart.” + +The number of those rare women who, like the Virgins of the Parable, +have kept their lamps lighted, will always appear very small in the +eyes of the defenders of virtue and fine feeling; but we must needs +exclude it from the total sum of honest women, and this subtraction, +consoling as it is, will increase the danger which threatens husbands, +will intensify the scandal of their married life, and involve, more or +less, the reputation of all other lawful spouses. + +What husband will be able to sleep peacefully beside his young and +beautiful wife while he knows that three celibates, at least, are on +the watch; that if they have not already encroached upon his little +property, they regard the bride as their destined prey, for sooner or +later she will fall into their hands, either by stratagem, compulsive +conquest or free choice? And it is impossible that they should fail +some day or other to obtain victory! + +What a startling conclusion! + +On this point the purist in morality, the _collets montes_ will accuse +us perhaps of presenting here conclusions which are excessively +despairing; they will be desirous of putting up a defence, either for +the virtuous women or the celibates; but we have in reserve for them a +final remark. + +Increase the number of honest women and diminish the number of +celibates, as much as you choose, you will always find that the result +will be a larger number of gallant adventurers than of honest women; +you will always find a vast multitude driven through social custom to +commit three sorts of crime. + +If they remain chaste, their health is injured, while they are the +slaves of the most painful torture; they disappoint the sublime ends of +nature, and finally die of consumption, drinking milk on the mountains +of Switzerland! + +If they yield to legitimate temptations, they either compromise the +honest women, and on this point we re-enter on the subject of this +book, or else they debase themselves by a horrible intercourse with the +five hundred thousand women of whom we spoke in the third category of +the first Meditation, and in this case, have still considerable chance +of visiting Switzerland, drinking milk and dying there! + +Have you never been struck, as we have been, by a certain error of +organization in our social order, the evidence of which gives a moral +certainty to our last calculations? + +The average age at which a man marries is thirty years; the average age +at which his passions, his most violent desires for genesial delight +are developed, is twenty years. Now during the ten fairest years of his +life, during the green season in which his beauty, his youth and his +wit make him more dangerous to husbands than at any other epoch of his +life, his finds himself without any means of satisfying legitimately +that irresistible craving for love which burns in his whole nature. +During this time, representing the sixth part of human life, we are +obliged to admit that the sixth part or less of our total male +population and the sixth part which is the most vigorous is placed in a +position which is perpetually exhausting for them, and dangerous for +society. + +“Why don’t they get married?” cries a religious woman. + +But what father of good sense would wish his son to be married at +twenty years of age? + +Is not the danger of these precocious unions apparent at all? It would +seem as if marriage was a state very much at variance with natural +habitude, seeing that it requires a special ripeness of judgment in +those who conform to it. All the world knows what Rousseau said: “There +must always be a period of libertinage in life either in one state or +another. It is an evil leaven which sooner or later ferments.” + +Now what mother of a family is there who would expose her daughter to +the risk of this fermentation when it has not yet taken place? + +On the other hand, what need is there to justify a fact under whose +domination all societies exist? Are there not in every country, as we +have demonstrated, a vast number of men who live as honestly as +possible, without being either celibates or married men? + +Cannot these men, the religious women will always ask, abide in +continence like the priests? + +Certainly, madame. + +Nevertheless, we venture to observe that the vow of chastity is the +most startling exception to the natural condition of man which society +makes necessary; but continence is the great point in the priest’s +profession; he must be chaste, as the doctor must be insensible to +physical sufferings, as the notary and the advocate insensible to the +misery whose wounds are laid bare to their eyes, as the soldier to the +sight of death which he meets on the field of battle. From the fact +that the requirements of civilization ossify certain fibres of the +heart and render callous certain membranes, we must not necessarily +conclude that all men are bound to undergo this partial and exceptional +death of the soul. This would be to reduce the human race to a +condition of atrocious moral suicide. + +But let it be granted that, in the atmosphere of a drawing-room the +most Jansenistic in the world, appears a young man of twenty-eight who +has scrupulously guarded his robe of innocence and is as truly virginal +as the heath-cock which gourmands enjoy. Do you not see that the most +austere of virtuous women would merely pay him a sarcastic compliment +on his courage; the magistrate, the strictest that ever mounted a +bench, would shake his head and smile, and all the ladies would hide +themselves, so that he might not hear their laughter? When the heroic +and exceptional young victim leaves the drawing-room, what a deluge of +jokes bursts upon his innocent head? What a shower of insults! What is +held to be more shameful in France than impotence, than coldness, than +the absence of all passion, than simplicity? + +The only king of France who would not have laughed was perhaps Louis +XIII; but as for his roue of a father, he would perhaps have banished +the young man, either under the accusation that he was no Frenchman or +from a conviction that he was setting a dangerous example. + +Strange contradiction! A young man is equally blamed if he passes life +in Holy Land, to use an expression of bachelor life. Could it possibly +be for the benefit of the honest women that the prefects of police, and +mayors of all time have ordained that the passions of the public shall +not manifest themselves until nightfall, and shall cease at eleven +o’clock in the evening? + +Where do you wish that our mass of celibates should sow their wild +oats? And who is deceived on this point? as Figaro asks. Is it the +governments or the governed? The social order is like the small boys +who stop their ears at the theatre, so as not to hear the report of the +firearms. Is society afraid to probe its wound or has it recognized the +fact that evil is irremediable and things must be allowed to run their +course? But there crops up here a question of legislation, for it is +impossible to escape the material and social dilemma created by this +balance of public virtue in the matter of marriage. It is not our +business to solve this difficulty; but suppose for a moment that +society in order to save a multitude of families, women and honest +girls, found itself compelled to grant to certain licensed hearts the +right of satisfying the desire of the celibates; ought not our laws +then to raise up a professional body consisting of female Decii who +devote themselves for the republic, and make a rampart of their bodies +round the honest families? The legislators have been very wrong +hitherto in disdaining to regulate the lot of courtesans. + +XXIII. +The courtesan is an institution if she is a necessity. + +This question bristles with so many ifs and buts that we will bequeath +it for solution to our descendants; it is right that we shall leave +them something to do. Moreover, its discussion is not germane to this +work; for in this, more than in any other age, there is a great +outburst of sensibility; at no other epoch have there been so many +rules of conduct, because never before has it been so completely +accepted that pleasure comes from the heart. Now, what man of sentiment +is there, what celibate is there, who, in the presence of four hundred +thousand young and pretty women arrayed in the splendors of fortune and +the graces of wit, rich in treasures of coquetry, and lavish in the +dispensing of happiness, would wish to go—? For shame! + +Let us put forth for the benefit of our future legislature in clear and +brief axioms the result arrived at during the last few years. + +XXIV. +In the social order, inevitable abuses are laws of nature, in +accordance with which mankind should frame their civil and political +institutes. + +XXV. +“Adultery is like a commercial failure, with this difference,” says +Chamfort, “that it is the innocent party who has been ruined and who +bears the disgrace.” + +In France the laws that relate to adultery and those that relate to +bankruptcy require great modifications. Are they too indulgent? Do they +sin on the score of bad principles? _Caveant consules_! + +Come now, courageous athlete, who have taken as your task that which is +expressed in the little apostrophe which our first Meditation addresses +to people who have the charge of a wife, what are you going to say +about it? We hope that this rapid review of the question does not make +you tremble, that you are not one of those men whose nervous fluid +congeals at the sight of a precipice or a boa constrictor! Well! my +friend, he who owns soil has war and toil. The men who want your gold +are more numerous than those who want your wife. + +After all, husbands are free to take these trifles for arithmetical +estimates, or arithmetical estimates for trifles. The illusions of life +are the best things in life; that which is most respectable in life is +our futile credulity. Do there not exist many people whose principles +are merely prejudices, and who not having the force of character to +form their own ideas of happiness and virtue accept what is ready made +for them by the hand of legislators? Nor do we address those Manfreds +who having taken off too many garments wish to raise all the curtains, +that is, in moments when they are tortured by a sort of moral spleen. +By them, however, the question is boldly stated and we know the extent +of the evil. + +It remains that we should examine the chances and changes which each +man is likely to meet in marriage, and which may weaken him in that +struggle from which our champion should issue victorious. + +MEDITATION V. + +OF THE PREDESTINED. + + +Predestined means destined in advance for happiness or unhappiness. +Theology has seized upon this word and employs it in relation to the +happy; we give to the term a meaning which is unfortunate to our elect +of which one can say in opposition to the Gospel, “Many are called, +many are chosen.” + +Experience has demonstrated that there are certain classes of men more +subject than others to certain infirmities; the Gascons are given to +exaggeration and Parisians to vanity. As we see that apoplexy attacks +people with short necks, or butchers are liable to carbuncle, as gout +attacks the rich, health the poor, deafness kings, paralysis +administrators, so it has been remarked that certain classes of +husbands and their wives are more given to illegitimate passions. Thus +they forestall the celibates, they form another sort of aristocracy. If +any reader should be enrolled in one of these aristocratic classes he +will, we hope, have sufficient presence of mind, he or at least his +wife, instantly to call to mind the favorite axiom of Lhomond’s Latin +Grammar: “No rule without exception.” A friend of the house may even +recite the verse— + +“Present company always excepted.” + +And then every one will have the right to believe, _in petto_, that he +forms the exception. But our duty, the interest which we take in +husbands and the keen desire which we have to preserve young and pretty +women from the caprices and catastrophes which a lover brings in his +train, force us to give notice to husbands that they ought to be +especially on their guard. + +In this recapitulation first are to be reckoned the husbands whom +business, position or public office calls from their houses and detains +for a definite time. It is these who are the standard-bearers of the +brotherhood. + +Among them, we would reckon magistrates, holding office during pleasure +or for life, and obliged to remain at the Palace for the greater +portion of the day; other functionaries sometimes find means to leave +their office at business hours; but a judge or a public prosecutor, +seated on his cushion of lilies, is bound even to die during the +progress of the hearing. There is his field of battle. + +It is the same with the deputies and peers who discuss the laws, of +ministers who share the toils of the king, of secretaries who work with +the ministers, of soldiers on campaign, and indeed with the corporal of +the police patrol, as the letter of Lafleur, in the _Sentimental +Journey_, plainly shows. + +Next to the men who are obliged to be absent from home at certain fixed +hours, come the men whom vast and serious undertakings leave not one +minute for love-making; their foreheads are always wrinkled with +anxiety, their conversation is generally void of merriment. + +At the head of these unfortunates we must place the bankers, who toil +in the acquisition of millions, whose heads are so full of calculations +that the figures burst through their skulls and range themselves in +columns of addition on their foreheads. + +These millionaires, forgetting most of the time the sacred laws of +marriage and the attention due to the tender flower which they have +undertaken to cultivate, never think of watering it or of defending it +from the heat and cold. They scarcely recognize the fact that the +happiness of their spouses is in their keeping; if they ever do +remember this, it is at table, when they see seated before them a woman +in rich array, or when a coquette, fearing their brutal repulse, comes, +gracious as Venus, to ask them for cash— Oh! it is then, that they +recall, sometimes very vividly, the rights specified in the two hundred +and thirteenth article of the civil code, and their wives are grateful +to them; but like the heavy tariff which the law lays upon foreign +merchandise, their wives suffer and pay the tribute, in virtue of the +axiom which says: “There is no pleasure without pain.” + +The men of science who spend whole months in gnawing at the bone of an +antediluvian monster, in calculating the laws of nature, when there is +an opportunity to peer into her secrets, the Grecians and Latinists who +dine on a thought of Tacitus, sup on a phrase of Thucydides, spend +their life in brushing the dust from library shelves, in keeping guard +over a commonplace book, or a papyrus, are all predestined. So great is +their abstraction or their ecstasy, that nothing that goes on around +them strikes their attention. Their unhappiness is consummated; in full +light of noon they scarcely even perceive it. Oh happy men! a thousand +times happy! Example: Beauzee, returning home after session at the +Academy, surprises his wife with a German. “Did not I tell you, madame, +that it was necessary that I shall go,” cried the stranger. “My dear +sir,” interrupted the academician, “you ought to say that I _should_ +go!” + +Then there come, lyre in hand, certain poets whose whole animal +strength has left the ground floor and mounted to the upper story. They +know better how to mount Pegasus than the beast of old Peter, they +rarely marry, although they are accustomed to lavish the fury of their +passions on some wandering or imaginary Chloris. + +But the men whose noses are stained with snuff; + +But those who, to their misfortune, have a perpetual cold in their +head; + +But the sailors who smoke or chew; + +But those men whose dry and bilious temperament makes them always look +as if they had eaten a sour apple; + +But the men who in private life have certain cynical habits, ridiculous +fads, and who always, in spite of everything, look unwashed; + +But the husbands who have obtained the degrading name of “hen-pecked”; + +Finally the old men who marry young girls. + +All these people are _par excellence_ among the predestined. + +There is a final class of the predestined whose ill-fortune is almost +certain, we mean restless and irritable men, who are inclined to meddle +and tyrannize, who have a great idea of domestic domination, who openly +express their low ideas of women and who know no more about life than +herrings about natural history. When these men marry, their homes have +the appearance of a wasp whose head a schoolboy has cut off, and who +dances here and there on a window pane. For this sort of predestined +the present work is a sealed book. We do not write any more for those +imbeciles, walking effigies, who are like the statues of a cathedral, +than for those old machines of Marly which are too weak to fling water +over the hedges of Versailles without being in danger of sudden +collapse. + +I rarely make my observations on the conjugal oddities with which the +drawing-room is usually full, without recalling vividly a sight which I +once enjoyed in early youth: + +In 1819 I was living in a thatched cottage situated in the bosom of the +delightful valley l’Isle-Adam. My hermitage neighbored on the park of +Cassan, the sweetest of retreats, the most fascinating in aspect, the +most attractive as a place to ramble in, the most cool and refreshing +in summer, of all places created by luxury and art. This verdant +country-seat owes its origin to a farmer-general of the good old times, +a certain Bergeret, celebrated for his originality; who among other +fantastic dandyisms adopted the habit of going to the opera, with his +hair powdered in gold; he used to light up his park for his own +solitary delectation and on one occasion ordered a sumptuous +entertainment there, in which he alone took part. This rustic +Sardanapalus returned from Italy so passionately charmed with the +scenery of that beautiful country that, by a sudden freak of +enthusiasm, he spent four or five millions in order to represent in his +park the scenes of which he had pictures in his portfolio. The most +charming contrasts of foliage, the rarest trees, long valleys, and +prospects the most picturesque that could be brought from abroad, +Borromean islands floating on clear eddying streams like so many rays, +which concentrate their various lustres on a single point, on an Isola +Bella, from which the enchanted eye takes in each detail at its +leisure, or on an island in the bosom of which is a little house +concealed under the drooping foliage of a century-old ash, an island +fringed with irises, rose-bushes, and flowers which appears like an +emerald richly set. Ah! one might rove a thousand leagues for such a +place! The most sickly, the most soured, the most disgusted of our men +of genius in ill health would die of satiety at the end of fifteen +days, overwhelmed with the luscious sweetness of fresh life in such a +spot. + +The man who was quite regardless of the Eden which he thus possessed +had neither wife nor children, but was attached to a large ape which he +kept. A graceful turret of wood, supported by a sculptured column, +served as a dwelling place for this vicious animal, who being kept +chained and rarely petted by his eccentric master, oftener at Paris +than in his country home, had gained a very bad reputation. I recollect +seeing him once in the presence of certain ladies show almost as much +insolence as if he had been a man. His master was obliged to kill him, +so mischievous did he gradually become. + +One morning while I was sitting under a beautiful tulip tree in flower, +occupied in doing nothing but inhaling the lovely perfumes which the +tall poplars kept confined within the brilliant enclosure, enjoying the +silence of the groves, listening to the murmuring waters and the +rustling leaves, admiring the blue gaps outlined above my head by +clouds of pearly sheen and gold, wandering fancy free in dreams of my +future, I heard some lout or other, who had arrived the day before from +Paris, playing on a violin with the violence of a man who has nothing +else to do. I would not wish for my worst enemy to hear anything so +utterly in discord with the sublime harmony of nature. If the distant +notes of Roland’s Horn had only filled the air with life, perhaps—but a +noisy fiddler like this, who undertakes to bring to you the expression +of human ideas and the phraseology of music! This Amphion, who was +walking up and down the dining-room, finished by taking a seat on the +window-sill, exactly in front of the monkey. Perhaps he was looking for +an audience. Suddenly I saw the animal quietly descend from his little +dungeon, stand upon his hind feet, bow his head forward like a swimmer +and fold his arms over his bosom like Spartacus in chains, or Catiline +listening to Cicero. The banker, summoned by a sweet voice whose +silvery tone recalled a boudoir not unknown to me, laid his violin on +the window-sill and made off like a swallow who rejoins his companion +by a rapid level swoop. The great monkey, whose chain was sufficiently +long, approached the window and gravely took in hand the violin. I +don’t know whether you have ever had as I have the pleasure of seeing a +monkey try to learn music, but at the present moment, when I laugh much +less than I did in those careless days, I never think of that monkey +without a smile; the semi-man began by grasping the instrument with his +fist and by sniffing at it as if he were tasting the flavor of an +apple. The snort from his nostrils probably produced a dull harmonious +sound in the sonorous wood and then the orang-outang shook his head, +turned over the violin, turned it back again, raised it up in the air, +lowered it, held it straight out, shook it, put it to his ear, set it +down, and picked it up again with a rapidity of movement peculiar to +these agile creatures. He seemed to question the dumb wood with +faltering sagacity and in his gestures there was something marvelous as +well as infantile. At last he undertook with grotesque gestures to +place the violin under his chin, while in one hand he held the neck; +but like a spoiled child he soon wearied of a study which required +skill not to be obtained in a moment and he twitched the strings +without being able to draw forth anything but discordant sounds. He +seemed annoyed, laid the violin on the window-sill and snatching up the +bow he began to push it to and fro with violence, like a mason sawing a +block of stone. This effort only succeeded in wearying his fastidious +ears, and he took the bow with both hands and snapped it in two on the +innocent instrument, source of harmony and delight. It seemed as if I +saw before me a schoolboy holding under him a companion lying face +downwards, while he pommeled him with a shower of blows from his fist, +as if to punish him for some delinquency. The violin being now tried +and condemned, the monkey sat down upon the fragments of it and amused +himself with stupid joy in mixing up the yellow strings of the broken +bow. + +Never since that day have I been able to look upon the home of the +predestined without comparing the majority of husbands to this +orang-outang trying to play the violin. + +Love is the most melodious of all harmonies and the sentiment of love +is innate. Woman is a delightful instrument of pleasure, but it is +necessary to know its trembling strings, to study the position of them, +the timid keyboard, the fingering so changeful and capricious which +befits it. How many monkeys—men, I mean—marry without knowing what a +woman is! How many of the predestined proceed with their wives as the +ape of Cassan did with his violin! They have broken the heart which +they did not understand, as they might dim and disdain the amulet whose +secret was unknown to them. They are children their whole life through, +who leave life with empty hands after having talked about love, about +pleasure, about licentiousness and virtue as slaves talk about liberty. +Almost all of them married with the most profound ignorance of women +and of love. They commenced by breaking in the door of a strange house +and expected to be welcomed in this drawing-room. But the rudest artist +knows that between him and his instrument, of wood, or of ivory, there +exists a mysterious sort of friendship. He knows by experience that it +takes years to establish this understanding between an inert matter and +himself. He did not discover, at the first touch, the resources, the +caprices, the deficiencies, the excellencies of his instrument. It did +not become a living soul for him, a source of incomparable melody until +he had studied for a long time; man and instrument did not come to +understand each other like two friends, until both of them had been +skillfully questioned and tested by frequent intercourse. + +Can a man ever learn woman and know how to decipher this wondrous +strain of music, by remaining through life like a seminarian in his +cell? Is it possible that a man who makes it his business to think for +others, to judge others, to rule others, to steal money from others, to +feed, to heal, to wound others—that, in fact, any of our predestined, +can spare time to study a woman? They sell their time for money, how +can they give it away for happiness? Money is their god. No one can +serve two masters at the same time. Is not the world, moreover, full of +young women who drag along pale and weak, sickly and suffering? Some of +them are the prey of feverish inflammations more or less serious, +others lie under the cruel tyranny of nervous attacks more or less +violent. All the husbands of these women belong to the class of the +ignorant and the predestined. They have caused their own misfortune and +expended as much pains in producing it as the husband artist would have +bestowed in bringing to flower the late and delightful blooms of +pleasure. The time which an ignorant man passes to consummate his own +ruin is precisely that which a man of knowledge employs in the +education of his happiness. + +XXVI. +Do not begin marriage by a violation of law. + +In the preceding meditations we have indicated the extent of the evil +with the reckless audacity of those surgeons, who boldly induce the +formation of false tissues under which a shameful wound is concealed. +Public virtue, transferred to the table of our amphitheatre, has lost +even its carcass under the strokes of the scalpel. Lover or husband, +have you smiled, or have you trembled at this evil? Well, it is with +malicious delight that we lay this huge social burden on the conscience +of the predestined. Harlequin, when he tried to find out whether his +horse could be accustomed to go without food, was not more ridiculous +than the men who wish to find happiness in their home and yet refuse to +cultivate it with all the pains which it demands. The errors of women +are so many indictments of egotism, neglect and worthlessness in +husbands. + +Yet it is yours, reader, it pertains to you, who have often condemned +in another the crime which you yourself commit, it is yours to hold the +balance. One of the scales is quite loaded, take care what you are +going to put in the other. Reckon up the number of predestined ones who +may be found among the total number of married people, weigh them, and +you will then know where the evil is seated. + +Let us try to penetrate more deeply into the causes of this conjugal +sickliness. + +The word love, when applied to the reproduction of the species, is the +most hateful blasphemy which modern manners have taught us to utter. +Nature, in raising us above the beasts by the divine gift of thought, +had rendered us very sensitive to bodily sensations, emotional +sentiment, cravings of appetite and passions. This double nature of +ours makes of man both an animal and a lover. This distinction gives +the key to the social problem which we are considering. + +Marriage may be considered in three ways, politically, as well as from +a civil and moral point of view: as a law, as a contract and as an +institution. As a law, its object is a reproduction of the species; as +a contract, it relates to the transmission of property; as an +institution, it is a guarantee which all men give and by which all are +bound: they have father and mother, and they will have children. +Marriage, therefore, ought to be the object of universal respect. +Society can only take into consideration those cardinal points, which, +from a social point of view, dominate the conjugal question. + +Most men have no other views in marrying, than reproduction, property +or children; but neither reproduction nor property nor children +constitutes happiness. The command, “Increase and multiply,” does not +imply love. To ask of a young girl whom we have seen fourteen times in +fifteen days, to give you love in the name of law, the king and +justice, is an absurdity worthy of the majority of the predestined. + +Love is the union between natural craving and sentiment; happiness in +marriage results in perfect union of soul between a married pair. Hence +it follows that in order to be happy a man must feel himself bound by +certain rules of honor and delicacy. After having enjoyed the benefit +of the social law which consecrates the natural craving, he must obey +also the secret laws of nature by which sentiments unfold themselves. +If he stakes his happiness on being himself loved, he must himself love +sincerely: nothing can resist a genuine passion. + +But to feel this passion is always to feel desire. Can a man always +desire his wife? + +Yes. + +It is as absurd to deny that it is possible for a man always to love +the same woman, as it would be to affirm that some famous musician +needed several violins in order to execute a piece of music or compose +a charming melody. + +Love is the poetry of the senses. It has the destiny of all that which +is great in man and of all that which proceeds from his thought. Either +it is sublime, or it is not. When once it exists, it exists forever and +goes on always increasing. This is the love which the ancients made the +child of heaven and earth. + +Literature revolves round seven situations; music expresses everything +with seven notes; painting employs but seven colors; like these three +arts, love perhaps founds itself on seven principles, but we leave this +investigation for the next century to carry out. + +If poetry, music and painting have found infinite forms of expression, +pleasure should be even more diversified. For in the three arts which +aid us in seeking, often with little success, truth by means of +analogy, the man stands alone with his imagination, while love is the +union of two bodies and of two souls. If the three principal methods +upon which we rely for the expression of thought require preliminary +study in those whom nature has made poets, musicians or painters, is it +not obvious that, in order, to be happy, it is necessary to be +initiated into the secrets of pleasure? All men experience the craving +for reproduction, as all feel hunger and thirst; but all are not called +to be lovers and gastronomists. Our present civilization has proved +that taste is a science, and it is only certain privileged beings who +have learned how to eat and drink. Pleasure considered as an art is +still waiting for its physiologists. As for ourselves, we are contented +with pointing out that ignorance of the principles upon which happiness +is founded, is the sole cause of that misfortune which is the lot of +all the predestined. + +It is with the greatest timidity that we venture upon the publication +of a few aphorisms which may give birth to this new art, as casts have +created the science of geology; and we offer them for the meditation of +philosophers, of young marrying people and of the predestined. + +CATECHISM OF MARRIAGE. + +XXVII. +Marriage is a science. + +XXVIII. +A man ought not to marry without having studied anatomy, and dissected +at least one woman. + +XXIX. +The fate of the home depends on the first night. + +XXX. +A woman deprived of her free will can never have the credit of making a +sacrifice. + +XXXI. In love, putting aside all consideration of the soul, the heart +of a woman is like a lyre which does not reveal its secret, excepting +to him who is a skillful player. + +XXXII. Independently of any gesture of repulsion, there exists in the +soul of all women a sentiment which tends, sooner or later, to +proscribe all pleasure devoid of passionate feeling. + +XXXIII. +The interest of a husband as much as his honor forbids him to indulge a +pleasure which he has not had the skill to make his wife desire. + +XXXIV. Pleasure being caused by the union of sensation and sentiment, +we can say without fear of contradiction that pleasures are a sort of +material ideas. + +XXXV. +As ideas are capable of infinite combination, it ought to be the same +with pleasures. + +XXXVI. +In the life of man there are no two moments of pleasure exactly alike, +any more than there are two leaves of identical shape upon the same +tree. + +XXXVII. +If there are differences between one moment of pleasure and another, a +man can always be happy with the same woman. + +XXXVIII. To seize adroitly upon the varieties of pleasure, to develop +them, to impart to them a new style, an original expression, +constitutes the genius of a husband. + +XXXIX. Between two beings who do not love each other this genius is +licentiousness; but the caresses over which love presides are always +pure. + +XL. +The married woman who is the most chaste may be also the most +voluptuous. + +XLI. +The most virtuous woman can be forward without knowing it. + +XLII. When two human beings are united by pleasure, all social +conventionalities are put aside. This situation conceals a reef on +which many vessels are wrecked. A husband is lost, if he once forgets +there is a modesty which is quite independent of coverings. Conjugal +love ought never either to put on or to take away the bandage of its +eyes, excepting at the due season. + +XLIII. +Power does not consist in striking with force or with frequency, but in +striking true. + +XLIV. To call a desire into being, to nourish it, to develop it, to +bring it to full growth, to excite it, to satisfy it, is a complete +poem of itself. + +XLV. The progression of pleasures is from the distich to the quatrain, +from the quatrain to the sonnet, from the sonnet to the ballad, from +the ballad to the ode, from the ode to the cantata, from the cantata to +the dithyramb. The husband who commences with dithyramb is a fool. + +XLVI. +Each night ought to have its _menu_. + +XLVII. +Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster which devours +everything, that is, familiarity. + +XLVIII. +If a man cannot distinguish the difference between the pleasures of two +consecutive nights, he has married too early. + +XLIX. It is easier to be a lover than a husband, for the same reason +that it is more difficult to be witty every day, than to say bright +things from time to time. + +L. +A husband ought never to be the first to go to sleep and the last to +awaken. + +LI. +The man who enters his wife’s dressing-room is either a philosopher or +an imbecile. + +LII. +The husband who leaves nothing to desire is a lost man. + +LIII. +The married woman is a slave whom one must know how to set upon a +throne. + +LIV. +A man must not flatter himself that he knows his wife, and is making +her happy unless he sees her often at his knees. + +It is to the whole ignorant troop of our predestined, of our legions of +snivelers, of smokers, of snuff-takers, of old and captious men that +Sterne addressed, in _Tristram Shandy_, the letter written by Walter +Shandy to his brother Toby, when this last proposed to marry the widow +Wadman. + +These celebrated instructions which the most original of English +writers has comprised in this letter, suffice with some few exceptions +to complete our observations on the manner in which husbands should +behave to their wives; and we offer it in its original form to the +reflections of the predestined, begging that they will meditate upon it +as one of the most solid masterpieces of human wit. + +“MY DEAR BROTHER TOBY, + +“What I am going to say to thee is upon the nature of women, and of +love-making to them; and perhaps it is as well for thee—tho’ not so +well for me—that thou hast occasion for a letter of instructions upon +that head, and that I am able to write it to thee. + +“Had it been the good pleasure of Him who disposes of our lots, and +thou no sufferer by the knowledge, I had been well content that thou +should’st have dipped the pen this moment into the ink instead of +myself; but that not being the case—Mrs. Shandy being now close beside +me, preparing for bed—I have thrown together without order, and just as +they have come into my mind, such hints and documents as I deem may be +of use to thee; intending, in this, to give thee a token of my love; +not doubting, my dear Toby, of the manner in which it will be accepted. + +“In the first place, with regard to all which concerns religion in the +affair—though I perceive from a glow in my cheek, that I blush as I +begin to speak to thee upon the subject, as well knowing, +notwithstanding thy unaffected secrecy, how few of its offices thou +neglectest—yet I would remind thee of one (during the continuance of +thy courtship) in a particular manner, which I would not have omitted; +and that is, never to go forth upon the enterprise, whether it be in +the morning or in the afternoon, without first recommending thyself to +the protection of Almighty God, that He may defend thee from the evil +one. + +“Shave the whole top of thy crown clean once at least every four or +five days, but oftener if convenient; lest in taking off thy wig before +her, thro’ absence of mind, she should be able to discover how much has +been cut away by Time—how much by Trim. + +“’Twere better to keep ideas of baldness out of her fancy. + +“Always carry it in thy mind, and act upon it as a sure maxim, Toby— + +“_‘That women are timid.’_ And ’tis well they are—else there would be +no dealing with them. + +“Let not thy breeches be too tight, or hang too loose about thy thighs, +like the trunk-hose of our ancestors. + +“A just medium prevents all conclusions. + +“Whatever thou hast to say, be it more or less, forget not to utter it +in a low soft tone of voice. Silence, and whatever approaches it, +weaves dreams of midnight secrecy into the brain: For this cause, if +thou canst help it, never throw down the tongs and poker. + +“Avoid all kinds of pleasantry and facetiousness in thy discourse with +her, and do whatever lies in thy power at the same time, to keep from +her all books and writings which tend there to: there are some +devotional tracts, which if thou canst entice her to read over, it will +be well: but suffer her not to look into _Rabelais_, or _Scarron_, or +_Don Quixote_. + +“They are all books which excite laughter; and thou knowest, dear Toby, +that there is no passion so serious as lust. + +“Stick a pin in the bosom of thy shirt, before thou enterest her +parlor. + +“And if thou art permitted to sit upon the same sofa with her, and she +gives thee occasion to lay thy hand upon hers—beware of taking it—thou +canst not lay thy hand upon hers, but she will feel the temper of +thine. Leave that and as many other things as thou canst, quite +undetermined; by so doing, thou wilt have her curiosity on thy side; +and if she is not conquered by that, and thy Asse continues still +kicking, which there is great reason to suppose—thou must begin, with +first losing a few ounces of blood below the ears, according to the +practice of the ancient Scythians, who cured the most intemperate fits +of the appetite by that means. + +“_Avicenna_, after this, is for having the part anointed with the syrup +of hellebore, using proper evacuations and purges—and I believe +rightly. But thou must eat little or no goat’s flesh, nor red deer—nor +even foal’s flesh by any means; and carefully abstain—that is, as much +as thou canst,—from peacocks, cranes, coots, didappers and water-hens. + +“As for thy drink—I need not tell thee, it must be the infusion of +Vervain and the herb Hanea, of which Aelian relates such effects; but +if thy stomach palls with it—discontinue it from time to time, taking +cucumbers, melons, purslane, water-lilies, woodbine, and lettuce, in +the stead of them. + +“There is nothing further for thee, which occurs to me at present— + +“Unless the breaking out of a fresh war.—So wishing everything, dear +Toby, for the best, + +“I rest thy affectionate brother, + +“WALTER SHANDY.” + + +Under the present circumstances Sterne himself would doubtless have +omitted from his letter the passage about the ass; and, far from +advising the predestined to be bled he would have changed the regimen +of cucumbers and lettuces for one eminently substantial. He recommended +the exercise of economy, in order to attain to the power of magic +liberality in the moment of war, thus imitating the admirable example +of the English government, which in time of peace has two hundred ships +in commission, but whose shipwrights can, in time of need, furnish +double that quantity when it is desirable to scour the sea and carry +off a whole foreign navy. + +When a man belongs to the small class of those who by a liberal +education have been made masters of the domain of thought, he ought +always, before marrying, to examine his physical and moral resources. +To contend advantageously with the tempest which so many attractions +tend to raise in the heart of his wife, a husband ought to possess, +besides the science of pleasure and a fortune which saves him from +sinking into any class of the predestined, robust health, exquisite +tact, considerable intellect, too much good sense to make his +superiority felt, excepting on fit occasions, and finally great +acuteness of hearing and sight. + +If he has a handsome face, a good figure, a manly air, and yet falls +short of all these promises, he will sink into the class of the +predestined. On the other hand, a husband who is plain in features but +has a face full of expression, will find himself, if his wife once +forgets his plainness, in a situation most favorable for his struggle +against the genius of evil. + +He will study (and this is a detail omitted from the letter of Sterne) +to give no occasion for his wife’s disgust. Also, he will resort +moderately to the use of perfumes, which, however, always expose beauty +to injurious suspicions. + +He ought as carefully to study how to behave and how to pick out +subjects of conversation, as if he were courting the most inconstant of +women. It is for him that a philosopher has made the following +reflection: + +“More than one woman has been rendered unhappy for the rest of her +life, has been lost and dishonored by a man whom she has ceased to +love, because he took off his coat awkwardly, trimmed one of his nails +crookedly, put on a stocking wrong side out, and was clumsy with a +button.” + +One of the most important of his duties will be to conceal from his +wife the real state of his fortune, so that he may satisfy her fancies +and caprices as generous celibates are wont to do. + +Then the most difficult thing of all, a thing to accomplish which +superhuman courage is required, is to exercise the most complete +control over the ass of which Sterne speaks. This ass ought to be as +submissive as a serf of the thirteenth century was to his lord; to obey +and be silent, advance and stop, at the slightest word. + +Even when equipped with these advantages, a husband enters the lists +with scarcely any hope of success. Like all the rest, he still runs the +risk of becoming, for his wife, a sort of responsible editor. + +“And why!” will exclaim certain good but small-minded people, whose +horizon is limited to the tip of their nose, “why is it necessary to +take so much pains in order to love, and why is it necessary to go to +school beforehand, in order to be happy in your own home? Does the +government intend to institute a professional chair of love, just as it +has instituted a chair of law?” + +This is our answer: + +These multiplied rules, so difficult to deduce, these minute +observations, these ideas which vary so as to suit different +temperaments, are innate, so to speak, in the heart of those who are +born for love; just as his feeling of taste and his indescribable +felicity in combining ideas are natural to the soul of the poet, the +painter or the musician. The men who would experience any fatigue in +putting into practice the instructions given in this Meditation are +naturally predestined, just as he who cannot perceive the connection +which exists between two different ideas is an imbecile. As a matter of +fact, love has its great men although they be unrecognized, as war has +its Napoleons, poetry its Andre Cheniers and philosophy its Descartes. + +This last observation contains the germ of a true answer to the +question which men from time immemorial have been asking: Why are happy +marriages so very rare? + +This phenomenon of the moral world is rarely met with for the reason +that people of genius are rarely met with. A passion which lasts is a +sublime drama acted by two performers of equal talent, a drama in which +sentiments form the catastrophe, where desires are incidents and the +lightest thought brings a change of scene. Now how is it possible, in +this herd of bimana which we call a nation, to meet, on any but rare +occasions, a man and a woman who possess in the same degree the genius +of love, when men of talent are so thinly sown and so rare in all other +sciences, in the pursuit of which the artist needs only to understand +himself, in order to attain success? + +Up to the present moment, we have been confronted with making a +forecast of the difficulties, to some degree physical, which two +married people have to overcome, in order to be happy; but what a task +would be ours if it were necessary to unfold the startling array of +moral obligations which spring from their differences in character? Let +us cry halt! The man who is skillful enough to guide the temperament +will certainly show himself master of the soul of another. + +We will suppose that our model husband fulfills the primary conditions +necessary, in order that he may dispute or maintain possession of his +wife, in spite of all assailants. We will admit that he is not to be +reckoned in any of the numerous classes of the predestined which we +have passed in review. Let us admit that he has become imbued with the +spirit of all our maxims; that he has mastered the admirable science, +some of whose precepts we have made known; that he has married wisely, +that he knows his wife, that he is loved by her; and let us continue +the enumeration of all those general causes which might aggravate the +critical situation which we shall represent him as occupying for the +instruction of the human race. + +MEDITATION VI. + +OF BOARDING SCHOOLS. + + +If you have married a young lady whose education has been carried on at +a boarding school, there are thirty more obstacles to your happiness, +added to all those which we have already enumerated, and you are +exactly like a man who thrusts his hands into a wasp’s nest. + +Immediately, therefore, after the nuptial blessing has been pronounced, +without allowing yourself to be imposed upon by the innocent ignorance, +the frank graces and the modest countenance of your wife, you ought to +ponder well and faithfully follow out the axioms and precepts which we +shall develop in the second part of this book. You should even put into +practice the rigors prescribed in the third part, by maintaining an +active surveillance, a paternal solicitude at all hours, for the very +day after your marriage, perhaps on the evening of your wedding day, +there is danger in the house. + +I mean to say that you should call to mind the secret and profound +instruction which the pupils have acquired _de natura rerum_,—of the +nature of things. Did Lapeyrouse, Cook or Captain Peary ever show so +much ardor in navigating the ocean towards the Poles as the scholars of +the Lycee do in approaching forbidden tracts in the ocean of pleasure? +Since girls are more cunning, cleverer and more curious than boys, +their secret meetings and their conversations, which all the art of +their teachers cannot check, are necessarily presided over by a genius +a thousand times more informal than that of college boys. What man has +ever heard the moral reflections and the corrupting confidences of +these young girls? They alone know the sports at which honor is lost in +advance, those essays in pleasure, those promptings in voluptuousness, +those imitations of bliss, which may be compared to the thefts made by +greedy children from a dessert which is locked up. A girl may come +forth from her boarding school a virgin, but never chaste. She will +have discussed, time and time again at secret meetings, the important +question of lovers, and corruption will necessarily have overcome her +heart or her spirit. + +Nevertheless, we will admit that your wife has not participated in +these virginal delights, in these premature deviltries. Is she any +better because she has never had any voice in the secret councils of +grown-up girls? No! She will, in any case, have contracted a friendship +with other young ladies, and our computation will be modest, if we +attribute to her no more than two or three intimate friends. Are you +certain that after your wife has left boarding school, her young +friends have not there been admitted to those confidences, in which an +attempt is made to learn in advance, at least by analogy, the pastimes +of doves? And then her friends will marry; you will have four women to +watch instead of one, four characters to divine, and you will be at the +mercy of four husbands and a dozen celibates, of whose life, principles +and habits you are quite ignorant, at a time when our meditations have +revealed to you certain coming of a day when you will have your hands +full with the people whom you married with your wife. Satan alone could +have thought of placing a girl’s boarding school in the middle of a +large town! Madame Campan had at least the wisdom to set up her famous +institution at Ecouen. This sensible precaution proved that she was no +ordinary woman. There, her young ladies did not gaze upon the picture +gallery of the streets, the huge and grotesque figures and the obscene +words drawn by some evil-spirited pencil. They had not perpetually +before their eyes the spectacle of human infirmities exhibited at every +barrier in France, and treacherous book-stalls did not vomit out upon +them in secret the poison of books which taught evil and set passion on +fire. This wise school-mistress, moreover, could only at Ecouen +preserve a young lady for you spotless and pure, if, even there, that +were possible. Perhaps you hope to find no difficulty in preventing +your wife from seeing her school friends? What folly! She will meet +them at the ball, at the theatre, out walking and in the world at +large; and how many services two friends can render each other! But we +will meditate upon this new subject of alarm in its proper place and +order. + +Nor is this all; if your mother-in-law sent her daughter to a boarding +school, do you believe that this was out of solicitude for her +daughter? A girl of twelve or fifteen is a terrible Argus; and if your +mother-in-law did not wish to have an Argus in her house I should be +inclined to suspect that your mother-in-law belonged undoubtedly to the +most shady section of our honest women. She will, therefore, prove for +her daughter on every occasion either a deadly example or a dangerous +adviser. + +Let us stop here!—The mother-in-law requires a whole Meditation for +herself. + +So that, whichever way you turn, the bed of marriage, in this +connection, is equally full of thorns. + +Before the Revolution, several aristocratic families used to send their +daughters to the convent. This example was followed by a number of +people who imagined that in sending their daughters to a school where +the daughters of some great noblemen were sent, they would assume the +tone and manners of aristocrats. This delusion of pride was, from the +first, fatal to domestic happiness; for the convents had all the +disadvantages of other boarding schools. The idleness that prevailed +there was more terrible. The cloister bars inflame the imagination. +Solitude is a condition very favorable to the devil; and one can +scarcely imagine what ravages the most ordinary phenomena of life are +able to leave in the soul of these young girls, dreamy, ignorant and +unoccupied. + +Some of them, by reason of their having indulged idle fancies, are led +into curious blunders. Others, having indulged in exaggerated ideas of +married life, say to themselves, as soon as they have taken a husband, +“What! Is this all?” In every way, the imperfect instruction, which is +given to girls educated in common, has in it all the danger of +ignorance and all the unhappiness of science. + +A young girl brought up at home by her mother or by her virtuous, +bigoted, amiable or cross-grained old aunt; a young girl, whose steps +have never crossed the home threshold without being surrounded by +chaperons, whose laborious childhood has been wearied by tasks, albeit +they were profitless, to whom in short everything is a mystery, even +the Seraphin puppet show, is one of those treasures which are met with, +here and there in the world, like woodland flowers surrounded by +brambles so thick that mortal eye cannot discern them. The man who owns +a flower so sweet and pure as this, and leaves it to be cultivated by +others, deserves his unhappiness a thousand times over. He is either a +monster or a fool. + +And if in the preceding Meditation we have succeeded in proving to you +that by far the greater number of men live in the most absolute +indifference to their personal honor, in the matter of marriage, is it +reasonable to believe that any considerable number of them are +sufficiently rich, sufficiently intellectual, sufficiently penetrating +to waste, like Burchell in the _Vicar of Wakefield_, one or two years +in studying and watching the girls whom they mean to make their wives, +when they pay so little attention to them after conjugal possession +during that period of time which the English call the honeymoon, and +whose influence we shall shortly discuss? + +Since, however, we have spent some time in reflecting upon this +important matter, we would observe that there are many methods of +choosing more or less successfully, even though the choice be promptly +made. + +It is, for example, beyond doubt that the probabilities will be in your +favor: + +I. If you have chosen a young lady whose temperament resembles that of +the women of Louisiana or the Carolinas. + +To obtain reliable information concerning the temperament of a young +person, it is necessary to put into vigorous operation the system which +Gil Blas prescribes, in dealing with chambermaids, a system employed by +statesmen to discover conspiracies and to learn how the ministers have +passed the night. + +II. If you choose a young lady who, without being plain, does not +belong to the class of pretty women. + +We regard it as an infallible principle that great sweetness of +disposition united in a woman with plainness that is not repulsive, +form two indubitable elements of success in securing the greatest +possible happiness to the home. + +But would you learn the truth? Open your Rousseau; for there is not a +single question of public morals whose trend he has not pointed out in +advance. Read: + +“Among people of fixed principles the girls are careless, the women +severe; the contrary is the case among people of no principle.” + +To admit the truth enshrined in this profound and truthful remark is to +conclude, that there would be fewer unhappy marriages if men wedded +their mistresses. The education of girls requires, therefore, important +modifications in France. Up to this time French laws and French manners +instituted to distinguish between a misdemeanor and a crime, have +encouraged crime. In reality the fault committed by a young girl is +scarcely ever a misdemeanor, if you compare it with that committed by +the married woman. Is there any comparison between the danger of giving +liberty to girls and that of allowing it to wives? The idea of taking a +young girl on trial makes more serious men think than fools laugh. The +manners of Germany, of Switzerland, of England and of the United States +give to young ladies such rights as in France would be considered the +subversion of all morality; and yet it is certain that in these +countries there are fewer unhappy marriages than in France. + +LV. “Before a woman gives herself entirely up to her lover, she ought +to consider well what his love has to offer her. The gift of her esteem +and confidence should necessarily precede that of her heart.” + +Sparkling with truth as they are, these lines probably filled with +light the dungeon, in the depths of which Mirabeau wrote them; and the +keen observation which they bear witness to, although prompted by the +most stormy of his passions, has none the less influence even now in +solving the social problem on which we are engaged. In fact, a marriage +sealed under the auspices of the religious scrutiny which assumes the +existence of love, and subjected to the atmosphere of that +disenchantment which follows on possession, ought naturally to be the +most firmly-welded of all human unions. + +A woman then ought never to reproach her husband for the legal right, +in virtue of which she belongs to him. She ought not to find in this +compulsory submission any excuse for yielding to a lover, because some +time after her marriage she has discovered in her own heart a traitor +whose sophisms seduce her by asking twenty times an hour, “Wherefore, +since she has been given against her will to a man whom she does not +love, should she not give herself, of her own free-will, to a man whom +she does love.” A woman is not to be tolerated in her complaints +concerning faults inseparable from human nature. She has, in advance, +made trial of the tyranny which they exercise, and taken sides with the +caprices which they exhibit. + +A great many young girls are likely to be disappointed in their hopes +of love!—But will it not be an immense advantage to them to have +escaped being made the companions of men whom they would have had the +right to despise? + +Certain alarmists will exclaim that such an alteration in our manners +would bring about a public dissoluteness which would be frightful; that +the laws, and the customs which prompt the laws, could not after all +authorize scandal and immorality; and if certain unavoidable abuses do +exist, at least society ought not to sanction them. + +It is easy to say, in reply, first of all, that the proposed system +tends to prevent those abuses which have been hitherto regarded as +incapable of prevention; but, the calculations of our statistics, +inexact as they are, have invariably pointed out a widely prevailing +social sore, and our moralists may, therefore, be accused of preferring +the greater to the lesser evil, the violation of the principle on which +society is constituted, to the granting of a certain liberty to girls; +and dissoluteness in mothers of families, such as poisons the springs +of public education and brings unhappiness upon at least four persons, +to dissoluteness in a young girl, which only affects herself or at the +most a child besides. Let the virtue of ten virgins be lost rather than +forfeit this sanctity of morals, that crown of honor with which the +mother of a family should be invested! In the picture presented by a +young girl abandoned by her betrayer, there is something imposing, +something indescribably sacred; here we see oaths violated, holy +confidences betrayed, and on the ruins of a too facile virtue innocence +sits in tears, doubting everything, because compelled to doubt the love +of a father for his child. The unfortunate girl is still innocent; she +may yet become a faithful wife, a tender mother, and, if the past is +mantled in clouds, the future is blue as the clear sky. Shall we not +find these tender tints in the gloomy pictures of loves which violate +the marriage law? In the one, the woman is the victim, in the other, +she is a criminal. What hope is there for the unfaithful wife? If God +pardons the fault, the most exemplary life cannot efface, here below, +its living consequences. If James I was the son of Rizzio, the crime of +Mary lasted as long as did her mournful though royal house, and the +fall of the Stuarts was the justice of God. + +But in good faith, would the emancipation of girls set free such a host +of dangers? + +It is very easy to accuse a young person for suffering herself to be +deceived, in the desire to escape, at any price, from the condition of +girlhood; but such an accusation is only just in the present condition +of our manners. At the present day, a young person knows nothing about +seduction and its snares, she relies altogether upon her weakness, and +mingling with this reliance the convenient maxims of the fashionable +world, she takes as her guide while under the control of those desires +which everything conspires to excite, her own deluding fancies, which +prove a guide all the more treacherous, because a young girl rarely +ever confides to another the secret thoughts of her first love. + +If she were free, an education free from prejudices would arm her +against the love of the first comer. She would, like any one else, be +very much better able to meet dangers of which she knew, than perils +whose extent had been concealed from her. And, moreover, is it +necessary for a girl to be any the less under the watchful eye of her +mother, because she is mistress of her own actions? Are we to count as +nothing the modesty and the fears which nature has made so powerful in +the soul of a young girl, for the very purpose of preserving her from +the misfortune of submitting to a man who does not love her? Again, +what girl is there so thoughtless as not to discern, that the most +immoral man wishes his wife to be a woman of principle, as masters +desire their servants to be perfect; and that, therefore, her virtue is +the richest and the most advantageous of all possessions? + +After all, what is the question before us? For what do you think we are +stipulating? We are making a claim for five or six hundred thousand +maidens, protected by their instinctive timidity, and by the high price +at which they rate themselves; they understand how to defend +themselves, just as well as they know how to sell themselves. The +eighteen millions of human beings, whom we have excepted from this +consideration, almost invariably contract marriages in accordance with +the system which we are trying to make paramount in our system of +manners; and as to the intermediary classes by which we poor bimana are +separated from the men of privilege who march at the head of a nation, +the number of castaway children which these classes, although in +tolerably easy circumstances, consign to misery, goes on increasing +since the peace, if we may believe M. Benoiston de Chateauneuf, one of +the most courageous of those savants who have devoted themselves to the +arid yet useful study of statistics. We may guess how deep-seated is +the social hurt, for which we propound a remedy, if we reckon the +number of natural children which statistics reveal, and the number of +illicit adventures whose evidence in high society we are forced to +suspect. But it is difficult here to make quite plain all the +advantages which would result from the emancipation of young girls. +When we come to observe the circumstances which attend a marriage, such +as our present manners approve of, judicious minds must appreciate the +value of that system of education and liberty, which we demand for +young girls, in the name of reason and nature. The prejudice which we +in France entertain in favor of the virginity of brides is the most +silly of all those which still survive among us. The Orientals take +their brides without distressing themselves about the past and lock +them up in order to be more certain about the future; the French put +their daughters into a sort of seraglio defended by their mothers, by +prejudice, and by religious ideas, and give the most complete liberty +to their wives, thus showing themselves much more solicitous about a +woman’s past than about her future. The point we are aiming at is to +bring about a reversal of our system of manners. If we did so we should +end, perhaps, by giving to faithful married life all the flavor and the +piquancy which women of to-day find in acts of infidelity. + +But this discussion would take us far from our subject, if it led us to +examine, in all its details, the vast improvement in morals which +doubtless will distinguish twentieth century France; for morals are +reformed only very gradually! Is it not necessary, in order to produce +the slightest change, that the most daring dreams of the past century +become the most trite ideas of the present one? We have touched upon +this question merely in a trifling mood, for the purposes of showing +that we are not blind to its importance, and of bequeathing also to +posterity the outline of a work, which they may complete. To speak more +accurately there is a third work to be composed; the first concerns +courtesans, while the second is the physiology of pleasure! + +“When there are ten of us, we cross ourselves.” + +In the present state of our morals and of our imperfect civilization, a +problem crops up which for the moment is insoluble, and which renders +superfluous all discussion on the art of choosing a wife; we commend +it, as we have done all the others, to the meditation of philosophers. + +PROBLEM. + +It has not yet been decided whether a wife is forced into infidelity by +the impossibility of obtaining any change, or by the liberty which is +allowed her in this connection. + +Moreover, as in this work we pitch upon a man at the moment that he is +newly married, we declare that if he has found a wife of sanguine +temperament, of vivid imagination, of a nervous constitution or of an +indolent character, his situation cannot fail to be extremely serious. + +A man would find himself in a position of danger even more critical if +his wife drank nothing but water [see the Meditation entitled _Conjugal +Hygiene_]; but if she had some talent for singing, or if she were +disposed to take cold easily, he should tremble all the time; for it +must be remembered that women who sing are at least as passionate as +women whose mucous membrane shows extreme delicacy. + +Again, this danger would be aggravated still more if your wife were +less than seventeen; or if, on the other hand, her general complexion +were pale and dull, for this sort of woman is almost always artificial. + +But we do not wish to anticipate here any description of the terrors +which threaten husbands from the symptoms of unhappiness which they +read in the character of their wives. This digression has already taken +us too far from the subject of boarding schools, in which so many +catastrophes are hatched, and from which issue so many young girls +incapable of appreciating the painful sacrifices by which the honest +man who does them the honor of marrying them, has obtained opulence; +young girls eager for the enjoyments of luxury, ignorant of our laws, +ignorant of our manners, claim with avidity the empire which their +beauty yields them, and show themselves quite ready to turn away from +the genuine utterances of the heart, while they readily listen to the +buzzing of flattery. + +This Meditation should plant in the memory of all who read it, even +those who merely open the book for the sake of glancing at it or +distracting their mind, an intense repugnance for young women educated +in a boarding school, and if it succeeds in doing so, its services to +the public will have already proved considerable. + +MEDITATION VII. + +OF THE HONEYMOON. + + +If our meditations prove that it is almost impossible for a married +woman to remain virtuous in France, our enumeration of the celibates +and the predestined, our remarks upon the education of girls, and our +rapid survey of the difficulties which attend the choice of a wife will +explain up to a certain point this national frailty. Thus, after +indicating frankly the aching malady under which the social slate is +laboring, we have sought for the causes in the imperfection of the +laws, in the irrational condition of our manners, in the incapacity of +our minds, and in the contradictions which characterize our habits. A +single point still claims our observation, and that is the first +onslaught of the evil we are confronting. + +We reach this first question on approaching the high problems suggested +by the honeymoon; and although we find here the starting point of all +the phenomena of married life, it appears to us to be the brilliant +link round which are clustered all our observations, our axioms, our +problems, which have been scattered deliberately among the wise quips +which our loquacious meditations retail. The honeymoon would seem to +be, if we may use the expression, the apogee of that analysis to which +we must apply ourselves, before engaging in battle our two imaginary +champions. + +The expression _honeymoon_ is an Anglicism, which has become an idiom +in all languages, so gracefully does it depict the nuptial season which +is so fugitive, and during which life is nothing but sweetness and +rapture; the expression survives as illusions and errors survive, for +it contains the most odious of falsehoods. If this season is presented +to us as a nymph crowned with fresh flowers, caressing as a siren, it +is because in it is unhappiness personified and unhappiness generally +comes during the indulgence of folly. + +The married couple who intend to love each other during their whole +life have no notion of a honeymoon; for them it has no existence, or +rather its existence is perennial; they are like the immortals who do +not understand death. But the consideration of this happiness is not +germane to our book; and for our readers marriage is under the +influence of two moons, the honeymoon and the Red-moon. This last +terminates its course by a revolution, which changes it to a crescent; +and when once it rises upon a home its light there is eternal. + +How can the honeymoon rise upon two beings who cannot possibly love +each other? + +How can it set, when once it has risen? + +Have all marriages their honeymoon? + +Let us proceed to answer these questions in order. + +It is in this connection that the admirable education which we give to +girls, and the wise provisions made by the law under which men marry, +bear all their fruit. Let us examine the circumstances which precede +and attend those marriages which are least disastrous. + +The tone of our morals develops in the young girl whom you make your +wife a curiosity which is naturally excessive; but as mothers in France +pique themselves on exposing their girls every day to the fire which +they do not allow to scorch them, this curiosity has no limit. + +Her profound ignorance of the mysteries of marriage conceals from this +creature, who is as innocent as she is crafty, a clear view of the +dangers by which marriage is followed; and as marriage is incessantly +described to her as an epoch in which tyranny and liberty equally +prevail, and in which enjoyment and supremacy are to be indulged in, +her desires are intensified by all her interest in an existence as yet +unfulfilled; for her to marry is to be called up from nothingness into +life! + +If she has a disposition for happiness, for religion, for morality, the +voices of the law and of her mother have repeated to her that this +happiness can only come to her from you. + +Obedience if it is not virtue, is at least a necessary thing with her; +for she expects everything from you. In the first place, society +sanctions the slavery of a wife, but she does not conceive even the +wish to be free, for she feels herself weak, timid and ignorant. + +Of course she tries to please you, unless a chance error is committed, +or she is seized by a repugnance which it would be unpardonable in you +not to divine. She tries to please because she does not know you. + +In a word, in order to complete your triumph, you take her at a moment +when nature demands, often with some violence, the pleasure of which +you are the dispenser. Like St. Peter you hold the keys of Paradise. + +I would ask of any reasonable creature, would a demon marshal round the +angel whose ruin he had vowed all the elements of disaster with more +solicitude than that with which good morals conspire against the +happiness of a husband? Are you not a king surrounded by flatterers? + +This young girl, with all her ignorance and all her desires, committed +to the mercy of a man who, even though he be in love, cannot know her +shrinking and secret emotions, will submit to him with a certain sense +of shame, and will be obedient and complaisant so long as her young +imagination persuades her to expect the pleasure or the happiness of +that morrow which never dawns. + +In this unnatural situation social laws and the laws of nature are in +conflict, but the young girl obediently abandons herself to it, and, +from motives of self-interest, suffers in silence. Her obedience is a +speculation; her complaisance is a hope; her devotion to you is a sort +of vocation, of which you reap the advantage; and her silence is +generosity. She will remain the victim of your caprices so long as she +does not understand them; she will suffer from the limitations of your +character until she has studied it; she will sacrifice herself without +love, because she believed in the show of passion you made at the first +moment of possession; she will no longer be silent when once she has +learned the uselessness of her sacrifices. + +And then the morning arrives when the inconsistencies which have +prevailed in this union rise up like branches of a tree bent down for a +moment under a weight which has been gradually lightened. You have +mistaken for love the negative attitude of a young girl who was waiting +for happiness, who flew in advance of your desires, in the hope that +you would go forward in anticipation of hers, and who did not dare to +complain of the secret unhappiness, for which she at first accused +herself. What man could fail to be the dupe of a delusion prepared at +such long range, and in which a young innocent woman is at once the +accomplice and the victim? Unless you were a divine being it would be +impossible for you to escape the fascination with which nature and +society have surrounded you. Is not a snare set in everything which +surrounds you on the outside and influences you within? For in order to +be happy, is it not necessary to control the impetuous desires of your +senses? Where is the powerful barrier to restrain her, raised by the +light hand of a woman whom you wish to please, because you do not +possess? Moreover, you have caused your troops to parade and march by, +when there was no one at the window; you have discharged your fireworks +whose framework alone was left, when your guest arrived to see them. +Your wife, before the pledges of marriage, was like a Mohican at the +Opera: the teacher becomes listless, when the savage begins to +understand. + +LVI. In married life, the moment when two hearts come to understand +each other is sudden as a flash of lightning, and never returns, when +once it is passed. + +This first entrance into life of two persons, during which a woman is +encouraged by the hope of happiness, by the still fresh sentiment of +her married duty, by the wish to please, by the sense of virtue which +begins to be so attractive as soon as it shows love to be in harmony +with duty, is called the honeymoon. How can it last long between two +beings who are united for their whole life, unless they know each other +perfectly? If there is one thing which ought to cause astonishment it +is this, that the deplorable absurdities which our manners heap up +around the nuptial couch give birth to so few hatreds! But that the +life of the wise man is a calm current, and that of the prodigal a +cataract; that the child, whose thoughtless hands have stripped the +leaves from every rose upon his pathway, finds nothing but thorns on +his return, that the man who in his wild youth has squandered a +million, will never enjoy, during his life, the income of forty +thousand francs, which this million would have provided—are trite +commonplaces, if one thinks of the moral theory of life; but new +discoveries, if we consider the conduct of most men. You may see here a +true image of all honeymoons; this is their history, this is the plain +fact and not the cause that underlies it. + +But that men endowed with a certain power of thought by a privileged +education, and accustomed to think deliberately, in order to shine in +politics, literature, art, commerce or private life—that these men +should all marry with the intention of being happy, of governing a +wife, either by love or by force, and should all tumble into the same +pitfall and should become foolish, after having enjoyed a certain +happiness for a certain time,—this is certainly a problem whose +solution is to be found rather in the unknown depths of the human soul, +than in the quasi physical truths, on the basis of which we have +hitherto attempted to explain some of these phenomena. The risky search +for the secret laws, which almost all men are bound to violate without +knowing it, under these circumstances, promises abundant glory for any +one even though he make shipwreck in the enterprise upon which we now +venture to set forth. Let us then make the attempt. + +In spite of all that fools have to say about the difficulty they have +had in explaining love, there are certain principles relating to it as +infallible as those of geometry; but in each character these are +modified according to its tendency; hence the caprices of love, which +are due to the infinite number of varying temperaments. If we were +permitted never to see the various effects of light without also +perceiving on what they were based, many minds would refuse to believe +in the movement of the sun and in its oneness. Let the blind men cry +out as they like; I boast with Socrates, although I am not as wise as +he was, that I know of naught save love; and I intend to attempt the +formulation of some of its precepts, in order to spare married people +the trouble of cudgeling their brains; they would soon reach the limit +of their wit. + +Now all the preceding observations may be resolved into a single +proposition, which may be considered either the first or last term in +this secret theory of love, whose statement would end by wearying us, +if we did not bring it to a prompt conclusion. This principle is +contained in the following formula: + +LVII. Between two beings susceptible of love, the duration of passion +is in proportion to the original resistance of the woman, or to the +obstacles which the accidents of social life put in the way of your +happiness. + +If you have desired your object only for one day, your love perhaps +will not last more than three nights. Where must we seek for the causes +of this law? I do not know. If you cast your eyes around you, you will +find abundant proof of this rule; in the vegetable world the plants +which take the longest time to grow are those which promise to have the +longest life; in the moral order of things the works produced yesterday +die to-morrow; in the physical world the womb which infringes the laws +of gestation bears dead fruit. In everything, a work which is permanent +has been brooded over by time for a long period. A long future requires +a long past. If love is a child, passion is a man. This general law, +which all men obey, to which all beings and all sentiments must submit, +is precisely that which every marriage infringes, as we have plainly +shown. This principle has given rise to the love tales of the Middle +Ages; the Amadises, the Lancelots, the Tristans of ballad literature, +whose constancy may justly be called fabulous, are allegories of the +national mythology which our imitation of Greek literature nipped in +the bud. These fascinating characters, outlined by the imagination of +the troubadours, set their seal and sanction upon this truth. + +LVIII. We do not attach ourselves permanently to any possessions, +excepting in proportion to the trouble, toil and longing which they +have cost us. + +All our meditations have revealed to us about the basis of the +primordial law of love is comprised in the following axiom, which is at +the same time the principle and the result of the law. + +LIX. +In every case we receive only in proportion to what we give. + +This last principle is so self-evident that we will not attempt to +demonstrate it. We merely add a single observation which appears to us +of some importance. The writer who said: “Everything is true, and +everything is false,” announced a fact which the human intellect, +naturally prone to sophism, interprets as it chooses, but it really +seems as though human affairs have as many facets as there are minds +that contemplate them. This fact may be detailed as follows: + +There cannot be found, in all creation, a single law which is not +counterbalanced by a law exactly contrary to it; life in everything is +maintained by the equilibrium of two opposing forces. So in the present +subject, as regards love, if you give too much, you will not receive +enough. The mother who shows her children her whole tenderness calls +forth their ingratitude, and ingratitude is occasioned, perhaps, by the +impossibility of reciprocation. The wife who loves more than she is +loved must necessarily be the object of tyranny. Durable love is that +which always keeps the forces of two human beings in equilibrium. Now +this equilibrium may be maintained permanently; the one who loves the +more ought to stop at the point of the one who loves the less. And is +it not, after all the sweetest sacrifice that a loving heart can make, +that love should so accommodate itself as to adjust the inequality? + +What sentiment of admiration must rise in the soul of a philosopher on +discovering that there is, perhaps, but one single principle in the +world, as there is but one God; and that our ideas and our affections +are subject to the same laws which cause the sun to rise, the flowers +to bloom, the universe to teem with life! + +Perhaps, we ought to seek in the metaphysics of love the reasons for +the following proposition, which throws the most vivid light on the +question of honeymoons and of Red-moons: + +THEOREM. + +Man goes from aversion to love; but if he has begun by loving, and +afterwards comes to feel aversion, he never returns to love. + +In certain human organisms the feelings are dwarfed, as the thought may +be in certain sterile imaginations. Thus, just as some minds have the +faculty of comprehending the connections existing between different +things without formal deduction; and as they have the faculty of +seizing upon each formula separately, without combining them, or +without the power of insight, comparison and expression; so in the same +way, different souls may have more or less imperfect ideas of the +various sentiments. Talent in love, as in every other art, consists in +the power of forming a conception combined with the power of carrying +it out. The world is full of people who sing airs, but who omit the +_ritornello_, who have quarters of an idea, as they have quarters of +sentiment, but who can no more co-ordinate the movements of their +affections than of their thoughts. In a word, they are incomplete. +Unite a fine intelligence with a dwarfed intelligence and you +precipitate a disaster; for it is necessary that equilibrium be +preserved in everything. + +We leave to the philosophers of the boudoir or to the sages of the back +parlor to investigate the thousand ways in which men of different +temperaments, intellects, social positions and fortunes disturb this +equilibrium. Meanwhile we will proceed to examine the last cause for +the setting of the honeymoon and the rising of the Red-moon. + +There is in life one principle more potent than life itself. It is a +movement whose celerity springs from an unknown motive power. Man is no +more acquainted with the secret of this revolution than the earth is +aware of that which causes her rotation. A certain something, which I +gladly call the current of life, bears along our choicest thoughts, +makes use of most people’s will and carries us on in spite of +ourselves. Thus, a man of common-sense, who never fails to pay his +bills, if he is a merchant, a man who has been able to escape death, or +what perhaps is more trying, sickness, by the observation of a certain +easy but daily regimen, is completely and duly nailed up between the +four planks of his coffin, after having said every evening: “Dear me! +to-morrow I will not forget my pills!” How are we to explain this magic +spell which rules all the affairs of life? Do men submit to it from a +want of energy? Men who have the strongest wills are subject to it. Is +it default of memory? People who possess this faculty in the highest +degree yield to its fascination. + +Every one can recognize the operation of this influence in the case of +his neighbor, and it is one of the things which exclude the majority of +husbands from the honeymoon. It is thus that the wise man, survivor of +all reefs and shoals, such as we have pointed out, sometimes falls into +the snares which he himself has set. + +I have myself noticed that man deals with marriage and its dangers in +very much the same way that he deals with wigs; and perhaps the +following phases of thought concerning wigs may furnish a formula for +human life in general. + +FIRST EPOCH.—Is it possible that I shall ever have white hair? + +SECOND EPOCH.—In any case, if I have white hair, I shall never wear a +wig. Good Lord! what is more ugly than a wig? + +One morning you hear a young voice, which love much oftener makes to +vibrate than lulls to silence, exclaiming: + +“Well, I declare! You have a white hair!” + +THIRD EPOCH.—Why not wear a well-made wig which people would not +notice? There is a certain merit in deceiving everybody; besides, a wig +keeps you warm, prevents taking cold, etc. + +FOURTH EPOCH.—The wig is so skillfully put on that you deceive every +one who does not know you. + +The wig takes up all your attention, and _amour-propre_ makes you every +morning as busy as the most skillful hairdresser. + +FIFTH EPOCH.—The neglected wig. “Good heavens! How tedious it is, to +have to go with bare head every evening, and to curl one’s wig every +morning!” + +SIXTH EPOCH.—The wig allows certain white hairs to escape; it is put on +awry and the observer perceives on the back of your neck a white line, +which contrasts with the deep tints pushed back by the collar of your +coat. + +SEVENTH EPOCH.—Your wig is as scraggy as dog’s tooth grass; and —excuse +the expression—you are making fun of your wig. + +“Sir,” said one of the most powerful feminine intelligences which have +condescended to enlighten me on some of the most obscure passages in my +book, “what do you mean by this wig?” + +“Madame,” I answered, “when a man falls into a mood of indifference +with regard to his wig, he is,—he is—what your husband probably is +not.” + +“But my husband is not—” (she paused and thought for a moment). “He is +not amiable; he is not—well, he is not—of an even temper; he is not—” + +“Then, madame, he would doubtless be indifferent to his wig!” + +We looked at each other, she with a well-assumed air of dignity, I with +a suppressed smile. + +“I see,” said I, “that we must pay special respect to the ears of the +little sex, for they are the only chaste things about them.” + +I assumed the attitude of a man who has something of importance to +disclose, and the fair dame lowered her eyes, as if she had some reason +to blush. + +“Madame, in these days a minister is not hanged, as once upon a time, +for saying yes or no; a Chateaubriand would scarcely torture Francoise +de Foix, and we wear no longer at our side a long sword ready to avenge +an insult. Now in a century when civilization has made such rapid +progress, when we can learn a science in twenty-four lessons, +everything must follow this race after perfection. We can no longer +speak the manly, rude, coarse language of our ancestors. The age in +which are fabricated such fine, such brilliant stuffs, such elegant +furniture, and when are made such rich porcelains, must needs be the +age of periphrase and circumlocution. We must try, therefore, to coin a +new word in place of the comic expression which Moliere used; since the +language of this great man, as a contemporary author has said, is too +free for ladies who find gauze too thick for their garments. But people +of the world know, as well as the learned, how the Greeks had an innate +taste for mysteries. That poetic nation knew well how to invest with +the tints of fable the antique traditions of their history. At the +voice of their rhapsodists together with their poets and romancers, +kings became gods and their adventures of gallantry were transformed +into immortal allegories. According to M. Chompre, licentiate in law, +the classic author of the _Dictionary of Mythology_, the labyrinth was +‘an enclosure planted with trees and adorned with buildings arranged in +such a way that when a young man once entered, he could no more find +his way out.’ Here and there flowery thickets were presented to his +view, but in the midst of a multitude of alleys, which crossed and +recrossed his path and bore the appearance of a uniform passage, among +the briars, rocks and thorns, the patient found himself in combat with +an animal called the Minotaur. + +“Now, madame, if you will allow me the honor of calling to your mind +the fact that the Minotaur was of all known beasts that which Mythology +distinguishes as the most dangerous; that in order to save themselves +from his ravages, the Athenians were bound to deliver to him, every +single year, fifty virgins; you will perhaps escape the error of good +M. Chompre, who saw in the labyrinth nothing but an English garden; and +you will recognize in this ingenious fable a refined allegory, or we +may better say a faithful and fearful image of the dangers of marriage. +The paintings recently discovered at Herculaneum have served to confirm +this opinion. And, as a matter of fact, learned men have for a long +time believed, in accordance with the writings of certain authors, that +the Minotaur was an animal half-man, half-bull; but the fifth panel of +ancient paintings at Herculaneum represents to us this allegorical +monster with a body entirely human; and, to take away all vestige of +doubt, he lies crushed at the feet of Theseus. Now, my dear madame, why +should we not ask Mythology to come and rescue us from that hypocrisy +which is gaining ground with us and hinders us from laughing as our +fathers laughed? And thus, since in the world a young lady does not +very well know how to spread the veil under which an honest woman hides +her behavior, in a contingency which our grandfathers would have +roughly explained by a single word, you, like a crowd of beautiful but +prevaricating ladies, you content yourselves with saying, ‘Ah! yes, she +is very amiable, but,’—but what?—‘but she is often very inconsistent—.’ +I have for a long time tried to find out the meaning of this last word, +and, above all, the figure of rhetoric by which you make it express the +opposite of that which it signifies; but all my researches have been in +vain. Vert-Vert used the word last, and was unfortunately addressed to +the innocent nuns whose infidelities did not in any way infringe the +honor of the men. When a woman is _inconsistent_ the husband must be, +according to me, _minotaurized_. If the minotaurized man is a fine +fellow, if he enjoys a certain esteem,—and many husbands really deserve +to be pitied,—then in speaking of him, you say in a pathetic voice, ‘M. +A—- is a very estimable man, his wife is exceedingly pretty, but they +say he is not happy in his domestic relations.’ Thus, madame, the +estimable man who is unhappy in his domestic relations, the man who has +an inconsistent wife, or the husband who is minotaurized are simply +husbands as they appear in Moliere. Well, then, O goddess of modern +taste, do not these expressions seem to you characterized by a +transparency chaste enough for anybody?” + +“Ah! mon Dieu!” she answered, laughing, “if the thing is the same, what +does it matter whether it be expressed in two syllables or in a +hundred?” + +She bade me good-bye, with an ironical nod and disappeared, doubtless +to join the countesses of my preface and all the metaphorical +creatures, so often employed by romance-writers as agents for the +recovery or composition of ancient manuscripts. + +As for you, the more numerous and the more real creatures who read my +book, if there are any among you who make common cause with my conjugal +champion, I give you notice that you will not at once become unhappy in +your domestic relations. A man arrives at this conjugal condition not +suddenly, but insensibly and by degrees. Many husbands have even +remained unfortunate in their domestic relations during their whole +life and have never known it. This domestic revolution develops itself +in accordance with fixed rules; for the revolutions of the honeymoon +are as regular as the phases of the moon in heaven, and are the same in +every married house. Have we not proved that moral nature, like +physical nature, has its laws? + +Your young wife will never take a lover, as we have elsewhere said, +without making serious reflections. As soon as the honeymoon wanes, you +will find that you have aroused in her a sentiment of pleasure which +you have not satisfied; you have opened to her the book of life; and +she has derived an excellent idea from the prosaic dullness which +distinguishes your complacent love, of the poetry which is the natural +result when souls and pleasures are in accord. Like a timid bird, just +startled by the report of a gun which has ceased, she puts her head out +of her nest, looks round her, and sees the world; and knowing the word +of a charade which you have played, she feels instinctively the void +which exists in your languishing passion. She divines that it is only +with a lover that she can regain the delightful exercise of her free +will in love. + +You have dried the green wood in preparation for a fire. + +In the situation in which both of you find yourselves, there is no +woman, even the most virtuous, who would not be found worthy of a +_grande passion_, who has not dreamed of it, and who does not believe +that it is easily kindled, for there is always found a certain +_amour-propre_ ready to reinforce that conquered enemy—a jaded wife. + +“If the role of an honest woman were nothing more than perilous,” said +an old lady to me, “I would admit that it would serve. But it is +tiresome; and I have never met a virtuous woman who did not think about +deceiving somebody.” + +And then, before any lover presents himself, a wife discusses with +herself the legality of the act; she enters into a conflict with her +duties, with the law, with religion and with the secret desires of a +nature which knows no check-rein excepting that which she places upon +herself. And then commences for you a condition of affairs totally new; +then you receive the first intimation which nature, that good and +indulgent mother, always gives to the creatures who are exposed to any +danger. Nature has put a bell on the neck of the Minotaur, as on the +tail of that frightful snake which is the terror of travelers. And then +appear in your wife what we will call the first symptoms, and woe to +him who does not know how to contend with them. Those who in reading +our book will remember that they saw those symptoms in their own +domestic life can pass to the conclusion of this work, where they will +find how they may gain consolation. + +The situation referred to, in which a married couple bind themselves +for a longer or a shorter time, is the point from which our work +starts, as it is the end at which our observations stop. A man of +intelligence should know how to recognize the mysterious indications, +the obscure signs and the involuntary revelation which a wife +unwittingly exhibits; for the next Meditation will doubtless indicate +the more evident of the manifestations to neophytes in the sublime +science of marriage. + +MEDITATION VIII. + +OF THE FIRST SYMPTOMS. + + +When your wife reaches that crisis in which we have left her, you +yourself are wrapped in a pleasant and unsuspicious security. You have +so often seen the sun that you begin to think it is shining over +everybody. You therefore give no longer that attention to the least +action of your wife, which was impelled by your first outburst of +passion. + +This indolence prevents many husbands from perceiving the symptoms +which, in their wives, herald the first storm; and this disposition of +mind has resulted in the minotaurization of more husbands than have +either opportunity, carriages, sofas and apartments in town. + +The feeling of indifference in the presence of danger is to some degree +justified by the apparent tranquillity which surrounds you. The +conspiracy which is formed against you by our million of hungry +celibates seems to be unanimous in its advance. Although all are +enemies of each other and know each other well, a sort of instinct +forces them into co-operation. + +Two persons are married. The myrmidons of the Minotaur, young and old, +have usually the politeness to leave the bride and bridegroom entirely +to themselves at first. They look upon the husband as an artisan, whose +business it is to trim, polish, cut into facets and mount the diamond, +which is to pass from hand to hand in order to be admired all around. +Moreover, the aspect of a young married couple much taken with each +other always rejoices the heart of those among the celibates who are +known as _roues_; they take good care not to disturb the excitement by +which society is to be profited; they also know that heavy showers to +not last long. They therefore keep quiet; they watch, and wait, with +incredible vigilance, for the moment when bride and groom begin to +weary of the seventh heaven. + +The tact with which celibates discover the moment when the breeze +begins to rise in a new home can only be compared to the indifference +of those husbands for whom the Red-moon rises. There is, even in +intrigue, a moment of ripeness which must be waited for. The great man +is he who anticipates the outcome of certain circumstances. Men of +fifty-two, whom we have represented as being so dangerous, know very +well, for example, that any man who offers himself as lover to a woman +and is haughtily rejected, will be received with open arms three months +afterwards. But it may be truly said that in general married people in +betraying their indifference towards each other show the same naivete +with which they first betrayed their love. At the time when you are +traversing with madame the ravishing fields of the seventh heaven—where +according to their temperament, newly married people remain encamped +for a longer or shorter time, as the preceding Meditation has +proved—you go little or not at all into society. Happy as you are in +your home, if you do go abroad, it will be for the purpose of making up +a choice party and visiting the theatre, the country, etc. From the +moment you the newly wedded make your appearance in the world again, +you and your bride together, or separately, and are seen to be +attentive to each other at balls, at parties, at all the empty +amusements created to escape the void of an unsatisfied heart, the +celibates discern that your wife comes there in search of distraction; +her home, her husband are therefore wearisome to her. + +At this point the celibate knows that half of the journey is +accomplished. At this point you are on the eve of being minotaurized, +and your wife is likely to become inconsistent; which means that she is +on the contrary likely to prove very consistent in her conduct, that +she has reasoned it out with astonishing sagacity and that you are +likely very soon to smell fire. From that moment she will not in +appearance fail in any of her duties, and will put on the colors of +that virtue in which she is most lacking. Said Crebillon: + +“Alas! +Is it right to be heir of the man who we slay?” + +Never has she seemed more anxious to please you. She will seek, as much +as possible, to allay the secret wounds which she thinks about +inflicting upon your married bliss, she will do so by those little +attentions which induce you to believe in the eternity of her love; +hence the proverb, “Happy as a fool.” But in accordance with the +character of women, they either despise their own husbands from the +very fact that they find no difficulty in deceiving them; or they hate +them when they find themselves circumvented by them; or they fall into +a condition of indifference towards them, which is a thousand times +worse than hatred. In this emergency, the first thing which may be +diagnosed in a woman is a decided oddness of behavior. A woman loves to +be saved from herself, to escape her conscience, but without the +eagerness shown in this connection by wives who are thoroughly unhappy. +She dresses herself with especial care, in order, she will tell you, to +flatter your _amour-propre_ by drawing all eyes upon her in the midst +of parties and public entertainments. + +When she returns to the bosom of her stupid home you will see that, at +times, she is gloomy and thoughtful, then suddenly laughing and gay as +if beside herself; or assuming the serious expression of a German when +he advances to the fight. Such varying moods always indicate the +terrible doubt and hesitation to which we have already referred. There +are women who read romances in order to feast upon the images of love +cleverly depicted and always varied, of love crowned yet triumphant; or +in order to familiarize themselves in thought with the perils of an +intrigue. + +She will profess the highest esteem for you, she will tell you that she +loves you as a sister; and that such reasonable friendship is the only +true, the only durable friendship, the only tie which it is the aim of +marriage to establish between man and wife. + +She will adroitly distinguish between the duties which are all she has +to perform and the rights which she can demand to exercise. + +She views with indifference, appreciated by you alone, all the details +of married happiness. This sort of happiness, perhaps, has never been +very agreeable to her and moreover it is always with her. She knows it +well, she has analyzed it; and what slight but terrible evidence comes +from these circumstances to prove to an intelligent husband that this +frail creature argues and reasons, instead of being carried away on the +tempest of passion. + +LX. +The more a man judges the less he loves. + +And now will burst forth from her those pleasantries at which you will +be the first to laugh and those reflections which will startle you by +their profundity; now you will see sudden changes of mood and the +caprices of a mind which hesitates. At times she will exhibit extreme +tenderness, as if she repented of her thoughts and her projects; +sometimes she will be sullen and at cross-purposes with you; in a word, +she will fulfill the _varium et mutabile femina_ which we hitherto have +had the folly to attribute to the feminine temperament. Diderot, in his +desire to explain the mutations almost atmospheric in the behavior of +women, has even gone so far as to make them the offspring of what he +calls _la bete feroce_; but we never see these whims in a woman who is +happy. + +These symptoms, light as gossamer, resemble the clouds which scarcely +break the azure surface of the sky and which they call flowers of the +storm. But soon their colors take a deeper intensity. + +In the midst of this solemn premeditation, which tends, as Madame de +Stael says, to bring more poetry into life, some women, in whom +virtuous mothers either from considerations of worldly advantage of +duty or sentiment, or through sheer hypocrisy, have inculcated +steadfast principles, take the overwhelming fancies by which they are +assailed for suggestions of the devil; and you will see them therefore +trotting regularly to mass, to midday offices, even to vespers. This +false devotion exhibits itself, first of all in the shape of pretty +books of devotion in a costly binding, by the aid of which these dear +sinners attempt in vain to fulfill the duties imposed by religion, and +long neglected for the pleasures of marriage. + +Now here we will lay down a principle, and you must engrave it on your +memory in letters of fire. + +When a young woman suddenly takes up religious practices which she has +before abandoned, this new order of life always conceals a motive +highly significant, in view of her husband’s happiness. In the case of +at least seventy-nine women out of a hundred this return to God proves +that they have been inconsistent, or that they intend to become so. + +But a symptom more significant still and more decisive, and one that +every husband should recognize under pain of being considered a fool, +is this: + +At the time when both of you are immersed in the illusive delights of +the honeymoon, your wife, as one devoted to you, would constantly carry +out your will. She was happy in the power of showing the ready will, +which both of you mistook for love, and she would have liked for you to +have asked her to walk on the edge of the roof, and immediately, nimble +as a squirrel, she would have run over the tiles. In a word, she found +an ineffable delight in sacrificing to you that _ego_ which made her a +being distinct from yours. She had identified herself with your nature +and was obedient to that vow of the heart, _Una caro_. + +All this delightful promptness of an earlier day gradually faded away. +Wounded to find her will counted as nothing, your wife will attempt, +nevertheless, to reassert it by means of a system developed gradually, +and from day to day, with increased energy. + +This system is founded upon what we may call the dignity of the married +woman. The first effect of this system is to mingle with your pleasures +a certain reserve and a certain lukewarmness, of which you are the sole +judge. + +According to the greater or lesser violence of your sensual passion, +you have perhaps discerned some of those twenty-two pleasures which in +other times created in Greece twenty-two kinds of courtesans, devoted +especially to these delicate branches of the same art. Ignorant and +simple, curious and full of hope, your young wife may have taken some +degrees in this science as rare as it is unknown, and which we +especially commend to the attention of the future author of _Physiology +of Pleasure_. + +Lacking all these different kinds of pleasure, all these caprices of +soul, all these arrows of love, you are reduced to the most common of +love fashions, of that primitive and innocent wedding gait, the calm +homage which the innocent Adam rendered to our common Mother and which +doubtless suggested to the Serpent the idea of taking them in. But a +symptom so complete is not frequent. Most married couples are too good +Christians to follow the usages of pagan Greece, so we have ranged, +among the last symptoms, the appearance in the calm nuptial couch of +those shameless pleasures which spring generally from lawless passion. +In their proper time and place we will treat more fully of this +fascinating diagnostic; at this point, things are reduced to a +listlessness and conjugal repugnance which you alone are in a condition +to appreciate. + +At the same time that she is ennobling by her dignity the objects of +marriage, your wife will pretend that she ought to have her opinion and +you yours. “In marrying,” she will say, “a woman does not vow that she +will abdicate the throne of reason. Are women then really slaves? Human +laws can fetter the body; but the mind!—ah! God has placed it so near +Himself that no human hand can touch it.” + +These ideas necessarily proceed either from the too liberal teachings +which you have allowed her to receive, or from some reflections which +you have permitted her to make. A whole Meditation has been devoted to +_Home Instruction_. + +Then your wife begins to say, “_My_ chamber, _my_ bed, _my_ apartment.” +To many of your questions she will reply, “But, my dear, this is no +business of yours!” Or: “Men have their part in the direction of the +house, and women have theirs.” Or, laughing at men who meddle in +household affairs, she will affirm that “men do not understand some +things.” + +The number of things which you do not understand increases day by day. + +One fine morning, you will see in your little church two altars, where +before you never worshiped but at one. The altar of your wife and your +own altar have become distinct, and this distinction will go on +increasing, always in accordance with the system founded upon the +dignity of woman. + +Then the following ideas will appear, and they will be inculcated in +you whether you like it or not, by means of a living force very ancient +in origin and little known. Steam-power, horse-power, man-power, and +water-power are good inventions, but nature has provided women with a +moral power, in comparison with which all other powers are nothing; we +may call it _rattle-power_. This force consists in a continuance of the +same sound, in an exact repetition of the same words, in a reversion, +over and over again, to the same ideas, and this so unvaried, that from +hearing them over and over again you will admit them, in order to be +delivered from the discussion. Thus the power of the rattle will prove +to you: + +That you are very fortunate to have such an excellent wife; + +That she has done you too much honor in marrying you; + +That women often see clearer than men; + +That you ought to take the advice of your wife in everything, and +almost always ought to follow it; + +That you ought to respect the mother of your children, to honor her and +have confidence in her; + +That the best way to escape being deceived, is to rely upon a wife’s +refinement, for according to certain old ideas which we have had the +weakness to give credit, it is impossible for a man to prevent his wife +from minotaurizing him; + +That a lawful wife is a man’s best friend; + +That a woman is mistress in her own house and queen in her +drawing-room, etc. + +Those who wish to oppose a firm resistance to a woman’s conquest, +effected by means of her dignity over man’s power, fall into the +category of the predestined. + +At first, quarrels arise which in the eye of wives give an air of +tyranny to husbands. The tyranny of a husband is always a terrible +excuse for inconsistency in a wife. Then, in their frivolous +discussions they are enabled to prove to their families and to ours, to +everybody and to ourselves, that we are in the wrong. If, for the sake +of peace, or from love, you acknowledge the pretended rights of women, +you yield an advantage to your wife by which she will profit eternally. +A husband, like a government, ought never to acknowledge a mistake. In +case you do so, your power will be outflanked by the subtle artifices +of feminine dignity; then all will be lost; from that moment she will +advance from concession to concession until she has driven you from her +bed. + +The woman being shrewd, intelligent, sarcastic and having leisure to +meditate over an ironical phrase, can easily turn you into ridicule +during a momentary clash of opinions. The day on which she turns you +into ridicule, sees the end of your happiness. Your power has expired. +A woman who has laughed at her husband cannot henceforth love him. A +man should be, to the woman who is in love with him, a being full of +power, of greatness, and always imposing. A family cannot exist without +despotism. Think of that, ye nations! + +Now the difficult course which a man has to steer in presence of such +serious incidents as these, is what we may call the _haute politique_ +of marriage, and is the subject of the second and third parts of our +book. That breviary of marital Machiavelism will teach you the manner +in which you may grow to greatness within that frivolous mind, within +that soul of lacework, to use Napoleon’s phrase. You may learn how a +man may exhibit a soul of steel, may enter upon this little domestic +war without ever yielding the empire of his will, and may do so without +compromising his happiness. For if you exhibit any tendency to +abdication, your wife will despise you, for the sole reason that she +has discovered you to be destitute of mental vigor; you are no longer a +_man_ to her. + +But we have not yet reached the point at which are to be developed +those theories and principles, by means of which a man may unite +elegance of manners with severity of measures; let it suffice us, for +the moment, to point out the importance of impending events and let us +pursue our theme. + +At this fatal epoch, you will see that she is adroitly setting up a +right to go out alone. + +You were at one time her god, her idol. She has now reached that height +of devotion at which it is permitted to see holes in the garments of +the saints. + +“Oh, mon Dieu! My dear,” said Madame de la Valliere to her husband, +“how badly you wear your sword! M. de Richelieu has a way of making it +hang straight at his side, which you ought to try to imitate; it is in +much better taste.” + +“My dear, you could not tell me in a more tactful manner that we have +been married five months!” replied the Duke, whose repartee made his +fortune in the reign of Louis XV. + +She will study your character in order to find weapons against you. +Such a study, which love would hold in horror, reveals itself in the +thousand little traps which she lays purposely to make you scold her; +when a woman has no excuse for minotaurizing her husband she sets to +work to make one. + +She will perhaps begin dinner without waiting for you. + +If you drive through the middle of the town, she will point out certain +objects which escaped your notice; she will sing before you without +feeling afraid; she will interrupt you, sometimes vouchsafe no reply to +you, and will prove to you, in a thousand different ways, that she is +enjoying at your side the use of all her faculties and exercising her +private judgment. + +She will try to abolish entirely your influence in the management of +the house and to become sole mistress of your fortune. At first this +struggle will serve as a distraction for her soul, whether it be empty +or in too violent commotion; next, she will find in your opposition a +new motive for ridicule. Slang expressions will not fail her, and in +France we are so quickly vanquished by the ironical smile of another! + +At other times headaches and nervous attacks make their appearance; but +these symptoms furnish matter for a whole future Meditation. In the +world she will speak of you without blushing, and will gaze at you with +assurance. She will begin to blame your least actions because they are +at variance with her ideas, or her secret intentions. She will take no +care of what pertains to you, she will not even know whether you have +all you need. You are no longer her paragon. + +In imitation of Louis XIV, who carried to his mistresses the bouquets +of orange blossoms which the head gardener of Versailles put on his +table every morning, M. de Vivonne used almost every day to give his +wife choice flowers during the early period of his marriage. One +morning he found the bouquet lying on the side table without having +been placed, as usual, in a vase of water. + +“Oh! Oh!” said he, “if I am not a cuckold, I shall very soon be one.” + +You go on a journey for eight days and you receive no letters, or you +receive one, three pages of which are blank.—Symptom. + +You come home mounted on a valuable horse which you like very much, and +between her kisses your wife shows her uneasiness about the horse and +his fodder.—Symptom. + +To these features of the case, you will be able to add others. We shall +endeavor in the present volume always to paint things in bold fresco +style and leave the miniatures to you. According to the characters +concerned, the indications which we are describing, veiled under the +incidents of ordinary life, are of infinite variety. One man may +discover a symptom in the way a shawl is put on, while another needs to +receive a fillip to his intellect, in order to notice the indifference +of his mate. + +Some fine spring morning, the day after a ball, or the eve of a country +party, this situation reaches its last phase; your wife is listless and +the happiness within her reach has no more attractions for her. Her +mind, her imagination, perhaps her natural caprices call for a lover. +Nevertheless, she dare not yet embark upon an intrigue whose +consequences and details fill her with dread. You are still there for +some purpose or other; you are a weight in the balance, although a very +light one. On the other hand, the lover presents himself arrayed in all +the graces of novelty and all the charms of mystery. The conflict which +has arisen in the heart of your wife becomes, in presence of the enemy, +more real and more full of peril than before. Very soon the more +dangers and risks there are to be run, the more she burns to plunge +into that delicious gulf of fear, enjoyment, anguish and delight. Her +imagination kindles and sparkles, her future life rises before her +eyes, colored with romantic and mysterious hues. Her soul discovers +that existence has already taken its tone from this struggle which to a +woman has so much solemnity in it. All is agitation, all is fire, all +is commotion within her. She lives with three times as much intensity +as before, and judges the future by the present. The little pleasure +which you have lavished upon her bears witness against you; for she is +not excited as much by the pleasures which she has received, as by +those which she is yet to enjoy; does not imagination show her that her +happiness will be keener with this lover, whom the laws deny her, than +with you? And then, she finds enjoyment even in her terror and terror +in her enjoyment. Then she falls in love with this imminent danger, +this sword of Damocles hung over her head by you yourself, thus +preferring the delirious agonies of such a passion, to that conjugal +inanity which is worse to her than death, to that indifference which is +less a sentiment than the absence of all sentiment. + +You, who must go to pay your respects to the Minister of Finance, to +write memorandums at the bank, to make your reports at the Bourse, or +to speak in the Chamber; you, young men, who have repeated with many +others in our first Meditation the oath that you will defend your +happiness in defending your wife, what can you oppose to these desires +of hers which are so natural? For, with these creatures of fire, to +live is to feel; the moment they cease to experience emotion they are +dead. The law in virtue of which you take your position produces in her +this involuntary act of minotaurism. “There is one sequel,” said +D’Alembert, “to the laws of movement.” Well, then, where are your means +of defence?— Where, indeed? + +Alas! if your wife has not yet kissed the apple of the Serpent, the +Serpent stands before her; you sleep, we are awake, and our book +begins. + +Without inquiring how many husbands, among the five hundred thousand +which this book concerns, will be left with the predestined; how many +have contracted unfortunate marriages; how many have made a bad +beginning with their wives; and without wishing to ask if there be many +or few of this numerous band who can satisfy the conditions required +for struggling against the danger which is impending, we intend to +expound in the second and third part of this work the methods of +fighting the Minotaur and keeping intact the virtue of wives. But if +fate, the devil, the celibate, opportunity, desire your ruin, in +recognizing the progress of all intrigues, in joining in the battles +which are fought by every home, you will possibly be able to find some +consolation. Many people have such a happy disposition, that on showing +to them the condition of things and explaining to them the why and the +wherefore, they scratch their foreheads, rub their hands, stamp on the +ground, and are satisfied. + +MEDITATION IX. + +EPILOGUE. + + +Faithful to our promise, this first part has indicated the general +causes which bring all marriages to the crises which we are about to +describe; and, in tracing the steps of this conjugal preamble, we have +also pointed out the way in which the catastrophe is to be avoided, for +we have pointed out the errors by which it is brought about. + +But these first considerations would be incomplete if, after +endeavoring to throw some light upon the inconsistency of our ideas, of +our manners and of our laws, with regard to a question which concerns +the life of almost all living beings, we did not endeavor to make +plain, in a short peroration, the political causes of the infirmity +which pervades all modern society. After having exposed the secret +vices of marriage, would it not be an inquiry worthy of philosophers to +search out the causes which have rendered it so vicious? + +The system of law and of manners which so far directs women and +controls marriage in France, is the outcome of ancient beliefs and +traditions which are no longer in accordance with the eternal +principles of reason and of justice, brought to light by the great +Revolution of 1789. + +Three great disturbances have agitated France; the conquest of the +country by the Romans, the establishment of Christianity and the +invasion of the Franks. Each of these events has left a deep impress +upon the soil, upon the laws, upon the manners and upon the intellect +of the nation. + +Greece having one foot on Europe and the other on Asia, was influenced +by her voluptuous climate in the choice of her marriage institutions; +she received them from the East, where her philosophers, her +legislators and her poets went to study the abstruse antiquities of +Egypt and Chaldea. The absolute seclusion of women which was +necessitated under the burning sun of Asia prevailed under the laws of +Greece and Ionia. The women remained in confinement within the marbles +of the gyneceum. The country was reduced to the condition of a city, to +a narrow territory, and the courtesans who were connected with art and +religion by so many ties, were sufficient to satisfy the first passions +of the young men, who were few in number, since their strength was +elsewhere taken up in the violent exercises of that training which was +demanded of them by the military system of those heroic times. + +At the beginning of her royal career Rome, having sent to Greece to +seek such principles of legislation as might suit the sky of Italy, +stamped upon the forehead of the married woman the brand of complete +servitude. The senate understood the importance of virtue in a +republic, hence the severity of manners in the excessive development of +the marital and paternal power. The dependence of the woman on her +husband is found inscribed on every code. The seclusion prescribed by +the East becomes a duty, a moral obligation, a virtue. On these +principles were raised temples to modesty and temples consecrated to +the sanctity of marriage; hence, sprang the institution of censors, the +law of dowries, the sumptuary laws, the respect for matrons and all the +characteristics of the Roman law. Moreover, three acts of feminine +violation either accomplished or attempted, produced three revolutions! +And was it not a grand event, sanctioned by the decrees of the country, +that these illustrious women should make their appearances on the +political arena! Those noble Roman women, who were obliged to be either +brides or mothers, passed their life in retirement engaged in educating +the masters of the world. Rome had no courtesans because the youth of +the city were engaged in eternal war. If, later on, dissoluteness +appeared, it merely resulted from the despotism of emperors; and still +the prejudices founded upon ancient manners were so influential that +Rome never saw a woman on a stage. These facts are not put forth idly +in scanning the history of marriage in France. + +After the conquest of Gaul, the Romans imposed their laws upon the +conquered; but they were incapable of destroying both the profound +respect which our ancestors entertained for women and the ancient +superstitions which made women the immediate oracles of God. The Roman +laws ended by prevailing, to the exclusion of all others, in this +country once known as the “land of written law,” or _Gallia togata_, +and their ideas of marriage penetrated more or less into the “land of +customs.” + +But, during the conflict of laws with manners, the Franks invaded the +Gauls and gave to the country the dear name of France. These warriors +came from the North and brought the system of gallantry which had +originated in their western regions, where the mingling of the sexes +did not require in those icy climates the jealous precautions of the +East. The women of that time elevated the privations of that kind of +life by the exaltation of their sentiments. The drowsy minds of the day +made necessary those varied forms of delicate solicitation, that +versatility of address, the fancied repulse of coquetry, which belong +to the system whose principles have been unfolded in our First Part, as +admirably suited to the temperate clime of France. + +To the East, then, belong the passion and the delirium of passion, the +long brown hair, the harem, the amorous divinities, the splendor, the +poetry of love and the monuments of love.— To the West, the liberty of +wives, the sovereignty of their blond locks, gallantry, the fairy life +of love, the secrecy of passion, the profound ecstasy of the soul, the +sweet feelings of melancholy and the constancy of love. + +These two systems, starting from opposite points of the globe, have +come into collision in France; in France, where one part of the +country, Languedoc, was attracted by Oriental traditions, while the +other, Languedoil, was the native land of a creed which attributes to +woman a magical power. In the Languedoil, love necessitates mystery, in +the Languedoc, to see is to love. + +At the height of this struggle came the triumphant entry of +Christianity into France, and there it was preached by women, and there +it consecrated the divinity of a woman who in the forests of Brittany, +of Vendee and of Ardennes took, under the name of Notre-Dame, the place +of more than one idol in the hollow of old Druidic oaks. + +If the religion of Christ, which is above all things a code of morality +and politics, gave a soul to all living beings, proclaimed that +equality of all in the sight of God, and by such principles as these +fortified the chivalric sentiments of the North, this advantage was +counterbalanced by the fact, that the sovereign pontiff resided at +Rome, of which seat he considered himself the lawful heir, through the +universality of the Latin tongue, which became that of Europe during +the Middle Ages, and through the keen interest taken by monks, writers +and lawyers in establishing the ascendency of certain codes, discovered +by a soldier in the sack of Amalfi. + +These two principles of the servitude and the sovereignty of women +retain possession of the ground, each of them defended by fresh +arguments. + +The Salic law, which was a legal error, was a triumph for the principle +of political and civil servitude for women, but it did not diminish the +power which French manners accorded them, for the enthusiasm of +chivalry which prevailed in Europe supplanted the party of manners +against the party of law. + +And in this way was created that strange phenomenon which since that +time has characterized both our national despotism and our legislation; +for ever since those epochs which seemed to presage the Revolution, +when the spirit of philosophy rose and reflected upon the history of +the past, France has been the prey of many convulsions. Feudalism, the +Crusades, the Reformation, the struggle between the monarchy and the +aristocracy. Despotism and Priestcraft have so closely held the country +within their clutches, that woman still remains the subject of strange +counter-opinions, each springing from one of the three great movements +to which we have referred. Was it possible that the woman question +should be discussed and woman’s political education and marriage should +be ventilated when feudalism threatened the throne, when reform menaced +both king and barons, and the people, between the hierarchy and the +empire, were forgotten? According to a saying of Madame Necker, women, +amid these great movements, were like the cotton wool put into a case +of porcelain. They were counted for nothing, but without them +everything would have been broken. + +A married woman, then, in France presents the spectacle of a queen out +at service, of a slave, at once free and a prisoner; a collision +between these two principles which frequently occurred, produced odd +situations by the thousand. And then, woman was physically little +understood, and what was actually sickness in her, was considered a +prodigy, witchcraft or monstrous turpitude. In those days these +creatures, treated by the law as reckless children, and put under +guardianship, were by the manners of the time deified and adored. Like +the freedmen of emperors, they disposed of crowns, they decided +battles, they awarded fortunes, they inspired crimes and revolutions, +wonderful acts of virtue, by the mere flash of their glances, and yet +they possessed nothing and were not even possessors of themselves. They +were equally fortunate and unfortunate. Armed with their weakness and +strong in instinct, they launched out far beyond the sphere which the +law allotted them, showing themselves omnipotent for evil, but impotent +for good; without merit in the virtues that were imposed upon them, +without excuse in their vices; accused of ignorance and yet denied an +education; neither altogether mothers nor altogether wives. Having all +the time to conceal their passions, while they fostered them, they +submitted to the coquetry of the Franks, while they were obliged like +Roman women, to stay within the ramparts of their castles and bring up +those who were to be warriors. While no system was definitely decided +upon by legislation as to the position of women, their minds were left +to follow their inclinations, and there are found among them as many +who resemble Marion Delorme as those who resemble Cornelia; there are +vices among them, but there are as many virtues. These were creatures +as incomplete as the laws which governed them; they were considered by +some as a being midway between man and the lower animals, as a +malignant beast which the laws could not too closely fetter, and which +nature had destined, with so many other things, to serve the pleasure +of men; while others held woman to be an angel in exile, a source of +happiness and love, the only creature who responded to the highest +feelings of man, while her miseries were to be recompensed by the +idolatry of every heart. How could the consistency, which was wanting +in a political system, be expected in the general manners of the +nation? + +And so woman became what circumstances and men made her, instead of +being what the climate and native institutions should have made her; +sold, married against her taste, in accordance with the _Patria +potestas_ of the Romans, at the same time that she fell under the +marital despotism which desired her seclusion, she found herself +tempted to take the only reprisals which were within her power. Then +she became a dissolute creature, as soon as men ceased to be intently +occupied in intestine war, for the same reason that she was a virtuous +woman in the midst of civil disturbances. Every educated man can fill +in this outline, for we seek from movements like these the lessons and +not the poetic suggestion which they yield. + +The Revolution was too entirely occupied in breaking down and building +up, had too many enemies, or followed perhaps too closely on the +deplorable times witnessed under the regency and under Louis XV, to pay +any attention to the position which women should occupy in the social +order. + +The remarkable men who raised the immortal monument which our codes +present were almost all old-fashioned students of law deeply imbued +with a spirit of Roman jurisprudence; and moreover they were not the +founders of any political institutions. Sons of the Revolution, they +believed, in accordance with that movement, that the law of divorce +wisely restricted and the bond of dutiful submission were sufficient +ameliorations of the previous marriage law. When that former order of +things was remembered, the change made by the new legislation seemed +immense. + +At the present day the question as to which of these two principles +shall triumph rests entirely in the hands of our wise legislators. The +past has teaching which should bear fruit in the future. Have we lost +all sense of the eloquence of fact? + +The principles of the East resulted in the existence of eunuchs and +seraglios; the spurious social standing of France has brought in the +plague of courtesans and the more deadly plague of our marriage system; +and thus, to use the language of a contemporary, the East sacrifices to +paternity men and the principle of justice; France, women and modesty. +Neither the East nor France has attained the goal which their +institutions point to; for that is happiness. The man is not more loved +by the women of a harem than the husband is sure of being in France, as +the father of his children; and marrying is not worth what it costs. It +is time to offer no more sacrifice to this institution, and to amass a +larger sum of happiness in the social state by making our manners and +our institution conformable to our climate. + +Constitutional government, a happy mixture of two extreme political +systems, despotism and democracy, suggests by the necessity of blending +also the two principles of marriage, which so far clash together in +France. The liberty which we boldly claim for young people is the only +remedy for the host of evils whose source we have pointed out, by +exposing the inconsistencies resulting from the bondage in which girls +are kept. Let us give back to youth the indulgence of those passions, +those coquetries, love and its terrors, love and its delights, and that +fascinating company which followed the coming of the Franks. At this +vernal season of life no fault is irreparable, and Hymen will come +forth from the bosom of experiences, armed with confidence, stripped of +hatred, and love in marriage will be justified, because it will have +had the privilege of comparison. + +In this change of manners the disgraceful plague of public prostitution +will perish of itself. It is especially at the time when the man +possesses the frankness and timidity of adolescence, that in his +pursuit of happiness he is competent to meet and struggle with great +and genuine passions of the heart. The soul is happy in making great +efforts of whatever kind; provided that it can act, that it can stir +and move, it makes little difference, even though it exercise its power +against itself. In this observation, the truth of which everybody can +see, there may be found one secret of successful legislation, of +tranquillity and happiness. And then, the pursuit of learning has now +become so highly developed that the most tempestuous of our coming +Mirabeaus can consume his energy either in the indulgence of a passion +or the study of a science. How many young people have been saved from +debauchery by self-chosen labors or the persistent obstacles put in the +way of a first love, a love that was pure! And what young girl does not +desire to prolong the delightful childhood of sentiment, is not proud +to have her nature known, and has not felt the secret tremblings of +timidity, the modesty of her secret communings with herself, and wished +to oppose them to the young desires of a lover inexperienced as +herself! The gallantry of the Franks and the pleasures which attend it +should then be the portion of youth, and then would naturally result a +union of soul, of mind, of character, of habits, of temperament and of +fortune, such as would produce the happy equilibrium necessary for the +felicity of the married couple. This system would rest upon foundations +wider and freer, if girls were subjected to a carefully calculated +system of disinheritance; or if, in order to force men to choose only +those who promised happiness by their virtues, their character or their +talents, they married as in the United States without dowry. + +In that case, the system adopted by the Romans could advantageously be +applied to the married women who when they were girls used their +liberty. Being exclusively engaged in the early education of their +children, which is the most important of all maternal obligations, +occupied in creating and maintaining the happiness of the household, so +admirably described in the fourth book of _Julie_, they would be in +their houses like the women of ancient Rome, living images of +Providence, which reigns over all, and yet is nowhere visible. In this +case, the laws covering the infidelity of the wife should be extremely +severe. They should make the penalty disgrace, rather than inflict +painful or coercive sentences. France has witnessed the spectacle of +women riding asses for the pretended crime of magic, and many an +innocent woman has died of shame. In this may be found the secret of +future marriage legislation. The young girls of Miletus delivered +themselves from marriage by voluntary death; the senate condemned the +suicides to be dragged naked on a hurdle, and the other virgins +condemned themselves for life. + +Women and marriage will never be respected until we have that radical +change in manners which we are now begging for. This profound thought +is the ruling principle in the two finest productions of an immortal +genius. _Emile_ and _La Nouvelle Heloise_ are nothing more than two +eloquent pleas for the system. The voice there raised will resound +through the ages, because it points to the real motives of true +legislation, and the manners which will prevail in the future. By +placing children at the breast of their mothers, Jean-Jacques rendered +an immense service to the cause of virtue; but his age was too deeply +gangrened with abuses to understand the lofty lessons unfolded in those +two poems; it is right to add also that the philosopher was in these +works overmastered by the poet, and in leaving in the heart of _Julie_ +after her marriage some vestiges of her first love, he was led astray +by the attractiveness of a poetic situation, more touching indeed, but +less useful than the truth which he wished to display. + +Nevertheless, if marriage in France is an unlimited contract to which +men agree with a silent understanding that they may thus give more +relish to passion, more curiosity, more mystery to love, more +fascination to women; if a woman is rather an ornament to the +drawing-room, a fashion-plate, a portmanteau, than a being whose +functions in the order politic are an essential part of the country’s +prosperity and the nation’s glory, a creature whose endeavors in life +vie in utility with those of men—I admit that all the above theory, all +these long considerations sink into nothingness at the prospect of such +an important destiny!—— + +But after having squeezed a pound of actualities in order to obtain one +drop of philosophy, having paid sufficient homage to that passion for +the historic, which is so dominant in our time, let us turn our glance +upon the manners of the present period. Let us take the cap and bells +and the coxcomb of which Rabelais once made a sceptre, and let us +pursue the course of this inquiry without giving to one joke more +seriousness than comports with it, and without giving to serious things +the jesting tone which ill befits them. + +SECOND PART + +MEANS OF DEFENCE, INTERIOR AND EXTERIOR. + +“To be or not to be, +That is the question.” +—Shakspeare, _Hamlet_. + +MEDITATION X. + +A TREATISE ON MARITAL POLICY. + + +When a man reaches the position in which the first part of this book +sets him, we suppose that the idea of his wife being possessed by +another makes his heart beat, and rekindles his passion, either by an +appeal to his _amour propre_, his egotism, or his self-interest, for +unless he is still on his wife’s side, he must be one of the lowest of +men and deserves his fate. + +In this trying moment it is very difficult for a husband to avoid +making mistakes; for, with regard to most men, the art of ruling a wife +is even less known than that of judiciously choosing one. However, +marital policy consists chiefly in the practical application of three +principles which should be the soul of your conduct. The first is never +to believe what a woman says; the second, always to look for the spirit +without dwelling too much upon the letter of her actions; and the +third, not to forget that a woman is never so garrulous as when she +holds her tongue, and is never working with more energy than when she +keeps quiet. + +From the moment that your suspicions are aroused, you ought to be like +a man mounted on a tricky horse, who always watches the ears of the +beast, in fear of being thrown from the saddle. + +But art consists not so much in the knowledge of principles, as in the +manner of applying them; to reveal them to ignorant people is to put a +razor in the hand of a monkey. Moreover, the first and most vital of +your duties consists in perpetual dissimulation, an accomplishment in +which most husbands are sadly lacking. In detecting the symptoms of +minotaurism a little too plainly marked in the conduct of their wives, +most men at once indulge in the most insulting suspicions. Their minds +contract a tinge of bitterness which manifests itself in their +conversation, and in their manners; and the alarm which fills their +heart, like the gas flame in a glass globe, lights up their +countenances so plainly, that it accounts for their conduct. + +Now a woman, who has twelve hours more than you have each day to +reflect and to study you, reads the suspicion written upon your face at +the very moment that it arises. She will never forget this gratuitous +insult. Nothing can ever remedy that. All is now said and done, and the +very next day, if she has opportunity, she will join the ranks of +inconsistent women. + +You ought then to begin under these circumstances to affect towards +your wife the same boundless confidence that you have hitherto had in +her. If you begin to lull her anxieties by honeyed words, you are lost, +she will not believe you; for she has her policy as you have yours. Now +there is as much need for tact as for kindliness in your behavior, in +order to inculcate in her, without her knowing it, a feeling of +security, which will lead her to lay back her ears, and prevent you +from using rein or spur at the wrong moment. + +But how can we compare a horse, the frankest of all animals, to a +being, the flashes of whose thought, and the movements of whose +impulses render her at moments more prudent than the Servite Fra-Paolo, +the most terrible adviser that the Ten at Venice ever had; more +deceitful than a king; more adroit than Louis XI; more profound than +Machiavelli; as sophistical as Hobbes; as acute as Voltaire; as pliant +as the fiancee of Mamolin; and distrustful of no one in the whole wide +world but you? + +Moreover, to this dissimulation, by means of which the springs that +move your conduct ought to be made as invisible as those that move the +world, must be added absolute self-control. That diplomatic +imperturbability, so boasted of by Talleyrand, must be the least of +your qualities; his exquisite politeness and the grace of his manners +must distinguish your conversation. The professor here expressly +forbids you to use your whip, if you would obtain complete control over +your gentle Andalusian steed. + +LXI. +If a man strike his mistress it is a self-inflicted wound; but if he +strike his wife it is suicide! + +How can we think of a government without police, an action without +force, a power without weapons?—Now this is exactly the problem which +we shall try to solve in our future meditations. But first we must +submit two preliminary observations. They will furnish us with two +other theories concerning the application of all the mechanical means +which we propose you should employ. An instance from life will refresh +these arid and dry dissertations: the hearing of such a story will be +like laying down a book, to work in the field. + +In the year 1822, on a fine morning in the month of February, I was +traversing the boulevards of Paris, from the quiet circles of the +Marais to the fashionable quarters of the Chaussee-d’Antin, and I +observed for the first time, not without a certain philosophic joy, the +diversity of physiognomy and the varieties of costume which, from the +Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule even to the Madeleine, made each portion of the +boulevard a world of itself, and this whole zone of Paris, a grand +panorama of manners. Having at that time no idea of what the world was, +and little thinking that one day I should have the audacity to set +myself up as a legislator on marriage, I was going to take lunch at the +house of a college friend, who was perhaps too early in life afflicted +with a wife and two children. My former professor of mathematics lived +at a short distance from the house of my college friend, and I promised +myself the pleasure of a visit to this worthy mathematician before +indulging my appetite for the dainties of friendship. I accordingly +made my way to the heart of a study, where everything was covered with +a dust which bore witness to the lofty abstraction of the scholar. But +a surprise was in store for me there. I perceived a pretty woman seated +on the arm of an easy chair, as if mounted on an English horse; her +face took on the look of conventional surprise worn by mistresses of +the house towards those they do not know, but she did not disguise the +expression of annoyance which, at my appearance, clouded her +countenance with the thought that I was aware how ill-timed was my +presence. My master, doubtless absorbed in an equation, had not yet +raised his head; I therefore waved my right hand towards the young +lady, like a fish moving his fin, and on tiptoe I retired with a +mysterious smile which might be translated “I will not be the one to +prevent him committing an act of infidelity to Urania.” She nodded her +head with one of those sudden gestures whose graceful vivacity is not +to be translated into words. + +“My good friend, don’t go away,” cried the geometrician. “This is my +wife!” + +I bowed for the second time!—Oh, Coulon! Why wert thou not present to +applaud the only one of thy pupils who understood from that moment the +expression, “anacreontic,” as applied to a bow?—The effect must have +been very overwhelming; for Madame the Professoress, as the Germans +say, rose hurriedly as if to go, making me a slight bow which seemed to +say: “Adorable!——” Her husband stopped her, saying: + +“Don’t go, my child, this is one of my pupils.” + +The young woman bent her head towards the scholar as a bird perched on +a bough stretches its neck to pick up a seed. + +“It is not possible,” said the husband, heaving a sigh, “and I am going +to prove it to you by A plus B.” + +“Let us drop that, sir, I beg you,” she answered, pointing with a wink +to me. + +If it had been a problem in algebra, my master would have understood +this look, but it was Chinese to him, and so he went on. + +“Look here, child, I constitute you judge in the matter; our income is +ten thousand francs.” + +At these words I retired to the door, as if I were seized with a wild +desire to examine the framed drawings which had attracted my attention. +My discretion was rewarded by an eloquent glance. Alas! she did not +know that in Fortunio I could have played the part of Sharp-Ears, who +heard the truffles growing. + +“In accordance with the principles of general economy,” said my master, +“no one ought to spend in rent and servant’s wages more than two-tenths +of his income; now our apartment and our attendance cost altogether a +hundred louis. I give you twelve hundred francs to dress with” [in +saying this he emphasized every syllable]. “Your food,” he went on, +takes up four thousand francs, our children demand at lest twenty-five +louis; I take for myself only eight hundred francs; washing, fuel and +light mount up to about a thousand francs; so that there does not +remain, as you see, more than six hundred francs for unforeseen +expenses. In order to buy the cross of diamonds, we must draw a +thousand crowns from our capital, and if once we take that course, my +little darling, there is no reason why we should not leave Paris which +you love so much, and at once take up our residence in the country, in +order to retrench. Children and household expenses will increase fast +enough! Come, try to be reasonable!” + +“I suppose I must,” she said, “but you will be the only husband in +Paris who has not given a New Year’s gift to his wife.” + +And she stole away like a school-boy who goes to finish an imposed +duty. My master made a gesture of relief. When he saw the door close he +rubbed his hands, he talked of the war in Spain; and I went my way to +the Rue de Provence, little knowing that I had received the first +installment of a great lesson in marriage, any more than I dreamt of +the conquest of Constantinople by General Diebitsch. I arrived at my +host’s house at the very moment they were sitting down to luncheon, +after having waited for me the half hour demanded by usage. It was, I +believe, as she opened a _pate de foie gras_ that my pretty hostess +said to her husband, with a determined air: + +“Alexander, if you were really nice you would give me that pair of +ear-rings that we saw at Fossin’s.” + +“You shall have them,” cheerfully replied my friend, drawing from his +pocketbook three notes of a thousand francs, the sight of which made +his wife’s eyes sparkle. “I can no more resist the pleasure of offering +them to you,” he added, “than you can that of accepting them. This is +the anniversary of the day I first saw you, and the diamonds will +perhaps make you remember it!——” + +“You bad man!” said she, with a winning smile. + +She poked two fingers into her bodice, and pulling out a bouquet of +violets she threw them with childlike contempt into the face of my +friend. Alexander gave her the price of the jewels, crying out: + +“I had seen the flowers!” + +I shall never forget the lively gesture and the eager joy with which, +like a cat which lays its spotted paw upon a mouse, the little woman +seized the three bank notes; she rolled them up blushing with pleasure, +and put them in the place of the violets which before had perfumed her +bosom. I could not help thinking about my old mathematical master. I +did not then see any difference between him and his pupil, than that +which exists between a frugal man and a prodigal, little thinking that +he of the two who seemed to calculate the better, actually calculated +the worse. The luncheon went off merrily. Very soon, seated in a little +drawing-room newly decorated, before a cheerful fire which gave warmth +and made our hearts expand as in spring time, I felt compelled to make +this loving couple a guest’s compliments on the furnishing of their +little bower. + +“It is a pity that all this costs so dear,” said my friend, “but it is +right that the nest be worthy of the bird; but why the devil do you +compliment me upon curtains which are not paid for?—You make me +remember, just at the time I am digesting lunch, that I still owe two +thousand francs to a Turk of an upholsterer.” + +At these words the mistress of the house made a mental inventory of the +pretty room with her eyes, and the radiancy of her face changed to +thoughtfulness. Alexander took me by the hand and led me to the recess +of a bay window. + +“Do you happen,” he said in a low voice, “to have a thousand crowns to +lend me? I have only twelve thousand francs income, and this year—” + +“Alexander,” cried the dear creature, interrupting her husband, while, +rushing up, she offered him the three banknotes, “I see now that it is +a piece of folly—” + +“What do you mean?” answered he, “keep your money.” + +“But, my love, I am ruining you! I ought to know that you love me so +much, that I ought not to tell you all that I wish for.” + +“Keep it, my darling, it is your lawful property—nonsense, I shall +gamble this winter and get all that back again!” + +“Gamble!” cried she, with an expression of horror. “Alexander, take +back these notes! Come, sir, I wish you to do so.” + +“No, no,” replied my friend, repulsing the white and delicious little +hand. “Are you not going on Thursday to a ball of Madame de B——-?” + +“I will think about what you asked of me,” said I to my comrade. + +I went away bowing to his wife, but I saw plainly after that scene that +my anacreontic salutation did not produce much effect upon her. + +“He must be mad,” thought I as I went away, “to talk of a thousand +crowns to a law student.” + +Five days later I found myself at the house of Madame de B——-, whose +balls were becoming fashionable. In the midst of the quadrilles I saw +the wife of my friend and that of the mathematician. Madame Alexander +wore a charming dress; some flowers and white muslin were all that +composed it. She wore a little cross _a la Jeannette_, hanging by a +black velvet ribbon which set off the whiteness of her scented skin; +long pears of gold decorated her ears. On the neck of Madame the +Professoress sparkled a superb cross of diamonds. + +“How funny that is,” said I to a personage who had not yet studied the +world’s ledger, nor deciphered the heart of a single woman. + +That personage was myself. If I had then the desire to dance with those +fair women, it was simply because I knew a secret which emboldened my +timidity. + +“So after all, madame, you have your cross?” I said to her first. + +“Well, I fairly won it!” she replied, with a smile hard to describe. + +“How is this! no ear-rings?” I remarked to the wife of my friend. + +“Ah!” she replied, “I have enjoyed possession of them during a whole +luncheon time, but you see that I have ended by converting Alexander.” + +“He allowed himself to be easily convinced?” + +She answered with a look of triumph. + +Eight years afterwards, this scene suddenly rose to my memory, though I +had long since forgotten it, and in the light of the candles I +distinctly discerned the moral of it. Yes, a woman has a horror of +being convinced of anything; when you try to persuade her she +immediately submits to being led astray and continues to play the role +which nature gave her. In her view, to allow herself to be won over is +to grant a favor, but exact arguments irritate and confound her; in +order to guide her you must employ the power which she herself so +frequently employs and which lies in an appeal to sensibility. It is +therefore in his wife, and not in himself, that a husband can find the +instruments of his despotism; as diamond cuts diamond so must the woman +be made to tyrannize over herself. To know how to offer the ear-rings +in such a way that they will be returned, is a secret whose application +embraces the slightest details of life. And now let us pass to the +second observation. + +“He who can manage property of one toman, can manage one of an hundred +thousand,” says an Indian proverb; and I, for my part, will enlarge +upon this Asiatic adage and declare, that he who can govern one woman +can govern a nation, and indeed there is very much similarity between +these two governments. Must not the policy of husbands be very nearly +the same as the policy of kings? Do not we see kings trying to amuse +the people in order to deprive them of their liberty; throwing food at +their heads for one day, in order to make them forget the misery of a +whole year; preaching to them not to steal and at the same time +stripping them of everything; and saying to them: “It seems to me that +if I were the people I should be virtuous”? It is from England that we +obtain the precedent which husbands should adopt in their houses. Those +who have eyes ought to see that when the government is running smoothly +the Whigs are rarely in power. A long Tory ministry has always +succeeded an ephemeral Liberal cabinet. The orators of a national party +resemble the rats which wear their teeth away in gnawing the rotten +panel; they close up the hole as soon as they smell the nuts and the +lard locked up in the royal cupboard. The woman is the Whig of our +government. Occupying the situation in which we have left her she might +naturally aspire to the conquest of more than one privilege. Shut your +eyes to the intrigues, allow her to waste her strength in mounting half +the steps of your throne; and when she is on the point of touching your +sceptre, fling her back to the ground, quite gently and with infinite +grace, saying to her: “Bravo!” and leaving her to expect success in the +hereafter. The craftiness of this manoeuvre will prove a fine support +to you in the employment of any means which it may please you to choose +from your arsenal, for the object of subduing your wife. + +Such are the general principles which a husband should put into +practice, if he wishes to escape mistakes in ruling his little kingdom. +Nevertheless, in spite of what was decided by the minority at the +council of Macon (Montesquieu, who had perhaps foreseen the coming of +constitutional government has remarked, I forget in what part of his +writings, that good sense in public assemblies is always found on the +side of the minority), we discern in a woman a soul and a body, and we +commence by investigating the means to gain control of her moral +nature. The exercise of thought, whatever people may say, is more noble +than the exercise of bodily organs, and we give precedence to science +over cookery and to intellectual training over hygiene. + +MEDITATION XI. + +INSTRUCTION IN THE HOME. + + +Whether wives should or should not be put under instruction—such is the +question before us. Of all those which we have discussed this is the +only one which has two extremes and admits of no compromise. Knowledge +and ignorance, such are the two irreconcilable terms of this problem. +Between these two abysses we seem to see Louis XVIII reckoning up the +felicities of the eighteenth century, and the unhappiness of the +nineteenth. Seated in the centre of the seesaw, which he knew so well +how to balance by his own weight, he contemplates at one end of it the +fanatic ignorance of a lay brother, the apathy of a serf, the shining +armor on the horses of a banneret; he thinks he hears the cry, “France +and Montjoie-Saint-Denis!” But he turns round, he smiles as he sees the +haughty look of a manufacturer, who is captain in the national guard; +the elegant carriage of a stock broker; the simple costume of a peer of +France turned journalist and sending his son to the Polytechnique; then +he notices the costly stuffs, the newspapers, the steam engines; and he +drinks his coffee from a cup of Sevres, at the bottom of which still +glitters the “N” surmounted by a crown. + +“Away with civilization! Away with thought!”—That is your cry. You +ought to hold in horror the education of women for the reason so well +realized in Spain, that it is easier to govern a nation of idiots than +a nation of scholars. A nation degraded is happy: if she has not the +sentiment of liberty, neither has she the storms and disturbances which +it begets; she lives as polyps live; she can be cut up into two or +three pieces and each piece is still a nation, complete and living, and +ready to be governed by the first blind man who arms himself with the +pastoral staff. + +What is it that produces this wonderful characteristic of humanity? +Ignorance; ignorance is the sole support of despotism, which lives on +darkness and silence. Now happiness in the domestic establishment as in +a political state is a negative happiness. The affection of a people +for a king, in an absolute monarchy, is perhaps less contrary to nature +than the fidelity of a wife towards her husband, when love between them +no longer exists. Now we know that, in your house, love at this moment +has one foot on the window-sill. It is necessary for you, therefore, to +put into practice that salutary rigor by which M. de Metternich +prolongs his _statu quo_; but we would advise you to do so with more +tact and with still more tenderness; for your wife is more crafty than +all the Germans put together, and as voluptuous as the Italians. + +You should, therefore, try to put off as long as possible the fatal +moment when your wife asks you for a book. This will be easy. You will +first of all pronounce in a tone of disdain the phrase “Blue stocking;” +and, on her request being repeated, you will tell her what ridicule +attaches, among the neighbors, to pedantic women. + +You will then repeat to her, very frequently, that the most lovable and +the wittiest women in the world are found at Paris, where women never +read; + +That women are like people of quality who, according to Mascarillo, +know everything without having learned anything; that a woman while she +is dancing, or while she is playing cards, without even having the +appearance of listening, ought to know how to pick up from the +conversation of talented men the ready-made phrases out of which fools +manufacture their wit at Paris; + +That in this country decisive judgments on men and affairs are passed +round from hand to hand; and that the little cutting phrase with which +a woman criticises an author, demolishes a work, or heaps contempt on a +picture, has more power in the world than a court decision; + +That women are beautiful mirrors, which naturally reflect the most +brilliant ideas; + +That natural wit is everything, and the best education is gained rather +from what we learn in the world than by what we read in books; + +That, above all, reading ends in making the eyes dull, etc. + +To think of leaving a woman at liberty to read the books which her +character of mind may prompt her to choose! This is to drop a spark in +a powder magazine; it is worse than that, it is to teach your wife to +separate herself from you; to live in an imaginary world, in a +Paradise. For what do women read? Works of passion, the _Confessions_ +of Rousseau, romances, and all those compositions which work most +powerfully on their sensibility. They like neither argument nor the +ripe fruits of knowledge. Now have you ever considered the results +which follow these poetical readings? + +Romances, and indeed all works of imagination, paint sentiments and +events with colors of a very different brilliancy from those presented +by nature. The fascination of such works springs less from the desire +which each author feels to show his skill in putting forth choice and +delicate ideas than from the mysterious working of the human intellect. +It is characteristic of man to purify and refine everything that he +lays up in the treasury of his thoughts. What human faces, what +monuments of the dead are not made more beautiful than actual nature in +the artistic representation? The soul of the reader assists in this +conspiracy against the truth, either by means of the profound silence +which it enjoys in reading or by the fire of mental conception with +which it is agitated or by the clearness with which imagery is +reflected in the mirror of the understanding. Who has not seen on +reading the _Confessions_ of Jean-Jacques, that Madame de Warens is +described as much prettier than she ever was in actual life? It might +almost be said that our souls dwell with delight upon the figures which +they had met in a former existence, under fairer skies; that they +accept the creations of another soul only as wings on which they may +soar into space; features the most delicate they bring to perfection by +making them their own; and the most poetic expression which appears in +the imagery of an author brings forth still more ethereal imagery in +the mind of a reader. To read is to join with the writer in a creative +act. The mystery of the transubstantiation of ideas, originates perhaps +in the instinctive consciousness that we have of a vocation loftier +than our present destiny. Or, is it based on the lost tradition of a +former life? What must that life have been, if this slight residuum of +memory offers us such volumes of delight? + +Moreover, in reading plays and romances, woman, a creature much more +susceptible than we are to excitement, experiences the most violent +transport. She creates for herself an ideal existence beside which all +reality grows pale; she at once attempts to realize this voluptuous +life, to take to herself the magic which she sees in it. And, without +knowing it, she passes from spirit to letter and from soul to sense. + +And would you be simple enough to believe that the manners, the +sentiments of a man like you, who usually dress and undress before your +wife, can counterbalance the influence of these books and outshine the +glory of their fictitious lovers, in whose garments the fair reader +sees neither hole nor stain?—Poor fool! too late, alas! for her +happiness and for yours, your wife will find out that the _heroes_ of +poetry are as rare in real life as the _Apollos_ of sculpture! + +Very many husbands will find themselves embarrassed in trying to +prevent their wives from reading, yet there are certain people who +allege that reading has this advantage, that men know what their wives +are about when they have a book in hand. In the first place you will +see, in the next Meditation, what a tendency the sedentary life has to +make a woman quarrelsome; but have you never met those beings without +poetry, who succeed in petrifying their unhappy companions by reducing +life to its most mechanical elements? Study great men in their +conversation and learn by heart the admirable arguments by which they +condemn poetry and the pleasures of imagination. + +But if, after all your efforts, your wife persists in wishing to read, +put at her disposal at once all possible books from the A B C of her +little boy to _Rene_, a book more dangerous to you when in her hands +than _Therese Philosophe_. You might create in her an utter disgust for +reading by giving her tedious books; and plunge her into utter idiocy +with _Marie Alacoque_, _The Brosse de Penitence_, or with the chansons +which were so fashionable in the time of Louis XV; but later on you +will find, in the present volume, the means of so thoroughly employing +your wife’s time, that any kind of reading will be quite out of the +question. + +And first of all, consider the immense resources which the education of +women has prepared for you in your efforts to turn your wife from her +fleeting taste for science. Just see with what admirable stupidity +girls lend themselves to reap the benefit of the education which is +imposed upon them in France; we give them in charge to nursery maids, +to companions, to governesses who teach them twenty tricks of coquetry +and false modesty, for every single noble and true idea which they +impart to them. Girls are brought up as slaves, and are accustomed to +the idea that they are sent into the world to imitate their +grandmothers, to breed canary birds, to make herbals, to water little +Bengal rose-bushes, to fill in worsted work, or to put on collars. +Moreover, if a little girl in her tenth year has more refinement than a +boy of twenty, she is timid and awkward. She is frightened at a spider, +chatters nonsense, thinks of dress, talks about the fashions and has +not the courage to be either a watchful mother or a chaste wife. + +Notice what progress she had made; she has been shown how to paint +roses, and to embroider ties in such a way as to earn eight sous a day. +She has learned the history of France in _Ragois_ and chronology in the +_Tables du Citoyen Chantreau_, and her young imagination has been set +free in the realm of geography; all without any aim, excepting that of +keeping away all that might be dangerous to her heart; but at the same +time her mother and her teachers repeat with unwearied voice the +lesson, that the whole science of a woman lies in knowing how to +arrange the fig leaf which our Mother Eve wore. “She does not hear for +fifteen years,” says Diderot, “anything else but ‘my daughter, your fig +leaf is on badly; my daughter, your fig leaf is on well; my daughter, +would it not look better so?’” + +Keep your wife then within this fine and noble circle of knowledge. If +by chance your wife wishes to have a library, buy for her Florian, +Malte-Brun, _The Cabinet des Fees_, _The Arabian Nights_, Redoute’s +_Roses_, _The Customs of China_, _The Pigeons_, by Madame Knip, the +great work on Egypt, etc. Carry out, in short, the clever suggestion of +that princess who, when she was told of a riot occasioned by the +dearness of bread, said, “Why don’t they eat cake?” + +Perhaps, one evening, your wife will reproach you for being sullen and +not speaking to her; perhaps she will say that you are ridiculous, when +you have just made a pun; but this is one of the slight annoyances +incident to our system; and, moreover, what does it matter to you that +the education of women in France is the most pleasant of absurdities, +and that your marital obscurantism has brought a doll to your arms? As +you have not sufficient courage to undertake a fairer task, would it +not be better to lead your wife along the beaten track of married life +in safety, than to run the risk of making her scale the steep +precipices of love? She is likely to be a mother: you must not exactly +expect to have Gracchi for sons, but to be really _pater quem nuptiae +demonstrant_; now, in order to aid you in reaching this consummation, +we must make this book an arsenal from which each one, in accordance +with his wife’s character and his own, may choose weapons fit to employ +against the terrible genius of evil, which is always ready to rise up +in the soul of a wife; and since it may fairly be considered that the +ignorant are the most cruel opponents of feminine education, this +Meditation will serve as a breviary for the majority of husbands. + +If a woman has received a man’s education, she possesses in very truth +the most brilliant and most fertile sources of happiness both to +herself and to her husband; but this kind of woman is as rare as +happiness itself; and if you do not possess her for your wife, your +best course is to confine the one you do possess, for the sake of your +common felicity, to the region of ideas she was born in, for you must +not forget that one moment of pride in her might destroy you, by +setting on the throne a slave who would immediately be tempted to abuse +her power. + +After all, by following the system prescribed in this Meditation, a man +of superiority will be relieved from the necessity of putting his +thoughts into small change, when he wishes to be understood by his +wife, if indeed this man of superiority has been guilty of the folly of +marrying one of those poor creatures who cannot understand him, instead +of choosing for his wife a young girl whose mind and heart he has +tested and studied for a considerable time. + +Our aim in this last matrimonial observation has not been to advise all +men of superiority to seek for women of superiority and we do not wish +each one to expound our principles after the manner of Madame de Stael, +who attempted in the most indelicate manner to effect a union between +herself and Napoleon. These two beings would have been very unhappy in +their domestic life; and Josephine was a wife accomplished in a very +different sense from this virago of the nineteenth century. + +And, indeed, when we praise those undiscoverable girls so happily +educated by chance, so well endowed by nature, whose delicate souls +endure so well the rude contact of the great soul of him we call _a +man_, we mean to speak of those rare and noble creatures of whom Goethe +has given us a model in his Claire of _Egmont_; we are thinking of +those women who seek no other glory than that of playing their part +well; who adapt themselves with amazing pliancy to the will and +pleasure of those whom nature has given them for masters; soaring at +one time into the boundless sphere of their thought and in turn +stooping to the simple task of amusing them as if they were children; +understanding well the inconsistencies of masculine and violent souls, +understanding also their slightest word, their most puzzling looks; +happy in silence, happy also in the midst of loquacity; and well aware +that the pleasures, the ideas and the moral instincts of a Lord Byron +cannot be those of a bonnet-maker. But we must stop; this fair picture +has led us too far from our subject; we are treating of marriage and +not of love. + +MEDITATION XII. + +THE HYGIENE OF MARRIAGE. + + +The aim of this Meditation is to call to your attention a new method of +defence, by which you may reduce the will of your new wife to a +condition of utter and abject submission. This is brought about by the +reaction upon her moral nature of physical changes, and the wise +lowering of her physical condition by a diet skillfully controlled. + +This great and philosophical question of conjugal medicine will +doubtless be regarded favorably by all who are gouty, are impotent, or +suffer from catarrh; and by that legion of old men whose dullness we +have quickened by our article on the predestined. But it principally +concerns those husbands who have courage enough to enter into those +paths of machiavelism, such as would not have been unworthy of that +great king of France who endeavored to secure the happiness of the +nation at the expense of certain noble heads. Here, the subject is the +same. The amputation or the weakening of certain members is always to +the advantage of the whole body. + +Do you think seriously that a celibate who has been subject to a diet +consisting of the herb hanea, of cucumbers, of purslane and the +applications of leeches to his ears, as recommended by Sterne, would be +able to carry by storm the honor of your wife? Suppose that a diplomat +had been clever enough to affix a permanent linen plaster to the head +of Napoleon, or to purge him every morning: Do you think that Napoleon, +Napoleon the Great, would ever have conquered Italy? Was Napoleon, +during his campaign in Russia, a prey to the most horrible pangs of +dysuria, or was he not? That is one of the questions which has weighed +upon the minds of the whole world. Is it not certain that cooling +applications, douches, baths, etc., produce great changes in more or +less acute affections of the brain? In the middle of the heat of July +when each one of your pores slowly filters out and returns to the +devouring atmosphere the glasses of iced lemonade which you have drunk +at a single draught, have you ever felt the flame of courage, the vigor +of thought, the complete energy which rendered existence light and +sweet to you some months before? + +No, no; the iron most closely cemented into the hardest stone will +raise and throw apart the most durable monument, by reason of the +secret influence exercised by the slow and invisible variations of heat +and cold, which vex the atmosphere. In the first place, let us be sure +that if atmospheric mediums have an influence over man, there is still +a stronger reason for believing that man, in turn, influences the +imagination of his kind, by the more or less vigor with which he +projects his will and thus produces a veritable atmosphere around him. + +It is in this fact that the power of the actor’s talent lies, as well +as that of poetry and of fanaticism; for the former is the eloquence of +words, as the latter is the eloquence of actions; and in this lies the +foundation of a science, so far in its infancy. + +This will, so potent in one man against another, this nervous and fluid +force, eminently mobile and transmittable, is itself subject to the +changing condition of our organization, and there are many +circumstances which make this frail organism of ours to vary. At this +point, our metaphysical observation shall stop and we will enter into +an analysis of the circumstances which develop the will of man and +impart to it a grater degree of strength or weakness. + +Do not believe, however, that it is our aim to induce you to put +cataplasms on the honor of your wife, to lock her up in a sweating +house, or to seal her up like a letter; no. We will not even attempt to +teach you the magnetic theory which would give you the power to make +your will triumph in the soul of your wife; there is not a single +husband who would accept the happiness of an eternal love at the price +of this perpetual strain laid upon his animal forces. But we shall +attempt to expound a powerful system of hygiene, which will enable you +to put out the flame when your chimney takes fire. The elegant women of +Paris and the provinces (and these elegant women form a very +distinguished class among the honest women) have plenty of means of +attaining the object which we propose, without rummaging in the arsenal +of medicine for the four cold specifics, the water-lily and the +thousand inventions worthy only of witches. We will leave to Aelian his +herb hanea and to Sterne the purslane and cucumber which indicate too +plainly his antiphlogistic purpose. + +You should let your wife recline all day long on soft armchairs, in +which she sinks into a veritable bath of eiderdown or feathers; you +should encourage in every way that does no violence to your conscience, +the inclination which women have to breathe no other air but the +scented atmosphere of a chamber seldom opened, where daylight can +scarcely enter through the soft, transparent curtains. + +You will obtain marvelous results from this system, after having +previously experienced the shock of her excitement; but if you are +strong enough to support this momentary transport of your wife you will +soon see her artificial energy die away. In general, women love to live +fast, but, after their tempest of passion, return to that condition of +tranquillity which insures the happiness of a husband. + +Jean-Jacques, through the instrumentality of his enchanting Julie, must +have proved to your wife that it was infinitely becoming to refrain +from affronting her delicate stomach and her refined palate by making +chyle out of coarse lumps of beef, and enormous collops of mutton. Is +there anything purer in the world than those interesting vegetables, +always fresh and scentless, those tinted fruits, that coffee, that +fragrant chocolate, those oranges, the golden apples of Atalanta, the +dates of Arabia and the biscuits of Brussels, a wholesome and elegant +food which produces satisfactory results, at the same time that it +imparts to a woman an air of mysterious originality? By the regimen +which she chooses she becomes quite celebrated in her immediate circle, +just as she would be by a singular toilet, a benevolent action or a +_bon mot_. Pythagoras must needs have cast his spell over her, and +become as much petted by her as a poodle or an ape. + +Never commit the imprudence of certain men who, for the sake of putting +on the appearance of wit, controvert the feminine dictum, _that the +figure is preserved by meagre diet_. Women on such a diet never grow +fat, that is clear and positive; do you stick to that. + +Praise the skill with which some women, renowned for their beauty, have +been able to preserve it by bathing themselves in milk, several times a +day, or in water compounded of substances likely to render the skin +softer and to lower the nervous tension. + +Advise her above all things to refrain from washing herself in cold +water; because water warm or tepid is the proper thing for all kinds of +ablutions. + +Let Broussais be your idol. At the least indisposition of your wife, +and on the slightest pretext, order the application of leeches; do not +even shrink from applying from time to time a few dozen on yourself, in +order to establish the system of that celebrated doctor in your +household. You will constantly be called upon from your position as +husband to discover that your wife is too ruddy; try even sometimes to +bring the blood to her head, in order to have the right to introduce +into the house at certain intervals a squad of leeches. + +Your wife ought to drink water, lightly tinged with a Burgundy wine +agreeable to her taste, but destitute of any tonic properties; every +other kind of wine would be bad for her. Never allow her to drink water +alone; if you do, you are lost. + +“Impetuous fluid! As soon as you press against the floodgates of the +brain, how quickly do they yield to your power! Then Curiosity comes +swimming by, making signs to her companions to follow; they plunge into +the current. Imagination sits dreaming on the bank. She follows the +torrent with her eyes and transforms the fragments of straw and reed +into masts and bowsprit. And scarcely has the transformation taken +place, before Desire, holding in one hand her skirt drawn up even to +her knees, appears, sees the vessel and takes possession of it. O ye +drinkers of water, it is by means of that magic spring that you have so +often turned and turned again the world at your will, throwing beneath +your feet the weak, trampling on his neck, and sometimes changing even +the form and aspect of nature!” + +If by this system of inaction, in combination with our system of diet, +you fail to obtain satisfactory results, throw yourself with might and +main into another system, which we will explain to you. + +Man has a certain degree of energy given to him. Such and such a man or +woman stands to another as ten is to thirty, as one to five; and there +is a certain degree of energy which no one of us ever exceeds. The +quantity of energy, or willpower, which each of us possesses diffuses +itself like sound; it is sometimes weak, sometimes strong; it modifies +itself according to the octaves to which it mounts. This force is +unique, and although it may be dissipated in desire, in passion, in +toils of intellect or in bodily exertion, it turns towards the object +to which man directs it. A boxer expends it in blows of the fist, the +baker in kneading his bread, the poet in the enthusiasm which consumes +and demands an enormous quantity of it; it passes to the feet of the +dancer; in fact, every one diffuses it at will, and may I see the +Minotaur tranquilly seated this very evening upon my bed, if you do not +know as well as I do how he expends it. Almost all men spend in +necessary toils, or in the anguish of direful passions, this fine sum +of energy and of will, with which nature has endowed them; but our +honest women are all the prey to the caprices and the struggles of this +power which knows not what to do with itself. If, in the case of your +wife, this energy has not been subdued by the prescribed dietary +regimen, subject her to some form of activity which will constantly +increase in violence. Find some means by which her sum of force which +inconveniences you may be carried off, by some occupation which shall +entirely absorb her strength. Without setting your wife to work the +crank of a machine, there are a thousand ways of tiring her out under +the load of constant work. + +In leaving it to you to find means for carrying out our design—and +these means vary with circumstances—we would point out that dancing is +one of the very best abysses in which love may bury itself. This point +having been very well treated by a contemporary, we will give him here +an opportunity of speaking his mind: + +“The poor victim who is the admiration of an enchanted audience pays +dear for her success. What result can possibly follow on exertions so +ill-proportioned to the resources of the delicate sex? The muscles of +the body, disproportionately wearied, are forced to their full power of +exertion. The nervous forces, intended to feed the fire of passions, +and the labor of the brain, are diverted from their course. The failure +of desire, the wish for rest, the exclusive craving for substantial +food, all point to a nature impoverished, more anxious to recruit than +to enjoy. Moreover, a denizen of the side scenes said to me one day, +‘Whoever has lived with dancers has lived with sheep; for in their +exhaustion they can think of nothing but strong food.’ Believe me, +then, the love which a ballet girl inspires is very delusive; in her we +find, under an appearance of an artificial springtime, a soil which is +cold as well as greedy, and senses which are utterly dulled. The +Calabrian doctors prescribed the dance as a remedy for the hysteric +affections which are common among the women of their country; and the +Arabs use a somewhat similar recipe for the highbred mares, whose too +lively temperament hinders their fecundity. ‘Dull as a dancer’ is a +familiar proverb at the theatre. In fact, the best brains of Europe are +convinced that dancing brings with it a result eminently cooling. + +“In support of this it may be necessary to add other observations. The +life of shepherds gives birth to irregular loves. The morals of weavers +were horribly decried in Greece. The Italians have given birth to a +proverb concerning the lubricity of lame women. The Spanish, in whose +veins are found many mixtures of African incontinence, have expressed +their sentiments in a maxim which is familiar with them: _Muger y +gallina pierna quebrantada_ [it is good that a woman and a hen have one +broken leg]. The profound sagacity of the Orientals in the art of +pleasure is altogether expressed by this ordinance of the caliph Hakim, +founder of the Druses, who forbade, under pain of death, the making in +his kingdom of any shoes for women. It seems that over the whole globe +the tempests of the heart wait only to break out after the limbs are at +rest!” + +What an admirable manoeuvre it would be to make a wife dance, and to +feed her on vegetables! + +Do not believe that these observations, which are as true as they are +wittily stated, contradict in any way the system which we have +previously prescribed; by the latter, as by the former, we succeed in +producing in a woman that needed listlessness, which is the pledge of +repose and tranquility. By the latter you leave a door open, that the +enemy may flee; by the former, you slay him. + +Now at this point it seems to us that we hear timorous people and those +of narrow views rising up against our idea of hygiene in the name of +morality and sentiment. + +“Is not woman endowed with a soul? Has she not feelings as we have? +What right has any one, without regard to her pain, her ideas, or her +requirements, to hammer her out, as a cheap metal, out of which a +workman fashions a candlestick or an extinguisher? Is it because the +poor creatures are already so feeble and miserable that a brute claims +the power to torture them, merely at the dictate of his own fancies, +which may be more or less just? And, if by this weakening or heating +system of yours, which draws out, softens, hardens the fibres, you +cause frightful and cruel sickness, if you bring to the tomb a woman +who is dear to you; if, if,—” + +This is our answer: + +Have you never noticed into how many different shapes harlequin and +columbine change their little white hats? They turn and twist them so +well that they become, one after another, a spinning-top, a boat, a +wine-glass, a half-moon, a cap, a basket, a fish, a whip, a dagger, a +baby, and a man’s head. + +This is an exact image of the despotism with which you ought to shape +and reshape your wife. + +The wife is a piece of property, acquired by contract; she is part of +your furniture, for possession is nine-tenths of the law; in fact, the +woman is not, to speak correctly, anything but an adjunct to the man; +therefore abridge, cut, file this article as you choose; she is in +every sense yours. Take no notice at all of her murmurs, of her cries, +of her sufferings; nature has ordained her for your use, that she may +bear everything—children, griefs, blows and pains from man. + +Don’t accuse yourself of harshness. In the codes of all the nations +which are called civilized, man has written the laws which govern the +destiny of women in these cruel terms: _Vae victis!_ Woe to the +conquered! + +Finally, think upon this last observation, the most weighty, perhaps, +of all that we have made up to this time: if you, her husband, do not +break under the scourge of your will this weak and charming reed, there +will be a celibate, capricious and despotic, ready to bring her under a +yoke more cruel still; and she will have to endure two tyrannies +instead of one. Under all considerations, therefore, humanity demands +that you should follow the system of our hygiene. + +MEDITATION XIII. + +OF PERSONAL MEASURES. + + +Perhaps the preceding Meditations will prove more likely to develop +general principles of conduct, than to repel force by force. They +furnish, however, the pharmacopoeia of medicine and not the practice of +medicine. Now consider the personal means which nature has put into +your hands for self-defence; for Providence has forgotten no one; if to +the sepia (that fish of the Adriatic) has been given the black dye by +which he produces a cloud in which he disappears from his enemy, you +should believe that a husband has not been left without a weapon; and +now the time has come for you to draw yours. + +You ought to have stipulated before you married that your wife should +nurse her own children; in this case, as long as she is occupied in +bearing children or in nursing them you will avoid the danger from one +or two quarters. The wife who is engaged in bringing into the world and +nursing a baby has not really the time to bother with a lover, not to +speak of the fact that before and after her confinement she cannot show +herself in the world. In short, how can the most bold of the +distinguished women who are the subject of this work show herself under +these circumstances in public? O Lord Byron, thou didst not wish to see +women even eat! + +Six months after her confinement, and when the child is on the eve of +being weaned, a woman just begins to feel that she can enjoy her +restoration and her liberty. + +If your wife has not nursed her first child, you have too much sense +not to notice this circumstance, and not to make her desire to nurse +her next one. You will read to her the _Emile_ of Jean-Jacques; you +will fill her imagination with a sense of motherly duties; you will +excite her moral feelings, etc.: in a word, you are either a fool or a +man of sense; and in the first case, even after reading this book, you +will always be minotaurized; while in the second, you will understand +how to take a hint. + +This first expedient is in reality your own personal business. It will +give you a great advantage in carrying out all the other methods. + +Since Alcibiades cut the ears and the tail of his dog, in order to do a +service to Pericles, who had on his hands a sort of Spanish war, as +well as an Ouvrard contract affair, such as was then attracting the +notice of the Athenians, there is not a single minister who has not +endeavored to cut the ears of some dog or other. + +So in medicine, when inflammation takes place at some vital point of +the system, counter-irritation is brought about at some other point, by +means of blisters, scarifications and cupping. + +Another method consists in blistering your wife, or giving her, with a +mental needle, a prod whose violence is such as to make a diversion in +your favor. + +A man of considerable mental resources had made his honeymoon last for +about four years; the moon began to wane, and he saw appearing the +fatal hollow in its circle. His wife was exactly in that state of mind +which we attributed at the close of our first part to every honest +woman; she had taken a fancy to a worthless fellow who was both +insignificant in appearance and ugly; the only thing in his favor was, +he was not her own husband. At this juncture, her husband meditated the +cutting of some dog’s tail, in order to renew, if possible, his lease +of happiness. His wife had conducted herself with such tact, that it +would have been very embarrassing to forbid her lover the house, for +she had discovered some slight tie of relationship between them. The +danger became, day by day, more imminent. The scent of the Minotaur was +all around. One evening the husband felt himself plunged into a mood of +deep vexation so acute as to be apparent to his wife. His wife had +begun to show him more kindness than she had ever exhibited, even +during the honeymoon; and hence question after question racked his +mind. On her part a dead silence reigned. The anxious questionings of +his mind were redoubled; his suspicions burst forth, and he was seized +with forebodings of future calamity! Now, on this occasion, he deftly +applied a Japanese blister, which burned as fiercely as an _auto-da-fe_ +of the year 1600. At first his wife employed a thousand stratagems to +discover whether the annoyance of her husband was caused by the +presence of her lover; it was her first intrigue and she displayed a +thousand artifices in it. Her imagination was aroused; it was no longer +taken up with her lover; had she not better, first of all, probe her +husband’s secret? + +One evening the husband, moved by the desire to confide in his loving +helpmeet all his troubles, informed her that their whole fortune was +lost. They would have to give up their carriage, their box at the +theatre, balls, parties, even Paris itself; perhaps, by living on their +estate in the country a year or two, they might retrieve all! Appealing +to the imagination of his wife, he told her how he pitied her for her +attachment to a man who was indeed deeply in love with her, but was now +without fortune; he tore his hair, and his wife was compelled in honor +to be deeply moved; then in this first excitement of their conjugal +disturbance he took her off to his estate. Then followed +scarifications, mustard plaster upon mustard plaster, and the tails of +fresh dogs were cut: he caused a Gothic wing to be built to the +chateau; madame altered the park ten time over in order to have +fountains and lakes and variations in the grounds; finally, the husband +in the midst of her labors did not forget his own, which consisted in +providing her with interesting reading, and launching upon her delicate +attentions, etc. Notice, he never informed his wife of the trick he had +played on her; and if his fortune was recuperated, it was directly +after the building of the wing, and the expenditure of enormous sums in +making water-courses; but he assured her that the lake provided a +water-power by which mills might be run, etc. + +Now, there was a conjugal blister well conceived, for this husband +neither neglected to rear his family nor to invite to his house +neighbors who were tiresome, stupid or old; and if he spent the winter +in Paris, he flung his wife into the vortex of balls and races, so that +she had not a minute to give to lovers, who are usually the fruit of a +vacant life. + +Journeys to Italy, Switzerland or Greece, sudden complaints which +require a visit to the waters, and the most distant waters, are pretty +good blisters. In fact, a man of sense should know how to manufacture a +thousand of them. + +Let us continue our examination of such personal methods. + +And here we would have you observe that we are reasoning upon a +hypothesis, without which this book will be unintelligible to you; +namely, we suppose that your honeymoon has lasted for a respectable +time and that the lady that you married was not a widow, but a maid; on +the opposite supposition, it is at least in accordance with French +manners to think that your wife married you merely for the purpose of +becoming inconsistent. + +From the moment when the struggle between virtue and inconsistency +begins in your home, the whole question rests upon the constant and +involuntary comparison which your wife is instituting between you and +her lover. + +And here you may find still another mode of defence, entirely personal, +seldom employed by husbands, but the men of superiority will not fear +to attempt it. It is to belittle the lover without letting your wife +suspect your intention. You ought to be able to bring it about so that +she will say to herself some evening while she is putting her hair in +curl-papers, “My husband is superior to him.” + +In order to succeed, and you ought to be able to succeed, since you +have the immense advantage over the lover in knowing the character of +your wife, and how she is most easily wounded, you should, with all the +tact of a diplomat, lead this lover to do silly things and cause him to +annoy her, without his being aware of it. + +In the first place, this lover, as usual, will seek your friendship, or +you will have friends in common; then, either through the +instrumentality of these friends or by insinuations adroitly but +treacherously made, you will lead him astray on essential points; and, +with a little cleverness, you will succeed in finding your wife ready +to deny herself to her lover when he calls, without either she or he +being able to tell the reason. Thus you will have created in the bosom +of your home a comedy in five acts, in which you play, to your profit, +the brilliant role of Figaro or Almaviva; and for some months you will +amuse yourself so much the more, because your _amour-propre_, your +vanity, your all, were at stake. + +I had the good fortune in my youth to win the confidence of an old +_emigre_ who gave me those rudiments of education which are generally +obtained by young people from women. This friend, whose memory will +always be dear to me, taught me by his example to put into practice +those diplomatic stratagems which require tact as well as grace. + +The Comte de Noce had returned from Coblenz at a time when it was +dangerous for the nobility to be found in France. No one had such +courage and such kindness, such craft and such recklessness as this +aristocrat. Although he was sixty years old he had married a woman of +twenty-five, being compelled to this act of folly by soft-heartedness; +for he thus delivered this poor child from the despotism of a +capricious mother. “Would you like to be my widow?” this amiable old +gentleman had said to Mademoiselle de Pontivy, but his heart was too +affectionate not to become more attached to his wife than a sensible +man ought to be. As in his youth he had been under the influence of +several among the cleverest women in the court of Louis XV, he thought +he would have no difficulty in keeping his wife from any entanglement. +What man excepting him have I ever seen, who could put into successful +practice the teachings which I am endeavoring to give to husbands! What +charm could he impart to life by his delightful manners and fascinating +conversation!—His wife never knew until after his death what she then +learned from me, namely, that he had the gout. He had wisely retired to +a home in the hollow of a valley, close to a forest. God only knows +what rambles he used to take with his wife!—His good star decreed that +Mademoiselle de Pontivy should possess an excellent heart and should +manifest in a high degree that exquisite refinement, that sensitive +modesty which renders beautiful the plainest girl in the world. All of +a sudden, one of his nephews, a good-looking military man, who had +escaped from the disasters of Moscow, returned to his uncle’s house, as +much for the sake of learning how far he had to fear his cousins, as +heirs, as in the hope of laying siege to his aunt. His black hair, his +moustache, the easy small-talk of the staff officer, a certain freedom +which was elegant as well as trifling, his bright eyes, contrasted +favorably with the faded graces of his uncle. I arrived at the precise +moment when the young countess was teaching her newly found relation to +play backgammon. The proverb says that “women never learn this game +excepting from their lovers, and vice versa.” Now, during a certain +game, M. de Noce had surprised his wife and the viscount in the act of +exchanging one of those looks which are full of mingled innocence, +fear, and desire. In the evening he proposed to us a hunting-party, and +we agreed. I never saw him so gay and so eager as he appeared on the +following morning, in spite of the twinges of gout which heralded an +approaching attack. The devil himself could not have been better able +to keep up a conversation on trifling subjects than he was. He had +formerly been a musketeer in the Grays and had known Sophie Arnoud. +This explains all. The conversation after a time became so exceedingly +free among us three, that I hope God may forgive me for it! + +“I would never have believed that my uncle was such a dashing blade?” +said the nephew. + +We made a halt, and while we were sitting on the edge of a green forest +clearing, the count led us on to discourse about women just as Brantome +and Aloysia might have done. + +“You fellows are very happy under the present government!—the women of +the time are well mannered” (in order to appreciate the exclamation of +the old gentleman, the reader should have heard the atrocious stories +which the captain had been relating). “And this,” he went on, “is one +of the advantages resulting from the Revolution. The present system +gives very much more charm and mystery to passion. In former times +women were easy; ah! indeed, you would not believe what skill it +required, what daring, to wake up those worn-out hearts; we were always +on the _qui vive_. But yet in those days a man became celebrated for a +broad joke, well put, or for a lucky piece of insolence. That is what +women love, and it will always be the best method of succeeding with +them!” + +These last words were uttered in a tone of profound contempt; he +stopped, and began to play with the hammer of his gun as if to disguise +his deep feeling. + +“But nonsense,” he went on, “my day is over! A man ought to have the +body as well as the imagination young. Why did I marry? What is most +treacherous in girls educated by mothers who lived in that brilliant +era of gallantry, is that they put on an air of frankness, of reserve; +they look as if butter would not melt in their mouths, and those who +know them well feel that they would swallow anything!” + +He rose, lifted his gun with a gesture of rage, and dashing it to the +ground thrust it far up the butt in the moist sod. + +“It would seem as if my dear aunt were fond of a little fun,” said the +officer to me in a low voice. + +“Or of denouements that do not come off!” I added. + +The nephew tightened his cravat, adjusted his collar and gave a jump +like a Calabrian goat. We returned to the chateau at about two in the +afternoon. The count kept me with him until dinner-time, under the +pretext of looking for some medals, of which he had spoken during our +return home. The dinner was dull. The countess treated her nephew with +stiff and cold politeness. When we entered the drawing-room the count +said to his wife: + +“Are you going to play backgammon?—We will leave you.” + +The young countess made no reply. She gazed at the fire, as if she had +not heard. Her husband took some steps towards the door, inviting me by +the wave of his hand to follow him. At the sound of his footsteps, his +wife quickly turned her head. + +“Why do you leave us?” said she, “you will have all tomorrow to show +your friend the reverse of the medals.” + +The count remained. Without paying any attention to the awkwardness +which had succeeded the former military aplomb of his nephew, the count +exercised during the whole evening his full powers as a charming +conversationalist. I had never before seen him so brilliant or so +gracious. We spoke a great deal about women. The witticisms of our host +were marked by the most exquisite refinement. He made me forget that +his hair was white, for he showed the brilliancy which belonged to a +youthful heart, a gaiety which effaces the wrinkles from the cheek and +melts the snow of wintry age. + +The next day the nephew went away. Even after the death of M. de Noce, +I tried to profit by the intimacy of those familiar conversations in +which women are sometimes caught off their guard to sound her, but I +could never learn what impertinence the viscount had exhibited towards +his aunt. His insolence must have been excessive, for since that time +Madame de Noce has refused to see her nephew, and up to the present +moment never hears him named without a slight movement of her eyebrows. +I did not at once guess the end at which the Comte de Noce aimed, in +inviting us to go shooting; but I discovered later that he had played a +pretty bold game. + +Nevertheless, if you happen at last, like M. de Noce, to carry off a +decisive victory, do not forget to put into practice at once the system +of blisters; and do not for a moment imagine that such _tours de force_ +are to be repeated with safety. If that is the way you use your +talents, you will end by losing caste in your wife’s estimation; for +she will demand of you, reasonably enough, double what you would give +her, and the time will come when you declare bankruptcy. The human soul +in its desires follows a sort of arithmetical progression, the end and +origin of which are equally unknown. Just as the opium-eater must +constantly increase his doses in order to obtain the same result, so +our mind, imperious as it is weak, desires that feeling, ideas and +objects should go on ever increasing in size and in intensity. Hence +the necessity of cleverly distributing the interest in a dramatic work, +and of graduating doses in medicine. Thus you see, if you always resort +to the employment of means like these, that you must accommodate such +daring measures to many circumstances, and success will always depend +upon the motives to which you appeal. + +And finally, have you influence, powerful friends, an important post? +The last means I shall suggest cuts to the root of the evil. Would you +have the power to send your wife’s lover off by securing his promotion, +or his change of residence by an exchange, if he is a military man? You +cut off by this means all communication between them; later on we will +show you how to do it; for _sublata causa tollitur effectus_,—Latin +words which may be freely translated “there is no effect without a +cause.” + +Nevertheless, you feel that your wife may easily choose another lover; +but in addition to these preliminary expedients, you will always have a +blister ready, in order to gain time, and calculate how you may bring +the affair to an end by fresh devices. + +Study how to combine the system of blisters with the mimic wiles of +Carlin, the immortal Carlin of the _Comedie-Italienne_ who always held +and amused an audience for whole hours, by uttering the same words, +varied only by the art of pantomime and pronounced with a thousand +inflections of different tone,—“The queen said to the king!” Imitate +Carlin, discover some method of always keeping your wife in check, so +as not to be checkmated yourself. Take a degree among constitutional +ministers, a degree in the art of making promises. Habituate yourself +to show at seasonable times the punchinello which makes children run +after you without knowing the distance they run. We are all children, +and women are all inclined through their curiosity to spend their time +in pursuit of a will-o’-the-wisp. The flame is brilliant and quickly +vanishes, but is not the imagination at hand to act as your ally? +Finally, study the happy art of being near her and yet not being near +her; of seizing the opportunity which will yield you pre-eminence in +her mind without ever crushing her with a sense of your superiority, or +even of her own happiness. If the ignorance in which you have kept her +does not altogether destroy her intellect, you must remain in such +relations with her that each of you will still desire the company of +the other. + +MEDITATION XIV. + +OF APARTMENTS. + + +The preceding methods and systems are in a way purely moral; they share +the nobility of the soul, there is nothing repulsive in them; but now +we must proceed to consider precautions _a la Bartholo_. Do not give +way to timidity. There is a marital courage, as there is a civil and +military courage, as there is the courage of the National Guard. + +What is the first course of a young girl after having purchased a +parrot? Is it not to fasten it up in a pretty cage, from which it +cannot get out without permission? + +You may learn your duty from this child. + +Everything that pertains to the arrangement of your house and of your +apartments should be planned so as not to give your wife any advantage, +in case she has decided to deliver you to the Minotaur; half of all +actual mischances are brought about by the deplorable facilities which +the apartments furnish. + +Before everything else determine to have for your porter a _single man_ +entirely devoted to your person. This is a treasure easily to be found. +What husband is there throughout the world who has not either a +foster-father or some old servant, upon whose knees he has been +dandled! There ought to exist by means of your management, a hatred +like that of Artreus and Thyestes between your wife and this Nestor +—guardian of your gate. This gate is the Alpha and Omega of an +intrigue. May not all intrigues in love be confined in these words +—entering and leaving? + +Your house will be of no use to you if it does not stand between a +court and a garden, and so constructed as to be detached from all other +buildings. You must abolish all recesses in your apartments. A +cupboard, if it contain but six pots of preserves, should be walled in. +You are preparing yourself for war, and the first thought of a general +is to cut his enemy off from supplies. Moreover, all the walls must be +smooth, in order to present to the eye lines which may be taken in at a +glance, and permit the immediate recognition of the least strange +object. If you consult the remains of antique monuments you will see +that the beauty of Greek and Roman apartments sprang principally from +the purity of their lines, the clear sweep of their walls and +scantiness of furniture. The Greeks would have smiled in pity, if they +had seen the gaps which our closets make in our drawing-rooms. + +This magnificent system of defence should above all be put in active +operation in the apartment of your wife; never let her curtain her bed +in such a way that one can walk round it amid a maze of hangings; be +inexorable in the matter of connecting passages, and let her chamber be +at the bottom of your reception-rooms, so as to show at a glance those +who come and go. + +_The Marriage of Figaro_ will no doubt have taught you to put your +wife’s chamber at a great height from the ground. All celibates are +Cherubins. + +Your means, doubtless, will permit your wife to have a dressing-room, a +bath-room, and a room for her chambermaid. Think then on Susanne, and +never commit the fault of arranging this little room below that of +madame’s, but place it always above, and do not shrink from disfiguring +your mansion by hideous divisions in the windows. + +If, by ill luck, you see that this dangerous apartment communicates +with that of your wife by a back staircase, earnestly consult your +architect; let his genius exhaust itself in rendering this dangerous +staircase as innocent as the primitive garret ladder; we conjure you +let not this staircase have appended to it any treacherous +lurking-place; its stiff and angular steps must not be arranged with +that tempting curve which Faublas and Justine found so useful when they +waited for the exit of the Marquis de B——-. Architects nowadays make +such staircases as are absolutely preferable to ottomans. Restore +rather the virtuous garret steps of our ancestors. + +Concerning the chimneys in the apartment of madame, you must take care +to place in the flue, five feet from the ground, an iron grill, even +though it be necessary to put up a fresh one every time the chimney is +swept. If your wife laughs at this precaution, suggest to her the +number of murders that have been committed by means of chimneys. Almost +all women are afraid of robbers. The bed is one of those important +pieces of furniture whose structure will demand long consideration. +Everything concerning it is of vital importance. The following is the +result of long experience in the construction of beds. Give to this +piece of furniture a form so original that it may be looked upon +without disgust, in the midst of changes of fashion which succeed so +rapidly in rendering antiquated the creations of former decorators, for +it is essential that your wife be unable to change, at pleasure, this +theatre of married happiness. The base should be plain and massive and +admit of no treacherous interval between it and the floor; and bear in +mind always that the Donna Julia of Byron hid Don Juan under her +pillow. But it would be ridiculous to treat lightly so delicate a +subject. + +LXII. +The bed is the whole of marriage. + +Moreover, we must not delay to direct your attention to this wonderful +creation of human genius, an invention which claims our recognition +much more than ships, firearms, matches, wheeled carriages, steam +engines of all kinds, more than even barrels and bottles. In the first +place, a little thought will convince us that this is all true of the +bed; but when we begin to think that it is our second father, that the +most tranquil and most agitated half of our existence is spent under +its protecting canopy, words fail in eulogizing it. (See Meditation +XVII, entitled “Theory of the Bed.”) + +When the war, of which we shall speak in our third part, breaks out +between you and madame, you will always have plenty of ingenious +excuses for rummaging in the drawers and escritoires; for if your wife +is trying to hide from you some statue of her adoration, it is your +interest to know where she has hidden it. A gyneceum, constructed on +the method described, will enable you to calculate at a glance, whether +there is present in it two pounds of silk more than usual. Should a +single closet be constructed there, you are a lost man! Above all, +accustom your wife, during the honeymoon, to bestow especial pains in +the neatness of her apartment; let nothing put off that. If you do not +habituate her to be minutely particular in this respect, if the same +objects are not always found in the same places, she will allow things +to become so untidy, that you will not be able to see that there are +two pounds of silk more or less in her room. + +The curtains of your apartments ought to be of a stuff which is quite +transparent, and you ought to contract the habit in the evenings of +walking outside so that madame may see you come right up to the window +just out of absent-mindedness. In a word, with regard to windows, let +the sills be so narrow that even a sack of flour cannot be set up on +them. + +If the apartment of your wife can be arranged on these principles, you +will be in perfect safety, even if there are niches enough there to +contain all the saints of Paradise. You will be able, every evening, +with the assistance of your porter, to strike the balance between the +entrances and exits of visitors; and, in order to obtain accurate +results, there is nothing to prevent your teaching him to keep a book +of visitors, in double entry. + +If you have a garden, cultivate a taste for dogs, and always keep at +large one of these incorruptible guardians under your windows; you will +thus gain the respect of the Minotaur, especially if you accustom your +four-footed friend to take nothing substantial excepting from the hand +of your porter, so that hard-hearted celibates may not succeed in +poisoning him. + +But all these precautions must be taken as a natural thing so that they +may not arouse suspicions. If husbands are so imprudent as to neglect +precautions from the moment they are married, they ought at once to +sell their house and buy another one, or, under the pretext of repairs, +alter their present house in the way prescribed. + +You will without scruple banish from your apartment all sofas, +ottomans, lounges, sedan chairs and the like. In the first place, this +is the kind of furniture that adorns the homes of grocers, where they +are universally found, as they are in those of barbers; but they are +essentially the furniture of perdition; I can never see them without +alarm. It has always seemed to me that there the devil himself is +lurking with his horns and cloven foot. + +After all, nothing is so dangerous as a chair, and it is extremely +unfortunate that women cannot be shut up within the four walls of a +bare room! What husband is there, who on sitting down on a rickety +chair is not always forced to believe that this chair has received some +of the lessons taught by the _Sofa_ of Crebillion junior? But happily +we have arranged your apartment on such a system of prevention that +nothing so fatal can happen, or, at any rate, not without your +contributory negligence. + +One fault which you must contract, and which you must never correct, +will consist in a sort of heedless curiosity, which will make you +examine unceasingly all the boxes, and turn upside down the contents of +all dressing-cases and work-baskets. You must proceed to this +domiciliary visit in a humorous mood, and gracefully, so that each time +you will obtain pardon by exciting the amusement of your wife. + +You must always manifest a most profound astonishment on noticing any +piece of furniture freshly upholstered in her well-appointed apartment. +You must immediately make her explain to you the advantages of the +change; and then you must ransack your mind to discover whether there +be not some underhand motive in the transaction. + +This is by no means all. You have too much sense to forget that your +pretty parrot will remain in her cage only so long as that cage is +beautiful. The least accessory of her apartment ought, therefore, to +breathe elegance and taste. The general appearance should always +present a simple, at the same time a charming picture. You must +constantly renew the hangings and muslin curtains. The freshness of the +decorations is too essential to permit of economy on this point. It is +the fresh chickweed each morning carefully put into the cage of their +birds, that makes their pets believe it is the verdure of the meadows. +An apartment of this character is then the _ultima ratio_ of husbands; +a wife has nothing to say when everything is lavished on her. + +Husbands who are condemned to live in rented apartments find themselves +in the most terrible situation possible. What happy or what fatal +influence cannot the porter exercise upon their lot? + +Is not their home flanked on either side by other houses? It is true +that by placing the apartment of their wives on one side of the house +the danger is lessened by one-half; but are they not obliged to learn +by heart and to ponder the age, the condition, the fortune, the +character, the habits of the tenants of the next house and even to know +their friends and relations? + +A husband will never take lodgings on the ground floor. + +Every man, however, can apply in his apartments the precautionary +methods which we have suggested to the owner of a house, and thus the +tenant will have this advantage over the owner, that the apartment, +which is less spacious than the house, is more easily guarded. + +MEDITATION XV. + +OF THE CUSTOM HOUSE. + + +“But no, madame, no—” + +“Yes, for there is such inconvenience in the arrangement.” + +“Do you think, madame, that we wish, as at the frontier, to watch the +visits of persons who cross the threshold of your apartments, or +furtively leave them, in order to see whether they bring to you +articles of contraband? That would not be proper; and there is nothing +odious in our proceeding, any more than there is anything of a fiscal +character; do not be alarmed.” + +The Custom House of the marriage state is, of all the expedients +prescribed in this second part, that which perhaps demands the most +tact and the most skill as well as the most knowledge acquired _a +priori_, that is to say before marriage. In order to carry it out, a +husband ought to have made a profound study of Lavater’s book, and to +be imbued with all his principles; to have accustomed his eye to judge +and to apprehend with the most astonishing promptitude, the slightest +physical expressions by which a man reveals his thoughts. + +Lavater’s _Physiognomy_ originated a veritable science, which has won a +place in human investigation. If at first some doubts, some jokes +greeted the appearance of this book, since then the celebrated Doctor +Gall is come with his noble theory of the skull and has completed the +system of the Swiss savant, and given stability to his fine and +luminous observations. People of talent, diplomats, women, all those +who are numbered among the choice and fervent disciples of these two +celebrated men, have often had occasion to recognize many other evident +signs, by which the course of human thought is indicated. The habits of +the body, the handwriting, the sound of the voice, have often betrayed +the woman who is in love, the diplomat who is attempting to deceive, +the clever administrator, or the sovereign who is compelled to +distinguish at a glance love, treason or merit hitherto unknown. The +man whose soul operates with energy is like a poor glowworm, which +without knowing it irradiates light from every pore. He moves in a +brilliant sphere where each effort makes a burning light and outlines +his actions with long streamers of fire. + +These, then, are all the elements of knowledge which you should +possess, for the conjugal custom house insists simply in being able by +a rapid but searching examination to know the moral and physical +condition of all who enter or leave your house—all, that is, who have +seen or intend to see your wife. A husband is, like a spider, set at +the centre of an invisible net, and receives a shock from the least +fool of a fly who touches it, and from a distance, hears, judges and +sees what is either his prey or his enemy. + +Thus you must obtain means to examine the celibate who rings at your +door under two circumstances which are quite distinct, namely, when he +is about to enter and when he is inside. + +At the moment of entering how many things does he utter without even +opening his mouth! + +It may be by a slight wave of his hand, or by his plunging his fingers +many times into his hair, he sticks up or smoothes down his +characteristic bang. + +Or he hums a French or an Italian air, merry or sad, in a voice which +may be either tenor, contralto, soprano or baritone. + +Perhaps he takes care to see that the ends of his necktie are properly +adjusted. + +Or he smoothes down the ruffles or front of his shirt or evening-dress. + +Or he tries to find out by a questioning and furtive glance whether his +wig, blonde or brown, curled or plain, is in its natural position. + +Perhaps he looks at his nails to see whether they are clean and duly +cut. + +Perhaps with a hand which is either white or untidy, well-gloved or +otherwise, he twirls his moustache, or his whiskers, or picks his teeth +with a little tortoise-shell toothpick. + +Or by slow and repeated movements he tries to place his chin exactly +over the centre of his necktie. + +Or perhaps he crosses one foot over the other, putting his hands in his +pockets. + +Or perhaps he gives a twist to his shoe, and looks at it as if he +thought, “Now, there’s a foot that is not badly formed.” + +Or according as he has come on foot or in a carriage, he rubs off or he +does not rub off the slight patches of mud which soil his shoes. + +Or perhaps he remains as motionless as a Dutchman smoking his pipe. + +Or perhaps he fixes his eyes on the door and looks like a soul escaped +from Purgatory and waiting for Saint Peter with the keys. + +Perhaps he hesitates to pull the bell; perhaps he seizes it +negligently, precipitately, familiarly, or like a man who is quite sure +of himself. + +Perhaps he pulls it timidly, producing a faint tinkle which is lost in +the silence of the apartments, as the first bell of matins in +winter-time, in a convent of Minims; or perhaps after having rung with +energy, he rings again impatient that the footman has not heard him. + +Perhaps he exhales a delicate scent, as he chews a pastille. + +Perhaps with a solemn air he takes a pinch of snuff, brushing off with +care the grains that might mar the whiteness of his linen. + +Perhaps he looks around like a man estimating the value of the +staircase lamp, the balustrade, the carpet, as if he were a furniture +dealer or a contractor. + +Perhaps this celibate seems a young or an old man, is cold or hot, +arrives slowly, with an expression of sadness or merriment, etc. + +You see that here, at the very foot of your staircase, you are met by +an astonishing mass of things to observe. + +The light pencil-strokes, with which we have tried to outline this +figure, will suggest to you what is in reality a moral kaleidoscope +with millions of variations. And yet we have not even attempted to +bring any woman on to the threshold which reveals so much; for in that +case our remarks, already considerable in number, would have been +countless and light as the grains of sand on the seashore. + +For as a matter of fact, when he stands before the shut door, a man +believes that he is quite alone; and he would have no hesitation in +beginning a silent monologue, a dreamy soliloquy, in which he revealed +his desires, his intentions, his personal qualities, his faults, his +virtues, etc.; for undoubtedly a man on a stoop is exactly like a young +girl of fifteen at confession, the evening before her first communion. + +Do you want any proof of this? Notice the sudden change of face and +manner in this celibate from the very moment he steps within the house. +No machinist in the Opera, no change in the temperature in the clouds +or in the sun can more suddenly transform the appearance of a theatre, +the effect of the atmosphere, or the scenery of the heavens. + +On reaching the first plank of your antechamber, instead of betraying +with so much innocence the myriad thoughts which were suggested to you +on the steps, the celibate has not a single glance to which you could +attach any significance. The mask of social convention wraps with its +thick veil his whole bearing; but a clever husband must already have +divined at a single look the object of his visit, and he reads the soul +of the new arrival as if it were a printed book. + +The manner in which he approaches your wife, in which he addresses her, +looks at her, greets her and retires—there are volumes of observations, +more or less trifling, to be made on these subjects. + +The tone of his voice, his bearing, his awkwardness, it may be his +smile, even his gloom, his avoidance of your eye,—all are significant, +all ought to be studied, but without apparent attention. You ought to +conceal the most disagreeable discovery you may make by an easy manner +and remarks such as are ready at hand to a man of society. As we are +unable to detail the minutiae of this subject we leave them entirely to +the sagacity of the reader, who must by this time have perceived the +drift of our investigation, as well as the extent of this science which +begins at the analysis of glances and ends in the direction of such +movements as contempt may inspire in a great toe hidden under the satin +of a lady’s slipper or the leather of a man’s boot. + +But the exit!—for we must allow for occasions where you have omitted +your rigid scrutiny at the threshold of the doorway, and in that case +the exit becomes of vital importance, and all the more so because this +fresh study of the celibate ought to be made on the same lines, but +from an opposite point of view, from that which we have already +outlined. + +In the exit the situation assumes a special gravity; for then is the +moment in which the enemy has crossed all the intrenchments within +which he was subject to our examination and has escaped into the +street! At this point a man of understanding when he sees a visitor +passing under the _porte-cochere_ should be able to divine the import +of the whole visit. The indications are indeed fewer in number, but how +distinct is their character! The denouement has arrived and the man +instantly betrays the importance of it by the frankest expression of +happiness, pain or joy. + +These revelations are therefore easy to apprehend; they appear in the +glance cast either at the building or at the windows of the apartment; +in a slow or loitering gait, in the rubbing of hands, on the part of a +fool, in the bounding gait of a coxcomb, or the involuntary arrest of +his footsteps, which marks the man who is deeply moved; in a word, you +see upon the stoop certain questions as clearly proposed to you as if a +provincial academy had offered a hundred crowns for an essay; but in +the exit you behold the solution of these questions clearly and +precisely given to you. Our task would be far above the power of human +intelligence if it consisted in enumerating the different ways by which +men betray their feelings, the discernment of such things is purely a +matter of tact and sentiment. + +If strangers are the subject of these principles of observation, you +have a still stronger reason for submitting your wife to the formal +safeguards which we have outlined. + +A married man should make a profound study of his wife’s countenance. +Such a study is easy, it is even involuntary and continuous. For him +the pretty face of his wife must needs contain no mysteries, he knows +how her feelings are depicted there and with what expression she shuns +the fire of his glance. + +The slightest movement of the lips, the faintest contraction of the +nostrils, scarcely perceptible changes in the expression of the eye, an +altered voice, and those indescribable shades of feeling which pass +over her features, or the light which sometimes bursts forth from them, +are intelligible language to you. + +The whole woman nature stands before you; all look at her, but none can +interpret her thoughts. But for you, the eye is more or less dimmed, +wide-opened or closed; the lid twitches, the eyebrow moves; a wrinkle, +which vanishes as quickly as a ripple on the ocean, furrows her brow +for one moment; the lip tightens, it is slightly curved or it is +wreathed with animation—for you the woman has spoken. + +If in those puzzling moments in which a woman tries dissimulation in +presence of her husband, you have the spirit of a sphinx in seeing +through her, you will plainly observe that your custom-house +restrictions are mere child’s play to her. + +When she comes home or goes out, when in a word she believes she is +alone, your wife will exhibit all the imprudence of a jackdaw and will +tell her secret aloud to herself; moreover, by her sudden change of +expression the moment she notices you (and despite the rapidity of this +change, you will not fail to have observed the expression she wore +behind your back) you may read her soul as if you were reading a book +of Plain Song. Moreover, your wife will often find herself just on the +point of indulging in soliloquies, and on such occasions her husband +may recognize the secret feelings of his wife. + +Is there a man as heedless of love’s mysteries as not to have admired, +over and over again, the light, mincing, even bewitching gait of a +woman who flies on her way to keep an assignation? She glides through +the crowd, like a snake through the grass. The costumes and stuffs of +the latest fashion spread out their dazzling attractions in the shop +windows without claiming her attention; on, on she goes like the +faithful animal who follows the invisible tracks of his master; she is +deaf to all compliments, blind to all glances, insensible even to the +light touch of the crowd, which is inevitable amid the circulation of +Parisian humanity. Oh, how deeply she feels the value of a minute! Her +gait, her toilet, the expression of her face, involve her in a thousand +indiscretions, but oh, what a ravishing picture she presents to the +idler, and what an ominous page for the eye of a husband to read, is +the face of this woman when she returns from the secret place of +rendezvous in which her heart ever dwells! Her happiness is impressed +even on the unmistakable disarray of her hair, the mass of whose wavy +tresses has not received from the broken comb of the celibate that +radiant lustre, that elegant and well-proportioned adjustment which +only the practiced hand of her maid can give. And what charming ease +appears in her gait! How is it possible to describe the emotion which +adds such rich tints to her complexion!—which robs her eyes of all +their assurance and gives to them an expression of mingled melancholy +and delight, of shame which is yet blended with pride! + +These observations, stolen from our Meditation, _Of the Last Symptoms_, +and which are really suggested by the situation of a woman who tries to +conceal everything, may enable you to divine by analogy the rich crop +of observation which is left for you to harvest when your wife arrives +home, or when, without having committed the great crime she innocently +lets out the secrets of her thoughts. For our own part we never see a +landing without wishing to set up there a mariner’s card and a +weather-cock. + +As the means to be employed for constructing a sort of domestic +observatory depend altogether on places and circumstances, we must +leave to the address of a jealous husband the execution of the methods +suggested in this Meditation. + +MEDITATION XVI. + +THE CHARTER OF MARRIAGE. + + +I acknowledge that I really know of but one house in Paris which is +managed in accordance with the system unfolded in the two preceding +Meditations. But I ought to add, also, that I have built up my system +on the example of that house. The admirable fortress I allude to +belonged to a young councillor of state, who was mad with love and +jealousy. + +As soon as he learned that there existed a man who was exclusively +occupied in bringing to perfection the institution of marriage in +France, he had the generosity to open the doors of his mansion to me +and to show me his gyneceum. I admired the profound genius which so +cleverly disguised the precautions of almost oriental jealousy under +the elegance of furniture, beauty of carpets and brightness of painted +decorations. I agreed with him that it was impossible for his wife to +render his home a scene of treachery. + +“Sir,” said I, to this Othello of the council of state who did not seem +to me peculiarly strong in the _haute politique_ of marriage, “I have +no doubt that the viscountess is delighted to live in this little +Paradise; she ought indeed to take prodigious pleasure in it, +especially if you are here often. But the time will come when she will +have had enough of it; for, my dear sir, we grow tired of everything, +even of the sublime. What will you do then, when madame, failing to +find in all your inventions their primitive charm, shall open her mouth +in a yawn, and perhaps make a request with a view to the exercise of +two rights, both of which are indispensable to her happiness: +individual liberty, that is, the privilege of going and coming +according to the caprice of her will; and the liberty of the press, +that is, the privilege of writing and receiving letters without fear of +your censure?” + +Scarcely had I said these words when the Vicomte de V——- grasped my arm +tightly and cried: + +“Yes, such is the ingratitude of woman! If there is any thing more +ungrateful than a king, it is a nation; but, sir, woman is more +ungrateful than either of them. A married woman treats us as the +citizens of a constitutional monarchy treat their king; every measure +has been taken to give these citizens a life of prosperity in a +prosperous country; the government has taken all the pains in the world +with its gendarmes, its churches, its ministry and all the +paraphernalia of its military forces, to prevent the people from dying +of hunger, to light the cities by gas at the expense of the citizens, +to give warmth to every one by means of the sun which shines at the +forty-fifth degree of latitude, and to forbid every one, excepting the +tax-gatherers, to ask for money; it has labored hard to give to all the +main roads a more or less substantial pavement—but none of these +advantages of our fair Utopia is appreciated! The citizens want +something else. They are not ashamed to demand the right of traveling +over the roads at their own will, and of being informed where that +money given to the tax-gatherers goes. And, finally, the monarch will +soon be obliged, if we pay any attention to the chatter of certain +scribblers, to give to every individual a share in the throne or to +adopt certain revolutionary ideas, which are mere Punch and Judy shows +for the public, manipulated by a band of self-styled patriots, +riff-raff, always ready to sell their conscience for a million francs, +for an honest woman, or for a ducal coronet.” + +“But, monsieur,” I said, interrupting him, “while I perfectly agree +with you on this last point, the question remains, how will you escape +giving an answer to the just demands of your wife?” + +“Sir” he replied, “I shall do—I shall answer as the government answers, +that is, those governments which are not so stupid as the opposition +would make out to their constituents. I shall begin by solemnly +interdicting any arrangement, by virtue of which my wife will be +declared entirely free. I fully recognize her right to go wherever it +seems good to her, to write to whom she chooses, and to receive +letters, the contents of which I do not know. My wife shall have all +the rights that belong to an English Parliament; I shall let her talk +as much as she likes, discuss and propose strong and energetic +measures, but without the power to put them into execution, and then +after that—well, we shall see!” + +“By St. Joseph!” said I to myself, “Here is a man who understands the +science of marriage as well as I myself do. And then, you will see, +sir,” I answered aloud, in order to obtain from him the fullest +revelation of his experience; “you will see, some fine morning, that +you are as big a fool as the next man.” + +“Sir,” he gravely replied, “allow me to finish what I was saying. Here +is what the great politicians call a theory, but in practice they can +make that theory vanish in smoke; and ministers possess in a greater +degree than even the lawyers of Normandy, the art of making fact yield +to fancy. M. de Metternich and M. de Pilat, men of the highest +authority, have been for a long time asking each other whether Europe +is in its right senses, whether it is dreaming, whether it knows +whither it is going, whether it has ever exercised its reason, a thing +impossible on the part of the masses, of nations and of women. M. de +Metternich and M. de Pilat are terrified to see this age carried away +by a passion for constitutions, as the preceding age was by the passion +for philosophy, as that of Luther was for a reform of abuses in the +Roman religion; for it truly seems as if different generations of men +were like those conspirators whose actions are directed to the same +end, as soon as the watchword has been given them. But their alarm is a +mistake, and it is on this point alone that I condemn them, for they +are right in their wish to enjoy power without permitting the middle +class to come on a fixed day from the depth of each of their six +kingdoms, to torment them. How could men of such remarkable talent fail +to divine that the constitutional comedy has in it a moral of profound +meaning, and to see that it is the very best policy to give the age a +bone to exercise its teeth upon! I think exactly as they do on the +subject of sovereignty. A power is a moral being as much interested as +a man is in self-preservation. This sentiment of self-preservation is +under the control of an essential principle which may be expressed in +three words—_to lose nothing_. But in order to lose nothing, a power +must grow or remain indefinite, for a power which remains stationary is +nullified. If it retrogrades, it is under the control of something +else, and loses its independent existence. I am quite as well aware, as +are those gentlemen, in what a false position an unlimited power puts +itself by making concessions; it allows to another power whose essence +is to expand a place within its own sphere of activity. One of them +will necessarily nullify the other, for every existing thing aims at +the greatest possible development of its own forces. A power, +therefore, never makes concessions which it does not afterwards seek to +retract. This struggle between two powers is the basis on which stands +the balance of government, whose elasticity so mistakenly alarmed the +patriarch of Austrian diplomacy, for comparing comedy with comedy the +least perilous and the most advantageous administration is found in the +seesaw system of the English and of the French politics. These two +countries have said to the people, ‘You are free;’ and the people have +been satisfied; they enter the government like the zeros which give +value to the unit. But if the people wish to take an active part in the +government, immediately they are treated, like Sancho Panza, on that +occasion when the squire, having become sovereign over an island on +terra firma, made an attempt at dinner to eat the viands set before +him. + +“Now we ought to parody this admirable scene in the management of our +homes. Thus, my wife has a perfect right to go out, provided she tell +me where she is going, how she is going, what is the business she is +engaged in when she is out and at what hour she will return. Instead of +demanding this information with the brutality of the police, who will +doubtless some day become perfect, I take pains to speak to her in the +most gracious terms. On my lips, in my eyes, in my whole countenance, +an expression plays, which indicates both curiosity and indifference, +seriousness and pleasantry, harshness and tenderness. These little +conjugal scenes are so full of vivacity, of tact and address that it is +a pleasure to take part in them. The very day on which I took from the +head of my wife the wreath of orange blossoms which she wore, I +understood that we were playing at a royal coronation—the first scene +in a comic pantomime!—I have my gendarmes!—I have my guard royal!—I +have my attorney general—that I do!” he continued enthusiastically. “Do +you think that I would allow madame to go anywhere on foot +unaccompanied by a lackey in livery? Is not that the best style? Not to +count the pleasure she takes in saying to everybody, ‘I have my people +here.’ It has always been a conservative principle of mine that my +times of exercise should coincide with those of my wife, and for two +years I have proved to her that I take an ever fresh pleasure in giving +her my arm. If the weather is not suitable for walking, I try to teach +her how to drive with success a frisky horse; but I swear to you that I +undertake this in such a manner that she does not learn very +quickly!—If either by chance, or prompted by a deliberate wish, she +takes measures to escape without a passport, that is to say, alone in +the carriage, have I not a driver, a footman, a groom? My wife, +therefore, go where she will, takes with her a complete _Santa +Hermandad_, and I am perfectly easy in mind—But, my dear sir, there is +abundance of means by which to annul the charter of marriage by our +manner of fulfilling it! I have remarked that the manners of high +society induce a habit of idleness which absorbs half of the life of a +woman without permitting her to feel that she is alive. For my part, I +have formed the project of dexterously leading my wife along, up to her +fortieth year, without letting her think of adultery, just as poor +Musson used to amuse himself in leading some simple fellow from the Rue +Saint-Denis to Pierrefitte without letting him think that he had left +the shadows of St. Lew’s tower.” + +“How is it,” I said, interrupting him, “that you have hit upon those +admirable methods of deception which I was intending to describe in a +Meditation entitled _The Act of Putting Death into Life!_ Alas! I +thought I was the first man to discover that science. The epigrammatic +title was suggested to me by an account which a young doctor gave me of +an excellent composition of Crabbe, as yet unpublished. In this work, +the English poet has introduced a fantastic being called _Life in +Death_. This personage crosses the oceans of the world in pursuit of a +living skeleton called _Death in Life_—I recollect at the time very few +people, among the guests of a certain elegant translator of English +poetry, understood the mystic meaning of a fable as true as it was +fanciful. Myself alone, perhaps, as I sat buried in silence, thought of +the whole generations which as they were hurried along by life, passed +on their way without living. Before my eyes rose faces of women by the +million, by the myriad, all dead, all disappointed and shedding tears +of despair, as they looked back upon the lost moments of their ignorant +youth. In the distance I saw a playful Meditation rise to birth, I +heard the satanic laughter which ran through it, and now you doubtless +are about to kill it.—But come, tell me in confidence what means you +have discovered by which to assist a woman to squander the swift +moments during which her beauty is at its full flower and her desires +at their full strength.—Perhaps you have some stratagems, some clever +devices, to describe to me—” + +The viscount began to laugh at this literary disappointment of mine, +and he said to me, with a self-satisfied air: + +“My wife, like all the young people of our happy century, has been +accustomed, for three or four consecutive years, to press her fingers +on the keys of a piano, a long-suffering instrument. She has hammered +out Beethoven, warbled the airs of Rossini and run through the +exercises of Crammer. I had already taken pains to convince her of the +excellence of music; to attain this end, I have applauded her, I have +listened without yawning to the most tiresome sonatas in the world, and +I have at last consented to give her a box at the Bouffons. I have thus +gained three quiet evenings out of the seven which God has created in +the week. I am the mainstay of the music shops. At Paris there are +drawing-rooms which exactly resemble the musical snuff-boxes of +Germany. They are a sort of continuous orchestra to which I regularly +go in search of that surfeit of harmony which my wife calls a concert. +But most part of the time my wife keeps herself buried in her +music-books—” + +“But, my dear sir, do you not recognize the danger that lies in +cultivating in a woman a taste for singing, and allowing her to yield +to all the excitements of a sedentary life? It is only less dangerous +to make her feed on mutton and drink cold water.” + +“My wife never eats anything but the white meat of poultry, and I +always take care that a ball shall come after a concert and a reception +after an Opera! I have also succeeded in making her lie down between +one and two in the day. Ah! my dear sir, the benefits of this nap are +incalculable! In the first place each necessary pleasure is accorded as +a favor, and I am considered to be constantly carrying out my wife’s +wishes. And then I lead her to imagine, without saying a single word, +that she is being constantly amused every day from six o’clock in the +evening, the time of our dinner and of her toilet, until eleven o’clock +in the morning, the time when we get up.” + +“Ah! sir, how grateful you ought to be for a life which is so +completely filled up!” + +“I have scarcely more than three dangerous hours a day to pass; but she +has, of course, sonatas to practice and airs to go over, and there are +always rides in the Bois de Boulogne, carriages to try, visits to pay, +etc. But this is not all. The fairest ornament of a woman is the most +exquisite cleanliness. A woman cannot be too particular in this +respect, and no pains she takes can be laughed at. Now her toilet has +also suggested to me a method of thus consuming the best hours of the +day in bathing.” + +“How lucky I am in finding a listener like you!” I cried; “truly, sir, +you could waste for her four hours a day, if only you were willing to +teach her an art quite unknown to the most fastidious of our modern +fine ladies. Why don’t you enumerate to the viscountess the astonishing +precautions manifest in the Oriental luxury of the Roman dames? Give +her the names of the slaves merely employed for the bath in Poppea’s +palace: the _unctores_, the _fricatores_, the _alipilarili_, the +_dropacistae_, the _paratiltriae_, the _picatrices_, the _tracatrices_, +the swan whiteners, and all the rest. —Talk to her about this multitude +of slaves whose names are given by Mirabeau in his _Erotika Biblion_. +If she tries to secure the services of all these people you will have +the fine times of quietness, not to speak of the personal satisfaction +which will redound to you yourself from the introduction into your +house of the system invented by these illustrious Romans, whose hair, +artistically arranged, was deluged with perfumes, whose smallest vein +seemed to have acquired fresh blood from the myrrh, the lint, the +perfume, the douches, the flowers of the bath, all of which were +enjoyed to the strains of voluptuous music.” + +“Ah! sir,” continued the husband, who was warming to his subject, “can +I not find also admirable pretexts in my solicitude for her heath? Her +health, so dear and precious to me, forces me to forbid her going out +in bad weather, and thus I gain a quarter of the year. And I have also +introduced the charming custom of kissing when either of us goes out, +this parting kiss being accompanied with the words, ‘My sweet angel, I +am going out.’ Finally, I have taken measures for the future to make my +wife as truly a prisoner in the house as the conscript in his sentry +box! For I have inspired her with an incredible enthusiasm for the +sacred duties of maternity.” + +“You do it by opposing her?” I asked. + +“You have guessed it,” he answered, laughing. “I have maintained to her +that it is impossible for a woman of the world to discharge her duties +towards society, to manage her household, to devote herself to fashion, +as well as to the wishes of her husband, whom she loves, and, at the +same time, to rear children. She then avers that, after the example of +Cato, who wished to see how the nurse changed the swaddling bands of +the infant Pompey, she would never leave to others the least of the +services required in shaping the susceptible minds and tender bodies of +these little creatures whose education begins in the cradle. You +understand, sir, that my conjugal diplomacy would not be of much +service to me unless, after having put my wife in solitary confinement, +I did not also employ a certain harmless machiavelism, which consists +in begging her to do whatever she likes, and asking her advice in every +circumstance and on every contingency. As this delusive liberty has +entirely deceived a creature so high-minded as she is, I have taken +pains to stop at no sacrifice which would convince Madame de V——- that +she is the freest woman in Paris; and, in order to attain this end, I +take care not to commit those gross political blunders into which our +ministers so often fall.” + +“I can see you,” said I, “when you wish to cheat your wife out of some +right granted her by the charter, I can see you putting on a mild and +deliberate air, hiding your dagger under a bouquet of roses, and as you +plunge it cautiously into her heart, saying to her with a friendly +voice, ‘My darling, does it hurt?’ and she, like those on whose toes +you tread in a crowd, will probably reply, ‘Not in the least.’” + +He could not restrain a laugh and said: + +“Won’t my wife be astonished at the Last Judgment?” + +“I scarcely know,” I replied, “whether you or she will be most +astonished.” + +The jealous man frowned, but his face resumed its calmness as I added: + +“I am truly grateful, sir, to the chance which has given me the +pleasure of your acquaintance. Without the assistance of your remarks I +should have been less successful than you have been in developing +certain ideas which we possess in common. I beg of you that you will +give me leave to publish this conversation. Statements which you and I +find pregnant with high political conceptions, others perhaps will +think characterized by more or less cutting irony, and I shall pass for +a clever fellow in the eyes of both parties.” + +While I thus tried to express my thanks to the viscount (the first +husband after my heart that I had met with), he took me once more +through his apartments, where everything seemed to be beyond criticism. + +I was about to take leave of him, when opening the door of a little +boudoir he showed me a room with an air which seemed to say, “Is there +any way by which the least irregularity should occur without my seeing +it?” + +I replied to this silent interrogation by an inclination of the head, +such as guests make to their Amphytrion when they taste some +exceptionally choice dish. + +“My whole system,” he said to me in a whisper, “was suggested to me by +three words which my father heard Napoleon pronounce at a crowded +council of state, when divorce was the subject of conversation. +‘Adultery,’ he exclaimed, ‘is merely a matter of opportunity!’ See, +then, I have changed these accessories of crime, so that they become +spies,” added the councillor, pointing out to me a divan covered with +tea-colored cashmere, the cushions of which were slightly pressed. +“Notice that impression,—I learn from it that my wife has had a +headache, and has been reclining there.” + +We stepped toward the divan, and saw the word FOOL lightly traced upon +the fatal cushion, by four + +Things that I know not, plucked by lover’s hand +From Cypris’ orchard, where the fairy band +Are dancing, once by nobles thought to be +Worthy an order of new chivalry, +A brotherhood, wherein, with script of gold, +More mortal men than gods should be enrolled. + +“Nobody in my house has black hair!” said the husband, growing pale. + +I hurried away, for I was seized with an irresistible fit of laughter, +which I could not easily overcome. + +“That man has met his judgment day!” I said to myself; “all the +barriers by which he has surrounded her have only been instrumental in +adding to the intensity of her pleasures!” + +This idea saddened me. The adventure destroyed from summit to +foundation three of my most important Meditations, and the catholic +infallibility of my book was assailed in its most essential point. I +would gladly have paid to establish the fidelity of the Viscountess +V——- a sum as great as very many people would have offered to secure +her surrender. But alas! my money will now be kept by me. + +Three days afterwards I met the councillor in the foyer of the +Italiens. As soon as he saw me he rushed up. Impelled by a sort of +modesty I tried to avoid him, but grasping my arm: “Ah! I have just +passed three cruel days,” he whispered in my ear. “Fortunately my wife +is as innocent as perhaps a new-born babe—” + +“You have already told me that the viscountess was extremely +ingenious,” I said, with unfeeling gaiety. + +“Oh!” he said, “I gladly take a joke this evening; for this morning I +had irrefragable proofs of my wife’s fidelity. I had risen very early +to finish a piece of work for which I had been rushed, and in looking +absently in my garden, I suddenly saw the _valet de chambre_ of a +general, whose house is next to mine, climbing over the wall. My wife’s +maid, poking her head from the vestibule, was stroking my dog and +covering the retreat of the gallant. I took my opera glass and examined +the intruder—his hair was jet black!—Ah! never have I seen a Christian +face that gave me more delight! And you may well believe that during +the day all my perplexities vanished. So, my dear sir,” he continued, +“if you marry, let your dog loose and put broken bottles over the top +of your walls.” + +“And did the viscountess perceive your distress during these three +days? + +“Do you take me for a child?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I have +never been so merry in all my life as I have been since we met.” + +“You are a great man unrecognized,” I cried, “and you are not—” + +He did not permit me to conclude; for he had disappeared on seeing one +of his friends who approached as if to greet the viscountess. + +Now what can we add that would not be a tedious paraphrase of the +lessons suggested by this conversation? All is included in it, either +as seed or fruit. Nevertheless, you see, O husband! that your happiness +hangs on a hair. + +MEDITATION XVII. + +THE THEORY OF THE BED. + + +It was about seven o’clock in the evening. They were seated upon the +academic armchairs, which made a semi-circle round a huge hearth, on +which a coal fire was burning fitfully—symbol of the burning subject of +their important deliberations. It was easy to guess, on seeing the +grave but earnest faces of all the members of this assembly, that they +were called upon to pronounce sentence upon the life, the fortunes and +the happiness of people like themselves. They had no commission +excepting that of their conscience, and they gathered there as the +assessors of an ancient and mysterious tribunal; but they represented +interests much more important than those of kings or of peoples; they +spoke in the name of the passions and on behalf of the happiness of the +numberless generations which should succeed them. + +The grandson of the celebrated Boulle was seated before a round table +on which were placed the criminal exhibits which had been collected +with remarkable intelligence. I, the insignificant secretary of the +meeting, occupied a place at this desk, where it was my office to take +down a report of the meeting. + +“Gentlemen,” said an old man, “the first question upon which we have to +deliberate is found clearly stated in the following passage of a +letter. The letter was written to the Princess of Wales, Caroline of +Anspach, by the widow of the Duke of Orleans, brother of Louis XIV, +mother of the Regent: ‘The Queen of Spain has a method of making her +husband say exactly what she wishes. The king is a religious man; he +believes that he will be damned if he touched any woman but his wife, +and still this excellent prince is of a very amorous temperament. Thus +the queen obtains her every wish. She has placed castors on her +husband’s bed. If he refuses her anything, she pushes the bed away. If +he grants her request, the beds stand side by side, and she admits him +into hers. And so the king is highly delighted, since he likes ——-’ I +will not go any further, gentlemen, for the virtuous frankness of the +German princess might in this assembly be charged with immorality.” + +Should wise husbands adopt these beds on castors? This is the problem +which we have to solve. + +The unanimity of the vote left no doubt about the opinion of the +assembly. I was ordered to inscribe in the records, that if two married +people slept on two separate beds in the same room the beds ought not +to be set on castors. + +“With this proviso,” put in one of the members, “that the present +decision should have no bearing on any subsequent ruling upon the best +arrangement of the beds of married people.” + +The president passed to me a choicely bound volume, in which was +contained the original edition, published in 1788, of the letters of +Charlotte Elizabeth de Baviere, widow of the Duke of Orleans, the only +brother of Louis XIV, and, while I was transcribing the passage already +quoted, he said: + +“But, gentlemen, you must all have received at your houses the +notification in which the second question is stated.” + +“I rise to make an observation,” exclaimed the youngest of the jealous +husbands there assembled. + +The president took his seat with a gesture of assent. + +“Gentlemen,” said the young husband, “are we quite prepared to +deliberate upon so grave a question as that which is presented by the +universally bad arrangement of the beds? Is there not here a much wider +question than that of mere cabinet-making to decide? For my own part I +see in it a question which concerns that of universal human intellect. +The mysteries of conception, gentlemen, are still enveloped in a +darkness which modern science has but partially dissipated. We do not +know how far external circumstances influence the microscopic beings +whose discovery is due to the unwearied patience of Hill, Baker, +Joblot, Eichorn, Gleichen, Spallanzani, and especially of Muller, and +last of all of M. Bory de Saint Vincent. The imperfections of the bed +opens up a musical question of the highest importance, and for my part +I declare I shall write to Italy to obtain clear information as to the +manner in which beds are generally arranged. We do not know whether +there are in the Italian bed numerous curtain rods, screws and castors, +or whether the construction of beds is in this country more faulty than +everywhere else, or whether the dryness of timber in Italy, due to the +influence of the sun, does not _ab ovo_ produce the harmony, the sense +of which is to so large an extent innate in Italians. For these reasons +I move that we adjourn.” + +“What!” cried a gentleman from the West, impatiently rising to his +feet, “are we here to dilate upon the advancement of music? What we +have to consider first of all is manners, and the moral question is +paramount in this discussion.” + +“Nevertheless,” remarked one of the most influential members of the +council, “the suggestion of the former speaker is not in my opinion to +be passed by. In the last century, gentlemen, Sterne, one of the +writers most philosophically delightful and most delightfully +philosophic, complained of the carelessness with which human beings +were procreated; ‘Shame!’ he cried ‘that he who copies the divine +physiognomy of man receives crowns and applause, but he who achieves +the masterpiece, the prototype of mimic art, feels that like virtue he +must be his own reward.’ + +“Ought we not to feel more interest in the improvement of the human +race than in that of horses? Gentlemen, I passed through a little town +of Orleanais where the whole population consisted of hunchbacks, of +glum and gloomy people, veritable children of sorrow, and the remark of +the former speaker caused me to recollect that all the beds were in a +very bad condition and the bedchambers presented nothing to the eyes of +the married couple but what was hideous and revolting. Ah! gentlemen, +how is it possible that our minds should be in an ideal state, when +instead of the music of angels flying here and there in the bosom of +that heaven to which we have attained, our ears are assailed by the +most detestable, the most angry, the most piercing of human cries and +lamentations? We are perhaps indebted for the fine geniuses who have +honored humanity to beds which are solidly constructed; and the +turbulent population which caused the French Revolution were conceived +perhaps upon a multitude of tottering couches, with twisted and +unstable legs; while the Orientals, who are such a beautiful race, have +a unique method of making their beds. I vote for the adjournment.” + +And the gentleman sat down. + +A man belonging to the sect of Methodists arose. “Why should we change +the subject of debate? We are not dealing here with the improvement of +the race nor with the perfecting of the work. We must not lose sight of +the interests of the jealous husband and the principles on which moral +soundness is based. Don’t you know that the noise of which you complain +seems more terrible to the wife uncertain of her crime, than the +trumpet of the Last Judgment? Can you forget that a suit for infidelity +could never be won by a husband excepting through this conjugal noise? +I will undertake, gentlemen, to refer to the divorces of Lord +Abergavenny, of Viscount Bolingbroke, of the late Queen Caroline, of +Eliza Draper, of Madame Harris, in fact, of all those who are mentioned +in the twenty volumes published by—.” (The secretary did not distinctly +hear the name of the English publisher.) + +The motion to adjourn was carried. The youngest member proposed to make +up a purse for the author producing the best dissertation addressed to +the society upon a subject which Sterne considered of such importance; +but at the end of the seance eighteen shillings was the total sum found +in the hat of the president. + +The above debate of the society, which had recently been formed in +London for the improvement of manners and of marriage and which Lord +Byron scoffed at, was transmitted to us by the kindness of W. Hawkins, +Esq., cousin-german of the famous Captain Clutterbuck. The extract may +serve to solve any difficulties which may occur in the theory of bed +construction. + +But the author of the book considers that the English society has given +too much importance to this preliminary question. There exists in fact +quite as many reasons for being a _Rossinist_ as for being a _Solidist_ +in the matter of beds, and the author acknowledges that it is either +beneath or above him to solve this difficulty. He thinks with Laurence +Sterne that it is a disgrace to European civilization that there exist +so few physiological observations on callipedy, and he refuses to state +the results of his Meditations on this subject, because it would be +difficult to formulate them in terms of prudery, and they would be but +little understood, and misinterpreted. Such reserve produces an hiatus +in this part of the book; but the author has the pleasant satisfaction +of leaving a fourth work to be accomplished by the next century, to +which he bequeaths the legacy of all that he has not accomplished, a +negative munificence which may well be followed by all those who may be +troubled by an overplus of ideas. + +The theory of the bed presents questions much more important than those +put forth by our neighbors with regard to castors and the murmurs of +criminal conversation. + +We know only three ways in which a bed (in the general sense of this +term) may be arranged among civilized nations, and particularly among +the privileged classes to whom this book is addressed. These three ways +are as follows: + +1. TWIN BEDS. 2. SEPARATE ROOMS. 3. ONE BED FOR BOTH. + +Before applying ourselves to the examination of these three methods of +living together, which must necessarily have different influences upon +the happiness of husbands and wives, we must take a rapid survey of the +practical object served by the bed and the part it plays in the +political economy of human existence. + +The most incontrovertible principle which can be laid down in this +matter is, _that the bed was made to sleep upon_. + +It would be easy to prove that the practice of sleeping together was +established between married people but recently, in comparison with the +antiquity of marriage. + +By what reasonings has man arrived at that point in which he brought in +vogue a practice so fatal to happiness, to health, even to +_amour-propre_? Here we have a subject which it would be curious to +investigate. + +If you knew one of your rivals who had discovered a method of placing +you in a position of extreme absurdity before the eyes of those who +were dearest to you—for instance, while you had your mouth crooked like +that of a theatrical mask, or while your eloquent lips, like the copper +faucet of a scanty fountain, dripped pure water—you would probably stab +him. This rival is sleep. Is there a man in the world who knows how he +appears to others, and what he does when he is asleep? + +In sleep we are living corpses, we are the prey of an unknown power +which seizes us in spite of ourselves, and shows itself in the oddest +shapes; some have a sleep which is intellectual, while the sleep of +others is mere stupor. + +There are some people who slumber with their mouths open in the +silliest fashion. + +There are others who snore loud enough to make the timbers shake. + +Most people look like the impish devils that Michael Angelo sculptured, +putting out their tongues in silent mockery of the passers-by. + +The only person I know of in the world who sleeps with a noble air is +Agamemnon, whom Guerin has represented lying on his bed at the moment +when Clytemnestra, urged by Egisthus, advances to slay him. Moreover, I +have always had an ambition to hold myself on my pillow as the king of +kings Agamemnon holds himself, from the day that I was seized with +dread of being seen during sleep by any other eyes than those of +Providence. In the same way, too, from the day I heard my old nurse +snorting in her sleep “like a whale,” to use a slang expression, I have +added a petition to the special litany which I address to Saint-Honoré, +my patron saint, to the effect that he would save me from indulging in +this sort of eloquence. + +When a man wakes up in the morning, his drowsy face grotesquely +surmounted by the folds of a silk handkerchief which falls over his +left temple like a police cap, he is certainly a laughable object, and +it is difficult to recognize in him the glorious spouse, celebrated in +the strophes of Rousseau; but, nevertheless, there is a certain gleam +of life to illume the stupidity of a countenance half dead—and if you +artists wish to make fine sketches, you should travel on the +stage-coach and, when the postilion wakes up the postmaster, just +examine the physiognomies of the departmental clerks! But, were you a +hundred times as pleasant to look upon as are these bureaucratic +physiognomies, at least, while you have your mouth shut, your eyes are +open, and you have some expression in your countenance. Do you know how +you looked an hour before you awoke, or during the first hour of your +sleep, when you were neither a man nor an animal, but merely a thing, +subject to the dominion of those dreams which issue from the gate of +horn? But this is a secret between your wife and God. + +Is it for the purpose of insinuating the imbecility of slumber that the +Romans decorated the heads of their beds with the head of an ass? We +leave to the gentlemen who form the academy of inscriptions the +elucidation of this point. + +Assuredly, the first man who took it into his head, at the inspiration +of the devil, not to leave his wife, even while she was asleep, should +know how to sleep in the very best style; but do not forget to reckon +among the sciences necessary to a man on setting up an establishment, +the art of sleeping with elegance. Moreover, we will place here as a +corollary to Axiom XXV of our Marriage Catechism the two following +aphorisms: + +A husband should sleep as lightly as a watch-dog, so as never to be +caught with his eyes shut. + +A man should accustom himself from childhood to go to bed bareheaded. + +Certain poets discern in modesty, in the alleged mysteries of love, +some reason why the married couple should share the same bed; but the +fact must be recognized that if primitive men sought the shade of +caverns, the mossy couch of deep ravines, the flinty roof of grottoes +to protect his pleasure, it was because the delight of love left him +without defence against his enemies. No, it is not more natural to lay +two heads upon the same pillow, than it is reasonable to tie a strip of +muslin round the neck. Civilization is come. It has shut up a million +of men within an area of four square leagues; it has stalled them in +streets, houses, apartments, rooms, and chambers eight feet square; +after a time it will make them shut up one upon another like the tubes +of a telescope. + +From this cause and from many others, such as thrift, fear, and +ill-concealed jealousy, has sprung the custom of the sleeping together +of the married couple; and this custom has given rise to punctuality +and simultaneity in rising and retiring. + +And here you find the most capricious thing in the world, the feeling +most pre-eminently fickle, the thing which is worthless without its own +spontaneous inspiration, which takes all its charm from the suddenness +of its desires, which owes its attractions to the genuineness of its +outbursts—this thing we call love, subjugated to a monastic rule, to +that law of geometry which belongs to the Board of Longitude! + +If I were a father I should hate the child, who, punctual as the clock, +had every morning and evening an explosion of tenderness and wished me +good-day and good-evening, because he was ordered to do so. It is in +this way that all that is generous and spontaneous in human sentiment +becomes strangled at its birth. You may judge from this what love means +when it is bound to a fixed hour! + +Only the Author of everything can make the sun rise and set, morn and +eve, with a pomp invariably brilliant and always new, and no one here +below, if we may be permitted to use the hyperbole of Jean-Baptiste +Rousseau, can play the role of the sun. + +From these preliminary observations, we conclude that it is not natural +for two to lie under the canopy in the same bed; + +That a man is almost always ridiculous when he is asleep; + +And that this constant living together threatens the husband with +inevitable dangers. + +We are going to try, therefore, to find out a method which will bring +our customs in harmony with the laws of nature, and to combine custom +and nature in a way that will enable a husband to find in the mahogany +of his bed a useful ally, and an aid in defending himself. + +1. TWIN BEDS. + +If the most brilliant, the best-looking, the cleverest of husbands +wishes to find himself minotaurized just as the first year of his +married life ends, he will infallibly attain that end if he is unwise +enough to place two beds side by side, under the voluptuous dome of the +same alcove. + +The argument in support of this may be briefly stated. The following +are its main lines: + +The first husband who invented the twin beds was doubtless an +obstetrician, who feared that in the involuntary struggles of some +dream he might kick the child borne by his wife. + +But no, he was rather some predestined one who distrusted his power of +checking a snore. + +Perhaps it was some young man who, fearing the excess of his own +tenderness, found himself always lying at the edge of the bed and in +danger of tumbling off, or so near to a charming wife that he disturbed +her slumber. + +But may it not have been some Maintenon who received the suggestion +from her confessor, or, more probably, some ambitious woman who wished +to rule her husband? Or, more undoubtedly, some pretty little Pompadour +overcome by that Parisian infirmity so pleasantly described by M. de +Maurepas in that quatrain which cost him his protracted disgrace and +certainly contributed to the disasters of Louis XVI’s reign: + +“Iris, we love those features sweet, +Your graces all are fresh and free; +And flowerets spring beneath your feet, +Where naught, alas! but flowers are seen.” + +But why should it not have been a philosopher who dreaded the +disenchantment which a woman would experience at the sight of a man +asleep? And such a one would always roll himself up in a coverlet and +keep his head bare. + +Unknown author of this Jesuitical method, whoever thou art, in the +devil’s name, we hail thee as a brother! Thou hast been the cause of +many disasters. Thy work has the character of all half measures; it is +satisfactory in no respect, and shares the bad points of the two other +methods without yielding the advantages of either. How can the man of +the nineteenth century, how can this creature so supremely intelligent, +who has displayed a power well-nigh supernatural, who has employed the +resources of his genius in concealing the machinery of his life, in +deifying his necessary cravings in order that he might not despise +them, going so far as to wrest from Chinese leaves, from Egyptian +beans, from seeds of Mexico, their perfume, their treasure, their soul; +going so far as to chisel the diamond, chase the silver, melt the gold +ore, paint the clay and woo every art that may serve to decorate and to +dignify the bowl from which he feeds!—how can this king, after having +hidden under folds of muslin covered with diamonds, studded with +rubies, and buried under linen, under folds of cotton, under the rich +hues of silk, under the fairy patterns of lace, the partner of his +wretchedness, how can he induce her to make shipwreck in the midst of +all this luxury on the decks of two beds. What advantage is it that we +have made the whole universe subserve our existence, our delusions, the +poesy of our life? What good is it to have instituted law, morals and +religion, if the invention of an upholsterer [for probably it was an +upholsterer who invented the twin beds] robs our love of all its +illusions, strips it bare of the majestic company of its delights and +gives it in their stead nothing but what is ugliest and most odious? +For this is the whole history of the two bed system. + +LXIII. +That it shall appear either sublime or grotesque are the alternatives +to which we have reduced a desire. + +If it be shared, our love is sublime; but should you sleep in twin +beds, your love will always be grotesque. The absurdities which this +half separation occasions may be comprised in either one of two +situations, which will give us occasion to reveal the causes of very +many marital misfortunes. + +Midnight is approaching as a young woman is putting on her curl papers +and yawning as she did so. I do not know whether her melancholy +proceeded from a headache, seated in the right or left lobe of her +brain, or whether she was passing through one of those seasons of +weariness during which all things appear black to us; but to see her +negligently putting up her hair for the night, to see her languidly +raising her leg to take off her garter, it seemed to me that she would +prefer to be drowned rather than to be denied the relief of plunging +her draggled life into the slumber that might restore it. At this +instant, I know not to what degree from the North Pole she stands, +whether at Spitzberg or in Greenland. Cold and indifferent she goes to +bed thinking, as Mistress Walter Shandy might have thought, that the +morrow would be a day of sickness, that her husband is coming home very +late, that the beaten eggs which she has just eaten were not +sufficiently sweetened, that she owes more than five hundred francs to +her dressmaker; in fine, thinking about everything which you may +suppose would occupy the mind of a tired woman. In the meanwhile +arrives her great lout of a husband, who, after some business meeting, +has drunk punch, with a consequent elation. He takes off his boots, +leaves his stockings on a lounge, his bootjack lies before the +fireplace; and wrapping his head up in a red silk handkerchief, without +giving himself the trouble to tuck in the corners, he fires off at his +wife certain interjectory phrases, those little marital endearments, +which form almost the whole conversation at those twilight hours, where +drowsy reason is no longer shining in this mechanism of ours. “What, in +bed already! It was devilish cold this evening! Why don’t you speak, my +pet? You’ve already rolled yourself up in bed, then! Ah! you are in the +dumps and pretend to be asleep!” These exclamations are mingled with +yawns; and after numberless little incidents which according to the +usage of each home vary this preface of the night, our friend flings +himself into his own bed with a heavy thud. + +Alas! before a woman who is cold, how mad a man must appear when desire +renders him alternately angry and tender, insolent and abject, biting +as an epigram and soothing as a madrigal; when he enacts with more or +less sprightliness the scene where, in _Venice Preserved_, the genius +of Orway has represented the senator Antonio, repeating a hundred times +over at the feet of Aquilina: “Aquilina, Quilina, Lina, Aqui, Nacki!” +without winning from her aught save the stroke of her whip, inasmuch as +he has undertaken to fawn upon her like a dog. In the eyes of every +woman, even of a lawful wife, the more a man shows eager passion under +these circumstances, the more silly he appears. He is odious when he +commands, he is minotaurized if he abuses his power. On this point I +would remind you of certain aphorisms in the marriage catechism from +which you will see that you are violating its most sacred precepts. +Whether a woman yields, or does not yield, this institution of twin +beds gives to marriage such an element of roughness and nakedness that +the most chaste wife and the most intelligent husband are led to +immodesty. + +This scene, which is enacted in a thousand ways and which may originate +in a thousand different incidents, has a sequel in that other situation +which, while it is less pleasant, is far more terrible. + +One evening when I was talking about these serious matters with the +late Comte de Noce, of whom I have already had occasion to speak, a +tall white-haired old man, his intimate friend, whose name I will not +give, because he is still alive, looked at us with a somewhat +melancholy air. We guessed that he was about to relate some tale of +scandal, and we accordingly watched him, somewhat as the stenographer +of the _Moniteur_ might watch, as he mounted the tribune, a minister +whose speech had already been written out for the reporter. The +story-teller on this occasion was an old marquis, whose fortune, +together with his wife and children, had perished in the disasters of +the Revolution. The marchioness had been one of the most inconsistent +women of the past generation; the marquis accordingly was not wanting +in observations on feminine human nature. Having reached an age in +which he saw nothing before him but the gulf of the grave, he spoke +about himself as if the subject of his talk were Mark Antony or +Cleopatra. + +“My young friend”—he did me the honor to address me, for it was I who +made the last remark in this discussion—“your reflections make me think +of a certain evening, in the course of which one of my friends +conducted himself in such a manner as to lose forever the respect of +his wife. Now, in those days a woman could take vengeance with +marvelous facility—for it was always a word and a blow. The married +couple I speak of were particular in sleeping on separate beds, with +their head under the arch of the same alcove. They came home one night +from a brilliant ball given by the Comte de Mercy, ambassador of the +emperor. The husband had lost a considerable sum at play, so he was +completely absorbed in thought. He had to pay a debt, the next day, of +six thousand crowns!—and you will recollect, Noce, that a hundred +crowns couldn’t be made up from scraping together the resources of ten +such musketeers. The young woman, as generally happens under such +circumstances, was in a gale of high spirits. ‘Give to the marquis,’ +she said to a _valet de chambre_, ‘all that he requires for his +toilet.’ In those days people dressed for the night. These +extraordinary words did not rouse the husband from his mood of +abstraction, and then madame, assisted by her maid, began to indulge in +a thousand coquetries. ‘Was my appearance to your taste this evening?’ +‘You are always to my taste,’ answered the marquis, continuing to +stride up and down the room. ‘You are very gloomy! Come and talk to me, +you frowning lover,’ said she, placing herself before him in the most +seductive negligee. But you can have no idea of the enchantments of the +marchioness unless you had known her. Ah! you have seen her, Noce!” he +said with a mocking smile. “Finally, in spite of all her allurements +and beauty, the marchioness was lost sight of amid thoughts of the six +thousand crowns which this fool of a husband could not get out of his +head, and she went to bed all alone. But women always have one resource +left; so that the moment that the good husband made as though he would +get into his bed, the marchioness cried, ‘Oh, how cold I am!’ ‘So am +I,’ he replied. ‘How is it that the servants have not warmed our +beds?’—And then I rang.” + +The Comte de Noce could not help laughing, and the old marquis, quite +put out of countenance, stopped short. + +Not to divine the desire of a wife, to snore while she lies awake, to +be in Siberia when she is in the tropics, these are the slighter +disadvantages of twin beds. What risks will not a passionate woman run +when she becomes aware that her husband is a heavy sleeper? + +I am indebted to Beyle for an Italian anecdote, to which his dry and +sarcastic manner lent an infinite charm, as he told me this tale of +feminine hardihood. + +Ludovico had his palace at one end of the town of Milan; at the other +was that of the Countess of Pernetti. At midnight, on a certain +occasion, Ludovico resolved, at the peril of his life, to make a rash +expedition for the sake of gazing for one second on the face he adored, +and accordingly appeared as if by magic in the palace of his +well-beloved. He reached the nuptial chamber. Elisa Pernetti, whose +heart most probably shared the desire of her lover, heard the sound of +his footsteps and divined his intention. She saw through the walls of +her chamber a countenance glowing with love. She rose from her marriage +bed, light as a shadow she glided to the threshold of her door, with a +look she embraced him, she seized his hand, she made a sign to him, she +drew him in. + +“But he will kill you!” said he. + +“Perhaps so.” + +But all this amounts to nothing. Let us grant that most husbands sleep +lightly. Let us grant that they sleep without snoring, and that they +always discern the degree of latitude at which their wives are to be +found. Moreover, all the reasons which we have given why twin beds +should be condemned, let us consider but dust in the balance. But, +after all, a final consideration would make us also proscribe the use +of beds ranged within the limits of the same alcove. + +To a man placed in the position of a husband, there are circumstances +which have led us to consider the nuptial couch as an actual means of +defence. For it is only in bed that a man can tell whether his wife’s +love is increasing or decreasing. It is the conjugal barometer. Now to +sleep in twin beds is to wish for ignorance. You will understand, when +we come to treat of _civil war_ (See Part Third) of what extreme +usefulness a bed is and how many secrets a wife reveals in bed, without +knowing it. + +Do not therefore allow yourself to be led astray by the specious good +nature of such an institution as that of twin beds. + +It is the silliest, the most treacherous, the most dangerous in the +world. Shame and anathema to him who conceived it! + +But in proportion as this method is pernicious in the case of young +married people, it is salutary and advantageous for those who have +reached the twentieth year of married life. Husband and wife can then +most conveniently indulge their duets of snoring. It will, moreover, be +more convenient for their various maladies, whether rheumatism, +obstinate gout, or even the taking of a pinch of snuff; and the cough +or the snore will not in any respect prove a greater hindrance than it +is found to be in any other arrangement. + +We have not thought it necessary to mention the exceptional cases which +authorize a husband to resort to twin beds. However, the opinion of +Bonaparte was that when once there had taken place an interchange of +life and breath (such are his words), nothing, not even sickness, +should separate married people. This point is so delicate that it is +not possible here to treat it methodically. + +Certain narrow minds will object that there are certain patriarchal +families whose legislation of love is inflexible in the matter of two +beds and an alcove, and that, by this arrangement, they have been happy +from generation to generation. But, the only answer that the author +vouchsafes to this is that he knows a great many respectable people who +pass their lives in watching games of billiards. + +2. SEPARATE ROOMS. + +There cannot be found in Europe a hundred husbands of each nation +sufficiently versed in the science of marriage, or if you like, of +life, to be able to dwell in an apartment separate from that of their +wives. + +The power of putting this system into practice shows the highest degree +of intellectual and masculine force. + +The married couple who dwell in separate apartments have become either +divorced, or have attained to the discovery of happiness. They either +abominate or adore each other. We will not undertake to detail here the +admirable precepts which may be deduced from this theory whose end is +to make constancy and fidelity easy and delightful. It may be +sufficient to declare that by this system alone two married people can +realize the dream of many noble souls. This will be understood by all +the faithful. + +As for the profane, their curious questionings will be sufficiently +answered by the remark that the object of this institution is to give +happiness to one woman. Which among them will be willing to deprive +general society of any share in the talents with which they think +themselves endowed, to the advantage of one woman? Nevertheless, the +rendering of his mistress happy gives any one the fairest title to +glory which can be earned in this valley of Jehosaphat, since, +according to Genesis, Eve was not satisfied even with a terrestrial +Paradise. She desired to taste the forbidden fruit, the eternal emblem +of adultery. + +But there is an insurmountable reason why we should refrain from +developing this brilliant theory. It would cause a digression from the +main theme of our work. In the situation which we have supposed to be +that of a married establishment, a man who is sufficiently unwise to +sleep apart from his wife deserves no pity for the disaster which he +himself invites. + +Let us then resume our subject. Every man is not strong enough to +undertake to occupy an apartment separate from that of his wife; +although any man might derive as much good as evil from the +difficulties which exist in using but one bed. + +We now proceed to solve the difficulties which superficial minds may +detect in this method, for which our predilection is manifest. + +But this paragraph, which is in some sort a silent one, inasmuch as we +leave it to the commentaries which will be made in more than one home, +may serve as a pedestal for the imposing figure of Lycurgus, that +ancient legislator, to whom the Greeks are indebted for their +profoundest thoughts on the subject of marriage. May his system be +understood by future generations! And if modern manners are too much +given to softness to adopt his system in its entirety, they may at +least be imbued with the robust spirit of this admirable code. + +3. ONE BED FOR BOTH. + +On a night in December, Frederick the Great looked up at the sky, whose +stars were twinkling with that clear and living light which presages +heavy frost, and he exclaimed, “This weather will result in a great +many soldiers to Prussia.” + +The king expressed here, by a single phrase, the principal disadvantage +which results from the constant living together of married people. +Although it may be permitted to Napoleon and to Frederick to estimate +the value of a woman more or less according to the number of her +children, yet a husband of talent ought, according to the maxims of the +thirteenth Meditation, to consider child-begetting merely as a means of +defence, and it is for him to know to what extent it may take place. + +The observation leads into mysteries from which the physiological Muse +recoils. She has been quite willing to enter the nuptial chambers while +they are occupied, but she is a virgin and a prude, and there are +occasions on which she retires. For, since it is at this passage in my +book that the Muse is inclined to put her white hands before her eyes +so as to see nothing, like the young girl looking through the +interstices of her tapering fingers, she will take advantage of this +attack of modesty, to administer a reprimand to our manners. In England +the nuptial chamber is a sacred place. The married couple alone have +the privilege of entering it, and more than one lady, we are told, +makes her bed herself. Of all the crazes which reign beyond the sea, +why should the only one which we despise be precisely that, whose grace +and mystery ought undoubtedly to meet the approval of all tender souls +on this continent? Refined women condemn the immodesty with which +strangers are introduced into the sanctuary of marriage. As for us, who +have energetically anathematized women who walk abroad at the time when +they expect soon to be confined, our opinion cannot be doubted. If we +wish the celibate to respect marriage, married people ought to have +some regard for the inflammability of bachelors. + +To sleep every night with one’s wife may seem, we confess, an act of +the most insolent folly. + +Many husbands are inclined to ask how a man, who desires to bring +marriage to perfection, dare prescribe to a husband a rule of conduct +which would be fatal in a lover. + +Nevertheless, such is the decision of a doctor of arts and sciences +conjugal. + +In the first place, without making a resolution never to sleep by +himself, this is the only course left to a husband, since we have +demonstrated the dangers of the preceding systems. We must now try to +prove that this last method yields more advantage and less disadvantage +than the two preceding methods, that is, so far as relates to the +critical position in which a conjugal establishment stands. + +Our observations on the twin beds ought to have taught husbands that +they should always be strung into the same degree of fervor as that +which prevails in the harmonious organization of their wives. Now it +seems to us that this perfect equality in feelings would naturally be +created under the white Aegis, which spreads over both of them its +protecting sheet; this at the outset is an immense advantage, and +really nothing is easier to verify at any moment than the degree of +love and expansion which a woman reaches when the same pillow receives +the heads of both spouses. + +Man [we speak now of the species] walks about with a memorandum always +totalized, which shows distinctly and without error the amount of +passion which he carries within him. This mysterious gynometer is +traced in the hollow of the hand, for the hand is really that one of +our members which bears the impress most plainly of our characters. +Chirology is a fifth work which I bequeath to my successors, for I am +contented here to make known but the elements of this interesting +science. + +The hand is the essential organ of touch. Touch is the sense which very +nearly takes the place of all the others, and which alone is +indispensable. Since the hand alone can carry out all that a man +desires, it is to an extent action itself. The sum total of our +vitality passes through it; and men of powerful intellects are usually +remarkable for their shapely hands, perfection in that respect being a +distinguishing trait of their high calling. + +Jesus Christ performed all His miracles by the imposition of hands. The +hand is the channel through which life passes. It reveals to the +physician all the mysteries of our organism. It exhales more than any +other part of our bodies the nervous fluid, or that unknown substance, +which for want of another term we style _will_. The eye can discover +the mood of our soul but the hand betrays at the same time the secrets +of the body and those of the soul. We can acquire the faculty of +imposing silence on our eyes, on our lips, on our brows, and on our +forehead; but the hand never dissembles and nothing in our features can +be compared to the richness of its expression. The heat and cold which +it feels in such delicate degrees often escape the notice of other +senses in thoughtless people; but a man knows how to distinguish them, +however little time he may have bestowed in studying the anatomy of +sentiments and the affairs of human life. Thus the hand has a thousand +ways of becoming dry, moist, hot, cold, soft, rough, unctuous. The hand +palpitates, becomes supple, grows hard and again is softened. In fine +it presents a phenomenon which is inexplicable so that one is tempted +to call it the incarnation of thought. It causes the despair of the +sculptor and the painter when they wish to express the changing +labyrinth of its mysterious lineaments. To stretch out your hand to a +man is to save him, it serves as a ratification of the sentiments we +express. The sorcerers of every age have tried to read our future +destines in those lines which have nothing fanciful in them, but +absolutely correspond with the principles of each one’s life and +character. When she charges a man with want of tact, which is merely +touch, a woman condemns him without hope. We use the expressions, the +“Hand of Justice,” the “Hand of God;” and a _coup de main_ means a bold +undertaking. + +To understand and recognize the hidden feelings by the atmospheric +variations of the hand, which a woman almost always yields without +distrust, is a study less unfruitful and surer than that of +physiognomy. + +In this way you will be able, if you acquire this science, to wield +vast power, and to find a clue which will guide you through the +labyrinth of the most impenetrable heart. This will render your living +together free from very many mistakes, and, at the same time, rich in +the acquisition of many a treasure. + +Buffon and certain physiologists affirm that our members are more +completely exhausted by desire than by the most keen enjoyments. And +really, does not desire constitute of itself a sort of intuitive +possession? Does it not stand in the same relation to visible action, +as those incidents in our mental life, in which we take part in a +dream, stand to the incidents of our actual life? This energetic +apprehension of things, does it not call into being an internal emotion +more powerful than that of the external action? If our gestures are +only the accomplishment of things already enacted by our thought, you +may easily calculate how desire frequently entertained must necessarily +consume the vital fluids. But the passions which are no more than the +aggregation of desires, do they not furrow with the wrinkle of their +lightning the faces of the ambitious, of gamblers, for instance, and do +they not wear out their bodies with marvelous swiftness? + +These observations, therefore, necessarily contain the germs of a +mysterious system equally favored by Plato and by Epicurus; we will +leave it for you to meditate upon, enveloped as it is in the veil which +enshrouds Egyptian statues. + +But the greatest mistake that a man commits is to believe that love can +belong only to those fugitive moments which, according to the +magnificent expression of Bossuet, are like to the nails scattered over +a wall: to the eye they appear numerous; but when they are collected +they make but a handful. + +Love consists almost always in conversation. There are few things +inexhaustible in a lover: goodness, gracefulness and delicacy. To feel +everything, to divine everything, to anticipate everything; to reproach +without bringing affliction upon a tender heart; to make a present +without pride; to double the value of a certain action by the way in +which it is done; to flatter rather by actions than by words; to make +oneself understood rather than to produce a vivid impression; to touch +without striking; to make a look and the sound of the voice produce the +effect of a caress; never to produce embarrassment; to amuse without +offending good taste; always to touch the heart; to speak to the +soul—this is all that women ask. They will abandon all the delights of +all the nights of Messalina, if only they may live with a being who +will yield them those caresses of the soul, for which they are so +eager, and which cost nothing to men if only they have a little +consideration. + +This outline comprises a great portion of such secrets as belong to the +nuptial couch. There are perhaps some witty people who may take this +long definition of politeness for a description of love, while in any +case it is no more than a recommendation to treat your wife as you +would treat the minister on whose good-will depends your promotion to +the post you covet. + +I hear numberless voices crying out that this book is a special +advocate for women and neglects the cause of men; + +That the majority of women are unworthy of these delicate attentions +and would abuse them; + +That there are women given to licentiousness who would not lend +themselves to very much of what they would call mystification; + +That women are nothing but vanity and think of nothing but dress; + +That they have notions which are truly unreasonable; + +That they are very often annoyed by an attention; + +That they are fools, they understand nothing, are worth nothing, etc. + +In answer to all these clamors we will write here the following +phrases, which, placed between two spaces, will perhaps have the air of +a thought, to quote an expression of Beaumarchais. + +LXIV. +A wife is to her husband just what her husband has made her. + +The reasons why the single bed must triumph over the other two methods +of organizing the nuptial couch are as follows: In the single couch we +have a faithful interpreter to translate with profound truthfulness the +sentiments of a woman, to render her a spy over herself, to keep her at +the height of her amorous temperature, never to leave her, to have the +power of hearing her breathe in slumber, and thus to avoid all the +nonsense which is the ruin of so many marriages. + +As it is impossible to receive benefits without paying for them, you +are bound to learn how to sleep gracefully, to preserve your dignity +under the silk handkerchief that wraps your head, to be polite, to see +that your slumber is light, not to cough too much, and to imitate those +modern authors who write more prefaces than books. + +MEDITATION XVIII. + +OF MARITAL REVOLUTIONS. + + +The time always comes in which nations and women even the most stupid +perceive that their innocence is being abused. The cleverest policy may +for a long time proceed in a course of deceit; but it would be very +happy for men if they could carry on their deceit to an infinite +period; a vast amount of bloodshed would then be avoided, both in +nations and in families. + +Nevertheless, we hope that the means of defence put forth in the +preceding Meditations will be sufficient to deliver a certain number of +husbands from the clutches of the Minotaur! You must agree with the +doctor that many a love blindly entered upon perishes under the +treatment of hygiene or dies away, thanks to marital policy. Yes [what +a consoling mistake!] many a lover will be driven away by personal +efforts, many a husband will learn how to conceal under an impenetrable +veil the machinery of his machiavelism, and many a man will have better +success than the old philosopher who cried: _Nolo coronari!_ + +But we are here compelled to acknowledge a mournful truth. Despotism +has its moments of secure tranquillity. Her reign seems like the hour +which precedes the tempest, and whose silence enables the traveler, +stretched upon the faded grass, to hear at a mile’s distance, the song +of the cicada. Some fine morning an honest woman, who will be imitated +by a great portion of our own women, discerns with an eagle eye the +clever manoeuvres which have rendered her the victim of an infernal +policy. She is at first quite furious at having for so long a time +preserved her virtue. At what age, in what day, does this terrible +revolution occur? This question of chronology depends entirely upon the +genius of each husband; for it is not the vocation of all to put in +practice with the same talent the precepts of our conjugal gospel. + +“A man must have very little love,” the mystified wife will exclaim, +“to enter upon such calculations as these! What! From the first day I +have been to him perpetually an object of suspicion! It is monstrous, +even a woman would be incapable of such artful and cruel treachery!” + +This is the question. Each husband will be able to understand the +variations of this complaint which will be made in accordance with the +character of the young Fury, of whom he has made a companion. + +A woman by no means loses her head under these circumstances; she holds +her tongue and dissembles. Her vengeance will be concealed. Only you +will have some symptoms of hesitation to contend with on the arrival of +the crisis, which we presume you to have reached on the expiration of +the honeymoon; but you will also have to contend against a resolution. +She has determined to revenge herself. From that day, so far as regards +you, her mask, like her heart, has turned to bronze. Formerly you were +an object of indifference to her; you are becoming by degrees +absolutely insupportable. The Civil War commences only at the moment in +which, like the drop of water which makes the full glass overflow, some +incident, whose more or less importance we find difficulty in +determining, has rendered you odious. The lapse of time which +intervenes between this last hour, the limit of your good +understanding, and the day when your wife becomes cognizant of your +artifices, is nevertheless quite sufficient to permit you to institute +a series of defensive operations, which we will now explain. + +Up to this time you have protected your honor solely by the exertion of +a power entirely occult. Hereafter the wheels of your conjugal +machinery must be set going in sight of every one. In this case, if you +would prevent a crime you must strike a blow. You have begun by +negotiating, you must end by mounting your horse, sabre in hand, like a +Parisian gendarme. You must make your horse prance, you must brandish +your sabre, you must shout strenuously, and you must endeavor to calm +the revolt without wounding anybody. + +Just as the author has found a means of passing from occult methods to +methods that are patent, so it is necessary for the husband to justify +the sudden change in his tactics; for in marriage, as in literature, +art consists entirely in the gracefulness of the transitions. This is +of the highest importance for you. What a frightful position you will +occupy if your wife has reason to complain of your conduct at the +moment, which is, perhaps, the most critical of your whole married +life! + +You must therefore find some means or other to justify the secret +tyranny of your initial policy; some means which still prepare the mind +of your wife for the severe measures which you are about to take; some +means which so far from forfeiting her esteem will conciliate her; some +means which will gain her pardon, which will restore some little of +that charm of yours, by which you won her love before your marriage. + +“But what policy is it that demands this course of action? Is there +such a policy?” + +Certainly there is. + +But what address, what tact, what histrionic art must a husband possess +in order to display the mimic wealth of that treasure which we are +about to reveal to him! In order to counterfeit the passion whose fire +is to make you a new man in the presence of your wife, you will require +all the cunning of Talma. + +This passion is JEALOUSY. + +“My husband is jealous. He has been so from the beginning of our +marriage. He has concealed this feeling from me by his usual refined +delicacy. Does he love me still? I am going to do as I like with him!” + +Such are the discoveries which a woman is bound to make, one after +another, in accordance with the charming scenes of the comedy which you +are enacting for your amusement; and a man of the world must be an +actual fool, if he fails in making a woman believe that which flatters +her. + +With what perfection of hypocrisy must you arrange, step by step, your +hypocritical behavior so as to rouse the curiosity of your wife, to +engage her in a new study, and to lead her astray among the labyrinths +of your thought! + +Ye sublime actors! Do ye divine the diplomatic reticence, the gestures +of artifice, the veiled words, the looks of doubtful meaning which some +evening may induce your wife to attempt the capture of your secret +thoughts? + +Ah! to laugh in your sleeve while you are exhibiting the fierceness of +a tiger; neither to lie nor to tell the truth; to comprehend the +capricious mood of a woman, and yet to make her believe that she +controls you, while you intend to bind her with a collar of iron! O +comedy that has no audience, which yet is played by one heart before +another heart and where both of you applaud because both of you think +that you have obtained success! + +She it is who will tell you that you are jealous, who will point out to +you that she knows you better than you know yourself, who will prove to +you the uselessness of your artifices and who perhaps will defy you. +She triumphs in the excited consciousness of the superiority which she +thinks she possesses over you; you of course are ennobled in her eyes; +for she finds your conduct quite natural. The only thing she feels is +that your want of confidence was useless; if she wished to betray, who +could hinder her? + +Then, some evening, you will burst into a passion, and, as some trifle +affords you a pretext, you will make a scene, in the course of which +your anger will make you divulge the secret of your distress. And here +comes in the promulgation of our new code. + +Have no fear that a woman is going to trouble herself about this. She +needs your jealousy, she rather likes your severity. This comes from +the fact that in the first place she finds there a justification for +her own conduct; and then she finds immense satisfaction in playing +before other people the part of a victim. What delightful expressions +of sympathy will she receive! Afterwards she will use this as a weapon +against you, in the expectation thereby of leading you into a pitfall. + +She sees in your conduct the source of a thousand more pleasures in her +future treachery, and her imagination smiles at all the barricades with +which you surround her, for will she not have the delight of +surmounting them all? + +Women understand better than we do the art of analyzing the two human +feelings, which alternately form their weapons of attack, or the +weapons of which they are victims. They have the instinct of love, +because it is their whole life, and of jealousy, because it is almost +the only means by which they can control us. Within them jealousy is a +genuine sentiment and springs from the instinct of self-preservation; +it is vital to their life or death. But with men this feeling is +absolutely absurd when it does not subserve some further end. + +To entertain feelings of jealousy towards the woman you love, is to +start from a position founded on vicious reasoning. We are loved, or we +are not loved; if a man entertains jealousy under either of these +circumstances, it is a feeling absolutely unprofitable to him; jealousy +may be explained as fear, fear in love. But to doubt one’s wife is to +doubt one’s self. + +To be jealous is to exhibit, at once, the height of egotism, the error +of _amour-propre_, the vexation of morbid vanity. Women rather +encourage this ridiculous feeling, because by means of it they can +obtain cashmere shawls, silver toilet sets, diamonds, which for them +mark the high thermometer mark of their power. Moreover, unless you +appear blinded by jealousy, your wife will not keep on her guard; for +there is no pitfall which she does not distrust, excepting that which +she makes for herself. + +Thus the wife becomes the easy dupe of a husband who is clever enough +to give to the inevitable revolution, which comes sooner or later, the +advantageous results we have indicated. + +You must import into your establishment that remarkable phenomenon +whose existence is demonstrated in the asymptotes of geometry. Your +wife will always try to minotaurize you without being successful. Like +those knots which are never so tight as when one tries to loosen them, +she will struggle to the advantage of your power over her, while she +believes that she is struggling for her independence. + +The highest degree of good play on the part of a prince lies in +persuading his people that he goes to war for them, while all the time +he is causing them to be killed for his throne. + +But many husbands will find a preliminary difficulty in executing this +plan of campaign. If your wife is a woman of profound dissimulation, +the question is, what signs will indicate to her the motives of your +long mystification? + +It will be seen that our Meditation on the Custom House, as well as +that on the Bed, has already revealed certain means of discerning the +thought of a woman; but we make no pretence in this book of +exhaustively stating the resources of human wit, which are +immeasurable. Now here is a proof of this. On the day of the Saturnalia +the Romans discovered more features in the character of their slaves, +in ten minutes, than they would have found out during the rest of the +year! You ought therefore to ordain Saturnalia in your establishment, +and to imitate Gessler, who, when he saw William Tell shoot the apple +off his son’s head, was forced to remark, “Here is a man whom I must +get rid of, for he could not miss his aim if he wished to kill me.” + +You understand, then, that if your wife wishes to drink Roussillon +wine, to eat mutton chops, to go out at all hours and to read the +encyclopaedia, you are bound to take her very seriously. In the first +place, she will begin to distrust you against her own wish, on seeing +that your behaviour towards her is quite contrary to your previous +proceedings. She will suppose that you have some ulterior motive in +this change of policy, and therefore all the liberty that you give her +will make her so anxious that she cannot enjoy it. As regards the +misfortunes that this change may bring, the future will provide for +them. In a revolution the primary principle is to exercise a control +over the evil which cannot be prevented and to attract the lightning by +rods which shall lead it to the earth. + +And now the last act of the comedy is in preparation. + +The lover who, from the day when the feeblest of all first symptoms +shows itself in your wife until the moment when the marital revolution +takes place, has jumped upon the stage, either as a material creature +or as a being of the imagination—the LOVER, summoned by a sign from +her, now declares: “Here I am!” + +MEDITATION XIX. + +OF THE LOVER. + + +We offer the following maxims for your consideration: + +We should despair of the human race if these maxims had been made +before 1830; but they set forth in so clear a manner the agreements and +difficulties which distinguish you, your wife and a lover; they so +brilliantly describe what your policy should be, and demonstrate to you +so accurately the strength of the enemy, that the teacher has put his +_amour-propre_ aside, and if by chance you find here a single new +thought, send it to the devil, who suggested this work. + +LXV. +To speak of love is to make love. + +LXVI. +In a lover the coarsest desire always shows itself as a burst of honest +admiration. + +LXVII. +A lover has all the good points and all the bad points which are +lacking in a husband. + +LXVIII. +A lover not only gives life to everything, he makes one forget life; +the husband does not give life to anything. + +LXIX. All the affected airs of sensibility which a woman puts on +invariably deceive a lover; and on occasions when a husband shrugs his +shoulders, a lover is in ecstasies. + +LXX. +A lover betrays by his manner alone the degree of intimacy in which he +stands to a married woman. + +LXXI. A woman does not always know why she is in love. It is rarely +that a man falls in love without some selfish purpose. A husband should +discover this secret motive of egotism, for it will be to him the lever +of Archimedes. + +LXXII. +A clever husband never betrays his supposition that his wife has a +lover. + +LXXIII. The lover submits to all the caprices of a woman; and as a man +is never vile while he lies in the arms of his mistress, he will take +the means to please her that a husband would recoil from. + +LXXIV. +A lover teaches a wife all that her husband has concealed from her. + +LXXV. All the sensations which a woman yields to her lover, she gives +in exchange; they return to her always intensified; they are as rich in +what they give as in what they receive. This is the kind of commerce in +which almost all husbands end by being bankrupt. + +LXXVI. A lover speaks of nothing to a woman but that which exalts her; +while a husband, although he may be a loving one, can never refrain +from giving advice which always has the appearance of reprimand. + +LXXVII. +A lover always starts from his mistress to himself; with a husband the +contrary is the case. + +LXXVIII. A lover always has a desire to appear amiable. There is in +this sentiment an element of exaggeration which leads to ridicule; +study how to take advantage of this. + +LXXIX. When a crime has been committed the magistrate who investigates +the case knows [excepting in the case of a released convict who commits +murder in jail] that there are not more than five persons to whom he +can attribute the act. He starts from this premise a series of +conjectures. The husband should reason like the judge; there are only +three people in society whom he can suspect when seeking the lover of +his wife. + +LXXX. +A lover is never in the wrong. + +LXXXI. The lover of a married woman says to her: “Madame, you have need +of rest. You have to give an example of virtue to your children. You +have sworn to make your husband happy, and although he has some +faults—he has fewer than I have—he is worthy of your esteem. +Nevertheless you have sacrificed everything for me. Do not let a single +murmur escape you; for regret is an offence which I think worthy of a +severer penalty than the law decrees against infidelity. As a reward +for these sacrifices, I will bring you as much pleasure as pain.” And +the incredible part about it is, that the lover triumphs. The form +which his speech takes carries it. He says but one phrase: “I love +you.” A lover is a herald who proclaims either the merit, the beauty, +or the wit of a woman. What does a husband proclaim? + +To sum up all, the love which a married woman inspires, or that which +she gives back, is the least creditable sentiment in the world; in her +it is boundless vanity; in her lover it is selfish egotism. The lover +of a married woman contracts so many obligations, that scarcely three +men in a century are met with who are capable of discharging them. He +ought to dedicate his whole life to his mistress, but he always ends by +deserting her; both parties are aware of this, and, from the beginning +of social life, the one has always been sublime in self-sacrifice, the +other an ingrate. The infatuation of love always rouses the pity of the +judges who pass sentence on it. But where do you find such love genuine +and constant? What power must a husband possess to struggle +successfully against a man who casts over a woman a spell strong enough +to make her submit to such misfortunes! + +We think, then, as a general rule, a husband, if he knows how to use +the means of defence which we have outlined, can lead his wife up to +her twenty-seventh year, not without her having chosen a lover, but +without her having committed the great crime. Here and there we meet +with men endowed with deep marital genius, who can keep their wives, +body and soul to themselves alone up to their thirtieth or thirty-fifth +year; but these exceptions cause a sort of scandal and alarm. The +phenomenon scarcely ever is met with excepting in the country, where +life is transparent and people live in glass houses and the husband +wields immense power. The miraculous assistance which men and things +thus give to a husband always vanishes in the midst of a city whose +population reaches to two hundred and fifty thousand. + +It would therefore almost appear to be demonstrated that thirty is the +age of virtue. At that critical period, a woman becomes so difficult to +guard, that in order successfully to enchain her within the conjugal +Paradise, resort must be had to those last means of defence which +remain to be described, and which we will reveal in the _Essay on +Police_, the _Art of Returning Home_, and _Catastrophes_. + +MEDITATION XX. + +ESSAY ON POLICE. + + +The police of marriage consist of all those means which are given you +by law, manners, force, and stratagem for preventing your wife in her +attempt to accomplish those three acts which in some sort make up the +life of love: writing, seeing and speaking. + +The police combine in greater or less proportion the means of defence +put forth in the preceding Meditations. Instinct alone can teach in +what proportions and on what occasions these compounded elements are to +be employed. The whole system is elastic; a clever husband will easily +discern how it must be bent, stretched or retrenched. By the aid of the +police a man can guide his wife to her fortieth year pure from any +fault. + +We will divide this treatise on Police into five captions: + +1. OF MOUSE-TRAPS. 2. OF CORRESPONDENCE. 3. OF SPIES. 4. THE INDEX. 5. +OF THE BUDGET. + +1. OF MOUSE-TRAPS. + +In spite of the grave crisis which the husband has reached, we do not +suppose that the lover has completely acquired the freedom of the city +in the marital establishment. Many husbands often suspect that their +wives have a lover, and yet they do not know upon which of the five or +six chosen ones of whom we have spoken their suspicions ought to fall. +This hesitation doubtless springs from some moral infirmity, to whose +assistance the professor must come. + +Fouche had in Paris three or four houses resorted to by people of the +highest distinction; the mistresses of these dwellings were devoted to +him. This devotion cost a great deal of money to the state. The +minister used to call these gatherings, of which nobody at the time had +any suspicion, his _mouse-traps_. More than one arrest was made at the +end of the ball at which the most brilliant people of Paris had been +made accomplices of this oratorian. + +The act of offering some fragments of roasted nuts, in order to see +your wife put her white hand in the trap, is certainly exceedingly +delicate, for a woman is certain to be on her guard; nevertheless, we +reckon upon at least three kinds of mouse-traps: _The Irresistible_, +_The Fallacious_, and that which is _Touch and Go_. + +_The Irresistible._ + +Suppose two husbands, we will call them A and B, wish to discover who +are the lovers of their wives. We will put the husband A at the centre +of a table loaded with the finest pyramids of fruit, of crystals, of +candies and of liqueurs, and the husband B shall be at whatever point +of this brilliant circle you may please to suppose. The champagne has +gone round, every eye is sparkling and every tongue is wagging. + +HUSBAND A. (peeling a chestnut)—Well, as for me, I admire literary +people, but from a distance. I find them intolerable; in conversation +they are despotic; I do not know what displeases me more, their faults +or their good qualities. In short (he swallows his chestnut), people of +genius are like tonics—you like, but you must use them temperately. + +WIFE B. (who has listened attentively)—But, M. A., you are very +exacting (with an arch smile); it seems to me that dull people have as +many faults as people of talent, with this difference perhaps, that the +former have nothing to atone for them! + +HUSBAND A. (irritably)—You will agree at least, madame, that they are +not very amiable to you. + +WIFE B. (with vivacity)—Who told you so? + +HUSBAND A. (smiling)—Don’t they overwhelm you all the time with their +superiority? Vanity so dominates their souls that between you and them +the effort is reciprocal— + +THE MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE. (aside to Wife A)—You well deserved it, my +dear. (Wife A shrugs her shoulders.) + +HUSBAND A. (still continuing)—Then the habit they have of combining +ideas which reveal to them the mechanism of feeling! For them love is +purely physical and every one knows that they do not shine. + +WIFE B. (biting her lips, interrupting him)—It seems to me, sir, that +we are the sole judges in this matter. I can well understand why men of +the world do not like men of letters! But it is easier to criticise +than to imitate them. + +HUSBAND A. (disdainfully)—Oh, madame, men of the world can assail the +authors of the present time without being accused of envy. There is +many a gentleman of the drawing-room, who if he undertook to write— + +WIFE B. (with warmth)—Unfortunately for you, sir, certain friends of +yours in the Chamber have written romances; have you been able to read +them?—But really, in these days, in order to attain the least +originality, you must undertake historic research, you must— + +HUSBAND B. (making no answer to the lady next him and speaking aside) +—Oh! Oh! Can it be that it is M. de L——-, author of the _Dreams of a +Young Girl_, whom my wife is in love with?—That is singular; I thought +that it was Doctor M——-. But stay! (Aloud.) Do you know, my dear, that +you are right in what you say? (All laugh.) Really, I should prefer to +have always artists and men of letters in my drawing-room—(aside) when +we begin to receive!—rather than to see there other professional men. +In any case artists speak of things about which every one is +enthusiastic, for who is there who does not believe in good taste? But +judges, lawyers, and, above all, doctors—Heavens! I confess that to +hear them constantly speaking about lawsuits and diseases, those two +human ills— + +WIFE A. (sitting next to Husband B, speaking at the same time)—What is +that you are saying, my friend? You are quite mistaken. In these days +nobody wishes to wear a professional manner; doctors, since you have +mentioned doctors, try to avoid speaking of professional matters. They +talk politics, discuss the fashions and the theatres, they tell +anecdotes, they write books better than professional authors do; there +is a vast difference between the doctors of to-day and those of +Moliere— + +HUSBAND A. (aside)—Whew! Is it possible my wife is in love with Dr. +M——-? That would be odd. (Aloud.) That is quite possible, my dear, but +I would not give a sick dog in charge of a physician who writes. + +WIFE A. (interrupting her husband)—I know people who have five or six +offices, yet the government has the greatest confidence in them; +anyway, it is odd that you should speak in this way, you who were one +of Dr. M——-’s great cases— + +HUSBAND A. (aside)—There can be no doubt of it! + +_The Fallacious._ + +A HUSBAND. (as he reaches home)—My dear, we are invited by Madame de +Fischtaminel to a concert which she is giving next Tuesday. I reckoned +on going there, as I wanted to speak with a young cousin of the +minister who was among the singers; but he is gone to Frouville to see +his aunt. What do you propose doing? + +HIS WIFE.—These concerts tire me to death!—You have to sit nailed to +your chair whole hours without saying a word.—Besides, you know quite +well that we dine with my mother on that day, and it is impossible to +miss paying her a visit. + +HER HUSBAND. (carelessly)—Ah! that is true. + +_(Three days afterwards.)_ + +THE HUSBAND. (as he goes to bed)—What do you think, my darling? +To-morrow I will leave you at your mother’s, for the count has returned +from Frouville and will be at Madame de Fischtaminel’s concert. + +HIS WIFE. (vivaciously)—But why should you go alone? You know how I +adore music! + +_The Touch and Go Mouse-Trap._ + +THE WIFE.—Why did you go away so early this evening? + +THE HUSBAND. (mysteriously)—Ah! It is a sad business, and all the more +so because I don’t know how I can settle it. + +THE WIFE.—What is it all about, Adolph? You are a wretch if you do not +tell me what you are going to do! + +THE HUSBAND.—My dear, that ass of a Prosper Magnan is fighting a duel +with M. de Fontanges, on account of an Opera singer.—But what is the +matter with you? + +THE WIFE.—Nothing.—It is very warm in this room and I don’t know what +ails me, for the whole day I have been suffering from sudden flushing +of the face. + +THE HUSBAND. (aside)—She is in love with M. de Fontanges. (Aloud.) +Celestine! (He shouts out still louder.) Celestine! Come quick, madame +is ill! + +You will understand that a clever husband will discover a thousand ways +of setting these three kinds of traps. + +2. OF CORRESPONDENCE. + +To write a letter, and to have it posted; to get an answer, to read it +and burn it; there we have correspondence stated in the simplest terms. + +Yet consider what immense resources are given by civilization, by our +manners and by our love to the women who wish to conceal these material +actions from the scrutiny of a husband. + +The inexorable box which keeps its mouth open to all comers receives +its epistolary provender from all hands. + +There is also the fatal invention of the General Delivery. A lover +finds in the world a hundred charitable persons, male and female, who, +for a slight consideration, will slip the billets-doux into the amorous +and intelligent hand of his fair mistress. + +A correspondence is a variable as Proteus. There are sympathetic inks. +A young celibate has told us in confidence that he has written a letter +on the fly-leaf of a new book, which, when the husband asked for it of +the bookseller, reached the hands of his mistress, who had been +prepared the evening before for this charming article. + +A woman in love, who fears her husband’s jealousy, will write and read +billets-doux during the time consecrated to those mysterious +occupations during which the most tyrannical husband must leave her +alone. + +Moreover, all lovers have the art of arranging a special code of +signals, whose arbitrary import it is difficult to understand. At a +ball, a flower placed in some odd way in the hair; at the theatre, a +pocket handkerchief unfolded on the front of the box; rubbing the nose, +wearing a belt of a particular color, putting the hat on one side, +wearing one dress oftener than another, singing a certain song in a +concert or touching certain notes on the piano; fixing the eyes on a +point agreed; everything, in fact, from the hurdy-gurdy which passes +your windows and goes away if you open the shutter, to the newspaper +announcement of a horse for sale—all may be reckoned as correspondence. + +How many times, in short, will a wife craftily ask her husband to do +such and such commission for her, to go to such and such a shop or +house, having previously informed her lover that your presence at such +or such a place means yes or no? + +On this point the professor acknowledges with shame that there is no +possible means of preventing correspondence between lovers. But a +little machiavelism on the part of the husband will be much more likely +to remedy the difficulty than any coercive measures. + +An agreement, which should be kept sacred between married people, is +their solemn oath that they will respect each other’s sealed letters. +Clever is the husband who makes this pledge on his wedding-day and is +able to keep it conscientiously. + +In giving your wife unrestrained liberty to write and to receive +letters, you will be enabled to discern the moment she begins to +correspond with a lover. + +But suppose your wife distrusts you and covers with impenetrable clouds +the means she takes to conceal from you her correspondence. Is it not +then time to display that intellectual power with which we armed you in +our Meditation entitled _Of the Custom House_? The man who does not see +when his wife writes to her lover, and when she receives an answer, is +a failure as a husband. + +The proposed study which you ought to bestow upon the movements, the +actions, the gestures, the looks of your wife, will be perhaps +troublesome and wearying, but it will not last long; the only point is +to discover when your wife and her lover correspond and in what way. + +We cannot believe that a husband, even of moderate intelligence, will +fail to see through this feminine manoeuvre, when once he suspects its +existence. + +Meanwhile, you can judge from a single incident what means of police +and of restraint remain to you in the event of such a correspondence. + +A young lawyer, whose ardent passion exemplified certain of the +principles dwelt upon in this important part of our work, had married a +young person whose love for him was but slight; yet this circumstance +he looked upon as an exceedingly happy one; but at the end of his first +year of marriage he perceived that his dear Anna [for Anna was her +name] had fallen in love with the head clerk of a stock-broker. + +Adolph was a young man of about twenty-five, handsome in face and as +fond of amusement as any other celibate. He was frugal, discreet, +possessed of an excellent heart, rode well, talked well, had fine black +hair always curled, and dressed with taste. In short, he would have +done honor and credit to a duchess. The advocate was ugly, short, +stumpy, square-shouldered, mean-looking, and, moreover, a husband. +Anna, tall and pretty, had almond eyes, white skin and refined +features. She was all love; and passion lighted up her glance with a +bewitching expression. While her family was poor, Maitre Lebrun had an +income of twelve thousand francs. That explains all. + +One evening Lebrun got home looking extremely chop-fallen. He went into +his study to work; but he soon came back shivering to his wife, for he +had caught a fever and hurriedly went to bed. There he lay groaning and +lamenting for his clients and especially for a poor widow whose fortune +he was to save the very next day by effecting a compromise. An +appointment had been made with certain business men and he was quite +incapable of keeping it. After having slept for a quarter of an hour, +he begged his wife in a feeble voice to write to one of his intimate +friends, asking him to take his (Lebrun’s) place next day at the +conference. He dictated a long letter and followed with his eye the +space taken up on the paper by his phrases. When he came to begin the +second page of the last sheet, the advocate set out to describe to his +confrere the joy which his client would feel on the signing of the +compromise, and the fatal page began with these words: + +“My good friend, go for Heaven’s sake to Madame Vernon’s at once; you +are expected with impatience there; she lives at No. 7 Rue de Sentier. +Pardon my brevity; but I count on your admirable good sense to guess +what I am unable to explain. + +“Tout a vous,” + +“Give me the letter,” said the lawyer, “that I may see whether it is +correct before signing it.” + +The unfortunate wife, who had been taken off her guard by this letter, +which bristled with the most barbarous terms of legal science, gave up +the letter. As soon as Lebrun got possession of the wily script he +began to complain, to twist himself about, as if in pain, and to demand +one little attention after another of his wife. Madame left the room +for two minutes during which the advocate leaped from his bed, folded a +piece of paper in the form of a letter and hid the missive written by +his wife. When Anna returned, the clever husband seized the blank +paper, made her address it to the friend of his, to whom the letter +which he had taken out was written, and the poor creature handed the +blank letter to his servant. Lebrun seemed to grow gradually calmer; he +slept or pretended to do so, and the next morning he still affected to +feel strange pains. Two days afterwards he tore off the first leaf of +the letter and put an “e” to the word _tout_ in the phrase “tout a +vous.”[*] He folded mysteriously the paper which contained the innocent +forgery, sealed it, left his bedroom and called the maid, saying to +her: + +[*] Thus giving a feminine ending to the signature, and lending the +impression that the note emanated from the wife personally—J.W.M. + +“Madame begs that you will take this to the house of M. Adolph; now, be +quick about it.” + +He saw the chambermaid leave the house and soon afterwards he, on a +plea of business, went out, hurried to Rue de Sentier, to the address +indicated, and awaited the arrival of his rival at the house of a +friend who was in the secret of his stratagem. The lover, intoxicated +with happiness, rushed to the place and inquired for Madame de Vernon; +he was admitted and found himself face to face with Maitre Lebrun, who +showed a countenance pale but chill, and gazed at him with tranquil but +implacable glance. + +“Sir,” he said in a tone of emotion to the young clerk, whose heart +palpitated with terror, “you are in love with my wife, and you are +trying to please her; I scarcely know how to treat you in return for +this, because in your place and at your age I should have done exactly +the same. But Anna is in despair; you have disturbed her happiness, and +her heart is filled with the torments of hell. Moreover, she has told +me all, a quarrel soon followed by a reconciliation forced her to write +the letter which you have received, and she has sent me here in her +place. I will not tell you, sir, that by persisting in your plan of +seduction you will cause the misery of her you love, that you will +forfeit her my esteem, and eventually your own; that your crime will be +stamped on the future by causing perhaps sorrow to my children. I will +not even speak to you of the bitterness you will infuse into my +life;—unfortunately these are commonplaces! But I declare to you, sir, +that the first step you take in this direction will be the signal for a +crime; for I will not trust the risk of a duel in order to stab you to +the heart!” + +And the eyes of the lawyer flashed ominously. + +“Now, sir,” he went on in a gentler voice, “you are young, you have a +generous heart. Make a sacrifice for the future happiness of her you +love; leave her and never see her again. And if you must needs be a +member of my family, I have a young aunt who is yet unsettled in life; +she is charming, clever and rich. Make her acquaintance, and leave a +virtuous woman undisturbed.” + +This mixture of raillery and intimidation, together with the unwavering +glance and deep voice of the husband, produced a remarkable impression +on the lover. He remained for a moment utterly confused, like people +overcome with passion and deprived of all presence of mind by a sudden +shock. If Anna has since then had any lovers [which is a pure +hypothesis] Adolph certainly is not one of them. + +This occurrence may help you to understand that correspondence is a +double-edged weapon which is of as much advantage for the defence of +the husband as for the inconsistency of the wife. You should therefore +encourage correspondence for the same reason that the prefect of police +takes special care that the street lamps of Paris are kept lighted. + +3. OF SPIES. + +To come so low as to beg servants to reveal secrets to you, and to fall +lower still by paying for a revelation, is not a crime; it is perhaps +not even a dastardly act, but it is certainly a piece of folly; for +nothing will ever guarantee to you the honesty of a servant who betrays +her mistress, and you can never feel certain whether she is operating +in your interest or in that of your wife. This point therefore may be +looked upon as beyond controversy. + +Nature, that good and tender parent, has set round about the mother of +a family the most reliable and the most sagacious of spies, the most +truthful and at the same time the most discreet in the world. They are +silent and yet they speak, they see everything and appear to see +nothing. + +One day I met a friend of mine on the boulevard. He invited me to +dinner, and we went to his house. Dinner had been already served, and +the mistress of the house was helping her two daughters to plates of +soup. + +“I see here my first symptoms,” I said to myself. + +We sat down. The first word of the husband, who spoke without thinking, +and for the sake of talking, was the question: + +“Has any one been here to-day?” + +“Not a soul,” replied his wife, without lifting her eyes. + +I shall never forget the quickness with which the two daughters looked +up to their mother. The elder girl, aged eight, had something +especially peculiar in her glance. There was at the same time +revelation and mystery, curiosity and silence, astonishment and apathy +in that look. If there was anything that could be compared to the speed +with which the light of candor flashed from their eyes, it was the +prudent reserve with which both of them closed down, like shutters, the +folds of their white eyelids. + +Ye sweet and charming creatures, who from the age of nine even to the +age of marriage too often are the torment of a mother even when she is +not a coquette, is it by the privilege of your years or the instinct of +your nature that your young ears catch the faint sound of a man’s voice +through walls and doors, that your eyes are awake to everything, and +that your young spirit busies itself in divining all, even the meaning +of a word spoken in the air, even the meaning of your mother’s +slightest gesture? + +There is something of gratitude, something in fact instinctive, in the +predilection of fathers for their daughters and mothers for their sons. + +But the act of setting spies which are in some way inanimate is mere +dotage, and nothing is easier than to find a better plan than that of +the beadle, who took it into his head to put egg-shells in his bed, and +who obtained no other sympathy from his confederate than the words, +“You are not very successful in breaking them.” + +The Marshal de Saxe did not give much consolation to his Popeliniere +when they discovered in company that famous revolving chimney, invented +by the Duc de Richelieu. + +“That is the finest piece of horn work that I have ever seen!” cried +the victor of Fontenoy. + +Let us hope that your espionage will not give you so troublesome a +lesson. Such misfortunes are the fruits of the civil war and we do not +live in that age. + +4. THE INDEX. + +The Pope puts books only on the Index; you will mark with a stigma of +reprobation men and things. + +It is forbidden to madame to go into a bath except in her own house. + +It is forbidden to madame to receive into her house him whom you +suspect of being her lover, and all those who are the accomplices of +their love. + +It is forbidden to madame to take a walk without you. + +But the peculiarities which in each household originate from the +diversity of characters, the numberless incidents of passion, and the +habits of the married people give to this black book so many +variations, the lines in it are multiplied or erased with such rapidity +that a friend of the author has called this Index _The History of +Changes in the Marital Church_. + +There are only two things which can be controlled or prescribed in +accordance with definite rules; the first is the country, the second is +the promenade. + +A husband ought never to take his wife to the country nor permit her to +go there. Have a country home if you like, live there, entertain there +nobody excepting ladies or old men, but never leave your wife alone +there. But to take her, for even half a day, to the house of another +man is to show yourself as stupid as an ostrich. + +To keep guard over a wife in the country is a task most difficult of +accomplishment. Do you think that you will be able to be in the +thickets, to climb the trees, to follow the tracks of a lover over the +grass trodden down at night, but straightened by the dew in the morning +and refreshed by the rays of the sun? Can you keep your eye on every +opening in the fence of the park? Oh! the country and the Spring! These +are the two right arms of the celibate. + +When a woman reaches the crisis at which we suppose her to be, a +husband ought to remain in town till the declaration of war, or to +resolve on devoting himself to all the delights of a cruel espionage. + +With regard to the promenade: Does madame wish to go to parties, to the +theatre, to the Bois de Boulogne, to purchase her dresses, to find out +what is the fashion? Madame shall go, shall see everything in the +respectable company of her lord and master. + +If she take advantage of the moment when a business appointment, which +you cannot fail to keep, detains you, in order to obtain your tacit +permission to some meditated expedition; if in order to obtain that +permission she displays all the witcheries of those cajoleries in which +women excel and whose powerful influence you ought already to have +known, well, well, the professor implores you to allow her to win you +over, while at the same time you sell dear the boon she asks; and above +all convince this creature, whose soul is at once as changeable as +water and as firm as steel, that it is impossible for you from the +importance of your work to leave your study. + +But as soon as your wife has set foot upon the street, if she goes on +foot, don’t give her time to make fifty steps; follow and track her in +such a way that you will not be noticed. + +It is possible that there exist certain Werthers whose refined and +delicate souls recoil from this inquisition. But this is not more +blamable than that of a landed proprietor who rises at night and looks +through the windows for the purpose of keeping watch over the peaches +on his _espaliers_. You will probably by this course of action obtain, +before the crime is committed, exact information with regard to the +apartments which so many lovers rent in the city under fictitious +names. If it happens [which God forbid!] that your wife enters a house +suspected by you, try to find out if the place has several exits. + +Should your wife take a hack, what have you to fear? Is there not a +prefect of police, to whom all husbands ought to decree a crown of +solid gold, and has he not set up a little shed or bench where there is +a register, an incorruptible guardian of public morality? And does he +not know all the comings and goings of these Parisian gondolas? + +One of the vital principles of our police will consist in always +following your wife to the furnishers of your house, if she is +accustomed to visit them. You will carefully find out whether there is +any intimacy between her and her draper, her dressmaker or her +milliner, etc. In this case you will apply the rules of the conjugal +Custom House, and draw your own conclusions. + +If in your absence your wife, having gone out against your will, tells +you that she had been to such a place, to such a shop, go there +yourself the next day and try to find out whether she has spoken the +truth. + +But passion will dictate to you, even better than the Meditation, the +various resources of conjugal tyranny, and we will here cut short these +tiresome instructions. + +5. OF THE BUDGET. + +In outlining the portrait of a sane and sound husband (See _Meditation +on the Predestined_), we urgently advise that he should conceal from +his wife the real amount of his income. + +In relying upon this as the foundation stone of our financial system we +hope to do something towards discounting the opinion, so very generally +held, that a man ought not to give the handling of his income to his +wife. This principle is one of the many popular errors and is one of +the chief causes of misunderstanding in the domestic establishment. + +But let us, in the first place, deal with the question of heart, before +we proceed to that of money. + +To draw up a little civil list for your wife and for the requirements +of the house and to pay her money as if it were a contribution, in +twelve equal portions month by month, has something in it that is a +little mean and close, and cannot be agreeable to any but sordid and +mistrustful souls. By acting in this way you prepare for yourself +innumerable annoyances. + +I could wish that during the first year of your mellifluous union, +scenes more or less delightful, pleasantries uttered in good taste, +pretty purses and caresses might accompany and might decorate the +handing over of this monthly gift; but the time will come when the +self-will of your wife or some unforeseen expenditure will compel her +to ask a loan of the Chamber; I presume that you will always grant her +the bill of indemnity, as our unfaithful deputies never fail to do. +They pay, but they grumble; you must pay and at the same time +compliment her. I hope it will be so. + +But in the crisis which we have reached, the provisions of the annual +budget can never prove sufficient. There must be an increase of fichus, +of bonnets, of frocks; there is an expense which cannot be calculated +beforehand demanded by the meetings, by the diplomatic messengers, by +the ways and means of love, even while the receipts remain the same as +usual. Then must commence in your establishment a course of education +the most odious, and the most dreadful which a woman can undergo. I +know but few noble and generous souls who value, more than millions, +purity of heart, frankness of soul, and who would a thousand times more +readily pardon a passion than a lie, whose instinctive delicacy has +divined the existence of this plague of the soul, the lowest step in +human degradation. + +Under these circumstances there occur in the domestic establishment the +most delightful scenes of love. It is then that a woman becomes utterly +pliant and like to the most brilliant of all the strings of a harp, +when thrown before the fire; she rolls round you, she clasps you, she +holds you tight; she defers to all your caprices; never was her +conversation so full of tenderness; she lavishes her endearments upon +you, or rather she sells them to you; she at last becomes lower than a +chorus girl, for she prostitutes herself to her husband. In her +sweetest kisses there is money; in all her words there is money. In +playing this part her heart becomes like lead towards you. The most +polished, the most treacherous usurer never weighs so completely with a +single glance the future value in bullion of a son of a family who may +sign a note to him, than your wife appraises one of your desires as she +leaps from branch to branch like an escaping squirrel, in order to +increase the sum of money she may demand by increasing the appetite +which she rouses in you. You must not expect to get scot-free from such +seductions. Nature has given boundless gifts of coquetry to a woman, +the usages of society have increased them tenfold by its fashions, its +dresses, its embroideries and its tippets. + +“If I ever marry,” one of the most honorable generals of our ancient +army used to say, “I won’t put a sou among the wedding presents—” + +“What will you put there then, general?” asked a young girl. + +“The key of my safe.” + +The young girl made a curtsey of approbation. She moved her little head +with a quiver like that of the magnetic needle; raised her chin +slightly as if she would have said: + +“I would gladly marry the general in spite of his forty-five years.” + +But with regard to money, what interest can you expect your wife to +take in a machine in which she is looked upon as a mere bookkeeper? + +Now look at the other system. + +In surrendering to your wife, with an avowal of absolute confidence in +her, two-thirds of your fortune and letting her as mistress control the +conjugal administration, you win from her an esteem which nothing can +destroy, for confidence and high-mindedness find powerful echoes in the +heart of a woman. Madame will be loaded with a responsibility which +will often raise a barrier against extravagances, all the stronger +because it is she herself who has created it in her heart. You yourself +have made a portion of the work, and you may be sure that from +henceforth your wife will never perhaps dishonor herself. + +Moreover, by seeking in this way a method of defence, consider what +admirable aids are offered to you by this plan of finances. + +You will have in your house an exact estimate of the morality of your +wife, just as the quotations of the Bourse give you a just estimate of +the degree of confidence possessed by the government. + +And doubtless, during the first years of your married life, your wife +will take pride in giving you every luxury and satisfaction which your +money can afford. + +She will keep a good table, she will renew the furniture, and the +carriages; she will always keep in her drawer a sum of money sacred to +her well-beloved and ready for his needs. But of course, in the actual +circumstances of life, the drawer will be very often empty and monsieur +will spend a great deal too much. The economies ordered by the Chamber +never weigh heavily upon the clerks whose income is twelve hundred +francs; and you will be the clerk at twelve hundred francs in your own +house. You will laugh in your sleeve, because you will have saved, +capitalized, invested one-third of your income during a long time, like +Louis XV, who kept for himself a little separate treasury, “against a +rainy day,” he used to say. + +Thus, if your wife speaks of economy, her discourse will be equal to +the varying quotations of the money-market. You will be able to divine +the whole progress of the lover by these financial fluctuations, and +you will have avoided all difficulties. _E sempre bene._ + +If your wife fails to appreciate the excessive confidence, and +dissipates in one day a large proportion of your fortune, in the first +place it is not probable that this prodigality will amount to one-third +of the revenue which you have been saving for ten years; moreover you +will learn, from the Meditation on _Catastrophes_, that in the very +crisis produced by the follies of your wife, you will have brilliant +opportunities of slaying the Minotaur. + +But the secret of the treasure which has been amassed by your +thoughtfulness need never be known till after your death; and if you +have found it necessary to draw upon it, in order to assist your wife, +you must always let it be thought that you have won at play, or made a +loan from a friend. + +These are the true principles which should govern the conjugal budget. + +The police of marriage has its martyrology. We will cite but one +instance which will make plain how necessary it is for husbands who +resort to severe measures to keep watch over themselves as well as over +their wives. + +An old miser who lived at T——-, a pleasure resort if there ever was +one, had married a young and pretty woman, and he was so wrapped up in +her and so jealous that love triumphed over avarice; he actually gave +up trade in order to guard his wife more closely, but his only real +change was that his covetousness took another form. I acknowledge that +I owe the greater portion of the observations contained in this essay, +which still is doubtless incomplete, to the person who made a study of +this remarkable marital phenomenon, to portray which, one single detail +will be amply sufficient. When he used to go to the country, this +husband never went to bed without secretly raking over the pathways of +his park, and he had a special rake for the sand of his terraces. He +had made a close study of the footprints made by the different members +of his household; and early in the morning he used to go and identify +the tracks that had been made there. + +“All this is old forest land,” he used to say to the person I have +referred to, as he showed him over the park; “for nothing can be seen +through the brushwood.” + +His wife fell in love with one of the most charming young men of the +town. This passion had continued for nine years bright and fresh in the +hearts of the two lovers, whose sole avowal had been a look exchanged +in a crowded ball-room; and while they danced together their trembling +hands revealed through the scented gloves the depth of their love. From +that day they had both of them taken great delight on those trifles +which happy lovers never disdain. One day the young man led his only +confidant, with a mysterious air, into a chamber where he kept under +glass globes upon his table, with more care than he would have bestowed +upon the finest jewels in the world, the flowers that, in the +excitement of the dance, had fallen from the hair of his mistress, and +the finery which had been caught in the trees which she had brushed +through in the park. He also preserved there the narrow footprint left +upon the clay soil by the lady’s step. + +“I could hear,” said this confidant to me afterwards, “the violent and +repressed palpitations of his heart sounding in the silence which we +preserved before the treasures of this museum of love. I raised my eyes +to the ceiling, as if to breathe to heaven the sentiment which I dared +not utter. ‘Poor humanity!’ I thought. ‘Madame de ——- told me that one +evening at a ball you had been found nearly fainting in her card-room?’ +I remarked to him. + +“‘I can well believe it,’ said he casting down his flashing glance, ‘I +had kissed her arm!—But,’ he added as he pressed my hand and shot at me +a glance that pierced my heart, ‘her husband at that time had the gout +which threatened to attack his stomach.’” + +Some time afterwards, the old man recovered and seemed to take a new +lease of life; but in the midst of his convalescence he took to his bed +one morning and died suddenly. There were such evident symptoms of +poisoning in the condition of the dead man that the officers of justice +were appealed to, and the two lovers were arrested. Then was enacted at +the court of assizes the most heartrending scene that ever stirred the +emotions of the jury. At the preliminary examination, each of the two +lovers without hesitation confessed to the crime, and with one thought +each of them was solely bent on saving, the one her lover, the other +his mistress. There were two found guilty, where justice was looking +for but a single culprit. The trial was entirely taken up with the flat +contradictions which each of them, carried away by the fury of devoted +love, gave to the admissions of the other. There they were united for +the first time, but on the criminals’ bench with a gendarme seated +between them. They were found guilty by the unanimous verdict of a +weeping jury. No one among those who had the barbarous courage to +witness their conveyance to the scaffold can mention them to-day +without a shudder. Religion had won for them a repentance for their +crime, but could not induce them to abjure their love. The scaffold was +their nuptial bed, and there they slept together in the long night of +death. + +MEDITATION XXI. + +THE ART OF RETURNING HOME. + + +Finding himself incapable of controlling the boiling transports of his +anxiety, many a husband makes the mistake of coming home and rushing +into the presence of his wife, with the object of triumphing over her +weakness, like those bulls of Spain, which, stung by the red +_banderillo_, disembowel with furious horns horses, matadors, picadors, +toreadors and their attendants. + +But oh! to enter with a tender gentle mien, like Mascarillo, who +expects a beating and becomes merry as a lark when he finds his master +in a good humor! Well—that is the mark of a wise man!— + +“Yes, my darling, I know that in my absence you could have behaved +badly! Another in your place would have turned the house topsy-turvy, +but you have only broken a pane of glass! God bless you for your +considerateness. Go on in the same way and you will earn my eternal +gratitude.” + +Such are the ideas which ought to be expressed by your face and +bearing, but perhaps all the while you say to yourself: + +“Probably he has been here!” + +Always to bring home a pleasant face, is a rule which admits of no +exception. + +But the art of never leaving your house without returning when the +police have revealed to you a conspiracy—to know how to return at the +right time—this is the lesson which is hard to learn. In this matter +everything depends upon tact and penetration. The actual events of life +always transcend anything that is imaginable. + +The manner of coming home is to be regulated in accordance with a +number of circumstances. For example: + +Lord Catesby was a man of remarkable strength. It happened one day that +he was returning from a fox hunt, to which he had doubtless promised to +go, with some ulterior view, for he rode towards the fence of his park +at a point where, he said, he saw an extremely fine horse. As he had a +passion for horses, he drew near to examine this one close at hand, +There he caught sight of Lady Catesby, to whose rescue it was certainly +time to go, if he were in the slightest degree jealous for his own +honor. He rushed upon the gentleman he saw there, and seizing him by +the belt he hurled him over the fence on to the road side. + +“Remember, sir,” he said calmly, “it rests with me to decide whether it +well be necessary to address you hereafter and ask for satisfaction on +this spot.” + +“Very well, my lord; but would you have the goodness to throw over my +horse also?” + +But the phlegmatic nobleman had already taken the arm of his wife as he +gravely said: + +“I blame you very much, my dear creature, for not having told me that I +was to love you for two. Hereafter every other day I shall love you for +the gentleman yonder, and all other days for myself.” + +This adventure is regarded in England as one of the best returns home +that were ever known. It is true it consisted in uniting, with singular +felicity, eloquence of deed to that of word. + +But the art of re-entering your home, principles of which are nothing +else but natural deductions from the system of politeness and +dissimulation which have been commended in preceding Meditations, is +after all merely to be studied in preparation for the conjugal +catastrophes which we will now consider. + +MEDITATION XXII. + +OF CATASTROPHES. + + +The word _Catastrophe_ is a term of literature which signifies the +final climax of a play. + +To bring about a catastrophe in the drama which you are playing is a +method of defence which is as easy to undertake as it is certain to +succeed. In advising to employ it, we would not conceal from you its +perils. + +The conjugal catastrophe may be compared to one of those high fevers +which either carry off a predisposed subject or completely restore his +health. Thus, when the catastrophe succeeds, it keeps a woman for years +in the prudent realms of virtue. + +Moreover, this method is the last of all those which science has been +able to discover up to this present moment. + +The massacre of St. Bartholomew, the Sicilian Vespers, the death of +Lucretia, the two embarkations of Napoleon at Frejus are examples of +political catastrophe. It will not be in your power to act on such a +large scale; nevertheless, within their own area, your dramatic +climaxes in conjugal life will not be less effective than these. + +But since the art of creating a situation and of transforming it, by +the introduction of natural incidents, constitutes genius; since the +return to virtue of a woman, whose foot has already left some tracks +upon the sweet and gilded sand which mark the pathway of vice, is the +most difficult to bring about of all denouements, and since genius +neither knows it nor teaches it, the practitioner in conjugal laws +feels compelled to confess at the outset that he is incapable of +reducing to definite principles a science which is as changeable as +circumstances, as delusive as opportunity, and as indefinable as +instinct. + +If we may use an expression which neither Diderot, d’Alembert nor +Voltaire, in spite of every effort, have been able to engraft on our +language, a conjugal catastrophe _se subodore_ is scented from afar; so +that our only course will be to sketch out imperfectly certain conjugal +situations of an analogous kind, thus imitating the philosopher of +ancient time who, seeking in vain to explain motion, walked forward in +his attempt to comprehend laws which were incomprehensible. + +A husband, in accordance with the principles comprised in our +Meditation on _Police_, will expressly forbid his wife to receive the +visits of a celibate whom he suspects of being her lover, and whom she +has promised never again to see. Some minor scenes of the domestic +interior we leave for matrimonial imaginations to conjure up; a husband +can delineate them much better than we can; he will betake himself in +thought back to those days when delightful longings invited sincere +confidences and when the workings of his policy put into motion certain +adroitly handled machinery. + +Let us suppose, in order to make more interesting the natural scene to +which I refer, that you who read are a husband, whose carefully +organized police has made the discovery that your wife, profiting by +the hours devoted by you to a ministerial banquet, to which she +probably procured you an invitation, received at your house M. A——z. + +Here we find all the conditions necessary to bring about the finest +possible of conjugal catastrophes. + +You return home just in time to find your arrival has coincided with +that of M. A——z, for we would not advise you to have the interval +between acts too long. But in what mood should you enter? Certainly not +in accordance with the rules of the previous Meditation. In a rage +then? Still less should you do that. You should come in with +good-natured carelessness, like an absent-minded man who has forgotten +his purse, the statement which he has drawn up for the minister, his +pocket-handkerchief or his snuff-box. + +In that case you will either catch two lovers together, or your wife, +forewarned by the maid, will have hidden the celibate. + +Now let us consider these two unique situations. + +But first of all we will observe that husbands ought always to be in a +position to strike terror in their homes and ought long before to make +preparations for the matrimonial second of September. + +Thus a husband, from the moment that his wife has caused him to +perceive certain _first symptoms_, should never fail to give, time +after time, his personal opinion on the course of conduct to be pursued +by a husband in a great matrimonial crisis. + +“As for me,” you should say, “I should have no hesitation in killing +the man I caught at my wife’s feet.” + +With regard to the discussion that you will thus give rise to, you will +be led on to aver that the law ought to have given to the husband, as +it did in ancient Rome, the right of life and death over his children, +so that he could slay those who were spurious. + +These ferocious opinions, which really do not bind you to anything, +will impress your wife with salutary terror; you will enumerate them +lightly, even laughingly—and say to her, “Certainly, my dear, I would +kill you right gladly. Would you like to be murdered by me?” + +A woman cannot help fearing that this pleasantry may some day become a +very serious matter, for in these crimes of impulse there is a certain +proof of love; and then women who know better than any one else how to +say true things laughingly at times suspect their husbands of this +feminine trick. + +When a husband surprises his wife engaged in even innocent conversation +with her lover, his face still calm, should produce the effect +mythologically attributed to the celebrated Gorgon. + +In order to produce a favorable catastrophe at this juncture, you must +act in accordance with the character of your wife, either play a +pathetic scene a la Diderot, or resort to irony like Cicero, or rush to +your pistols loaded with a blank charge, or even fire them off, if you +think that a serious row is indispensable. + +A skillful husband may often gain a great advantage from a scene of +unexaggerated sentimentality. He enters, he sees the lover and +transfixes him with a glance. As soon as the celibate retires, he falls +at the feet of his wife, he declaims a long speech, in which among +other phrases there occurs this: + +“Why, my dear Caroline, I have never been able to love you as I +should!” + +He weeps, and she weeps, and this tearful catastrophe leaves nothing to +be desired. + +We would explain, apropos of the second method by which the catastrophe +may be brought about, what should be the motives which lead a husband +to vary this scene, in accordance with the greater or less degree of +strength which his wife’s character possesses. + +Let us pursue this subject. + +If by good luck it happens that your wife has put her lover in a place +of concealment, the catastrophe will be very much more successful. + +Even if the apartment is not arranged according to the principles +prescribed in the Meditation, you will easily discern the place into +which the celibate has vanished, although he be not, like Lord Byron’s +Don Juan, bundled up under the cushion of a divan. If by chance your +apartment is in disorder, you ought to have sufficient discernment to +know that there is only one place in which a man could bestow himself. +Finally, if by some devilish inspiration he has made himself so small +that he has squeezed into some unimaginable lurking-place (for we may +expect anything from a celibate), well, either your wife cannot help +casting a glance towards this mysterious spot, or she will pretend to +look in an exactly opposite direction, and then nothing is easier for a +husband than to set a mouse-trap for his wife. + +The hiding-place being discovered, you must walk straight up to the +lover. You must meet him face to face! + +And now you must endeavor to produce a fine effect. With your face +turned three-quarters towards him, you must raise your head with an air +of superiority. This attitude will enhance immensely the effect which +you aim at producing. + +The most essential thing to do at this moment, is to overwhelm the +celibate by some crushing phrase which you have been manufacturing all +the time; when you have thus floored him, you will coldly show him the +door. You will be very polite, but as relentless as the executioner’s +axe, and as impassive as the law. This freezing contempt will already +probably have produced a revolution in the mind of your wife. There +must be no shouts, no gesticulations, no excitement. “Men of high +social rank,” says a young English author, “never behave like their +inferiors, who cannot lose a fork without sounding the alarm throughout +the whole neighborhood.” + +When the celibate has gone, you will find yourself alone with your +wife, and then is the time when you must subjugate her forever. + +You should therefore stand before her, putting on an air whose affected +calmness betrays the profoundest emotion; then you must choose from +among the following topics, which we have rhetorically amplified, and +which are most congenial to your feelings: “Madame,” you must say, “I +will speak to you neither of your vows, nor of my love; for you have +too much sense and I have too much pride to make it possible that I +should overwhelm you with those execrations, which all husbands have a +right to utter under these circumstances; for the least of the mistakes +that I should make, if I did so, is that I would be fully justified. I +will not now, even if I could, indulge either in wrath or resentment. +It is not I who have been outraged; for I have too much heart to be +frightened by that public opinion which almost always treats with +ridicule and condemnation a husband whose wife has misbehaved. When I +examine my life, I see nothing there that makes this treachery deserved +by me, as it is deserved by many others. I still love you. I have never +been false, I will not say to my duty, for I have found nothing onerous +in adoring you, but not even to those welcome obligations which sincere +feeling imposes upon us both. You have had all my confidence and you +have also had the administration of my fortune. I have refused you +nothing. And now this is the first time that I have turned to you a +face, I will not say stern, but which is yet reproachful. But let us +drop this subject, for it is of no use for me to defend myself at a +moment when you have proved to me with such energy that there is +something lacking in me, and that I am not intended by nature to +accomplish the difficult task of rendering you happy. But I would ask +you, as a friend speaking to a friend, how could you have the heart to +imperil at the same time the lives of three human creatures: that of +the mother of my children, who will always be sacred to me; that of the +head of the family; and finally of him—who loves—[she perhaps at these +words will throw herself at your feet; you must not permit her to do +so; she is unworthy of kneeling there]. For you no longer love me, +Eliza. Well, my poor child [you must not call her _my poor child_ +excepting when the crime has not been committed]—why deceive ourselves? +Why do you not answer me? If love is extinguished between a married +couple, cannot friendship and confidence still survive? Are we not two +companions united in making the same journey? Can it be said that +during the journey the one must never hold out his hand to the other to +raise up a comrade or to prevent a comrade’s fall? But I have perhaps +said too much and I am wounding your pride—Eliza! Eliza!” + +Now what the deuce would you expect a woman to answer? Why a +catastrophe naturally follows, without a single word. + +In a hundred women there may be found at least a good half dozen of +feeble creatures who under this violent shock return to their husbands +never perhaps again to leave them, like scorched cats that dread the +fire. But this scene is a veritable alexipharmaca, the doses of which +should be measured out by prudent hands. + +For certain women of delicate nerves, whose souls are soft and timid, +it would be sufficient to point out the lurking-place where the lover +lies, and say: “M. A——z is there!” [at this point shrug your +shoulders]. “How can you thus run the risk of causing the death of two +worthy people? I am going out; let him escape and do not let this +happen again.” + +But there are women whose hearts, too violently strained in these +terrible catastrophes, fail them and they die; others whose blood +undergoes a change, and they fall a prey to serious maladies; others +actually go out of their minds. These are examples of women who take +poison or die suddenly—and we do not suppose that you wish the death of +the sinner. + +Nevertheless, the most beautiful and impressionable of all the queens +of France, the charming and unfortunate Mary Stuart, after having seen +Rizzio murdered almost in her arms, fell in love, nevertheless, with +the Earl of Bothwell; but she was a queen and queens are abnormal in +disposition. + +We will suppose, then, that the woman whose portrait adorns our first +Meditation is a little Mary Stuart, and we will hasten to raise the +curtain for the fifth act in this grand drama entitled _Marriage_. + +A conjugal catastrophe may burst out anywhere, and a thousand incidents +which we cannot describe may give it birth. Sometimes it is a +handkerchief, as in _Othello_; or a pair of slippers, as in _Don Juan_; +sometimes it is the mistake of your wife, who cries out—“Dear +Alphonse!” instead of “Dear Adolph!” Sometimes a husband, finding out +that his wife is in debt, will go and call on her chief creditor, and +will take her some morning to his house, as if by chance, in order to +bring about a catastrophe. “Monsieur Josse, you are a jeweler and you +sell your jewels with a readiness which is not equaled by the readiness +of your debtors to pay for them. The countess owes you thirty thousand +francs. If you wish to be paid to-morrow [tradesmen should always be +visited at the end of the month] come to her at noon; her husband will +be in the chamber. Do not attend to any sign which she may make to +impose silence upon you—speak out boldly. I will pay all.” + +So that the catastrophe in the science of marriage is what figures are +in arithmetic. + +All the principles of higher conjugal philosophy, on which are based +the means of defence outlined in this second part of our book, are +derived from the nature of human sentiments, and we have found them in +different places in the great book of the world. Just as persons of +intellect instinctively apply the laws of taste whose principles they +would find difficulty in formulating, so we have seen numberless people +of deep feeling employing with singular felicity the precepts which we +are about to unfold, yet none of them consciously acted on a definite +system. The sentiments which this situation inspired only revealed to +them incomplete fragments of a vast system; just as the scientific men +of the sixteenth century found that their imperfect microscopes did not +enable them to see all the living organisms, whose existence had yet +been proved to them by the logic of their patient genius. + +We hope that the observations already made in this book, and in those +which follow, will be of a nature to destroy the opinion which +frivolous men maintain, namely that marriage is a sinecure. According +to our view, a husband who gives way to ennui is a heretic, and more +than that, he is a man who lives quite out of sympathy with the +marriage state, of whose importance he has no conception. In this +connection, these Meditations perhaps will reveal to very many ignorant +men the mysteries of a world before which they stand with open eyes, +yet without seeing it. + +We hope, moreover, that these principles when well applied will produce +many conversions, and that among the pages that separate this second +part from that entitled _Civil War_ many tears will be shed and many +vows of repentance breathed. + +Yes, among the four hundred thousand honest women whom we have so +carefully sifted out from all the European nations, we indulge the +belief that there are a certain number, say three hundred thousand, who +will be sufficiently self-willed, charming, adorable, and bellicose to +raise the standard of _Civil War_. + +To arms then, to arms! + +THIRD PART + +RELATING TO CIVIL WAR. + +“Lovely as the seraphs of Klopstock, +Terrible as the devils of Milton.” +—DIDEROT. + +MEDITATION XXIII. + +OF MANIFESTOES. + + +The Preliminary precepts, by which science has been enabled at this +point to put weapons into the hand of a husband, are few in number; it +is not of so much importance to know whether he will be vanquished, as +to examine whether he can offer any resistance in the conflict. + +Meanwhile, we will set up here certain beacons to light up the arena +where a husband is soon to find himself, in alliance with religion and +law, engaged single-handed in a contest with his wife, who is supported +by her native craft and the whole usages of society as her allies. + +LXXXII. +Anything may be expected and anything may be supposed of a woman who is +in love. + +LXXXIII. +The actions of a woman who intends to deceive her husband are almost +always the result of study, but never dictated by reason. + +LXXXIV. The greater number of women advance like the fleas, by erratic +leaps and bounds, They owe their escape to the height or depth of their +first ideas, and any interruption of their plans rather favors their +execution. But they operate only within a narrow area which it is easy +for the husband to make still narrower; and if he keeps cool he will +end by extinguishing this piece of living saltpetre. + +LXXXV. +A husband should never allow himself to address a single disparaging +remark to his wife, in presence of a third party. + +LXXXVI. The moment a wife decides to break her marriage vow she reckons +her husband as everything or nothing. All defensive operations must +start from this proposition. + +LXXXVII. The life of a woman is either of the head, of the heart, or of +passion. When a woman reaches the age to form an estimate of life, her +husband ought to find out whether the primary cause of her intended +infidelity proceeds from vanity, from sentiment or from temperament. +Temperament may be remedied like disease; sentiment is something in +which the husband may find great opportunities of success; but vanity +is incurable. A woman whose life is of the head may be a terrible +scourge. She combines the faults of a passionate woman with those of +the tender-hearted woman, without having their palliations. She is +destitute alike of pity, love, virtue or sex. + +LXXXVIII. A woman whose life is of the head will strive to inspire her +husband with indifference; the woman whose life is of the heart, with +hatred; the passionate woman, with disgust. + +LXXXIX. +A husband never loses anything by appearing to believe in the fidelity +of his wife, by preserving an air of patience and by keeping silence. +Silence especially troubles a woman amazingly. + +XC. To show himself aware of the passion of his wife is the mark of a +fool; but to affect ignorance of all proves that a man has sense, and +this is in fact the only attitude to take. We are taught, moreover, +that everybody in France is sensible. + +XCI. The rock most to be avoided is ridicule.—“At least, let us be +affectionate in public,” ought to be the maxim of a married +establishment. For both the married couple to lose honor, esteem, +consideration, respect and all that is worth living for in society, is +to become a nonentity. + +These axioms relate to the contest alone. As for the catastrophe, +others will be needed for that. + +We have called this crisis _Civil War_ for two reasons; never was a war +more really intestine and at the same time so polite as this war. But +in what point and in what manner does this fatal war break out? You do +not believe that your wife will call out regiments and sound the +trumpet, do you? She will, perhaps, have a commanding officer, but that +is all. And this feeble army corps will be sufficient to destroy the +peace of your establishment. + +“You forbid me to see the people that I like!” is an exordium which has +served for a manifesto in most homes. This phrase, with all the ideas +that are concomitant, is oftenest employed by vain and artificial +women. + +The most usual manifesto is that which is proclaimed in the conjugal +bed, the principal theatre of war. This subject will be treated in +detail in the Meditation entitled: _Of Various Weapons_, in the +paragraph, _Of Modesty in its Connection with Marriage_. + +Certain women of a lymphatic temperament will pretend to have the +spleen and will even feign death, if they can only gain thereby the +benefit of a secret divorce. + +But most of them owe their independence to the execution of a plan, +whose effect upon the majority of husbands is unfailing and whose +perfidies we will now reveal. + +One of the greatest of human errors springs from the belief that our +honor and our reputation are founded upon our actions, or result from +the approbation which the general conscience bestows upon on conduct. A +man who lives in the world is born to be a slave to public opinion. Now +a private man in France has less opportunity of influencing the world +than his wife, although he has ample occasion for ridiculing it. Women +possess to a marvelous degree the art of giving color by specious +arguments to the recriminations in which they indulge. They never set +up any defence, excepting when they are in the wrong, and in this +proceeding they are pre-eminent, knowing how to oppose arguments by +precedents, proofs by assertions, and thus they very often obtain +victory in minor matters of detail. They see and know with admirable +penetration, when one of them presents to another a weapon which she +herself is forbidden to whet. It is thus that they sometimes lose a +husband without intending it. They apply the match and long afterwards +are terror-stricken at the conflagration. + +As a general thing, all women league themselves against a married man +who is accused of tyranny; for a secret tie unites them all, as it +unites all priests of the same religion. They hate each other, yet +shield each other. You can never gain over more than one of them; and +yet this act of seduction would be a triumph for your wife. + +You are, therefore, outlawed from the feminine kingdom. You see +ironical smiles on every lip, you meet an epigram in every answer. +These clever creatures force their daggers and amuse themselves by +sculpturing the handle before dealing you a graceful blow. + +The treacherous art of reservation, the tricks of silence, the malice +of suppositions, the pretended good nature of an inquiry, all these +arts are employed against you. A man who undertakes to subjugate his +wife is an example too dangerous to escape destruction from them, for +will not his conduct call up against them the satire of every husband? +Moreover, all of them will attack you, either by bitter witticisms, or +by serious arguments, or by the hackneyed maxims of gallantry. A swarm +of celibates will support all their sallies and you will be assailed +and persecuted as an original, a tyrant, a bad bed-fellow, an eccentric +man, a man not to be trusted. + +Your wife will defend you like the bear in the fable of La Fontaine; +she will throw paving stones at your head to drive away the flies that +alight on it. She will tell you in the evening all the things that have +been said about you, and will ask an explanation of acts which you +never committed, and of words which you never said. She professes to +have justified you for faults of which you are innocent; she has +boasted of a liberty which she does not possess, in order to clear you +of the wrong which you have done in denying that liberty. The deafening +rattle which your wife shakes will follow you everywhere with its +obtrusive din. Your darling will stun you, will torture you, meanwhile +arming herself by making you feel only the thorns of married life. She +will greet you with a radiant smile in public, and will be sullen at +home. She will be dull when you are merry, and will make you detest her +merriment when you are moody. Your two faces will present a perpetual +contrast. + +Very few men have sufficient force of mind not to succumb to this +preliminary comedy, which is always cleverly played, and resembles the +_hourra_ raised by the Cossacks, as they advance to battle. Many +husbands become irritated and fall into irreparable mistakes. Others +abandon their wives. And, indeed, even those of superior intelligence +do not know how to get hold of the enchanted ring, by which to dispel +this feminine phantasmagoria. + +Two-thirds of such women are enabled to win their independence by this +single manoeuvre, which is no more than a review of their forces. In +this case the war is soon ended. + +But a strong man who courageously keeps cool throughout this first +assault will find much amusement in laying bare to his wife, in a light +and bantering way, the secret feelings which make her thus behave, in +following her step by step through the labyrinth which she treads, and +telling her in answer to her every remark, that she is false to +herself, while he preserves throughout a tone of pleasantry and never +becomes excited. + +Meanwhile war is declared, and if her husband has not been dazzled by +these first fireworks, a woman has yet many other resources for +securing her triumph; and these it is the purpose of the following +Meditations to discover. + +MEDITATION XXIV. + +PRINCIPLES OF STRATEGY. + + +The Archduke Charles published a very fine treatise on military under +the title _Principles of Strategy in Relation to the Campaigns of +1796_. These principles seem somewhat to resemble poetic canons +prepared for poems already published. In these days we are become very +much more energetic, we invent rules to suit works and works to suit +rules. But of what use were ancient principles of military art in +presence of the impetuous genius of Napoleon? If, to-day, however, we +reduce to a system the lessons taught by this great captain whose new +tactics have destroyed the ancient ones, what future guarantee do we +possess that another Napoleon will not yet be born? Books on military +art meet, with few exceptions, the fate of ancient works on Chemistry +and Physics. Everything is subject to change, either constant or +periodic. + +This, in a few words, is the history of our work. + +So long as we have been dealing with a woman who is inert or lapped in +slumber, nothing has been easier than to weave the meshes with which we +have bound her; but the moment she wakes up and begins to struggle, all +is confusion and complication. If a husband would make an effort to +recall the principles of the system which we have just described in +order to involve his wife in the nets which our second part has set for +her, he would resemble Wurmser, Mack and Beaulieu arranging their halts +and their marches while Napoleon nimbly turns their flank, and makes +use of their own tactics to destroy them. + +This is just what your wife will do. + +How is it possible to get at the truth when each of you conceals it +under the same lie, each setting the same trap for the other? And whose +will be the victory when each of you is caught in a similar snare? + +“My dear, I have to go out; I have to pay a visit to Madame So and So. +I have ordered the carriage. Would you like to come with me? Come, be +good, and go with your wife.” + +You say to yourself: + +“She would be nicely caught if I consented! She asks me only to be +refused.” + +Then you reply to her: + +“Just at the moment I have some business with Monsieur Blank, for he +has to give a report in a business matter which deeply concerns us +both, and I must absolutely see him. Then I must go to the Minister of +Finance. So your arrangement will suit us both.” + +“Very well, dearest, go and dress yourself, while Celine finishes +dressing me; but don’t keep me waiting.” + +“I am ready now, love,” you cry out, at the end of ten minutes, as you +stand shaved and dressed. + +But all is changed. A letter has arrived; madame is not well; her dress +fits badly; the dressmaker has come; if it is not the dressmaker it is +your mother. Ninety-nine out of a hundred husbands will leave the house +satisfied, believing that their wives are well guarded, when, as a +matter of fact, the wives have gotten rid of them. + +A lawful wife who from her husband cannot escape, who is not distressed +by pecuniary anxiety, and who in order to give employment to a vacant +mind, examines night and day the changing tableaux of each day’s +experience, soon discovers the mistake she has made in falling into a +trap or allowing herself to be surprised by a catastrophe; she will +then endeavor to turn all these weapons against you. + +There is a man in society, the sight of whom is strangely annoying to +your wife; she can tolerate neither his tone, his manners nor his way +of regarding things. Everything connected with him is revolting to her; +she is persecuted by him, he is odious to her; she hopes that no one +will tell him this. It seems almost as if she were attempting to oppose +you; for this man is one for whom you have the highest esteem. You like +his disposition because he flatters you; and thus your wife presumes +that your esteem for him results from flattered vanity. When you give a +ball, an evening party or a concert, there is almost a discussion on +this subject, and madame picks a quarrel with you, because you are +compelling her to see people who are not agreeable to her. + +“At least, sir, I shall never have to reproach myself with omitting to +warn you. That man will yet cause you trouble. You should put some +confidence in women when they pass sentence on the character of a man. +And permit me to tell you that this baron, for whom you have such a +predilection, is a very dangerous person, and you are doing very wrong +to bring him to your house. And this is the way you behave; you +absolutely force me to see one whom I cannot tolerate, and if I ask you +to invite Monsieur A——-, you refuse to do so, because you think that I +like to have him with me! I admit that he talks well, that he is kind +and amiable; but you are more to me than he can ever be.” + +These rude outlines of feminine tactics, which are emphasized by +insincere gestures, by looks of feigned ingenuousness, by artful +intonations of the voice and even by the snare of cunning silence, are +characteristic to some degree of their whole conduct. + +There are few husbands who in such circumstances as these do not form +the idea of setting a mouse-trap; they welcome as their guests both +Monsieur A——- and the imaginary baron who represents the person whom +their wives abhor, and they do so in the hope of discovering a lover in +the celibate who is apparently beloved. + +Oh yes, I have often met in the world young men who were absolutely +starlings in love and complete dupes of a friendship which women +pretended to show them, women who felt themselves obliged to make a +diversion and to apply a blister to their husbands as their husbands +had previously done to them! These poor innocents pass their time in +running errands, in engaging boxes at the theatre, in riding in the +Bois de Boulogne by the carriages of their pretended mistresses; they +are publicly credited with possessing women whose hands they have not +even kissed. Vanity prevents them from contradicting these flattering +rumors, and like the young priests who celebrate masses without a Host, +they enjoy a mere show passion, and are veritable supernumeraries of +love. + +Under these circumstances sometimes a husband on returning home asks +the porter: “Has no one been here?”—“M. le Baron came past at two +o’clock to see monsieur; but as he found no one was in but madame he +went away; but Monsieur A——- is with her now.” + +You reach the drawing-room, you see there a young celibate, sprightly, +scented, wearing a fine necktie, in short a perfect dandy. He is a man +who holds you in high esteem; when he comes to your house your wife +listens furtively for his footsteps; at a ball she always dances with +him. If you forbid her to see him, she makes a great outcry and it is +not till many years afterwards [see Meditation on _Las Symptoms_] that +you see the innocence of Monsieur A——- and the culpability of the +baron. + +We have observed and noted as one of the cleverest manoeuvres, that of +a young woman who, carried away by an irresistible passion, exhibited a +bitter hatred to the man she did not love, but lavished upon her lover +secret intimations of her love. The moment that her husband was +persuaded that she loved the _Cicisbeo_ and hated the _Patito_, she +arranged that she and the _Patito_ should be found in a situation whose +compromising character she had calculated in advance, and her husband +and the execrated celibate were thus induced to believe that her love +and her aversion were equally insincere. When she had brought her +husband into the condition of perplexity, she managed that a passionate +letter should fall into his hands. One evening in the midst of the +admirable catastrophe which she had thus brought to a climax, madame +threw herself at her husband’s feet, wet them with her tears, and thus +concluded the climax to her own satisfaction. + +“I esteem and honor you profoundly,” she cried, “for keeping your own +counsel as you have done. I am in love! Is this a sentiment which is +easy for me to repress? But what I can do is to confess the fact to +you; to implore you to protect me from myself, to save me from my own +folly. Be my master and be a stern master to me; take me away from this +place, remove me from what has caused all this trouble, console me; I +will forget him, I desire to do so. I do not wish to betray you. I +humbly ask your pardon for the treachery love has suggested to me. Yes, +I confess to you that the love which I pretended to have for my cousin +was a snare set to deceive you. I love him with the love of friendship +and no more.—Oh! forgive me! I can love no one but”—her voice was +choked in passionate sobs—“Oh! let us go away, let us leave Paris!” + +She began to weep; her hair was disheveled, her dress in disarray; it +was midnight, and her husband forgave her. From henceforth, the cousin +made his appearance without risk, and the Minotaur devoured one victim +more. + +What instructions can we give for contending with such adversaries as +these? Their heads contain all the diplomacy of the congress of Vienna; +they have as much power when they are caught as when they escape. What +man has a mind supple enough to lay aside brute force and strength and +follow his wife through such mazes as these? + +To make a false plea every moment, in order to elicit the truth, a true +plea in order to unmask falsehood; to charge the battery when least +expected, and to spike your gun at the very moment of firing it; to +scale the mountain with the enemy, in order to descend to the plain +again five minutes later; to accompany the foe in windings as rapid, as +obscure as those of a plover on the breezes; to obey when obedience is +necessary, and to oppose when resistance is inertial; to traverse the +whole scale of hypotheses as a young artist with one stroke runs from +the lowest to the highest note of his piano; to divine at last the +secret purpose on which a woman is bent; to fear her caresses and to +seek rather to find out what are the thoughts that suggested them and +the pleasure which she derived from them—this is mere child’s pay for +the man of intellect and for those lucid and searching imaginations +which possess the gift of doing and thinking at the same time. But +there are a vast number of husbands who are terrified at the mere idea +of putting in practice these principles in their dealings with a woman. + +Such men as these prefer passing their lives in making huge efforts to +become second-class chess-players, or to pocket adroitly a ball in +billiards. + +Some of them will tell you that they are incapable of keeping their +minds on such a constant strain and breaking up the habits of their +life. In that case the woman triumphs. She recognizes that in mind and +energy she is her husband’s superior, although the superiority may be +but temporary; and yet there rises in her a feeling of contempt for the +head of the house. + +If many man fail to be masters in their own house this is not from lack +of willingness, but of talent. As for those who are ready to undergo +the toils of this terrible duel, it is quite true that they must needs +possess great moral force. + +And really, as soon as it is necessary to display all the resources of +this secret strategy, it is often useless to attempt setting any traps +for these satanic creatures. Once women arrive at a point when they +willfully deceive, their countenances become as inscrutable as vacancy. +Here is an example which came within my own experience. + +A very young, very pretty, and very clever coquette of Paris had not +yet risen. Seated by her bed was one of her dearest friends. A letter +arrived from another, a very impetuous fellow, to whom she had allowed +the right of speaking to her like a master. The letter was in pencil +and ran as follows: + +“I understand that Monsieur C——- is with you at this moment. I am +waiting for him to blow his brains out.” + +Madame D——- calmly continued the conversation with Monsieur C——-. She +asked him to hand her a little writing desk of red leather which stood +on the table, and he brought it to her. + +“Thanks, my dear,” she said to him; “go on talking, I am listening to +you.” + +C——- talked away and she replied, all the while writing the following +note: + +“As soon as you become jealous of C——- you two can blow out each +other’s brains at your pleasure. As for you, you may die; but brains +—you haven’t any brains to blow out.” + +“My dear friend,” she said to C——-, “I beg you will light this candle. +Good, you are charming. And now be kind enough to leave me and let me +get up, and give this letter to Monsieur d’H——-, who is waiting at the +door.” + +All this was said with admirable coolness. The tones and intonations of +her voice, the expression of her face showed no emotion. Her audacity +was crowned with complete success. On receiving the answer from the +hand of Monsieur C——-, Monsieur d’H——- felt his wrath subside. He was +troubled with only one thing and that was how to disguise his +inclination to laugh. + +The more torch-light one flings into the immense cavern which we are +now trying to illuminate, the more profound it appears. It is a +bottomless abyss. It appears to us that our task will be accomplished +more agreeably and more instructively if we show the principles of +strategy put into practice in the case of a woman, when she has reached +a high degree of vicious accomplishment. An example suggests more +maxims and reveals the existence of more methods than all possible +theories. + +One day at the end of a dinner given to certain intimate friends by +Prince Lebrun, the guests, heated by champagne, were discussing the +inexhaustible subject of feminine artifice. The recent adventure which +was credited to the Countess R. D. S. J. D. A——-, apropos of a +necklace, was the subject first broached. A highly esteemed artist, a +gifted friend of the emperor, was vigorously maintaining the opinion, +which seemed somewhat unmanly, that it was forbidden to a man to resist +successfully the webs woven by a woman. + +“It is my happy experience,” he said, “that to them nothing is sacred.” + +The ladies protested. + +“But I can cite an instance in point.” + +“It is an exception!” + +“Let us hear the story,” said a young lady. + +“Yes, tell it to us,” cried all the guests. + +The prudent old gentleman cast his eyes around, and, after having +formed his conclusions as to the age of the ladies, smiled and said: + +“Since we are all experienced in life, I consent to relate the +adventure.” + +Dead silence followed, and the narrator read the following from a +little book which he had taken from his pocket: + +I was head over ears in love with the Comtesse de ——-. I was twenty and +I was ingenuous. She deceived me. I was angry; she threw me over. I was +ingenuous, I repeat, and I was grieved to lose her. I was twenty; she +forgave me. And as I was twenty, as I was always ingenuous, always +deceived, but never again thrown over by her, I believed myself to have +been the best beloved of lovers, consequently the happiest of men. The +countess had a friend, Madame de T——-, who seemed to have some designs +on me, but without compromising her dignity; for she was scrupulous and +respected the proprieties. One day while I was waiting for the countess +in her Opera box, I heard my name called from a contiguous box. It was +Madame de T——-. + +“What,” she said, “already here? Is this fidelity or merely a want of +something to do? Won’t you come to me?” + +Her voice and her manner had a meaning in them, but I was far from +inclined at that moment to indulge in a romance. + +“Have you any plans for this evening?” she said to me. “Don’t make any! +If I cheer your tedious solitude you ought to be devoted to me. Don’t +ask any questions, but obey. Call my servants.” + +I answered with a bow and on being requested to leave the Opera box, I +obeyed. + +“Go to this gentleman’s house,” she said to the lackey. “Say he will +not be home till to-morrow.” + +She made a sign to him, he went to her, she whispered in his ear, and +he left us. The Opera began. I tried to venture on a few words, but she +silenced me; some one might be listening. The first act ended, the +lackey brought back a note, and told her that everything was ready. +Then she smiled, asked for my hand, took me off, put me in her +carriage, and I started on my journey quite ignorant of my destination. +Every inquiry I made was answered by a peal of laughter. If I had not +been aware that this was a woman of great passion, that she had long +loved the Marquis de V——-, that she must have known I was aware of it, +I should have believed myself in good luck; but she knew the condition +of my heart, and the Comtesse de ——-. I therefore rejected all +presumptuous ideas and bided my time. At the first stop, a change of +horses was supplied with the swiftness of lightning and we started +afresh. The matter was becoming serious. I asked with some insistency, +where this joke was to end. + +“Where?” she said, laughing. “In the pleasantest place in the world, +but can’t you guess? I’ll give you a thousand chances. Give it up, for +you will never guess. We are going to my husband’s house. Do you know +him?” + +“Not in the least.” + +“So much the better, I thought you didn’t. But I hope you will like +him. We have lately become reconciled. Negotiations went on for six +months; and we have been writing to one another for a month. I think it +is very kind of me to go and look him up.” + +“It certainly is, but what am I going to do there? What good will I be +in this reconciliation?” + +“Ah, that is my business. You are young, amiable, unconventional; you +suit me and will save me from the tediousness of a tete-a-tete.” + +“But it seems odd to me, to choose the day or the night of a +reconciliation to make us acquainted; the awkwardness of the first +interview, the figure all three of us will cut,—I don’t see anything +particularly pleasant in that.” + +“I have taken possession of you for my own amusement!” she said with an +imperious air, “so please don’t preach.” + +I saw she was decided, so surrendered myself to circumstances. I began +to laugh at my predicament and we became exceedingly merry. We again +changed horses. The mysterious torch of night lit up a sky of extreme +clearness and shed around a delightful twilight. We were approaching +the spot where our tete-a-tete must end. She pointed out to me at +intervals the beauty of the landscape, the tranquillity of the night, +the all-pervading silence of nature. In order to admire these things in +company as it was natural we should, we turned to the same window and +our faces touched for a moment. In a sudden shock she seized my hand, +and by a chance which seemed to me extraordinary, for the stone over +which our carriage had bounded could not have been very large, I found +Madame de T——- in my arms. I do not know what we were trying to see; +what I am sure of is that the objects before our eyes began in spite of +the full moon to grow misty, when suddenly I was released from her +weight, and she sank into the back cushions of the carriage. + +“Your object,” she said, rousing herself from a deep reverie, “is +possibly to convince me of the imprudence of this proceeding. Judge, +therefore, of my embarrassment!” + +“My object!” I replied, “what object can I have with regard to you? +What a delusion! You look very far ahead; but of course the sudden +surprise or turn of chance may excuse anything.” + +“You have counted, then, upon that chance, it seems to me?” + +We had reached our destination, and before we were aware of it, we had +entered the court of the chateau. The whole place was brightly lit up. +Everything wore a festal air, excepting the face of its master, who at +the sight of me seemed anything but delighted. He came forward and +expressed in somewhat hesitating terms the tenderness proper to the +occasion of a reconciliation. I understood later on that this +reconciliation was absolutely necessary from family reasons. I was +presented to him and was coldly greeted. He extended his hand to his +wife, and I followed the two, thinking of my part in the past, in the +present and in the future. I passed through apartments decorated with +exquisite taste. The master in this respect had gone beyond all the +ordinary refinement of luxury, in the hope of reanimating, by the +influence of voluptuous imagery, a physical nature that was dead. Not +knowing what to say, I took refuge in expressions of admiration. The +goddess of the temple, who was quite ready to do the honors, accepted +my compliments. + +“You have not seen anything,” she said. “I must take you to the +apartments of my husband.” + +“Madame, five years ago I caused them to be pulled down.” + +“Oh! Indeed!” said she. + +At the dinner, what must she do but offer the master some fish, on +which he said to her: + +“Madame, I have been living on milk for the last three years.” + +“Oh! Indeed!” she said again. + +Can any one imagine three human beings as astonished as we were to find +ourselves gathered together? The husband looked at me with a +supercilious air, and I paid him back with a look of audacity. + +Madame de T——- smiled at me and was charming to me; Monsieur de T——- +accepted me as a necessary evil. Never in all my life have I taken part +in a dinner which was so odd as that. The dinner ended, I thought that +we would go to bed early—that is, I thought that Monsieur de T——- +would. As we entered the drawing-room: + +“I appreciate, madame,” said he, “your precaution in bringing this +gentleman with you. You judged rightly that I should be but poor +company for the evening, and you have done well, for I am going to +retire.” + +Then turning to me, he added in a tone of profound sarcasm: + +“You will please to pardon me, and obtain also pardon from madame.” + +He left us. My reflections? Well, the reflections of a twelvemonth were +then comprised in those of a minute. When we were left alone, Madame de +T——- and I, we looked at each other so curiously that, in order to +break through the awkwardness, she proposed that we should take a turn +on the terrace while we waited, as she said, until the servants had +supped. + +It was a superb night. It was scarcely possible to discern surrounding +objects, they seemed to be covered with a veil, that imagination might +be permitted to take a loftier flight. The gardens, terraced on the +side of a mountain, sloped down, platform after platform, to the banks +of the Seine, and the eye took in the many windings of the stream +covered with islets green and picturesque. These variations in the +landscape made up a thousand pictures which gave to the spot, naturally +charming, a thousand novel features. We walked along the most extensive +of these terraces, which was covered with a thick umbrage of trees. She +had recovered from the effects of her husband’s persiflage, and as we +walked along she gave me her confidence. Confidence begets confidence, +and as I told her mine, all she said to me became more intimate and +more interesting. Madame de T——- at first gave me her arm; but soon +this arm became interlaced in mine, I know not how, but in some way +almost lifted her up and prevented her from touching the ground. The +position was agreeable, but became at last fatiguing. We had been +walking for a long time and we still had much to say to each other. A +bank of turf appeared and she sat down without withdrawing her arm. And +in this position we began to sound the praises of mutual confidence, +its charms and its delights. + +“Ah!” she said to me, “who can enjoy it more than we and with less +cause of fear? I know well the tie that binds you to another, and +therefore have nothing to fear.” + +Perhaps she wished to be contradicted. But I answered not a word. We +were then mutually persuaded that it was possible for us to be friends +without fear of going further. + +“But I was afraid, however,” I said, “that that sudden jolt in the +carriage and the surprising consequences may have frightened you.” + +“Oh, I am not so easily alarmed!” + +“I fear it has left a little cloud on your mind?” + +“What must I do to reassure you?” + +“Give me the kiss here which chance—” + +“I will gladly do so; for if I do not, your vanity will lead you to +think that I fear you.” + +I took the kiss. + +It is with kisses as with confidences, the first leads to another. They +are multiplied, they interrupt conversation, they take its place; they +scarce leave time for a sigh to escape. Silence followed. We could hear +it, for silence may be heard. We rose without a word and began to walk +again. + +“We must go in,” said she, “for the air of the river is icy, and it is +not worth while—” + +“I think to go in would be more dangerous,” I answered. + +“Perhaps so! Never mind, we will go in.” + +“Why, is this out of consideration for me? You wish doubtless to save +me from the impressions which I may receive from such a walk as this +—the consequences which may result. Is it for me—for me only—?” + +“You are modest,” she said smiling, “and you credit me with singular +consideration.” + +“Do you think so? Well, since you take it in this way, we will go in; I +demand it.” + +A stupid proposition, when made by two people who are forcing +themselves to say something utterly different from what they think. + +Then she compelled me to take the path that led back to the chateau. I +do not know, at least I did not then know, whether this course was one +which she forced upon herself, whether it was the result of a vigorous +resolution, or whether she shared my disappointment in seeing an +incident which had begun so well thus suddenly brought to a close but +by a mutual instinct our steps slackened and we pursued our way +gloomily dissatisfied the one with the other and with ourselves. We +knew not the why and the wherefore of what we were doing. Neither of us +had the right to demand or even to ask anything. We had neither of us +any ground for uttering a reproach. O that we had got up a quarrel! But +how could I pick one with her? Meanwhile we drew nearer and nearer, +thinking how we might evade the duty which we had so awkwardly imposed +upon ourselves. We reached the door, when Madame de T——- said to me: + +“I am angry with you! After the confidences I have given you, not to +give me a single one! You have not said a word about the countess. And +yet it is so delightful to speak of the one we love! I should have +listened with such interest! It was the very best I could do after I +had taken you away from her!” + +“Cannot I reproach you with the same thing?” I said, interrupting her, +“and if instead of making me a witness to this singular reconciliation +in which I play so odd a part, you had spoken to me of the marquis—” + +“Stop,” she said, “little as you know of women, you are aware that +their confidences must be waited for, not asked. But to return to +yourself. Are you very happy with my friend? Ah! I fear the contrary—” + +“Why, madame, should everything that the public amuses itself by saying +claim our belief?” + +“You need not dissemble. The countess makes less a mystery of things +than you do. Women of her stamp do not keep the secrets of their loves +and of their lovers, especially when you are prompted by discretion to +conceal her triumph. I am far from accusing her of coquetry; but a +prude has as much vanity as a coquette.—Come, tell me frankly, have you +not cause of complaint against her?” + +“But, madame, the air is really too icy for us to stay here. Would you +like to go in?” said I with a smile. + +“Do you find it so?—That is singular. The air is quite warm.” + +She had taken my arm again, and we continued to walk, although I did +not know the direction which we took. All that she had hinted at +concerning the lover of the countess, concerning my mistress, together +with this journey, the incident which took place in the carriage, our +conversation on the grassy bank, the time of night, the moonlight—all +made me feel anxious. I was at the same time carried along by vanity, +by desire, and so distracted by thought, that I was too excited perhaps +to take notice of all that I was experiencing. And, while I was +overwhelmed with these mingled feelings, she continued talking to me of +the countess, and my silence confirmed the truth of all that she chose +to say about her. Nevertheless, certain passages in her talk recalled +me to myself. + +“What an exquisite creature she is!” she was saying. “How graceful! On +her lips the utterances of treachery sound like witticism; an act of +infidelity seems the prompting of reason, a sacrifice to propriety; +while she is never reckless, she is always lovable; she is seldom +tender and never sincere; amorous by nature, prudish on principle; +sprightly, prudent, dexterous though utterly thoughtless, varied as +Proteus in her moods, but charming as the Graces in her manner; she +attracts but she eludes. What a number of parts I have seen her play! +_Entre nous_, what a number of dupes hang round her! What fun she has +made of the baron, what a life she has led the marquis! When she took +you, it was merely for the purpose of throwing the two rivals off the +scent; they were on the point of a rupture; for she had played with +them too long, and they had had time to see through her. But she +brought you on the scene. Their attention was called to you, she led +them to redouble their pursuit, she was in despair over you, she pitied +you, she consoled you— Ah! how happy is a clever woman when in such a +game as this she professes to stake nothing of her own! But yet, is +this true happiness?” + +This last phrase, accompanied by a significant sigh, was a +master-stroke. I felt as if a bandage had fallen from my eyes, without +seeing who had put it there. My mistress appeared to me the falsest of +women, and I believed that I held now the only sensible creature in the +world. Then I sighed without knowing why. She seemed grieved at having +given me pain and at having in her excitement drawn a picture, the +truth of which might be open to suspicion, since it was the work of a +woman. I do not know how I answered; for without realizing the drift of +all I heard, I set out with her on the high road of sentiment, and we +mounted to such lofty heights of feeling that it was impossible to +guess what would be the end of our journey. It was fortunate that we +also took the path towards a pavilion which she pointed out to me at +the end of the terrace, a pavilion, the witness of many sweet moments. +She described to me the furnishing of it. What a pity that she had not +the key! As she spoke we reached the pavilion and found that it was +open. The clearness of the moonlight outside did not penetrate, but +darkness has many charms. We trembled as we went in. It was a +sanctuary. Might it not be the sanctuary of love? We drew near a sofa +and sat down, and there we remained a moment listening to our +heart-beats. The last ray of the moon carried away the last scruple. +The hand which repelled me felt my heart beat. She struggled to get +away, but fell back overcome with tenderness. We talked together +through that silence in the language of thought. Nothing is more +rapturous than these mute conversations. Madame de T——- took refuge in +my arms, hid her head in my bosom, sighed and then grew calm under my +caresses. She grew melancholy, she was consoled, and she asked of love +all that love had robbed her of. The sound of the river broke the +silence of night with a gentle murmur, which seemed in harmony with the +beating of our hearts. Such was the darkness of the place it was +scarcely possible to discern objects; but through the transparent crepe +of a fair summer’s night, the queen of that lovely place seemed to me +adorable. + +“Oh!” she said to me with an angelic voice, “let us leave this +dangerous spot. Resistance here is beyond our strength.” + +She drew me away and we left the pavilion with regret. + +“Ah! how happy is she!” cried Madame de T——-. + +“Whom do you mean?” I asked. + +“Did I speak?” said she with a look of alarm. + +And then we reached the grassy bank, and stopped there involuntarily. +“What a distance there is,” she said to me, “between this place and the +pavilion!” + +“Yes indeed,” said I. “But must this bank be always ominous? Is there a +regret? Is there—?” + +I do not know by what magic it took place; but at this point the +conversation changed and became less serious. She ventured even to +speak playfully of the pleasures of love, to eliminate from them all +moral considerations, to reduce them to their simplest elements, and to +prove that the favors of lovers were mere pleasure, that there were no +pledges—philosophically speaking—excepting those which were given to +the world, when we allowed it to penetrate our secrets and joined it in +the acts of indiscretion. + +“How mild is the night,” she said, “which we have by chance picked out! +Well, if there are reasons, as I suppose there are, which compel us to +part to-morrow, our happiness, ignored as it is by all nature, will not +leave us any ties to dissolve. There will, perhaps, be some regrets, +the pleasant memory of which will give us reparation; and then there +will be a mutual understanding, without all the delays, the fuss and +the tyranny of legal proceedings. We are such machines—and I blush to +avow it—that in place of all the shrinkings that tormented me before +this scene took place, I was half inclined to embrace the boldness of +these principles, and I felt already disposed to indulge in the love of +liberty. + +“This beautiful night,” she continued, “this lovely scenery at this +moment have taken on fresh charms. O let us never forget this pavilion! +The chateau,” she added smilingly, “contains a still more charming +place, but I dare not show you anything; you are like a child, who +wishes to touch everything and breaks everything that he touches.” + +Moved by a sentiment of curiosity I protested that I was a very good +child. She changed the subject. + +“This night,” she said, “would be for me without a regret if I were not +vexed with myself for what I said to you about the countess. Not that I +wish to find fault with you. Novelty attracts me. You have found me +amiable, I should like to believe in your good faith. But the dominion +of habit takes a long time to break through and I have not learned the +secret of doing this—By the bye, what do you think of my husband?” + +“Well, he is rather cross, but I suppose he could not be otherwise to +me.” + +“Oh, that is true, but his way of life isn’t pleasant, and he could not +see you here with indifference. He might be suspicious even of our +friendship.” + +“Oh! he is so already.” + +“Confess that he has cause. Therefore you must not prolong this visit; +he might take it amiss. As soon as any one arrives—” and she added with +a smile, “some one is going to arrive—you must go. You have to keep up +appearance, you know. Remember his manner when he left us to-night.” + +I was tempted to interpret this adventure as a trap, but as she noticed +the impression made by her words, she added: + +“Oh, he was very much gayer when he was superintending the arrangement +of the cabinet I told you about. That was before my marriage. This +passage leads to my apartment. Alas! it testifies to the cunning +artifices to which Monsieur de T——- has resorted in protecting his love +for me.” + +“How pleasant it would be,” I said to her, keenly excited by the +curiosity she had roused in me, “to take vengeance in this spot for the +insults which your charms have suffered, and to seek to make +restitution for the pleasures of which you have been robbed.” + +She doubtless thought this remark in good taste, but she said: “You +promised to be good!” + + +I threw a veil over the follies which every age will pardon to youth, +on the ground of so many balked desires and bitter memories. In the +morning, scarcely raising her liquid eyes, Madame de T——-, fairer than +ever, said to me: + +“Now will you ever love the countess as much as you do me?” + +I was about to answer when her maid, her confidante, appeared saying: + +“You must go. It is broad daylight, eleven o’clock, and the chateau is +already awake.” + +All had vanished like a dream! I found myself wandering through the +corridors before I had recovered my senses. How could I regain my +apartment, not knowing where it was? Any mistake might bring about an +exposure. I resolved on a morning walk. The coolness of the fresh air +gradually tranquilized my imagination and brought me back to the world +of reality; and now instead of a world of enchantment I saw myself in +my soul, and my thoughts were no longer disturbed but followed each +other in connected order; in fact, I breathed once more. I was, above +all things, anxious to learn what I was to her so lately left—I who +knew that she had been desperately in love with the Marquis de V——-. +Could she have broken with him? Had she taken me to be his successor, +or only to punish him? What a night! What an adventure! Yes, and what a +delightful woman! While I floated on the waves of these thoughts, I +heard a sound near at hand. I raised my eyes, I rubbed them, I could +not believe my senses. Can you guess who it was? The Marquis de V——-! + +“You did not expect to see me so early, did you?” he said. “How has it +all gone off?” + +“Did you know that I was here?” I asked in utter amazement. + +“Oh, yes, I received word just as you left Paris. Have you played your +part well? Did not the husband think your visit ridiculous? Was he put +out? When are you going to take leave? You had better go, I have made +every provision for you. I have brought you a good carriage. It is at +your service. This is the way I requite you, my dear friend. You may +rely on me in the future, for a man is grateful for such services as +yours.” + +These last words gave me the key to the whole mystery, and I saw how I +stood. + +“But why should you have come so soon?” I asked him; “it would have +been more prudent to have waited a few days.” + +“I foresaw that; and it is only chance that has brought me here. I am +supposed to be on my way back from a neighboring country house. But has +not Madame de T——- taken you into her secret? I am surprised at her +want of confidence, after all you have done for us.” + +“My dear friend,” I replied, “she doubtless had her reasons. Perhaps I +did not play my part very well.” + +“Has everything been very pleasant? Tell me the particulars; come, tell +me.” + +“Now wait a moment. I did not know that this was to be a comedy; and +although Madame de T——- gave me a part in the play—” + +“It wasn’t a very nice one.” + +“Do not worry yourself; there are no bad parts for good actors.” + +“I understand, you acquitted yourself well.” + +“Admirably.” + +“And Madame de T——-?” + +“Is adorable.” + +“To think of being able to win such a woman!” said he, stopping short +in our walk, and looking triumphantly at me. “Oh, what pains I have +taken with her! And I have at last brought her to a point where she is +perhaps the only woman in Paris on whose fidelity a man may infallibly +count!” + +“You have succeeded—?” + +“Yes; in that lies my special talent. Her inconstancy was mere +frivolity, unrestrained imagination. It was necessary to change that +disposition of hers, but you have no idea of her attachment to me. But +really, is she not charming?” + +“I quite agree with you.” + +“And yet _entre nous_ I recognize one fault in her. Nature in giving +her everything, has denied her that flame divine which puts the crown +on all other endowments; while she rouses in others the ardor of +passion, she feels none herself, she is a thing of marble.” + +“I am compelled to believe you, for I have had no opportunity of +judging, but do you think that you know that woman as well as if you +were her husband? It is possible to be deceived. If I had not dined +yesterday with the veritable—I should take you—” + +“By the way, has he been good?” + +“Oh, I was received like a dog!” + +“I understand. Let us go in, let us look for Madame de T——-. She must +be up by this time.” + +“But should we not out of decency begin with the husband?” I said to +him. + +“You are right. Let us go to your room, I wish to put on a little +powder. But tell me, did he really take you for her lover?” + +“You may judge by the way he receives me; but let us go at once to his +apartment.” + +I wished to avoid having to lead him to an apartment whose whereabouts +I did not know; but by chance we found it. The door was open and there +I saw my _valet de chambre_ asleep on an armchair. A candle was going +out on a table beside him. He drowsily offered a night robe to the +marquis. I was on pins and needles; but the marquis was in a mood to be +easily deceived, took the man for a mere sleepy-head, and made a joke +of the matter. We passed on to the apartment of Monsieur de T——-. There +was no misunderstanding the reception which he accorded me, and the +welcome, the compliments which he addressed to the marquis, whom he +almost forced to stay. He wished to take him to madame in order that +she might insist on his staying. As for me, I received no such +invitation. I was reminded that my health was delicate, the country was +damp, fever was in the air, and I seemed so depressed that the chateau +would prove too gloomy for me. The marquis offered me his chaise and I +accepted it. The husband seemed delighted and we were all satisfied. +But I could not refuse myself the pleasure of seeing Madame de T——- +once more. My impatience was wonderful. My friend conceived no +suspicions from the late sleep of his mistress. + +“Isn’t this fine?” he said to me as we followed Monsieur de T——-. “He +couldn’t have spoken more kindly if she had dictated his words. He is a +fine fellow. I am not in the least annoyed by this reconciliation; they +will make a good home together, and you will agree with me, that he +could not have chosen a wife better able to do the honors.” + +“Certainly,” I replied. + +“However pleasant the adventure has been,” he went on with an air of +mystery, “you must be off! I will let Madame de T——- understand that +her secret will be well kept.” + +“On that point, my friend, she perhaps counts more on me than on you; +for you see her sleep is not disturbed by the matter.” + +“Oh! I quite agree that there is no one like you for putting a woman to +sleep.” + +“Yes, and a husband too, and if necessary a lover, my dear friend.” + +At last Monsieur de T——- was admitted to his wife’s apartment, and +there we were all summoned. + +“I trembled,” said Madame de T——- to me, “for fear you would go before +I awoke, and I thank you for saving me the annoyance which that would +have caused me.” + +“Madame,” I said, and she must have perceived the feeling that was in +my tones—“I come to say good-bye.” + +She looked at me and at the marquis with an air of disquietude; but the +self-satisfied, knowing look of her lover reassured her. She laughed in +her sleeve with me as if she would console me as well as she could, +without lowering herself in my eyes. + +“He has played his part well,” the marquis said to her in a low voice, +pointing to me, “and my gratitude—” + +“Let us drop the subject,” interrupted Madame de T——-; “you may be sure +that I am well aware of all I owe him.” + +At last Monsieur de T——-, with a sarcastic remark, dismissed me; my +friend threw the dust in his eyes by making fun of me; and I paid back +both of them by expressing my admiration for Madame de T——-, who made +fools of us all without forfeiting her dignity. I took myself off; but +Madame de T——- followed me, pretending to have a commission to give me. + +“Adieu, monsieur!” she said, “I am indebted to you for the very great +pleasure you have given me; but I have paid you back with a beautiful +dream,” and she looked at me with an expression of subtle meaning. “But +adieu, and forever! You have plucked a solitary flower, blossoming in +its loveliness, which no man—” + +She stopped and her thought evaporated in a sigh; but she checked the +rising flood of sensibility and smiled significantly. + +“The countess loves you,” she said. “If I have robbed her of some +transports, I give you back to her less ignorant than before. Adieu! Do +not make mischief between my friend and me.” + +She wrung my hand and left me. + +More than once the ladies who had mislaid their fans blushed as they +listened to the old gentleman, whose brilliant elocution won their +indulgence for certain details which we have suppressed, as too erotic +for the present age; nevertheless, we may believe that each lady +complimented him in private; for some time afterwards he gave to each +of them, as also to the masculine guests, a copy of this charming +story, twenty-five copies of which were printed by Pierre Didot. It is +from copy No. 24 that the author has transcribed this tale, hitherto +unpublished, and, strange to say, attributed to Dorat. It has the merit +of yielding important lessons for husbands, while at the same time it +gives the celibates a delightful picture of morals in the last century. + +MEDITATION XXV. + +OF ALLIES. + + +Of all the miseries that civil war can bring upon a country the +greatest lies in the appeal which one of the contestants always ends by +making to some foreign government. + +Unhappily we are compelled to confess that all women make this great +mistake, for the lover is only the first of their soldiers. It may be a +member of their family or at least a distant cousin. This Meditation, +then, is intended to answer the inquiry, what assistance can each of +the different powers which influence human life give to your wife? or +better than that, what artifices will she resort to to arm them against +you? + +Two beings united by marriage are subject to the laws of religion and +society; to those of private life, and, from considerations of health, +to those of medicine. We will therefore divide this important +Meditation into six paragraphs: + +1. OF RELIGIONS AND OF CONFESSION; CONSIDERED IN THEIR CONNECTION WITH +MARRIAGE. 2. OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. 3. OF BOARDING SCHOOL FRIENDS AND +INTIMATE FRIENDS. 4. OF THE LOVER’S ALLIES. 5. OF THE MAID. 6. OF THE +DOCTOR. + +1. OF RELIGIONS AND OF CONFESSION; CONSIDERED IN THEIR CONNECTION WITH +MARRIAGE. + +La Bruyere has very wittily said, “It is too much for a husband to have +ranged against him both devotion and gallantry; a woman ought to choose +but one of them for her ally.” + +The author thinks that La Bruyere is mistaken. + +2. OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW. + +Up to the age of thirty the face of a woman is a book written in a +foreign tongue, which one may still translate in spite of all the +_feminisms_ of the idiom; but on passing her fortieth year a woman +becomes an insoluble riddle; and if any one can see through an old +woman, it is another old woman. + +Some diplomats have attempted on more than one occasion the diabolical +task of gaining over the dowagers who opposed their machinations; but +if they have ever succeeded it was only after making enormous +concessions to them; for diplomats are practiced people and we do not +think that you can employ their recipe in dealing with your +mother-in-law. She will be the first aid-de-camp of her daughter, for +if the mother did not take her daughter’s side, it would be one of +those monstrous and unnatural exceptions, which unhappily for husbands +are extremely rare. + +When a man is so happy as to possess a mother-in-law who is +well-preserved, he may easily keep her in check for a certain time, +although he may not know any young celibate brave enough to assail her. +But generally husbands who have the slightest conjugal genius will find +a way of pitting their own mother against that of their wife, and in +that case they will naturally neutralize each other’s power. + +To be able to keep a mother-in-law in the country while he lives in +Paris, and vice versa, is a piece of good fortune which a husband too +rarely meets with. + +What of making mischief between the mother and the daughter?—That may +be possible; but in order to accomplish such an enterprise he must have +the metallic heart of Richelieu, who made a son and a mother deadly +enemies to each other. However, the jealousy of a husband who forbids +his wife to pray to male saints and wishes her to address only female +saints, would allow her liberty to see her mother. + +Many sons-in-law take an extreme course which settles everything, which +consists in living on bad terms with their mothers-in-law. This +unfriendliness would be very adroit policy, if it did not inevitably +result in drawing tighter the ties that unite mother and daughter. +These are about all the means which you have for resisting maternal +influence in your home. As for the services which your wife can claim +from her mother, they are immense; and the assistance which she may +derive from the neutrality of her mother is not less powerful. But on +this point everything passes out of the domain of science, for all is +veiled in secrecy. The reinforcements which a mother brings up in +support of a daughter are so varied in nature, they depend so much on +circumstances, that it would be folly to attempt even a nomenclature +for them. Yet you may write out among the most valuable precepts of +this conjugal gospel, the following maxims. + +A husband should never let his wife visit her mother unattended. + +A husband ought to study all the reasons why all the celibates under +forty who form her habitual society are so closely united by ties of +friendship to his mother-in-law; for, if a daughter rarely falls in +love with the lover of her mother, her mother has always a weak spot +for her daughter’s lover. + +3. OF BOARDING SCHOOL FRIENDS AND INTIMATE FRIENDS. + +Louise de L——-, daughter of an officer killed at Wagram, had been the +object of Napoleon’s special protection. She left Ecouen to marry a +commissary general, the Baron de V——-, who is very rich. + +Louise was eighteen and the baron forty. She was ordinary in face and +her complexion could not be called white, but she had a charming +figure, good eyes, a small foot, a pretty hand, good taste and abundant +intelligence. The baron, worn out by the fatigues of war and still more +by the excesses of a stormy youth, had one of those faces upon which +the Republic, the Directory, the Consulate and the Empire seemed to +have set their impress. + +He became so deeply in love with his wife, that he asked and obtained +from the Emperor a post at Paris, in order that he might be enabled to +watch over his treasure. He was as jealous as Count Almaviva, still +more from vanity than from love. The young orphan had married her +husband from necessity, and, flattered by the ascendancy she wielded +over a man much older than herself, waited upon his wishes and his +needs; but her delicacy was offended from the first days of their +marriage by the habits and ideas of a man whose manners were tinged +with republican license. He was a predestined. + +I do not know exactly how long the baron made his honeymoon last, nor +when war was declared in his household; but I believe it happened in +1816, at a very brilliant ball given by Monsieur D——-, a commissariat +officer, that the commissary general, who had been promoted head of the +department, admired the beautiful Madame B——-, the wife of a banker, +and looked at her much more amorously than a married man should have +allowed himself to do. + +At two o’clock in the morning it happened that the banker, tired of +waiting any longer, went home leaving his wife at the ball. + +“We are going to take you home to your house,” said the baroness to +Madame B——-. “Monsieur de V——-, offer your arm to Emilie!” + +And now the baron is seated in his carriage next to a woman who, during +the whole evening, had been offered and had refused a thousand +attentions, and from whom he had hoped in vain to win a single look. +There she was, in all the lustre of her youth and beauty, displaying +the whitest shoulders and the most ravishing lines of beauty. Her face, +which still reflected the pleasures of the evening, seemed to vie with +the brilliancy of her satin gown; her eyes to rival the blaze of her +diamonds; and her skin to cope with the soft whiteness of the marabouts +which tied in her hair, set off the ebon tresses and the ringlets +dangling from her headdress. Her tender voice would stir the chords of +the most insensible hearts; in a word, so powerfully did she wake up +love in the human breast that Robert d’Abrissel himself would perhaps +have yielded to her. + +The baron glanced at his wife, who, overcome with fatigue, had sunk to +sleep in a corner of the carriage. He compared, in spite of himself, +the toilette of Louise and that of Emilie. Now on occasions of this +kind the presence of a wife is singularly calculated to sharpen the +unquenchable desires of a forbidden love. Moreover, the glances of the +baron, directed alternately to his wife and to her friend, were easy to +interpret, and Madame B——- interpreted them. + +“Poor Louise,” she said, “she is overtired. Going out does not suit +her, her tastes are so simple. At Ecouen she was always reading—” + +“And you, what used you to do?” + +“I, sir? Oh, I thought about nothing but acting comely. It was my +passion!” + +“But why do you so rarely visit Madame de V——-? We have a country house +at Saint-Prix, where we could have a comedy acted, in a little theatre +which I have built there.” + +“If I have not visited Madame de V——-, whose fault is it?” she replied. +“You are so jealous that you will not allow her either to visit her +friends or to receive them.” + +“I jealous!” cried Monsieur de V——-, “after four years of marriage, and +after having had three children!” + +“Hush,” said Emilie, striking the fingers of the baron with her fan, +“Louise is not asleep!” + +The carriage stopped, and the baron offered his hand to his wife’s fair +friend and helped her to get out. + +“I hope,” said Madame B——-, “that you will not prevent Louise from +coming to the ball which I am giving this week.” + +The baron made her a respectful bow. + +This ball was a triumph of Madame B——-’s and the ruin of the husband of +Louise; for he became desperately enamored of Emilie, to whom he would +have sacrificed a hundred lawful wives. + +Some months after that evening on which the baron gained some hopes of +succeeding with his wife’s friend, he found himself one morning at the +house of Madame B——-, when the maid came to announce the Baroness de +V——-. + +“Ah!” cried Emilie, “if Louise were to see you with me at such an hour +as this, she would be capable of compromising me. Go into that closet +and don’t make the least noise.” + +The husband, caught like a mouse in a trap, concealed himself in the +closet. + +“Good-day, my dear!” said the two women, kissing each other. + +“Why are you come so early?” asked Emilie. + +“Oh! my dear, cannot you guess? I came to have an understanding with +you!” + +“What, a duel?” + +“Precisely, my dear. I am not like you, not I! I love my husband and am +jealous of him. You! you are beautiful, charming, you have the right to +be a coquette, you can very well make fun of B——-, to whom your virtue +seems to be of little importance. But as you have plenty of lovers in +society, I beg you that you will leave me my husband. He is always at +your house, and he certainly would not come unless you were the +attraction.” + +“What a very pretty jacket you have on.” + +“Do you think so? My maid made it.” + +“Then I shall get Anastasia to take a lesson from Flore—” + +“So, then, my dear, I count on your friendship to refrain from bringing +trouble in my house.” + +“But, my child, I do not know how you can conceive that I should fall +in love with your husband; he is coarse and fat as a deputy of the +centre. He is short and ugly—Ah! I will allow that he is generous, but +that is all you can say for him, and this is a quality which is all in +all only to opera girls; so that you can understand, my dear, that if I +were choosing a lover, as you seem to suppose I am, I wouldn’t choose +an old man like your baron. If I have given him any hopes, if I have +received him, it was certainly for the purpose of amusing myself, and +of giving you liberty; for I believed you had a weakness for young +Rostanges.” + +“I?” exclaimed Louise, “God preserve me from it, my dear; he is the +most intolerable coxcomb in the world. No, I assure you, I love my +husband! You may laugh as you choose; it is true. I know it may seem +ridiculous, but consider, he has made my fortune, he is no miser, and +he is everything to me, for it has been my unhappy lot to be left an +orphan. Now even if I did not love him, I ought to try to preserve his +esteem. Have I a family who will some day give me shelter?” + +“Come, my darling, let us speak no more about it,” said Emilie, +interrupting her friend, “for it tires me to death.” + +After a few trifling remarks the baroness left. + +“How is this, monsieur?” cried Madame B——-, opening the door of the +closet where the baron was frozen with cold, for this incident took +place in winter; “how is this? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for not +adoring a little wife who is so interesting? Don’t speak to me of love; +you may idolize me, as you say you do, for a certain time, but you will +never love me as you love Louise. I can see that in your heart I shall +never outweigh the interest inspired by a virtuous wife, children, and +a family circle. I should one day be deserted and become the object of +your bitter reflections. You would coldly say of me ‘I have had that +woman!’ That phrase I have heard pronounced by men with the most +insulting indifference. You see, monsieur, that I reason in cold blood, +and that I do not love you, because you never would be able to love +me.” + +“What must I do then to convince you of my love?” cried the baron, +fixing his gaze on the young woman. + +She had never appeared to him so ravishingly beautiful as at that +moment, when her soft voice poured forth a torrent of words whose +sternness was belied by the grace of her gestures, by the pose of her +head and by her coquettish attitude. + +“Oh, when I see Louise in possession of a lover,” she replied, “when I +know that I am taking nothing away from her, and that she has nothing +to regret in losing your affection; when I am quite sure that you love +her no longer, and have obtained certain proof of your indifference +towards her—Oh, then I may listen to you!—These words must seem odious +to you,” she continued in an earnest voice; “and so indeed they are, +but do not think that they have been pronounced by me. I am the +rigorous mathematician who makes his deductions from a preliminary +proposition. You are married, and do you deliberately set about making +love to some one else? I should be mad to give any encouragement to a +man who cannot be mine eternally.” + +“Demon!” exclaimed the husband. “Yes, you are a demon, and not a +woman!” + +“Come now, you are really amusing!” said the young woman as she seized +the bell-rope. + +“Oh! no, Emilie,” continued the lover of forty, in a calmer voice. “Do +not ring; stop, forgive me! I will sacrifice everything for you.” + +“But I do not promise you anything!” she answered quickly with a laugh. + +“My God! How you make me suffer!” he exclaimed. + +“Well, and have not you in your life caused the unhappiness of more +than one person?” she asked. “Remember all the tears which have been +shed through you and for you! Oh, your passion does not inspire me with +the least pity. If you do not wish to make me laugh, make me share your +feelings.” + +“Adieu, madame, there is a certain clemency in your sternness. I +appreciate the lesson you have taught me. Yes, I have many faults to +expiate.” + +“Well then, go and repent of them,” she said with a mocking smile; “in +making Louise happy you will perform the rudest penance in your power.” + +They parted. But the love of the baron was too violent to allow of +Madame B——-’s harshness failing to accomplish her end, namely, the +separation of the married couple. + +At the end of some months the Baron de V——- and his wife lived apart, +though they lived in the same mansion. The baroness was the object of +universal pity, for in public she always did justice to her husband and +her resignation seemed wonderful. The most prudish women of society +found nothing to blame in the friendship which united Louise to the +young Rostanges. And all was laid to the charge of Monsieur de V——-’s +folly. + +When this last had made all the sacrifices that a man could make for +Madame B——-, his perfidious mistress started for the waters of Mount +Dore, for Switzerland and for Italy, on the pretext of seeking the +restoration of her health. + +The baron died of inflammation of the liver, being attended during his +sickness by the most touching ministrations which his wife could lavish +upon him; and judging from the grief which he manifested at having +deserted her, he seemed never to have suspected her participation in +the plan which had been his ruin. + +This anecdote, which we have chosen from a thousand others, exemplifies +the services which two women can render each other. + +From the words—“Let me have the pleasure of bringing my husband” up to +the conception of the drama, whose denouement was inflammation of the +liver, every female perfidy was assembled to work out the end. Certain +incidents will, of course, be met with which diversify more or less the +typical example which we have given, but the march of the drama is +almost always the same. Moreover a husband ought always to distrust the +woman friends of his wife. The subtle artifices of these lying +creatures rarely fail of their effect, for they are seconded by two +enemies, who always keep close to a man—and these are vanity and +desire. + +4. OF THE LOVER’S ALLIES. + +The man who hastens to tell another man that he has dropped a thousand +franc bill from his pocket-book, or even that the handkerchief is +coming out of his pocket, would think it a mean thing to warn him that +some one was carrying off his wife. There is certainly something +extremely odd in this moral inconsistency, but after all it admits of +explanation. Since the law cannot exercise any interference with +matrimonial rights, the citizens have even less right to constitute +themselves a conjugal police; and when one restores a thousand franc +bill to him who has lost it, he acts under a certain kind of +obligation, founded on the principle which says, “Do unto others as ye +would they should do unto you!” + +But by what reasoning can justification be found for the help which one +celibate never asks in vain, but always receives from another celibate +in deceiving a husband, and how shall we qualify the rendering of such +help? A man who is incapable of assisting a gendarme in discovering an +assassin, has no scruple in taking a husband to a theatre, to a concert +or even to a questionable house, in order to help a comrade, whom he +would not hesitate to kill in a duel to-morrow, in keeping an +assignation, the result of which is to introduce into a family a +spurious child, and to rob two brothers of a portion of their fortune +by giving them a co-heir whom they never perhaps would otherwise have +had; or to effect the misery of three human beings. We must confess +that integrity is a very rare virtue, and, very often, the man that +thinks he has most actually has least. Families have been divided by +feuds, and brothers have been murdered, which events would never have +taken place if some friend had refused to perform what passes to the +world as a harmless trick. + +It is impossible for a man to be without some hobby or other, and all +of us are devoted either to hunting, fishing, gambling, music, money, +or good eating. Well, your ruling passion will always be an accomplice +in the snare which a lover sets for you, the invisible hand of this +passion will direct your friends, or his, whether they consent or not, +to play a part in the little drama when they want to take you away from +home, or to induce you to leave your wife to the mercy of another. A +lover will spend two whole months, if necessary, in planning the +construction of the mouse-trap. + +I have seen the most cunning men on earth thus taken in. + +There was a certain retired lawyer of Normandy. He lived in the little +town of B——-, where a regiment of the chasseurs of Cantal were +garrisoned. A fascinating officer of this regiment had fallen in love +with the wife of this pettifogger, and the regiment was leaving before +the two lovers had been able to enjoy the least privacy. It was the +fourth military man over whom the lawyer had triumphed. As he left the +dinner-table one evening, about six o’clock, the husband took a walk on +the terrace of his garden from which he could see the whole country +side. The officers arrived at this moment to take leave of him. +Suddenly the flame of a conflagration burst forth on the horizon. +“Heavens! La Daudiniere is on fire!” exclaimed the major. He was an old +simple-minded soldier, who had dined at home. Every one mounted horse. +The young wife smiled as she found herself alone, for her lover, hidden +in the coppice, had said to her, “It is a straw stack on fire!” The +flank of the husband was turned with all the more facility in that a +fine courser was provided for him by the captain, and with a delicacy +very rare in the cavalry, the lover actually sacrificed a few moments +of his happiness in order to catch up with the cavalcade, and return in +company with the husband. + +Marriage is a veritable duel, in which persistent watchfulness is +required in order to triumph over an adversary; for, if you are unlucky +enough to turn your head, the sword of the celibate will pierce you +through and through. + +5. OF THE MAID. + +The prettiest waiting-maid I have ever seen is that of Madame V——y, a +lady who to-day plays at Paris a brilliant part among the most +fashionable women, and passes for a wife who keeps on excellent terms +with her husband. Mademoiselle Celestine is a person whose points of +beauty are so numerous that, in order to describe her, it would be +necessary to translate the thirty verses which we are told form an +inscription in the seraglio of the Grand Turk and contain each of them +an excellent description of one of the thirty beauties of women. + +“You show a great deal of vanity in keeping near you such an +accomplished creature,” said a lady to the mistress of the house. + +“Ah! my dear, some day perhaps you will find yourself jealous of me in +possessing Celestine.” + +“She must be endowed with very rare qualities, I suppose? She perhaps +dresses you well?” + +“Oh, no, very badly!” + +“She sews well?” + +“She never touches her needle.” + +“She is faithful?” + +“She is one of those whose fidelity costs more than the most cunning +dishonesty.” + +“You astonish me, my dear; she is then your foster-sister?” + +“Not at all; she is positively good for nothing, but she is more useful +to me than any other member of my household. If she remains with me ten +years, I have promised her twenty thousand francs. It will be money +well earned, and I shall not forget to give it!” said the young woman, +nodding her head with a meaning gesture. + +At last the questioner of Madame V——y understood. + +When a woman has no friend of her own sex intimate enough to assist her +in proving false to marital love, her maid is a last resource which +seldom fails in bringing about the desired result. + +Oh! after ten years of marriage to find under his roof, and to see all +the time, a young girl of from sixteen to eighteen, fresh, dressed with +taste, the treasures of whose beauty seem to breathe defiance, whose +frank bearing is irresistibly attractive, whose downcast eyes seem to +fear you, whose timid glance tempts you, and for whom the conjugal bed +has no secrets, for she is at once a virgin and an experienced woman! +How can a man remain cold, like St. Anthony, before such powerful +sorcery, and have the courage to remain faithful to the good principles +represented by a scornful wife, whose face is always stern, whose +manners are always snappish, and who frequently refuses to be caressed? +What husband is stoical enough to resist such fires, such frosts? +There, where you see a new harvest of pleasure, the young innocent sees +an income, and your wife her liberty. It is a little family compact, +which is signed in the interest of good will. + +In this case, your wife acts with regard to marriage as young +fashionables do with regard to their country. If they are drawn for the +army, they buy a man to carry the musket, to die in their place and to +spare them the hardships of military life. + +In compromises of this sort there is not a single woman who does not +know how to put her husband in the wrong. I have noticed that, by a +supreme stroke of diplomacy, the majority of wives do not admit their +maids into the secret of the part which they give them to play. They +trust to nature, and assume an affected superiority over the lover and +his mistress. + +These secret perfidies of women explain to a great degree the odd +features of married life which are to be observed in the world; and I +have heard women discuss, with profound sagacity, the dangers which are +inherent in this terrible method of attack, and it is necessary to know +thoroughly both the husband and the creature to whom he is to be +abandoned, in order to make successful use of her. Many a woman, in +this connection, has been the victim of her own calculations. + +Moreover, the more impetuous and passionate a husband shows himself, +the less will a woman dare to employ this expedient; but a husband +caught in this snare will never have anything to say to his stern +better-half, when the maid, giving evidence of the fault she has +committed, is sent into the country with an infant and a dowry. + +6. OF THE DOCTOR. + +The doctor is one of the most potent auxiliaries of an honest woman, +when she wishes to acquire a friendly divorce from her husband. The +services that the doctor renders, most of the time without knowing it, +to a woman, are of such importance that there does not exist a single +house in France where the doctor is chosen by any one but the wife. + +All doctors know what great influence women have on their reputation; +thus we meet with few doctors who do not study to please the ladies. +When a man of talent has become celebrated it is true that he does not +lend himself to the crafty conspiracies which women hatch; but without +knowing it he becomes involved in them. + +I suppose that a husband taught by the adventures of his own youth +makes up his mind to pick out a doctor for his wife, from the first +days of his marriage. So long as his feminine adversary fails to +conceive the assistance that she may derive from this ally, she will +submit in silence; but later on, if all her allurements fail to win +over the man chosen by her husband, she will take a more favorable +opportunity to give her husband her confidence, in the following +remarkable manner. + +“I don’t like the way in which the doctor feels my pulse!” + +And of course the doctor is dropped. + +Thus it happens that either a woman chooses her doctor, wins over the +man who has been imposed upon her, or procures his dismissal. But this +contest is very rare; the majority of young men who marry are +acquainted with none but beardless doctors whom they have no anxiety to +procure for their wives, and almost always the Esculapius of the +household is chosen by the feminine power. Thus it happens that some +fine morning the doctor, when he leaves the chamber of madame, who has +been in bed for a fortnight, is induced by her to say to you: + +“I do not say that the condition of madame presents any serious +symptoms; but this constant drowsiness, this general listlessness, and +her natural tendency to a spinal affection demand great care. Her lymph +is inspissated. She wants a change of air. She ought to be sent either +to the waters of Bareges or to the waters of Plombieres.” + +“All right, doctor.” + +You allow your wife to go to Plombieres; but she goes there because +Captain Charles is quartered in the Vosges. She returns in capital +health and the waters of Plombieres have done wonders for her. She has +written to you every day, she has lavished upon you from a distance +every possible caress. The danger of a spinal affection has utterly +disappeared. + +There is extant a little pamphlet, whose publication was prompted +doubtless by hate. It was published in Holland, and it contains some +very curious details of the manner in which Madame de Maintenon entered +into an understanding with Fagon, for the purposes of controlling Louis +XIV. Well, some morning your doctor will threaten you, as Fagon +threatened his master, with a fit of apoplexy, if you do not diet +yourself. This witty work of satire, doubtless the production of some +courtier, entitled “Madame de Saint Tron,” has been interpreted by the +modern author who has become proverbial as “the young doctor.” But his +delightful sketch is very much superior to the work whose title I cite +for the benefit of the book-lovers, and we have great pleasure in +acknowledging that the work of our clever contemporary has prevented +us, out of regard for the glory of the seventeenth century, from +publishing the fragment of the old pamphlet. + +Very frequently a doctor becomes duped by the judicious manoeuvres of a +young and delicate wife, and comes to you with the announcement: + +“Sir, I would not wish to alarm madame with regard to her condition; +but I will advise you, if you value her health, to keep her in perfect +tranquillity. The irritation at this moment seems to threaten the +chest, and we must gain control of it; there is need of rest for her, +perfect rest; the least agitation might change the seat of the malady. +At this crisis, the prospect of bearing a child would be fatal to her.” + +“But, doctor—” + +“Ah, yes! I know that!” + +He laughs and leaves the house. + +Like the rod of Moses, the doctor’s mandate makes and unmakes +generations. The doctor will restore you to your marriage bed with the +same arguments that he used in debarring you. He treats your wife for +complaints which she has not, in order to cure her of those which she +has, and all the while you have no idea of it; for the scientific +jargon of doctors can only be compared to the layers in which they +envelop their pills. + +An honest woman in her chamber with the doctor is like a minister sure +of a majority; she has it in her power to make a horse, or a carriage, +according to her good pleasure and her taste; she will send you away or +receive you, as she likes. Sometimes she will pretend to be ill in +order to have a chamber separate from yours; sometimes she will +surround herself with all the paraphernalia of an invalid; she will +have an old woman for a nurse, regiments of vials and of bottles, and, +environed by these ramparts, will defy you by her invalid airs. She +will talk to you in such a depressing way of the electuaries and of the +soothing draughts which she has taken, of the agues which she has had, +of her plasters and cataplasms, that she will fill you with disgust at +these sickly details, if all the time these sham sufferings are not +intended to serve as engines by means of which, eventually, a +successful attack may be made on that singular abstraction known as +_your honor_. + +In this way your wife will be able to fortify herself at every point of +contact which you possess with the world, with society and with life. +Thus everything will take arms against you, and you will be alone among +all these enemies. But suppose that it is your unprecedented privilege +to possess a wife who is without religious connections, without parents +or intimate friends; that you have penetration enough to see through +all the tricks by which your wife’s lover tries to entrap you; that you +still have sufficient love for your fair enemy to resist all the +Martons of the earth; that, in fact, you have for your doctor a man who +is so celebrated that he has no time to listen to the maunderings of +your wife; or that if your Esculapius is madame’s vassal, you demand a +consultation, and an incorruptible doctor intervenes every time the +favorite doctor prescribes a remedy that disquiets you; even in that +case, your prospects will scarcely be more brilliant. In fact, even if +you do not succumb to this invasion of allies, you must not forget +that, so far, your adversary has not, so to speak, struck the decisive +blow. If you hold out still longer, your wife, having flung round you +thread upon thread, as a spider spins his web, an invisible net, will +resort to the arms which nature has given her, which civilization has +perfected, and which will be treated of in the next Meditation. + +MEDITATION XXVI. + +OF DIFFERENT WEAPONS. + + +A weapon is anything which is used for the purpose of wounding. From +this point of view, some sentiments prove to be the most cruel weapons +which man can employ against his fellow man. The genius of Schiller, +lucid as it was comprehensive, seems to have revealed all the phenomena +which certain ideas bring to light in the human organization by their +keen and penetrating action. A man may be put to death by a thought. +Such is the moral of those heartrending scenes, when in _The Brigands_ +the poet shows a young man, with the aid of certain ideas, making such +powerful assaults on the heart of an old man, that he ends by causing +the latter’s death. The time is not far distant when science will be +able to observe the complicated mechanism of our thoughts and to +apprehend the transmission of our feelings. Some developer of the +occult sciences will prove that our intellectual organization +constitutes nothing more than a kind of interior man, who projects +himself with less violence than the exterior man, and that the struggle +which may take place between two such powers as these, although +invisible to our feeble eyes, is not a less mortal struggle than that +in which our external man compels us to engage. + +But these considerations belong to a different department of study from +that in which we are now engaged; these subjects we intend to deal with +in a future publication; some of our friends are already acquainted +with one of the most important,—that, namely, entitled “THE PATHOLOGY +OF SOCIAL LIFE, _or Meditations mathematical, physical, chemical and +transcendental on the manifestations of thought, taken under all the +forms which are produced by the state of society, whether by living, +marriage, conduct, veterinary medicine, or by speech and action, +etc._,” in which all these great questions are fully discussed. The aim +of this brief metaphysical observation is only to remind you that the +higher classes of society reason too well to admit of their being +attacked by any other than intellectual arms. + +Although it is true that tender and delicate souls are found enveloped +in a body of metallic hardness, at the same time there are souls of +bronze enveloped in bodies so supple and capricious that their grace +attracts the friendship of others, and their beauty calls for a caress. +But if you flatter the exterior man with your hand, the _Homo duplex_, +the interior man, to use an expression of Buffon, immediately rouses +himself and rends you with his keen points of contact. + +This description of a special class of human creatures, which we hope +you will not run up against during your earthly journey, presents a +picture of what your wife may be to you. Every one of the sentiments +which nature has endowed your heart with, in their gentlest form, will +become a dagger in the hand of your wife. You will be stabbed every +moment, and you will necessarily succumb; for your love will flow like +blood from every wound. + +This is the last struggle, but for her it also means victory. + +In order to carry out the distinction which we think we have +established among three sorts of feminine temperament, we will divide +this Meditation into three parts, under the following titles: + +1. OF HEADACHES. 2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS. 3. OF MODESTY, IN ITS +CONNECTION WITH MARRIAGE. + +1. OF HEADACHES. + +Women are constantly the dupes or the victims of excessive sensibility; +but we have already demonstrated that with the greater number of them +this delicacy of soul must needs, almost without their knowing it, +receive many rude blows, from the very fact of their marriage. (See +Meditations entitled _The Predestined_ and _Of the Honeymoon_.) Most of +the means of defence instinctively employed by husbands are nothing but +traps set for the liveliness of feminine affections. + +Now the moment comes when the wife, during the Civil War, traces by a +single act of thought the history of her moral life, and is irritated +on perceiving the prodigious way in which you have taken advantage of +her sensibility. It is very rarely that women, moved either by an +innate feeling for revenge, which they themselves can never explain, or +by their instinct of domination, fail to discover that this quality in +their natural machinery, when brought into play against the man, is +inferior to no other instrument for obtaining ascendancy over him. + +With admirable cleverness, they proceed to find out what chords in the +hearts of their husbands are most easily touched; and when once they +discover this secret, they eagerly proceed to put it into practice; +then, like a child with a mechanical toy, whose spring excites their +curiosity, they go on employing it, carelessly calling into play the +movements of the instrument, and satisfied simply with their success in +doing so. If they kill you, they will mourn over you with the best +grace in the world, as the most virtuous, the most excellent, the most +sensible of men. + +In this way your wife will first arm herself with that generous +sentiment which leads us to respect those who are in pain. The man most +disposed to quarrel with a woman full of life and health becomes +helpless before a woman who is weak and feeble. If your wife has not +attained the end of her secret designs, by means of those various +methods already described, she will quickly seize this all-powerful +weapon. In virtue of this new strategic method, you will see the young +girl, so strong in life and beauty, whom you had wedded in her flower, +metamorphosing herself into a pale and sickly woman. + +Now headache is an affection which affords infinite resources to a +woman. This malady, which is the easiest of all to feign, for it is +destitute of any apparent symptom, merely obliges her to say: “I have a +headache.” A woman trifles with you and there is no one in the world +who can contradict her skull, whose impenetrable bones defy touch or +ocular test. Moreover, headache is, in our opinion, the queen of +maladies, the pleasantest and the most terrible weapon employed by +wives against their husbands. There are some coarse and violent men who +have been taught the tricks of women by their mistresses, in the happy +hours of their celibacy, and so flatter themselves that they are never +to be caught by this vulgar trap. But all their efforts, all their +arguments end by being vanquished before the magic of these words: “I +have a headache.” If a husband complains, or ventures on a reproach, if +he tries to resist the power of this _Il buondo cani_ of marriage, he +is lost. + +Imagine a young woman, voluptuously lying on a divan, her head softly +supported by a cushion, one hand hanging down; on a small table close +at hand is her glass of lime-water. Now place by her side a burly +husband. He has made five or six turns round the room; but each time he +has turned on his heels to begin his walk all over again, the little +invalid has made a slight movement of her eyebrows in a vain attempt to +remind him that the slightest noise fatigues her. At last he musters +all his courage and utters a protest against her pretended malady, in +the bold phrase: + +“And have you really a headache?” + +At these words the young woman slightly raises her languid head, lifts +an arm, which feebly falls back again upon her divan, raises her eyes +to the ceiling, raises all that she has power to raise; then darting at +you a leaden glance, she says in a voice of remarkable feebleness: + +“Oh! What can be the matter with me? I suffer the agonies of death! And +this is all the comfort you give me! Ah! you men, it is plainly seen +that nature has not given you the task of bringing children into the +world. What egoists and tyrants you are! You take us in all the beauty +of our youth, fresh, rosy, with tapering waist, and then all is well! +When your pleasures have ruined the blooming gifts which we received +from nature, you never forgive us for having forfeited them to you! +That was all understood. You will allow us to have neither the virtues +nor the sufferings of our condition. You must needs have children, and +we pass many nights in taking care of them. But child-bearing has +ruined our health, and left behind the germs of serious maladies.—Oh, +what pain I suffer! There are few women who are not subject to +headaches; but your wife must be an exception. You even laugh at our +sufferings; that is generosity!—please don’t walk about —I should not +have expected this of you!—Stop the clock; the click of the pendulum +rings in my head. Thanks! Oh, what an unfortunate creature I am! Have +you a scent-bottle with you? Yes, oh! for pity’s sake, allow me to +suffer in peace, and go away; for this scent splits my head!” + +What can you say in reply? Do you not hear within you a voice which +cries, “And what if she is actually suffering?” Moreover, almost all +husbands evacuate the field of battle very quietly, while their wives +watch them from the corner of their eyes, marching off on tip-toe and +closing the door quietly on the chamber henceforth to be considered +sacred by them. + +Such is the headache, true or false, which is patronized at your home. +Then the headache begins to play a regular role in the bosom of your +family. It is a theme on which a woman can play many admirable +variations. She sets it forth in every key. With the aid of the +headache alone a wife can make a husband desperate. A headache seizes +madame when she chooses, where she chooses, and as much as she chooses. +There are headaches of five days, of ten minutes, periodic or +intermittent headaches. + +You sometimes find your wife in bed, in pain, helpless, and the blinds +of her room are closed. The headache has imposed silence on every one, +from the regions of the porter’s lodge, where he is cutting wood, even +to the garret of your groom, from which he is throwing down innocent +bundles of straw. Believing in this headache, you leave the house, but +on your return you find that madame has decamped! Soon madame returns, +fresh and ruddy: + +“The doctor came,” she says, “and advised me to take exercise, and I +find myself much better!” + +Another day you wish to enter madame’s room. + +“Oh, sir,” says the maid, showing the most profound astonishment, +“madame has her usual headache, and I have never seen her in such pain! +The doctor has been sent for.” + +“You are a happy man,” said Marshal Augereau to General R——-, “to have +such a pretty wife!” + +“To have!” replied the other. “If I have my wife ten days in the year, +that is about all. These confounded women have always either the +headache or some other thing!” + +The headache in France takes the place of the sandals, which, in Spain, +the Confessor leaves at the door of the chamber in which he is with his +penitent. + +If your wife, foreseeing some hostile intentions on your part, wishes +to make herself as inviolable as the charter, she immediately gets up a +little headache performance. She goes to bed in a most deliberate +fashion, she utters shrieks which rend the heart of the hearer. She +goes gracefully through a series of gesticulations so cleverly executed +that you might think her a professional contortionist. Now what man is +there so inconsiderate as to dare to speak to a suffering woman about +desires which, in him, prove the most perfect health? Politeness alone +demands of him perfect silence. A woman knows under these circumstances +that by means of this all-powerful headache, she can at her will paste +on her bed the placard which sends back home the amateurs who have been +allured by the announcement of the Comedie Francaise, when they read +the words: “Closed through the sudden indisposition of Mademoiselle +Mars.” + +O headache, protectress of love, tariff of married life, buckler +against which all married desires expire! O mighty headache! Can it be +possible that lovers have never sung thy praises, personified thee, or +raised thee to the skies? O magic headache, O delusive headache, blest +be the brain that first invented thee! Shame on the doctor who shall +find out thy preventive! Yes, thou art the only ill that women bless, +doubtless through gratitude for the good things thou dispensest to +them, O deceitful headache! O magic headache! + +2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS. + +There is, however, a power which is superior even to that of the +headache; and we must avow to the glory of France, that this power is +one of the most recent which has been won by Parisian genius. As in the +case with all the most useful discoveries of art and science, no one +knows to whose intellect it is due. Only, it is certain that it was +towards the middle of the last century that “Vapors” made their first +appearance in France. Thus while Papin was applying the force of +vaporized water in mechanical problems, a French woman, whose name +unhappily is unknown, had the glory of endowing her sex with the +faculty of vaporizing their fluids. Very soon the prodigious influence +obtained by vapors was extended to the nerves; it was thus in passing +from fibre to fibre that the science of neurology was born. This +admirable science has since then led such men as Philips and other +clever physiologists to the discovery of the nervous fluid in its +circulation; they are now perhaps on the eve of identifying its organs, +and the secret of its origin and of its evaporation. And thus, thanks +to certain quackeries of this kind, we may be enabled some day to +penetrate the mysteries of that unknown power which we have already +called more than once in the present book, the _Will_. But do not let +us trespass on the territory of medical philosophy. Let us consider the +nerves and the vapors solely in their connection with marriage. + +Victims of Neurosis (a pathological term under which are comprised all +affections of the nervous system) suffer in two ways, as far as married +women are concerned; for our physiology has the loftiest disdain for +medical classifications. Thus we recognize only: + +1. CLASSIC NEUROSIS. 2. ROMANTIC NEUROSIS. + +The classic affection has something bellicose and excitable on it. +Those who thus suffer are as violent in their antics as pythonesses, as +frantic as _monads_, as excited as _bacchantes_; it is a revival of +antiquity, pure and simple. + +The romantic sufferers are mild and plaintive as the ballads sung amid +the mists of Scotland. They are pallid as young girls carried to their +bier by the dance or by love; they are eminently elegiac and they +breathe all the melancholy of the North. + +That woman with black hair, with piercing eye, with high color, with +dry lips and a powerful hand, will become excited and convulsive; she +represents the genius of classic neurosis; while a young blonde woman, +with white skin, is the genius of romantic neurosis; to one belongs the +empire gained by nerves, to the other the empire gained by vapors. + +Very frequently a husband, when he comes home, finds his wife in tears. + +“What is the matter, my darling?” + +“It is nothing.” + +“But you are in tears!” + +“I weep without knowing why. I am quite sad! I saw faces in the clouds, +and those faces never appear to me except on the eve of some disaster—I +think I must be going to die.” + +Then she talks to you in a low voice of her dead father, of her dead +uncle, of her dead grandfather, of her dead cousin. She invokes all +these mournful shades, she feels as if she had all their sicknesses, +she is attacked with all the pains they felt, she feels her heart +palpitate with excessive violence, she feels her spleen swelling. You +say to yourself, with a self-satisfied air: + +“I know exactly what this is all about!” + +And then you try to soothe her; but you find her a woman who yawns like +an open box, who complains of her chest, who begins to weep anew, who +implores you to leave her to her melancholy and her mournful memories. +She talks to you about her last wishes, follows her own funeral, is +buried, plants over her tomb the green canopy of a weeping willow, and +at the very time when you would like to raise a joyful epithalamium, +you find an epitaph to greet you all in black. Your wish to console her +melts away in the cloud of Ixion. + +There are women of undoubted fidelity who in this way extort from their +feeling husbands cashmere shawls, diamonds, the payment of their debts, +or the rent of a box at the theatre; but almost always vapors are +employed as decisive weapons in Civil War. + +On the plea of her spinal affection or of her weak chest, a woman takes +pains to seek out some distraction or other; you see her dressing +herself in soft fabrics like an invalid with all the symptoms of +spleen; she never goes out because an intimate friend, her mother or +her sister, has tried to tear her away from that divan which +monopolizes her and on which she spends her life in improvising +elegies. Madame is going to spend a fortnight in the country because +the doctor orders it. In short, she goes where she likes and does what +she likes. Is it possible that there can be a husband so brutal as to +oppose such desires, by hindering a wife from going to seek a cure for +her cruel sufferings? For it has been established after many long +discussions that in the nerves originate the most fearful torture. + +But it is especially in bed that vapors play their part. There when a +woman has not a headache she has her vapors; and when she has neither +vapors nor headache, she is under the protection of the girdle of +Venus, which, as you know, is a myth. + +Among the women who fight with you the battle of vapors, are some more +blonde, more delicate, more full of feeling than others, and who +possess the gift of tears. How admirably do they know how to weep! They +weep when they like, as they like and as much as they like. They +organize a system of offensive warfare which consists of manifesting +sublime resignation, and they gain victories which are all the more +brilliant, inasmuch as they remain all the time in excellent health. + +Does a husband, irritated beyond all measure, at last express his +wishes to them? They regard him with an air of submission, bow their +heads and keep silence. This pantomime almost always puts a husband to +rout. In conjugal struggles of this kind, a man prefers a woman should +speak and defend herself, for then he may show elation or annoyance; +but as for these women, not a word. Their silence distresses you and +you experience a sort of remorse, like the murderer who, when he finds +his victim offers no resistance, trembles with redoubled fear. He would +prefer to slay him in self-defence. You return to the subject. As you +draw near, your wife wipes away her tears and hides her handkerchief, +so as to let you see that she has been weeping. You are melted, you +implore your little Caroline to speak, your sensibility has been +touched and you forget everything; then she sobs while she speaks, and +speaks while she sobs. This is a sort of machine eloquence; she deafens +you with her tears, with her words which come jerked out in confusion; +it is the clapper and torrent of a mill. + +French women and especially Parisians possess in a marvelous degree the +secret by which such scenes are enacted, and to these scenes their +voices, their sex, their toilet, their manner give a wonderful charm. +How often do the tears upon the cheeks of these adorable actresses give +way to a piquant smile, when they see their husbands hasten to break +the silk lace, the weak fastening of their corsets, or to restore the +comb which holds together the tresses of their hair and the bunch of +golden ringlets always on the point of falling down? + +But how all these tricks of modernity pale before the genius of +antiquity, before nervous attacks which are violent, before the Pyrrhic +dance of married life! Oh! how many hopes for a lover are there in the +vivacity of those convulsive movements, in the fire of those glances, +in the strength of those limbs, beautiful even in contortion! It is +then that a woman is carried away like an impetuous wind, darts forth +like the flames of a conflagration, exhibits a movement like a billow +which glides over the white pebbles. She is overcome with excess of +love, she sees the future, she is the seer who prophesies, but above +all, she sees the present moment and tramples on her husband, and +impresses him with a sort of terror. + +The sight of his wife flinging off vigorous men as if they were so many +feathers, is often enough to deter a man from ever striving to wrong +her. He will be like the child who, having pulled the trigger of some +terrific engine, has ever afterwards an incredible respect for the +smallest spring. I have known a man, gentle and amiable in his ways, +whose eyes were fixed upon those of his wife, exactly as if he had been +put into a lion’s cage, and some one had said to him that he must not +irritate the beast, if he would escape with his life. + +Nervous attacks of this kind are very fatiguing and become every day +more rare. Romanticism, however, has maintained its ground. + +Sometimes, we meet with phlegmatic husbands, those men whose love is +long enduring, because they store up their emotions, whose genius gets +the upper hand of these headaches and nervous attacks; but these +sublime creatures are rare. Faithful disciples of the blessed St. +Thomas, who wished to put his finger into the wound, they are endowed +with an incredulity worthy of an atheist. Imperturbable in the midst of +all these fraudulent headaches and all these traps set by neurosis, +they concentrate their attention on the comedy which is being played +before them, they examine the actress, they search for one of the +springs that sets her going; and when they have discovered the +mechanism of this display, they arm themselves by giving a slight +impulse to the puppet-valve, and thus easily assure themselves either +of the reality of the disease or the artifices of these conjugal +mummeries. + +But if by study which is almost superhuman in its intensity a husband +escapes all the artifices which lawless and untamable love suggests to +women, he will beyond doubt be overcome by the employment of a terrible +weapon, the last which a woman would resort to, for she never destroys +with her own hands her empire over her husband without some sort of +repugnance. But this is a poisoned weapon as powerful as the fatal +knife of the executioner. This reflection brings us to the last +paragraph of the present Meditation. + +3. OF MODESTY, IN ITS CONNECTION WITH MARRIAGE. + +Before taking up the subject of modesty, it may perhaps be necessary to +inquire whether there is such a thing. Is it anything in a woman but +well understood coquetry? Is it anything but a sentiment that claims +the right, on a woman’s part, to dispose of her own body as she +chooses, as one may well believe, when we consider that half the women +in the world go almost naked? Is it anything but a social chimera, as +Diderot supposed, reminding us that this sentiment always gives way +before sickness and before misery? + +Justice may be done to all these questions. + +An ingenious author has recently put forth the view that men are much +more modest than women. He supports this contention by a great mass of +surgical experiences; but, in order that his conclusions merit our +attention, it would be necessary that for a certain time men were +subjected to treatment by women surgeons. + +The opinion of Diderot is of still less weight. + +To deny the existence of modesty, because it disappears during those +crises in which almost all human sentiments are annihilated, is as +unreasonable as to deny that life exists because death sooner or later +comes. + +Let us grant, then, that one sex has as much modesty as the other, and +let us inquire in what modesty consists. + +Rousseau makes modesty the outcome of all those coquetries which +females display before males. This opinion appears to us equally +mistaken. + +The writers of the eighteenth century have doubtless rendered immense +services to society; but their philosophy, based as it is upon +sensualism, has never penetrated any deeper than the human epidermis. +They have only considered the exterior universe; and so they have +retarded, for some time, the moral development of man and the progress +of science which will always draw its first principles from the Gospel, +principles hereafter to be best understood by the fervent disciples of +the Son of Man. + +The study of thought’s mysteries, the discovery of those organs which +belong to the human soul, the geometry of its forces, the phenomena of +its active power, the appreciation of the faculty by which we seem to +have an independent power of bodily movement, so as to transport +ourselves whither we will and to see without the aid of bodily organs, +—in a word the laws of thought’s dynamic and those of its physical +influence,—these things will fall to the lot of the next century, as +their portion in the treasury of human sciences. And perhaps we, of the +present time, are merely occupied in quarrying the enormous blocks +which later on some mighty genius will employ in the building of a +glorious edifice. + +Thus the error of Rousseau is simply the error of his age. He explains +modesty by the relations of different human beings to each other +instead of explaining it by the moral relations of each one with +himself. Modesty is no more susceptible of analysis than conscience; +and this perhaps is another way of saying that modesty is the +conscience of the body; for while conscience directs our sentiments and +the least movement of our thoughts towards the good, modesty presides +over external movements. The actions which clash with our interests and +thus disobey the laws of conscience wound us more than any other; and +if they are repeated call forth our hatred. It is the same with acts +which violate modesty in their relations to love, which is nothing but +the expression of our whole sensibility. If extreme modesty is one of +the conditions on which the reality of marriage is based, as we have +tried to prove [See _Conjugal Catechism, Meditation IV._], it is +evident that immodesty will destroy it. But this position, which would +require long deductions for the acceptance of the physiologist, women +generally apply, as it were, mechanically; for society, which +exaggerates everything for the benefit of the exterior man, develops +this sentiment of women from childhood, and around it are grouped +almost every other sentiment. Moreover, the moment that this boundless +veil, which takes away the natural brutality from the least gesture, is +dragged down, woman disappears. Heart, mind, love, grace, all are in +ruins. In a situation where the virginal innocence of a daughter of +Tahiti is most brilliant, the European becomes detestable. In this lies +the last weapon which a wife seizes, in order to escape from the +sentiment which her husband still fosters towards her. She is powerful +because she had made herself loathsome; and this woman, who would count +it as the greatest misfortune that her lover should be permitted to see +the slightest mystery of her toilette, is delighted to exhibit herself +to her husband in the most disadvantageous situation that can possibly +be imagined. + +It is by means of this rigorous system that she will try to banish you +from the conjugal bed. Mrs. Shandy may be taken to mean us harm in +bidding the father of Tristram wind up the clock; so long as your wife +is not blamed for the pleasure she takes in interrupting you by the +most imperative questions. Where there formerly was movement and life +is now lethargy and death. An act of love becomes a transaction long +discussed and almost, as it were, settled by notarial seal. But we have +in another place shown that we never refuse to seize upon the comic +element in a matrimonial crisis, although here we may be permitted to +disdain the diversion which the muse of Verville and of Marshall have +found in the treachery of feminine manoeuvres, the insulting audacity +of their talk, amid the cold-blooded cynicism which they exhibit in +certain situations. It is too sad to laugh at, and too funny to mourn +over. When a woman resorts to such extreme measures, worlds at once +separate her from her husband. Nevertheless, there are some women to +whom Heaven has given the gift of being charming under all +circumstances, who know how to put a certain witty and comic grace into +these performances, and who have such smooth tongues, to use the +expression of Sully, that they obtain forgiveness for their caprices +and their mockeries, and never estrange the hearts of their husbands. + +What soul is so robust, what man so violently in love as to persist in +his passion, after ten years of marriage, in presence of a wife who +loves him no longer, who gives him proofs of this every moment, who +repulses him, who deliberately shows herself bitter, caustic, sickly +and capricious, and who will abjure her vows of elegance and +cleanliness, rather than not see her husband turn away from her; in +presence of a wife who will stake the success of her schemes upon the +horror caused by her indecency? + +All this, my dear sir, is so much more horrible because— + +XCII. LOVERS IGNORE MODESTY. + +We have now arrived at the last infernal circle in the Divine Comedy of +Marriage. We are at the very bottom of Hell. There is something +inexpressibly terrible in the situation of a married woman at the +moment when unlawful love turns her away from her duties as mother and +wife. As Diderot has very well put it, “infidelity in a woman is like +unbelief in a priest, the last extreme of human failure; for her it is +the greatest of social crimes, since it implies in her every other +crime besides, and indeed either a wife profanes her lawless love by +continuing to belong to her husband, or she breaks all the ties which +attach her to her family, by giving herself over altogether to her +lover. She ought to choose between the two courses, for her sole +possible excuse lies in the intensity of her love.” + +She lives then between the claims of two obligations. It is a dilemma; +she will work either the unhappiness of her lover, if he is sincere in +his passion, or that of her husband, if she is still beloved by him. + +It is to this frightful dilemma of feminine life that all the strange +inconsistencies of women’s conduct is to be attributed. In this lies +the origin of all their lies, all their perfidies; here is the secret +of all their mysteries. It is something to make one shudder. Moreover, +even as simply based upon cold-blooded calculations, the conduct of a +woman who accepts the unhappiness which attends virtue and scorns the +bliss which is bought by crime, is a hundred times more reasonable. +Nevertheless, almost all women will risk suffering in the future and +ages of anguish for the ecstasy of one half hour. If the human feeling +of self-preservation, if the fear of death does not check them, how +fruitless must be the laws which send them for two years to the +Madelonnettes? O sublime infamy! And when one comes to think that he +for whom these sacrifices are to be made is one of our brethren, a +gentleman to whom we would not trust our fortune, if we had one, a man +who buttons his coat just as all of us do, it is enough to make one +burst into a roar of laughter so loud, that starting from the +Luxembourg it would pass over the whole of Paris and startle an ass +browsing in the pasture at Montmartre. + +It will perhaps appear extraordinary that in speaking of marriage we +have touched upon so many subjects; but marriage is not only the whole +of human life, it is the whole of two human lives. Now just as the +addition of a figure to the drawing of a lottery multiplies the chances +a hundredfold, so one single life united to another life multiplies by +a startling progression the risks of human life, which are in any case +so manifold. + +MEDITATION XXVII. + +OF THE LAST SYMPTOMS. + + +The author of this book has met in the world so many people possessed +by a fanatic passion for a knowledge of the mean time, for watches with +a second hand, and for exactness in the details of their existence, +that he has considered this Meditation too necessary for the +tranquillity of a great number of husbands, to be omitted. It would +have been cruel to leave men, who are possessed with the passion for +learning the hour of the day, without a compass whereby to estimate the +last variations in the matrimonial zodiac, and to calculate the precise +moment when the sign of the Minotaur appears on the horizon. The +knowledge of conjugal time would require a whole book for its +exposition, so fine and delicate are the observations required by the +task. The master admits that his extreme youth has not permitted him as +yet to note and verify more than a few symptoms; but he feels a just +pride, on his arrival at the end of his difficult enterprise, from the +consciousness that he is leaving to his successors a new field of +research; and that in a matter apparently so trite, not only was there +much to be said, but also very many points are found remaining which +may yet be brought into the clear light of observation. He therefore +presents here without order or connection the rough outlines which he +has so far been able to execute, in the hope that later he may have +leisure to co-ordinate them and to arrange them in a complete system. +If he has been so far kept back in the accomplishment of a task of +supreme national importance, he believes, he may say, without incurring +the charge of vanity, that he has here indicated the natural division +of those symptoms. They are necessarily of two kinds: the unicorns and +the bicorns. The unicorn Minotaur is the least mischievous. The two +culprits confine themselves to a platonic love, in which their passion, +at least, leaves no visible traces among posterity; while the bicorn +Minotaur is unhappiness with all its fruits. + +We have marked with an asterisk the symptoms which seem to concern the +latter kind. + +MINOTAURIC OBSERVATIONS. + +I. + +*When, after remaining a long time aloof from her husband, a woman +makes overtures of a very marked character in order to attract his +love, she acts in accordance with the axiom of maritime law, which +says: _The flag protects the cargo_. + +II. + +A woman is at a ball, one of her friends comes up to her and says: + +“Your husband has much wit.” + +“You find it so?” + +III. + +Your wife discovers that it is time to send your boy to a boarding +school, with whom, a little time ago, she was never going to part. + +IV. + +*In Lord Abergavenny’s suit for divorce, the _valet de chambre_ deposed +that “the countess had such a detestation of all that belonged to my +lord that he had very often seen her burning the scraps of paper which +he had touched in her room.” + +V. + +If an indolent woman becomes energetic, if a woman who formerly hated +study learns a foreign language; in short, every appearance of a +complete change in character is a decisive symptom. + +VI. + +The woman who is happy in her affections does not go much into the +world. + +VII. + +The woman who has a lover becomes very indulgent in judging others. + +VIII. + +*A husband gives to his wife a hundred crowns a month for dress; and, +taking everything into account, she spends at least five hundred francs +without being a sou in debt; the husband is robbed every night with a +high hand by escalade, but without burglarious breaking in. + +IX. + +*A married couple slept in the same bed; madame was always sick. Now +they sleep apart, she has no more headache, and her health becomes more +brilliant than ever; an alarming symptom! + +X. + +A woman who was a sloven suddenly develops extreme nicety in her +attire. There is a Minotaur at hand! + +XI. + +“Ah! my dear, I know no greater torment than not to be understood.” + +“Yes, my dear, but when one is—” + +“Oh, that scarcely ever happens.” + +“I agree with you that it very seldom does. Ah! it is great happiness, +but there are not two people in the world who are able to understand +you.” + +XII. + +*The day when a wife behaves nicely to her husband—all is over. + +XIII. + +I asked her: “Where have you been, Jeanne?” + +“I have been to your friend’s to get your plate that you left there.” + +“Ah, indeed! everything is still mine,” I said. The following year I +repeated the question under similar circumstances. + +“I have been to bring back our plate.” + +“Well, well, part of the things are still mine,” I said. But after +that, when I questioned her, she spoke very differently. + +“You wish to know everything, like great people, and you have only +three shirts. I went to get my plate from my friend’s house, where I +had stopped.” + +“I see,” I said, “nothing is left me.” + +XIV. + +Do not trust a woman who talks of her virtue. + +XV. + +Some one said to the Duchess of Chaulnes, whose life was despaired of: + +“The Duke of Chaulnes would like to see you once more.” + +“Is he there?” + +“Yes.” + +“Let him wait; he shall come in with the sacraments.” This minotauric +anecdote has been published by Chamfort, but we quote it here as +typical. + +XVI. + +*Some women try to persuade their husbands that they have duties to +perform towards certain persons. + +“I am sure that you ought to pay a visit to such and such a man. . . . +We cannot avoid asking such and such a man to dinner.” + +XVII. + +“Come, my son, hold yourself straight: try to acquire good manners! +Watch such and such a man! See how he walks! Notice the way in which he +dresses.” + +XVIII. + +When a woman utters the name of a man but twice a day, there is perhaps +some uncertainty about her feelings toward him—but if thrice? —Oh! oh! + +XIX. + +When a woman goes home with a man who is neither a lawyer nor a +minister, to the door of his apartment, she is very imprudent. + +XX. + +It is a terrible day when a husband fails to explain to himself the +motive of some action of his wife. + +XXI. + +*The woman who allows herself to be found out deserves her fate. + +What should be the conduct of a husband, when he recognizes a last +symptom which leaves no doubt as to the infidelity of his wife? There +are only two courses open; that of resignation or that of vengeance; +there is no third course. If vengeance is decided upon, it should be +complete. + +The husband who does not separate himself forever from his wife is a +veritable simpleton. If a wife and husband think themselves fit for +that union of friendship which exists between men, it is odious in the +husband to make his wife feel his superiority over her. + +Here are some anecdotes, most of them as yet unpublished, which +indicate pretty plainly, in my opinion, the different shades of conduct +to be observed by a husband in like case. + +M. de Roquemont slept once a month in the chamber of his wife, and he +used to say, as he went away: + +“I wash my hands of anything that may happen.” + +There is something disgusting in that remark, and perhaps something +profound in its suggestion of conjugal policy. + +A diplomat, when he saw his wife’s lover enter, left his study and, +going to his wife’s chamber, said to the two: + +“I hope you will at least refrain from fighting.” + +This was good humor. + +M. de Boufflers was asked what he would do if on returning after a long +absence he found his wife with child? + +“I would order my night dress and slippers to be taken to her room.” + +This was magnanimity. + +“Madame, if this man ill treats you when you are alone, it is your own +fault; but I will not permit him to behave ill towards you in my +presence, for this is to fail in politeness in me.” + +This was nobility. + +The sublime is reached in this connection when the square cap of the +judge is placed by the magistrate at the foot of the bed wherein the +two culprits are asleep. + +There are some fine ways of taking vengeance. Mirabeau has admirably +described in one of the books he wrote to make a living the mournful +resignation of that Italian lady who was condemned by her husband to +perish with him in the Maremma. + +LAST AXIOMS. + +XCIII. +It is no act of vengeance to surprise a wife and her lover and to kill +them locked in each other’s arms; it is a great favor to them both. + +XCIV. +A husband will be best avenged by his wife’s lover. + +MEDITATION XXVIII. + +OF COMPENSATIONS. + + +The marital catastrophe which a certain number of husbands cannot +avoid, almost always forms the closing scene of the drama. At that +point all around you is tranquil. Your resignation, if you are +resigned, has the power of awakening keen remorse in the soul of your +wife and of her lover; for their happiness teaches them the depth of +the wound they have inflicted upon you. You are, you may be sure, a +third element in all their pleasures. The principle of kindliness and +goodness which lies at the foundation of the human soul, is not so +easily repressed as people think; moreover the two people who are +causing you tortures are precisely those for whom you wish the most +good. + +In the conversations so sweetly familiar which link together the +pleasures of love, and form in some way to lovers the caresses of +thought, your wife often says to your rival: + +“Well, I assure you, Auguste, that in any case I should like to see my +poor husband happy; for at bottom he is good; if he were not my +husband, but were only my brother, there are so many things I would do +to please him! He loves me, and—his friendship is irksome to me.” + +“Yes, he is a fine fellow!” + +Then you become an object of respect to the celibate, who would yield +to you all the indemnity possible for the wrong he has done you; but he +is repelled by the disdainful pride which gives a tone to your whole +conversation, and is stamped upon your face. + +So that actually, during the first moments of the Minotaur’s arrival, a +man is like an actor who feels awkward in a theatre where he is not +accustomed to appear. It is very difficult to bear the affront with +dignity; but though generosity is rare, a model husband is sometimes +found to possess it. + +Eventually you are little by little won over by the charming way in +which your wife makes herself agreeable to you. Madame assumes a tone +of friendship which she never henceforth abandons. The pleasant +atmosphere of your home is one of the chief compensations which renders +the Minotaur less odious to a husband. But as it is natural to man to +habituate himself to the hardest conditions, in spite of the sentiment +of outraged nobility which nothing can change, you are gradually +induced by a fascination whose power is constantly around you, to +accept the little amenities of your position. + +Suppose that conjugal misfortune has fallen upon an epicure. He +naturally demands the consolations which suit his taste. His sense of +pleasure takes refuge in other gratifications, and forms other habits. +You shape your life in accordance with the enjoyment of other +sensations. + +One day, returning from your government office, after lingering for a +long time before the rich and tasteful book shop of Chevet, hovering in +suspense between the hundred francs of expense, and the joys of a +Strasbourg _pate de fois gras_, you are struck dumb on finding this +_pate_ proudly installed on the sideboard of your dining-room. Is this +the vision offered by some gastronomic mirage? In this doubting mood +you approach with firm step, for a _pate_ is a living creature, and +seem to neigh as you scent afar off the truffles whose perfumes escape +through the gilded enclosure. You stoop over it two distinct times; all +the nerve centres of your palate have a soul; you taste the delights of +a genuine feast, etc.; and during this ecstasy a feeling of remorse +seizes upon you, and you go to your wife’s room. + +“Really, my dear girl, we have not means which warrant our buying +_pates_.” + +“But it costs us nothing!” + +“Oh! ho!” + +“Yes, it is M. Achille’s brother who sent it to him.” + +You catch sight of M. Achille in a corner. The celibate greets you, he +is radiant on seeing that you have accepted the _pate_. You look at +your wife, who blushes; you stroke your beard a few times; and, as you +express no thanks, the two lovers divine your acceptance of the +compensation. + +A sudden change in the ministry takes place. A husband, who is +Councillor of State, trembles for fear of being wiped from the roll, +when the night before he had been made director-general; all the +ministers are opposed to him and he has turned Constitutionalist. +Foreseeing his disgrace he has betaken himself to Auteuil, in search of +consolation from an old friend who quotes Horace and Tibullus to him. +On returning home he sees the table laid as if to receive the most +influential men of the assembly. + +“In truth, madame,” he says with acrimony as he enters his wife’s room, +where she is finishing her toilette, “you seem to have lost your +habitual tact. This is a nice time to be giving dinner parties! Twenty +persons will soon learn—” + +“That you are director-general!” she cries, showing him a royal +despatch. + +He is thunderstruck. He takes the letter, he turns it now one way, now +another; he opens it. He sits down and spreads it out. + +“I well know,” he says, “that justice would be rendered me under +whatever ministers I served.” + +“Yes, my dear! But M. Villeplaine has answered for you with his life, +and his eminence the Cardinal de ——- of whom he is the—” + +“M. de Villeplaine?” + +This is such a munificent recompense, that the husband adds with the +smile of a director-general: + +“Why, deuce take it, my dear, this is your doing!” + +“Ah! don’t thank me for it; Adolphe did it from personal attachment to +you.” + +On a certain evening a poor husband was kept at home by a pouring rain, +or tired, perhaps, of going to spend his evening in play, at the cafe, +or in the world, and sick of all this he felt himself carried away by +an impulse to follow his wife to the conjugal chamber. There he sank +into an arm-chair and like any sultan awaited his coffee, as if he +would say: + +“Well, after all, she is my wife!” + +The fair siren herself prepares the favorite draught; she strains it +with special care, sweetens it, tastes it, and hands it to him; then, +with a smile, she ventures like a submissive odalisque to make a joke, +with a view to smoothing the wrinkles on the brow of her lord and +master. Up to that moment he had thought his wife stupid; but on +hearing a sally as witty as that which even you would cajole with, +madame, he raises his head in the way peculiar to dogs who are hunting +the hare. + +“Where the devil did she get that—but it’s a random shot!” he says to +himself. + +From the pinnacle of his own greatness he makes a piquant repartee. +Madame retorts, the conversation becomes as lively as it is +interesting, and this husband, a very superior man, is quite astonished +to discover the wit of his wife, in other respects, an accomplished +woman; the right word occurs to her with wonderful readiness; her tact +and keenness enable her to meet an innuendo with charming originality. +She is no longer the same woman. She notices the effect she produces +upon her husband, and both to avenge herself for his neglect and to win +his admiration for the lover from whom she has received, so to speak, +the treasures of her intellect, she exerts herself, and becomes +actually dazzling. The husband, better able than any one else to +appreciate a species of compensation which may have some influence on +his future, is led to think that the passions of women are really +necessary to their mental culture. + +But how shall we treat those compensations which are most pleasing to +husbands? + +Between the moment when the last symptoms appear, and the epoch of +conjugal peace, which we will not stop to discuss, almost a dozen years +have elapsed. During this interval and before the married couple sign +the treaty which, by means of a sincere reconciliation of the feminine +subject with her lawful lord, consecrates their little matrimonial +restoration, in order to close in, as Louis XVIII said, the gulf of +revolutions, it is seldom that the honest woman has but one lover. +Anarchy has its inevitable phases. The stormy domination of tribunes is +supplanted by that of the sword and the pen, for few loves are met with +whose constancy outlives ten years. Therefore, since our calculations +prove that an honest woman has merely paid strictly her physiological +or diabolical dues by rendering but three men happy, it is probable +that she has set foot in more than one region of love. Sometimes it may +happen that in an interregnum of love too long protracted, the wife, +whether from whim, temptation or the desire of novelty, undertakes to +seduce her own husband. + +Imagine charming Mme. de T——-, the heroine of our Meditation of +_Strategy_, saying with a fascinating smile: + +“I never before found you so agreeable!” + +By flattery after flattery, she tempts, she rouses curiosity, she +soothes, she rouses in you the faintest spark of desire, she carries +you away with her, and makes you proud of yourself. Then the right of +indemnifications for her husband comes. On this occasion the wife +confounds the imagination of her husband. Like cosmopolitan travelers +she tells tales of all the countries which she had traversed. She +intersperses her conversation with words borrowed from several +languages. The passionate imagery of the Orient, the unique emphasis of +Spanish phraseology, all meet and jostle one another. She opens out the +treasures of her notebook with all the mysteries of coquetry, she is +delightful, you never saw her thus before! With that remarkable art +which women alone possess of making their own everything that has been +told them, she blends all shades and variations of character so as to +create a manner peculiarly her own. You received from the hands of +Hymen only one woman, awkward and innocent; the celibate returns you a +dozen of them. A joyful and rapturous husband sees his bed invaded by +the giddy and wanton courtesans, of whom we spoke in the Meditation on +_The First Symptoms_. These goddesses come in groups, they smile and +sport under the graceful muslin curtains of the nuptial bed. The +Phoenician girl flings to you her garlands, gently sways herself to and +fro; the Chalcidian woman overcomes you by the witchery of her fine and +snowy feet; the Unelmane comes and speaking the dialect of fair Ionia +reveals the treasures of happiness unknown before, and in the study of +which she makes you experience but a single sensation. + +Filled with regret at having disdained so many charms, and frequently +tired of finding too often as much perfidiousness in priestesses of +Venus as in honest women, the husband sometimes hurries on by his +gallantry the hour of reconciliation desired of worthy people. The +aftermath of bliss is gathered even with greater pleasure, perhaps, +than the first crop. The Minotaur took your gold, he makes restoration +in diamonds. And really now seems the time to state a fact of the +utmost importance. A man may have a wife without possessing her. Like +most husbands you had hitherto received nothing from yours, and the +powerful intervention of the celibate was needed to make your union +complete. How shall we give a name to this miracle, perhaps the only +one wrought upon a patient during his absence? Alas, my brothers, we +did not make Nature! + +But how many other compensations, not less precious, are there, by +which the noble and generous soul of the young celibate may many a time +purchase his pardon! I recollect witnessing one of the most magnificent +acts of reparation which a lover should perform toward the husband he +is minotaurizing. + +One warm evening in the summer of 1817, I saw entering one of the rooms +of Tortoni one of the two hundred young men whom we confidently style +our friends; he was in the full bloom of his modesty. A lovely woman, +dressed in perfect taste, and who had consented to enter one of the +cool parlors devoted to people of fashion, had stepped from an elegant +carriage which had stopped on the boulevard, and was approaching on +foot along the sidewalk. My young friend, the celibate, then appeared +and offered his arm to his queen, while the husband followed holding by +the hand two little boys, beautiful as cupids. The two lovers, more +nimble than the father of the family, reached in advance of him one of +the small rooms pointed out by the attendant. In crossing the vestibule +the husband knocked up against some dandy, who claimed that he had been +jostled. Then arose a quarrel, whose seriousness was betrayed by the +sharp tones of the altercation. The moment the dandy was about to make +a gesture unworthy of a self-respecting man, the celibate intervened, +seized the dandy by the arm, caught him off his guard, overcame and +threw him to the ground; it was magnificent. He had done the very thing +the aggressor was meditating, as he exclaimed: + +“Monsieur!” + +This “Monsieur” was one of the finest things I have ever heard. It was +as if the young celibate had said: “This father of a family belongs to +me; as I have carried off his honor, it is mine to defend him. I know +my duty, I am his substitute and will fight for him.” The young woman +behaved superbly! Pale, and bewildered, she took the arm of her +husband, who continued his objurgations; without a word she led him +away to the carriage, together with her children. She was one of those +women of the aristocracy, who also know how to retain their dignity and +self-control in the midst of violent emotions. + +“O Monsieur Adolphe!” cried the young lady as she saw her friend with +an air of gayety take his seat in the carriage. + +“It is nothing, madame, he is one of my friends; we have shaken hands.” + +Nevertheless, the next morning, the courageous celibate received a +sword thrust which nearly proved fatal, and confined him six months to +his bed. The attentions of the married couple were lavished upon him. +What numerous compensations do we see here! Some years afterwards, an +old uncle of the husband, whose opinions did not fit in with those of +the young friend of the house, and who nursed a grudge against him on +account of some political discussion, undertook to have him driven from +the house. The old fellow went so far as to tell his nephew to choose +between being his heir and sending away the presumptuous celibate. It +was then that the worthy stockbroker said to his uncle: + +“Ah, you must never think, uncle, that you will succeed in making me +ungrateful! But if I tell him to do so this young man will let himself +be killed for you. He has saved my credit, he would go through fire and +water for me, he has relieved me of my wife, he has brought me clients, +he has procured for me almost all the business in the Villele loans—I +owe my life to him, he is the father of my children; I can never forget +all this.” + +In this case the compensations may be looked upon as complete; but +unfortunately there are compensations of all kinds. There are those +which must be considered negative, deluding, and those which are both +in one. + +I knew a husband of advanced years who was possessed by the demon of +gambling. Almost every evening his wife’s lover came and played with +him. The celibate gave him a liberal share of the pleasures which come +from games of hazard, and knew how to lose to him a certain number of +francs every month; but madame used to give them to him, and the +compensation was a deluding one. + +You are a peer of France, and you have no offspring but daughters. Your +wife is brought to bed of a boy! The compensation is negative. + +The child who is to save your name from oblivion is like his mother. +The duchess persuades you that the child is yours. The negative +compensation becomes deluding. + +Here is one of the most charming compensations known. One morning the +Prince de Ligne meets his wife’s lover and rushes up to him, laughing +wildly: + +“My friend,” he says to him, “I cuckolded you, last night!” + +If some husbands attain to conjugal peace by quiet methods, and carry +so gracefully the imaginary ensigns of matrimonial pre-eminence, their +philosophy is doubtless based on the _comfortabilisme_ of accepting +certain compensations, a _comfortabilisme_ which indifferent men cannot +imagine. As years roll by the married couple reach the last stage in +that artificial existence to which their union has condemned them. + +MEDITATION XXIX. + +OF CONJUGAL PEACE. + + +My imagination has followed marriage through all the phases of its +fantastic life in so fraternal a spirit, that I seem to have grown old +with the house I made my home so early in life at the commencement of +this work. + +After experiencing in thought the ardor of man’s first passion; and +outlining, in however imperfect a way, the principal incidents of +married life; after struggling against so many wives that did not +belong to me, exhausting myself in conflict with so many personages +called up from nothingness, and joining so many battles, I feel an +intellectual lassitude, which makes me see everything in life hang, as +it were, in mournful crape. I seem to have a catarrh, to look at +everything through green spectacles, I feel as if my hands trembled, as +if I must needs employ the second half of my existence and of my book +in apologizing for the follies of the first half. + +I see myself surrounded by tall children of whom I am not the father, +and seated beside a wife I never married. I think I can feel wrinkles +furrowing my brow. The fire before which I am placed crackles, as if in +derision, the room is ancient in its furniture; I shudder with sudden +fright as I lay my hand upon my heart, and ask myself: “Is that, too, +withered?” + +I am like an old attorney, unswayed by any sentiment whatever. I never +accept any statement unless it be confirmed, according to the poetic +maxim of Lord Byron, by the testimony of at least two false witnesses. +No face can delude me. I am melancholy and overcast with gloom. I know +the world and it has no more illusions for me. My closest friends have +proved traitors. My wife and myself exchange glances of profound +meaning and the slightest word either of us utters is a dagger which +pierces the heart of the other through and through. I stagnate in a +dreary calm. This then is the tranquillity of old age! The old man +possesses in himself the cemetery which shall soon possess him. He is +growing accustomed to the chill of the tomb. Man, according to +philosophers, dies in detail; at the same time he may be said even to +cheat death; for that which his withered hand has laid hold upon, can +it be called life? + +Oh, to die young and throbbing with life! ’Tis a destiny enviable +indeed! For is not this, as a delightful poet has said, “to take away +with one all one’s illusions, to be buried like an Eastern king, with +all one’s jewels and treasures, with all that makes the fortune of +humanity!” + +How many thank-offerings ought we to make to the kind and beneficent +spirit that breathes in all things here below! Indeed, the care which +nature takes to strip us piece by piece of our raiment, to unclothe the +soul by enfeebling gradually our hearing, sight, and sense of touch, in +making slower the circulation of our blood, and congealing our humors +so as to make us as insensible to the approach of death as we were to +the beginnings of life, this maternal care which she lavishes on our +frail tabernacle of clay, she also exhibits in regard to the emotions +of man, and to the double existence which is created by conjugal love. +She first sends us Confidence, which with extended hand and open heart +says to us: “Behold, I am thine forever!” Lukewarmness follows, walking +with languid tread, turning aside her blonde face with a yawn, like a +young widow obliged to listen to the minister of state who is ready to +sign for her a pension warrant. Then Indifference comes; she stretches +herself on the divan, taking no care to draw down the skirts of her +robe which Desire but now lifted so chastely and so eagerly. She casts +a glance upon the nuptial bed, with modesty and without shamelessness; +and, if she longs for anything, it is for the green fruit that calls up +again to life the dulled papillae with which her blase palate is +bestrewn. Finally the philosophical Experience of Life presents +herself, with careworn and disdainful brow, pointing with her finger to +the results, and not the causes of life’s incidents; to the tranquil +victory, not to the tempestuous combat. She reckons up the arrearages, +with farmers, and calculates the dowry of a child. She materializes +everything. By a touch of her wand, life becomes solid and springless; +of yore, all was fluid, now it is crystallized into rock. Delight no +longer exists for our hearts, it has received its sentence, ’twas but +mere sensation, a passing paroxysm. What the soul desires to-day is a +condition of fixity; and happiness alone is permanent, and consists in +absolute tranquillity, in the regularity with which eating and sleeping +succeed each other, and the sluggish organs perform their functions. + +“This is horrible!” I cried; “I am young and full of life! Perish all +the books in the world rather than my illusions should perish!” + +I left my laboratory and plunged into the whirl of Paris. As I saw the +fairest faces glide by before me, I felt that I was not old. The first +young woman who appeared before me, lovely in face and form and dressed +to perfection, with one glance of fire made all the sorcery whose +spells I had voluntarily submitted to vanish into thin air. Scarcely +had I walked three steps in the Tuileries gardens, the place which I +had chosen as my destination, before I saw the prototype of the +matrimonial situation which has last been described in this book. Had I +desired to characterize, to idealize, to personify marriage, as I +conceived it to be, it would have been impossible for the Creator +himself to have produced so complete a symbol of it as I then saw +before me. + +Imagine a woman of fifty, dressed in a jacket of reddish brown merino, +holding in her left hand a green cord, which was tied to the collar of +an English terrier, and with her right arm linked with that of a man in +knee-breeches and silk stockings, whose hat had its brim whimsically +turned up, while snow-white tufts of hair like pigeon plumes rose at +its sides. A slender queue, thin as a quill, tossed about on the back +of his sallow neck, which was thick, as far as it could be seen above +the turned down collar of a threadbare coat. This couple assumed the +stately tread of an ambassador; and the husband, who was at least +seventy, stopped complaisantly every time the terrier began to gambol. +I hastened to pass this living impersonation of my Meditation, and was +surprised to the last degree to recognize the Marquis de T——-, friend +of the Comte de Noce, who had owed me for a long time the end of the +interrupted story which I related in the _Theory of the Bed_. [See +Meditation XVII.] + +“I have the honor to present to you the Marquise de T——-,” he said to +me. + +I made a low bow to a lady whose face was pale and wrinkled; her +forehead was surmounted by a toupee, whose flattened ringlets, ranged +around it, deceived no one, but only emphasized, instead of concealing, +the wrinkles by which it was deeply furrowed. The lady was slightly +roughed, and had the appearance of an old country actress. + +“I do not see, sir, what you can say against a marriage such as ours,” +said the old man to me. + +“The laws of Rome forefend!” I cried, laughing. + +The marchioness gave me a look filled with inquietude as well as +disapprobation, which seemed to say, “Is it possible that at my age I +have become but a concubine?” + +We sat down upon a bench, in the gloomy clump of trees planted at the +corner of the high terrace which commands La Place Louis XV, on the +side of the Garde-Meuble. Autumn had already begun to strip the trees +of their foliage, and was scattering before our eyes the yellow leaves +of his garland; but the sun nevertheless filled the air with grateful +warmth. + +“Well, is your work finished?” asked the old man, in the unctuous tones +peculiar to men of the ancient aristocracy. + +And with these words he gave a sardonic smile, as if for commentary. + +“Very nearly, sir,” I replied. “I have come to the philosophic +situation, which you appear to have reached, but I confess that I—” + +“You are searching for ideas?” he added—finishing for me a sentence, +which I confess I did not know how to end. + +“Well,” he continued, “you may boldly assume, that on arriving at the +winter of his life, a man—a man who thinks, I mean—ends by denying that +love has any existence, in the wild form with which our illusions +invested it!” + +“What! would you deny the existence of love on the day after that of +marriage?” + +“In the first place, the day after would be the very reason; but my +marriage was a commercial speculation,” replied he, stooping to speak +into my ear. “I have thereby purchased the care, the attention, the +services which I need; and I am certain to obtain all the consideration +my age demands; for I have willed all my property to my nephew, and as +my wife will be rich only during my life, you can imagine how—” + +I turned on the old marquis a look so piercing that he wrung my hand +and said: “You seem to have a good heart, for nothing is certain in +this life—” + +“Well, you may be sure that I have arranged a pleasant surprise for her +in my will,” he replied, gayly. + +“Come here, Joseph,” cried the marchioness, approaching a servant who +carried an overcoat lined with silk. “The marquis is probably feeling +the cold.” + +The old marquis put on his overcoat, buttoned it up, and taking my arm, +led me to the sunny side of the terrace. + +“In your work,” he continued, “you have doubtless spoken of the love of +a young man. Well, if you wish to act up to the scope which you give to +your work—in the word ec—elec—” + +“Eclectic,” I said, smiling, seeing he could not remember this +philosophic term. + +“I know the word well!” he replied. “If then you wish to keep your vow +of eclecticism, you should be willing to express certain virile ideas +on the subject of love which I will communicate to you, and I will not +grudge you the benefit of them, if benefit there be; I wish to bequeath +my property to you, but this will be all that you will get of it.” + +“There is no money fortune which is worth as much as a fortune of ideas +if they be valuable ideas! I shall, therefore, listen to you with a +grateful mind.” + +“There is no such thing as love,” pursued the old man, fixing his gaze +upon me. “It is not even a sentiment, it is an unhappy necessity, which +is midway between the needs of the body and those of the soul. But +siding for a moment with your youthful thoughts, let us try to reason +upon this social malady. I suppose that you can only conceive of love +as either a need or a sentiment.” + +I made a sign of assent. + +“Considered as a need,” said the old man, “love makes itself felt last +of all our needs, and is the first to cease. We are inclined to love in +our twentieth year, to speak in round numbers, and we cease to do so at +fifty. During these thirty years, how often would the need be felt, if +it were not for the provocation of city manners, and the modern custom +of living in the presence of not one woman, but of women in general? +What is our debt to the perpetuation of the race? It probably consists +in producing as many children as we have breasts—so that if one dies +the other may live. If these two children were always faithfully +produced, what would become of nations? Thirty millions of people would +constitute a population too great for France, for the soil is not +sufficient to guarantee more than ten millions against misery and +hunger. Remember that China is reduced to the expedient of throwing its +children into the water, according to the accounts of travelers. Now +this production of two children is really the whole of marriage. The +superfluous pleasures of marriage are not only profligate, but involve +an immense loss to the man, as I will now demonstrate. Compare then +with this poverty of result, and shortness of duration, the daily and +perpetual urgency of other needs of our existence. Nature reminds us +every hour of our real needs; and, on the other hand, refuses +absolutely to grant the excess which our imagination sometimes craves +in love. It is, therefore, the last of our needs, and the only one +which may be forgotten without causing any disturbance in the economy +of the body. Love is a social luxury like lace and diamonds. But if we +analyze it as a sentiment, we find two distinct elements in it; namely, +pleasure and passion. Now analyze pleasure. Human affections rest upon +two foundations, attraction and repulsion. Attraction is a universal +feeling for those things which flatter our instinct of +self-preservation; repulsion is the exercise of the same instinct when +it tells us that something is near which threatens it with injury. +Everything which profoundly moves our organization gives us a deeper +sense of our existence; such a thing is pleasure. It is contracted of +desire, of effort, and the joy of possessing something or other. +Pleasure is a unique element in life, and our passions are nothing but +modifications, more or less keen, of pleasure; moreover, familiarity +with one pleasure almost always precludes the enjoyment of all others. +Now, love is the least keen and the least durable of our pleasures. In +what would you say the pleasure of love consists? Does it lie in the +beauty of the beloved? In one evening you may obtain for money the +loveliest odalisques; but at the end of a month you will in this way +have burnt out all your sentiment for all time. Would you love a women +because she is well dressed, elegant, rich, keeps a carriage, has +commercial credit? Do not call this love, for it is vanity, avarice, +egotism. Do you love her because she is intellectual? You are in that +case merely obeying the dictates of literary sentiment.” + +“But,” I said, “love only reveals its pleasures to those who mingle in +one their thoughts, their fortunes, their sentiments, their souls, +their lives—” + +“Oh dear, dear!” cried the old man, in a jeering tone. “Can you show me +five men in any nation who have sacrificed anything for a woman? I do +not say their life, for that is a slight thing,—the price of a human +life under Napoleon was never more than twenty thousand francs; and +there are in France to-day two hundred and fifty thousand brave men who +would give theirs for two inches of red ribbon; while seven men have +sacrificed for a woman ten millions on which they might have slept in +solitude for a whole night. Dubreuil and Phmeja are still rarer than is +the love of Dupris and Bolingbroke. These sentiments proceed from an +unknown cause. But you have brought me thus to consider love as a +passion. Yes, indeed, it is the last of them all and the most +contemptible. It promises everything, and fulfils nothing. It comes, +like love, as a need, the last, and dies away the first. Ah, talk to me +of revenge, hatred, avarice, of gaming, of ambition, of fanaticism. +These passions have something virile in them; these sentiments are +imperishable; they make sacrifices every day, such as love only makes +by fits and starts. But,” he went on, “suppose you abjure love. At +first there will be no disquietudes, no anxieties, no worry, none of +those little vexations that waste human life. A man lives happy and +tranquil; in his social relations he becomes infinitely more powerful +and influential. This divorce from the thing called love is the primary +secret of power in all men who control large bodies of men; but this is +a mere trifle. Ah! if you knew with what magic influence a man is +endowed, what wealth of intellectual force, what longevity in physical +strength he enjoys, when detaching himself from every species of human +passion he spends all his energy to the profit of his soul! If you +could enjoy for two minutes the riches which God dispenses to the +enlightened men who consider love as merely a passing need which it is +sufficient to satisfy for six months in their twentieth year; to the +men who, scorning the luxurious and surfeiting beefsteaks of Normandy, +feed on the roots which God has given in abundance, and take their +repose on a bed of withered leaves, like the recluses of the +Thebaid!—ah! you would not keep on three seconds the wool of fifteen +merinos which covers you; you would fling away your childish switch, +and go to live in the heaven of heavens! There you would find the love +you sought in vain amid the swine of earth; there you would hear a +concert of somewhat different melody from that of M. Rossini, voices +more faultless than that of Malibran. But I am speaking as a blind man +might, and repeating hearsays. If I had not visited Germany about the +year 1791, I should know nothing of all this. Yes!—man has a vocation +for the infinite. There dwells within him an instinct that calls him to +God. God is all, gives all, brings oblivion on all, and thought is the +thread which he has given us as a clue to communication with himself!” + +He suddenly stopped, and fixed his eyes upon the heavens. + +“The poor fellow has lost his wits!” I thought to myself. + +“Sir,” I said to him, “it would be pushing my devotion to eclectic +philosophy too far to insert your ideas in my book; they would destroy +it. Everything in it is based on love, platonic and sensual. God forbid +that I should end my book by such social blasphemies! I would rather +try to return by some pantagruelian subtlety to my herd of celibates +and honest women, with many an attempt to discover some social utility +in their passions and follies. Oh! if conjugal peace leads us to +arguments so disillusionizing and so gloomy as these, I know a great +many husbands who would prefer war to peace.” + +“At any rate, young man,” the old marquis cried, “I shall never have to +reproach myself with refusing to give true directions to a traveler who +had lost his way.” + +“Adieu, thou old carcase!” I said to myself; “adieu, thou walking +marriage! Adieu, thou stick of a burnt-out fire-work! Adieu, thou +machine! Although I have given thee from time to time some glimpses of +people dear to me, old family portraits,—back with you to the picture +dealer’s shop, to Madame de T——-, and all the rest of them; take your +place round the bier with undertaker’s mutes, for all I care!” + +MEDITATION XXX. + +CONCLUSION. + + +A recluse, who was credited with the gift of second sight, having +commanded the children of Israel to follow him to a mountain top in +order to hear the revelation of certain mysteries, saw that he was +accompanied by a crowd which took up so much room on the road that, +prophet as he was, his _amour-propre_ was vastly tickled. + +But as the mountain was a considerable distance off, it happened that +at the first halt, an artisan remembered that he had to deliver a new +pair of slippers to a duke and peer, a publican fell to thinking how he +had some specie to negotiate, and off they went. + +A little further on two lovers lingered under the olive trees and +forgot the discourse of the prophet; for they thought that the promised +land was the spot where they stood, and the divine word was heard when +they talked to one another. + +The fat people, loaded with punches a la Sancho, had been wiping their +foreheads with their handkerchiefs, for the last quarter of an hour, +and began to grow thirsty, and therefore halted beside a clear spring. + +Certain retired soldiers complained of the corns which tortured them, +and spoke of Austerlitz, and of their tight boots. + +At the second halt, certain men of the world whispered together: + +“But this prophet is a fool.” + +“Have you ever heard him?” + +“I? I came from sheer curiosity.” + +“And I because I saw the fellow had a large following.” (The last man +who spoke was a fashionable.) + +“He is a mere charlatan.” + +The prophet kept marching on. But when he reached the plateau, from +which a wide horizon spread before him, he turned back, and saw no one +but a poor Israelite, to whom he might have said as the Prince de Ligne +to the wretched little bandy-legged drummer boy, whom he found on the +spot where he expected to see a whole garrison awaiting him: “Well, my +readers, it seems that you have dwindled down to one.” + +Thou man of God who has followed me so far—I hope that a short +recapitulation will not terrify thee, and I have traveled on under the +impression that thou, like me, hast kept saying to thyself, “Where the +deuce are we going?” + +Well, well, this is the place and the time to ask you, respected +reader, what your opinion is with regard to the renewal of the tobacco +monopoly, and what you think of the exorbitant taxes on wines, on the +right to carry firearms, on gaming, on lotteries, on playing cards, on +brandy, on soap, cotton, silks, etc. + +“I think that since all these duties make up one-third of the public +revenues, we should be seriously embarrassed if—” + +So that, my excellent model husband, if no one got drunk, or gambled, +or smoked, or hunted, in a word if we had neither vices, passions, nor +maladies in France, the State would be within an ace of bankruptcy; for +it seems that the capital of our national income consists of popular +corruptions, as our commerce is kept alive by national luxury. If you +cared to look a little closer into the matter you would see that all +taxes are based upon some moral malady. As a matter of fact, if we +continue this philosophical scrutiny it will appear that the gendarmes +would want horses and leather breeches, if every one kept the peace, +and if there were neither foes nor idle people in the world. Therefore +impose virtue on mankind! Well, I consider that there are more +parallels than people think between my honest woman and the budget, and +I will undertake to prove this by a short essay on statistics, if you +will permit me to finish my book on the same lines as those on which I +have begun it. Will you grant that a lover must put on more clean +shirts than are worn by either a husband, or a celibate unattached? +This to me seems beyond doubt. The difference between a husband and a +lover is seen even in the appearance of their toilette. The one is +careless, he is unshaved, and the other never appears excepting in full +dress. Sterne has pleasantly remarked that the account book of the +laundress was the most authentic record he knew, as to the life of +Tristram Shandy; and that it was easy to guess from the number of +shirts he wore what passages of his book had cost him most. Well, with +regard to lovers the account book of their laundresses is the most +faithful historic record as well as the most impartial account of their +various amours. And really a prodigious quantity of tippets, cravats, +dresses, which are absolutely necessary to coquetry, is consumed in the +course of an amour. A wonderful prestige is gained by white stockings, +the lustre of a collar, or a shirt-waist, the artistically arranged +folds of a man’s shirt, or the taste of his necktie or his collar. This +will explain the passages in which I said of the honest woman +[Meditation II], “She spends her life in having her dresses starched.” +I have sought information on this point from a lady in order to learn +accurately at what sum was to be estimated the tax thus imposed by +love, and after fixing it at one hundred francs per annum for a woman, +I recollect what she said with great good humor: “It depends on the +character of the man, for some are so much more particular than +others.” Nevertheless, after a very profound discussion, in which I +settled upon the sum for the celibates, and she for her sex, it was +agreed that, one thing with another, since the two lovers belong to the +social sphere which this work concerns, they ought to spend between +them, in the matter referred to, one hundred and fifty francs more than +in time of peace. + +By a like treaty, friendly in character and long discussed, we arranged +that there should be a collective difference of four hundred francs +between the expenditure for all parts of the dress on a war footing, +and for that on a peace footing. This provision was considered very +paltry by all the powers, masculine or feminine, whom we consulted. The +light thrown upon these delicate matters by the contributions of +certain persons suggested to us the idea of gathering together certain +savants at a dinner party, and taking their wise counsels for our +guidance in these important investigations. The gathering took place. +It was with glass in hand and after listening to many brilliant +speeches that I received for the following chapters on the budget of +love, a sort of legislative sanction. The sum of one hundred francs was +allowed for porters and carriages. Fifty crowns seemed very reasonable +for the little patties that people eat on a walk, for bouquets of +violets and theatre tickets. The sum of two hundred francs was +considered necessary for the extra expense of dainties and dinners at +restaurants. It was during this discussion that a young cavalryman, who +had been made almost tipsy by the champagne, was called to order for +comparing lovers to distilling machines. But the chapter that gave +occasion for the most violent discussion, and the consideration of +which was adjourned for several weeks, when a report was made, was that +concerning presents. At the last session, the refined Madame de D——- +was the first speaker; and in a graceful address, which testified to +the nobility of her sentiments, she set out to demonstrate that most of +the time the gifts of love had no intrinsic value. The author replied +that all lovers had their portraits taken. A lady objected that a +portrait was invested capital, and care should always be taken to +recover it for a second investment. But suddenly a gentleman of +Provence rose to deliver a philippic against women. He spoke of the +greediness which most women in love exhibited for furs, satins, silks, +jewels and furniture; but a lady interrupted him by asking if Madame +d’O——-y, his intimate friend, had not already paid his debts twice +over. + +“You are mistaken, madame,” said the Provencal, “it was her husband.” + +“The speaker is called to order,” cried the president, “and condemned +to dine the whole party, for having used the word _husband_.” + +The Provencal was completely refuted by a lady who undertook to prove +that women show much more self-sacrifice in love than men; that lovers +cost very dear, and that the honest woman may consider herself very +fortunate if she gets off with spending on them two thousand francs for +a single year. The discussion was in danger of degenerating into an +exchange of personalities, when a division was called for. The +conclusions of the committee were adopted by vote. The conclusions +were, in substance, that the amount for presents between lovers during +the year should be reckoned at five hundred francs, but that in this +computation should be included: (1) the expense of expeditions into the +country; (2) the pharmaceutical expenses, occasioned by the colds +caught from walking in the damp pathways of parks, and in leaving the +theatre, which expenses are veritable presents; (3) the carrying of +letters, and law expenses; (4) journeys, and expenses whose items are +forgotten, without counting the follies committed by the spenders; +inasmuch as, according to the investigations of the committee, it had +been proved that most of a man’s extravagant expenditure profited the +opera girls, rather than the married women. The conclusion arrived at +from this pecuniary calculation was that, in one way or another, a +passion costs nearly fifteen hundred francs a year, which were required +to meet the expense borne more unequally by lovers, but which would not +have occurred, but for their attachment. There was also a sort of +unanimity in the opinion of the council that this was the lowest annual +figure which would cover the cost of a passion. Now, my dear sir, since +we have proved, by the statistics of our conjugal calculations [See +Meditations I, II, and III.] and proved irrefragably, that there exists +a floating total of at least fifteen hundred thousand unlawful +passions, it follows: + +That the criminal conversations of a third among the French population +contribute a sum of nearly three thousand millions to that vast +circulation of money, the true blood of society, of which the budget is +the heart; + +That the honest woman not only gives life to the children of the +peerage, but also to its financial funds; + +That manufacturers owe their prosperity to this _systolic_ movement; + +That the honest woman is a being essentially _budgetative_, and active +as a consumer; + +That the least decline in public love would involve incalculable +miseries to the treasury, and to men of invested fortunes; + +That a husband has at least a third of his fortune invested in the +inconstancy of his wife, etc. + +I am well aware that you are going to open your mouth and talk to me +about manners, politics, good and evil. But, my dear victim of the +Minotaur, is not happiness the object which all societies should set +before them? Is it not this axiom that makes these wretched kings give +themselves so much trouble about their people? Well, the honest woman +has not, like them, thrones, gendarmes and tribunals; she has only a +bed to offer; but if our four hundred thousand women can, by this +ingenious machine, make a million celibates happy, do not they attain +in a mysterious manner, and without making any fuss, the end aimed at +by a government, namely, the end of giving the largest possible amount +of happiness to the mass of mankind? + +“Yes, but the annoyances, the children, the troubles—” + +Ah, you must permit me to proffer the consolatory thought with which +one of our wittiest caricaturists closes his satiric observations: “Man +is not perfect!” It is sufficient, therefore, that our institutions +have no more disadvantages than advantages in order to be reckoned +excellent; for the human race is not placed, socially speaking, between +the good and the bad, but between the bad and the worse. Now if the +work, which we are at present on the point of concluding, has had for +its object the diminution of the worse, as it is found in matrimonial +institutions, in laying bare the errors and absurdities due to our +manners and our prejudices, we shall certainly have won one of the +fairest titles that can be put forth by a man to a place among the +benefactors of humanity. Has not the author made it his aim, by +advising husbands, to make women more self-restrained and consequently +to impart more violence to passions, more money to the treasury, more +life to commerce and agriculture? Thanks to this last Meditation he can +flatter himself that he has strictly kept the vow of eclecticism, which +he made in projecting the work, and he hopes he has marshaled all +details of the case, and yet like an attorney-general refrained from +expressing his personal opinion. And really what do you want with an +axiom in the present matter? Do you wish that this book should be a +mere development of the last opinion held by Tronchet, who in his +closing days thought that the law of marriage had been drawn up less in +the interest of husbands than of children? I also wish it very much. +Would you rather desire that this book should serve as proof to the +peroration of the Capuchin, who preached before Anne of Austria, and +when he saw the queen and her ladies overwhelmed by his triumphant +arguments against their frailty, said as he came down from the pulpit +of truth, “Now you are all honorable women, and it is we who +unfortunately are sons of Samaritan women”? I have no objection to that +either. You may draw what conclusion you please; for I think it is very +difficult to put forth two contrary opinions, without both of them +containing some grains of truth. But the book has not been written +either for or against marriage; all I have thought you needed was an +exact description of it. If an examination of the machine shall lead us +to make one wheel of it more perfect; if by scouring away some rust we +have given more elastic movement to its mechanism; then give his wage +to the workman. If the author has had the impertinence to utter truths +too harsh for you, if he has too often spoken of rare and exceptional +facts as universal, if he has omitted the commonplaces which have been +employed from time immemorial to offer women the incense of flattery, +oh, let him be crucified! But do not impute to him any motive of +hostility to the institution itself; he is concerned merely for men and +women. He knows that from the moment marriage ceases to defeat the +purpose of marriage, it is unassailable; and, after all, if there do +arise serious complaints against this institution, it is perhaps +because man has no memory excepting for his disasters, that he accuses +his wife, as he accuses his life, for marriage is but a life within a +life. Yet people whose habit it is to take their opinions from +newspapers would perhaps despise a book in which they see the mania of +eclecticism pushed too far; for then they absolutely demand something +in the shape of a peroration, it is not hard to find one for them. And +since the words of Napoleon served to start this book, why should it +not end as it began? Before the whole Council of State the First Consul +pronounced the following startling phrase, in which he at the same time +eulogized and satirized marriage, and summed up the contents of this +book: + +“If a man never grew old, I would never wish him to have a wife!” + +POSTSCRIPT. + +“And so you are going to be married?” asked the duchess of the author +who had read his manuscript to her. + +She was one of those ladies to whom the author has already paid his +respects in the introduction of this work. + +“Certainly, madame,” I replied. “To meet a woman who has courage enough +to become mine, would satisfy the wildest of my hopes.” + +“Is this resignation or infatuation?” + +“That is my affair.” + +“Well, sir, as you are doctor of conjugal arts and sciences, allow me +to tell you a little Oriental fable, that I read in a certain sheet, +which is published annually in the form of an almanac. At the beginning +of the Empire ladies used to play at a game in which no one accepted a +present from his or her partner in the game, without saying the word, +_Diadeste_. A game lasted, as you may well suppose, during a week, and +the point was to catch some one receiving some trifle or other without +pronouncing the sacramental word.” + +“Even a kiss?” + +“Oh, I have won the _Diadeste_ twenty times in that way,” she +laughingly replied. + +“It was, I believe, from the playing of this game, whose origin is +Arabian or Chinese, that my apologue takes its point. But if I tell +you,” she went on, putting her finger to her nose, with a charming air +of coquetry, “let me contribute it as a finale to your work.” + +“This would indeed enrich me. You have done me so many favors already, +that I cannot repay—” + +She smiled slyly, and replied as follows: + +A philosopher had compiled a full account of all the tricks that women +could possibly play, and in order to verify it, he always carried it +about with him. One day he found himself in the course of his travels +near an encampment of Arabs. A young woman, who had seated herself +under the shade of a palm tree, rose on his approach. She kindly asked +him to rest himself in her tent, and he could not refuse. Her husband +was then absent. Scarcely had the traveler seated himself on a soft +rug, when the graceful hostess offered him fresh dates, and a cup of +milk; he could not help observing the rare beauty of her hands as she +did so. But, in order to distract his mind from the sensations roused +in him by the fair young Arabian girl, whose charms were most +formidable, the sage took his book, and began to read. + +The seductive creature piqued by this slight said to him in a melodious +voice: + +“That book must be very interesting since it seems to be the sole +object worthy of your attention. Would it be taking a liberty to ask +what science it treats of?” + +The philosopher kept his eyes lowered as he replied: + +“The subject of this book is beyond the comprehension of ladies.” + +This rebuff excited more than ever the curiosity of the young Arabian +woman. She put out the prettiest little foot that had ever left its +fleeting imprint on the shifting sands of the desert. The philosopher +was perturbed, and his eyes were too powerfully tempted to resist +wandering from these feet, which betokened so much, up to the bosom, +which was still more ravishingly fair; and soon the flame of his +admiring glance was mingled with the fire that sparkled in the pupils +of the young Asiatic. She asked again the name of the book in tones so +sweet that the philosopher yielded to the fascination, and replied: + +“I am the author of the book; but the substance of it is not mine: it +contains an account of all the ruses and stratagems of women.” + +“What! Absolutely all?” said the daughter of the desert. + +“Yes, all! And it has been only by a constant study of womankind that I +have come to regard them without fear.” + +“Ah!” said the young Arabian girl, lowering the long lashes of her +white eyelids. + +Then, suddenly darting the keenest of her glances at the pretended +sage, she made him in one instant forget the book and all its contents. +And now our philosopher was changed to the most passionate of men. +Thinking he saw in the bearing of the young woman a faint trace of +coquetry, the stranger was emboldened to make an avowal. How could he +resist doing so? The sky was blue, the sand blazed in the distance like +a scimitar of gold, the wind of the desert breathed love, and the woman +of Arabia seemed to reflect all the fire with which she was surrounded; +her piercing eyes were suffused with a mist; and by a slight nod of the +head she seemed to make the luminous atmosphere undulate, as she +consented to listen to the stranger’s words of love. The sage was +intoxicated with delirious hopes, when the young woman, hearing in the +distance the gallop of a horse which seemed to fly, exclaimed: + +“We are lost! My husband is sure to catch us. He is jealous as a tiger, +and more pitiless than one. In the name of the prophet, if you love +your life, conceal yourself in this chest!” + +The author, frightened out of his wits, seeing no other way of getting +out of a terrible fix, jumped into the box, and crouched down there. +The woman closed down the lid, locked it, and took the key. She ran to +meet her husband, and after some caresses which put him into a good +humor, she said: + +“I must relate to you a very singular adventure I have just had.” + +“I am listening, my gazelle,” replied the Arab, who sat down on a rug +and crossed his feet after the Oriental manner. + +“There arrived here to-day a kind of philosopher,” she began, “he +professes to have compiled a book which describes all the wiles of +which my sex is capable; and then this sham sage made love to me.” + +“Well, go on!” cried the Arab. + +“I listened to his avowal. He was young, ardent—and you came just in +time to save my tottering virtue.” + +The Arab leaped to his feet like a lion, and drew his scimitar with a +shout of fury. The philosopher heard all from the depths of the chest +and consigned to Hades his book, and all the men and women of Arabia +Petraea. + +“Fatima!” cried the husband, “if you would save your life, answer me +—Where is the traitor?” + +Terrified at the tempest which she had roused, Fatima threw herself at +her husband’s feet, and trembling beneath the point of his sword, she +pointed out the chest with a prompt though timid glance of her eye. +Then she rose to her feet, as if in shame, and taking the key from her +girdle presented it to the jealous Arab; but, just as he was about to +open the chest, the sly creature burst into a peal of laughter. Faroun +stopped with a puzzled expression, and looked at his wife in amazement. + +“So I shall have my fine chain of gold, after all!” she cried, dancing +for joy. “You have lost the _Diadeste_. Be more mindful next time.” + +The husband, thunderstruck, let fall the key, and offered her the +longed-for chain on bended knee, and promised to bring to his darling +Fatima all the jewels brought by the caravan in a year, if she would +refrain from winning the _Diadeste_ by such cruel stratagems. Then, as +he was an Arab, and did not like forfeiting a chain of gold, although +his wife had fairly won it, he mounted his horse again, and galloped +off, to complain at his will, in the desert, for he loved Fatima too +well to let her see his annoyance. The young woman then drew forth the +philosopher from the chest, and gravely said to him, “Do not forget, +Master Doctor, to put this feminine trick into your collection.” + +“Madame,” said I to the duchess, “I understand! If I marry, I am bound +to be unexpectedly outwitted by some infernal trick or other; but I +shall in that case, you may be quite sure, furnish a model household +for the admiration of my contemporaries.” + +PARIS, 1824-29. + + + + +PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + +BY + +HONORÉ DE BALZAC + +PART FIRST + +PREFACE + +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: + +PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + +THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. + +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. + +“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. + +“What trouble is this?” you ask me. Well! this is, like many petty +troubles of married life, a blessing for some one. + +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 _Preface_.) + +This phoenix we will call ADOLPHE, whatever may be his position in the +world, his age, and the color of his hair. + +The lawyer, the captain, the engineer, the judge, in short, the +son-in-law, Adolphe, and his family, have seen in Miss Caroline: + +I.—Miss Caroline; + +II.—The only daughter of your wife and you. + +Here, as in the Chamber of Deputies, we are compelled to call for a +division of the house: + +1.—As to your wife. + +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. + +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. + +“How is it with you, my dear madame?” + +“I, thank heaven, have passed the period; and you?” + +“I really hope I have, too!” says your wife. + +“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.” + +2.—As to yourself. + +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. + +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. + +III.—A dowry of three hundred thousand. + +IV.—Caroline’s only sister, a little dunce of twelve, a sickly child, +who bids fair to fill an early grave. + +V.—Your own fortune, father-in-law (in certain kinds of society they +say _papa father-in-law_) yielding an income of twenty thousand, and +which will soon be increased by an inheritance. + +VI.—Your wife’s fortune, which will be increased by two inheritances +—from her uncle and her grandfather. In all, thus: + +Three inheritances and interest, 750,000 +Your fortune, 250,000 +Your wife’s fortune, 250,000 +_________ + +Total, 1,250,000 + +which surely cannot take wing! + +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. + +The majority of the relatives have had a word to say about this +marriage. + +Those on the side of the bridegroom: + +“Adolphe has made a good thing of it.” + +Those on the side of the bride: + +“Caroline has made a splendid match. Adolphe is an only son, and will +have an income of sixty thousand, _some day or other_!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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 _little last one_! + +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. + +“Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” says a +friend to you on the Boulevard. + +“Well! do as much if you can,” is your angry retort. + +“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. + +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. + +The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart. + +Caroline’s first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not +live. + +Her mother’s last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds, with +two teeth and luxuriant hair. + +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 _Indian Summer_ +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! + +REVELATIONS. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Your little woman, she is—” + +“A regular cabbage-head.” + +“How could he, who is certainly a man of sense, choose—?” + +“He should educate, teach his wife, or make her hold her tongue.” + +AXIOMS. + +Axiom.—In our system of civilization a man is entirely responsible for +his wife. + +Axiom.—The husband does not mould the wife. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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?” + +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 _minotaurize_ you without your +perceiving it. + +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: + +Axiom.—A married woman has several self-loves. + +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. + +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. + +“I know,” you say, “many very distinguished men who are just the same.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +How often are our opinions dictated to us by the unknown events of our +life! + +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. + +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. + +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: + +How do you like it? + +What do you do with it? + +Where do you put it? + +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. + +This game is a poor substitute for lansquenet or dice, but it is not +very expensive. + +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 _mal_ [evil], a substantive that +signifies, in aesthetics, the opposite of good; of _mal_ [pain, +disease, complaint], a substantive that enters into a thousand +pathological expressions; then _malle_ [a mail-bag], and finally +_malle_ [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. + +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. + +You ask the group collectively, “How do you like it?” + +“I like it for love’s sake,” says one. + +“I like it regular,” says another. + +“I like it with a long mane.” + +“I like it with a spring lock.” + +“I like it unmasked.” + +“I like it on horseback.” + +“I like it as coming from God,” says Madame Deschars. + +“How do you like it?” you say to your wife. + +“I like it legitimate.” + +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. + +“Where do you put it?” + +“In a carriage.” + +“In a garret.” + +“In a steamboat.” + +“In the closet.” + +“On a cart.” + +“In prison.” + +“In the ears.” + +“In a shop.” + +Your wife says to you last of all: “In bed.” + +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. + +“What do you do with it?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“Mal,” exclaims a young miss. + +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. + +“In what sense did you understand the word, my dear?” you say to +Caroline. + +“Why, _male_!” [male.] + +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. + +You see an infernal life before you; society is out of the question. + +To remain at home with this triumphant stupidity is equivalent to +condemnation to the state’s prison. + +Axiom.—Moral tortures exceed physical sufferings by all the difference +which exists between the soul and the body. + +THE ATTENTIONS OF A WIFE. + +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—” + +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. + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +After all, you say to yourself, you are responsible to no one, you are +your own master! + +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—” + +Two hours before dawn, Caroline wakes you up gently and says to you +softly: “Adolphy dear, Adolphy love!” + +“What’s the matter? Fire?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“Ye-e-e-s, ah-h-h-h!” + +“Adolphe, you’ll be late for your business, you said so yourself.” + +“Ah-h-h-h, ye-e-e-e-s.” You turn over in despair. + +“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.” + +Caroline throws off the blankets and gets up: she wants to show you +that _she_ 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. + +“Why, Adolphe, you _must_ 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.” + +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! + +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. + +“Madame is still in bed,” says the maid. + +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. + +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. + +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 _would_ get up!” + +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. + +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. + +SMALL VEXATIONS. + +You have made a transition from the frolicsome allegretto of the +bachelor to the heavy andante of the father of a family. + +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. + +You have learned what paternal patience is, and you let no opportunity +slip of proving it. Your countenance, therefore, is serious. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“I am his mother,” she says to herself. And so she finally manages to +keep her little Adolphe quiet. + +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. + +“Let’s go to Maison’s!” somebody exclaims. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“I’m hungry,” says the child. + +“He’s hungry,” says the mother to her daughter. + +“And why shouldn’t he be hungry? It is half-past five, we are not at +the barrier, and we started at two!” + +“Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country.” + +“He’d rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get +back to the house.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Would you rather ruin the horse?” you ask, with the air of a man who +can’t be answered. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket +made by the wheels. + +“What’s the use of replying with reasons that haven’t got an ounce of +common-sense?” cries Caroline. + +You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to +the horse, to avoid an accident. + +“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!” + +“But Caroline,” puts in the mother-in-law, “he’s doing the best he +can.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart. + +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.” + +She laughs, the officer laughs, and you feel a desire to tip your +family into the Seine. + +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. + +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. + +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, _as she always is_. + +“Well, well,” she says, “men are not mothers!” + +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!” + +THE ULTIMATUM. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The idea does not even occur to you. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“So I don’t suit you then?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Do you think so? Are you in earnest, Adolphe?” + +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. + +“Let’s go,” you say. + +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. + +“Let’s go,” you say. + +“You are in a hurry,” she returns. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Order _my_ carriage!” + +This _my_ is the consummation of marriage. For two years she has said +“_my husband’s_ carriage,” “_the_ carriage,” “_our_ carriage,” and now +she says “_my_ carriage.” + +You are in the midst of a game, you say, somebody wants his revenge, or +you must get your money back. + +Here, Adolphe, we allow that you have sufficient strength of mind to +say yes, to disappear, and _not_ to order the carriage. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +Axiom.—A husband should always know what is the matter with his wife, +for she always knows what is not. + +“I’m cold,” she says. + +“The ball was splendid.” + +“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.” + +“We had a good time.” + +“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.” + +“How changed you are; you were so gay, so happy, so charming when we +arrived.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Nothing is the matter with her: she is tired: she is going to sleep. + +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. + +Axiom.—Inasmuch as women are always willing and able to explain their +strong points, they leave us to guess at their weak ones. + +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. + +WOMEN’S LOGIC. + +You imagine you have married a creature endowed with reason: you are +woefully mistaken, my friend. + +Axiom.—Sensitive beings are not sensible beings. + +Sentiment is not argument, reason is not pleasure, and pleasure is +certainly not a reason. + +“Oh! sir!” she says. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +His mother says to him, referring to anything of yours: “Take it!” but +in reference to anything of hers she says: “Take care!” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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! + +Your wife has returned to her sofa, you walk up and down, and stop, and +you boldly introduce the subject by this interjectional remark: + +“Caroline, we must send Charles to boarding school.” + +“Charles cannot go to boarding school,” she returns in a mild tone. + +“Charles is six years old, the age at which a boy’s education begins.” + +“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—” + +“The king of Rome is not a case in point.” + +“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—” + +“I said nothing of the kind.” + +“How you do interrupt, Adolphe.” + +“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.” + +“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.] + +“The case of the young Duke of Bordeaux is different.” + +“Then you confess that a boy can’t be sent to school before he is seven +years old?” she says with emphasis. [More logic.] + +“No, my dear, I don’t confess that at all. There is a great deal of +difference between private and public education.” + +“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.” + +“Charles is very strong for his age.” + +“Charles? That’s the way with men! Why, Charles has a very weak +constitution; he takes after you. [Here she changes from _tu_ to +_vous_.] 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.” + +“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.” + +“Thank you: so I am bringing Charles up badly!” + +“I did not say that: but you will always have excellent reasons for +keeping him at home.” + +Here the _vous_ becomes reciprocal and the discussion takes a bitter +turn on both sides. Your wife is very willing to wound you by saying +_vous_, but she feels cross when it becomes mutual. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Don’t get angry, my dear.” + +“As if I ever get angry! I am a woman and know how to suffer in +silence.” + +“Come, let us reason together.” + +“You have talked nonsense enough.” + +“It is time that Charles should learn to read and write; later in life, +he will find difficulties sufficient to disgust him.” + +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. + +“Well!” she replies, “it is not yet time for Charles to go to school.” + +You have gained nothing at all. + +“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.” + +You talk for ten minutes more without the slightest interruption, and +then you ejaculate another “Well?” + +“Little Julius Deschars came home with chilblains,” she says. + +“But Charles has chilblains here.” + +“Never,” she replies, proudly. + +In a quarter of an hour, the main question is blocked by a side +discussion on this point: “Has Charles had chilblains or not?” + +You bandy contradictory allegations; you no longer believe each other; +you must appeal to a third party. + +Axiom.—Every household has its Court of Appeals which takes no notice +of the merits, but judges matters of form only. + +The nurse is sent for. She comes, and decides in favor of your wife. It +is fully decided that Charles has never had chilblains. + +Caroline glances triumphantly at you and utters these monstrous words: +“There, you see Charles can’t possibly go to school!” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +THE JESUITISM OF WOMEN. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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: + +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: + +“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!” + +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!) + +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! + +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: + +“Well, my dear, an opportunity offers of quintupling a hundred thousand +francs, and I have decided to make the venture.” + +She is wide awake now, she sits up in bed, and gives you a kiss, ah! +this time, a real good one! + +“You are a dear boy!” is her first word. + +We will not mention her last, for it is an enormous and unpronounceable +onomatope. + +“Now,” she says, “tell me all about it.” + +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. + +Axiom.—Women are always afraid of things that have to be divided. + +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. + +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.” + +“What is this venture, madame?” + +“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.” + +“You are very fortunate.” + +“Marriage would be intolerable without entire confidence, and Adolphe +tells me everything.” + +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. + +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!” + +If your son is alluded to, it is merely to ask about the school to +which he shall be sent. + +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 _will_ it begin to pay? Is +the stock going up?—There’s nobody like you for hitting upon ventures +that never amount to anything.” + +One day she says to you, “Is there really an affair?” + +If you mention it eight or ten months after, she returns: + +“Ah! Then there really _is_ an affair!” + +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.” + +THIRD PERIOD.—_Catastrophe_.—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. + +Caroline has often said to you, “Adolphe, what is the matter? Adolphe, +there is something wrong.” + +Finally, you acquaint Caroline with the fatal result: she begins by +consoling you. + +“One hundred thousand francs lost! We shall have to practice the +strictest economy,” you imprudently add. + +The jesuitism of woman bursts out at this word “economy.” It sets fire +to the magazine. + +“Ah! that’s what comes of speculating! How is it that _you, ordinarily +so prudent_, could go and risk a hundred thousand francs! _You know I +was against it from the beginning!_ BUT YOU WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME!” + +Upon this, the discussion grows bitter. + +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! + +MEMORIES AND REGRETS. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, +“_She is not what I took her to be!_” + +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. + +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: + +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! + +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. + +THIRD STANZA. I am a monster! Caroline is the mother of my children! + +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. + +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_ would not +haggle over fees! + +“Caroline,” you say to her aloud, “you must take care of yourself; +cross your shawl, be prudent, my darling angel.” + +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: + +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! + +Everyone says his prayers; you have said four. + +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. + +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. + +You rush out in a rage, you are beside yourself, and are glad to meet a +friend, that you may work off your bile. + +“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!” + +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. + +OBSERVATIONS. + +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?” + +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. + +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; + +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; + +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. + +Or, if you come home somewhat late—at eleven, or at midnight—you find +her—snoring! Odious symptom! + +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. + +Or else—but let us stop here. + +This is intended for the use of mariners and husbands who are +weatherwise. + +THE MATRIMONIAL GADFLY. + +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 +_you do not at first know what it is_. + +Thus, apropos of nothing, in the most natural way in the world, +Caroline says: “Madame Deschars had a lovely dress on, yesterday.” + +“She is a woman of taste,” returns Adolphe, though he is far from +thinking so. + +“Her husband gave it to her,” resumes Caroline, with a shrug of her +shoulders. + +“Ah!” + +“Yes, a four hundred franc dress! It’s the very finest quality of +velvet.” + +“Four hundred francs!” cries Adolphe, striking the attitude of the +apostle Thomas. + +“But then there are two extra breadths and enough for a high waist!” + +“Monsieur Deschars does things on a grand scale,” replies Adolphe, +taking refuge in a jest. + +“All men don’t pay such attentions to their wives,” says Caroline, +curtly. + +“What attentions?” + +“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.” + +Adolphe says to himself, “Caroline wants a dress.” + +Poor man! + +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. + +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: + +“You wouldn’t see Monsieur Deschars behaving like this! Why don’t you +take Monsieur Deschars for a model?” + +In short, this idiotic Monsieur Deschars is forever looming up in your +household on every conceivable occasion. + +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. + +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. + +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 _the key to every woman’s character_! 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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Why, Caroline—” + +“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.” + +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. + +The next day she asks you, with a charming air of interest, “How are +you coming on with Madame de Fischtaminel?” + +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. + +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. + +Oh! Adolphe, you have arrived unfortunately at that season so +ingeniously called the _Indian Summer of Marriage_. + +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. + +HARD LABOR. + +Let us admit this, which, in our opinion, is a truism made as good as +new: + +Axiom.—Most men have some of the wit required by a difficult position, +when they have not the whole of it. + +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 _Resigned_. + +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!” + +Some days afterward, during which Adolphe has been unusually attentive +to his wife, he discourses to her as follows: + +“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.” + +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 _Rocher de Cancale_. + +“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. + +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. + +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! + +Caroline tells her friends things which she thinks exceedingly +flattering, but which cause a sagacious husband to make a wry face. + +“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 _Rocher de Cancale_ 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.” + +“You are lucky indeed,” returns Madame Deschars with evident jealousy. + +“Still, a wife who discharges all her duties, deserves such luck, it +seems to me.” + +When this terrible sentiment falls from the lips of a married woman, it +is clear that she _does her duty_, 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! + +“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.” + +“Dear me, madame,” says Madame de Fischtaminel, “it’s better that our +husbands should have cosy little times with us than with—” + +“Deschars!—” suddenly puts in Madame Deschars, as she gets up and says +good-bye. + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—Vice, Courtiers, Misfortune and Love, care only for the PRESENT. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +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! + +Axiom.—Vanity is the death of good living. + +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. + +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. + +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 _not_ 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. + +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?” + +“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!” + +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!” + +“’Tis true, I might lay out four thousand francs a month to better +effect,” returns Adolphe. + +“What do you mean?” + +“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. + +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? + +FORCED SMILES. + +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: + +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: + +“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.” + +“This is not one of your amiable days!” + +General Rule.—No man has ever yet discovered the way to give friendly +advice to any woman, not even to his own wife. + +“Perhaps it’s because you are laced too tight. Women make themselves +sick that way.” + +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: + +“Look, you can get your hand in! I never lace tight.” + +“Then it must be your stomach.” + +“What has the stomach got to do with the nose?” + +“The stomach is a centre which communicates with all the organs.” + +“So the nose is an organ, is it?” + +“Yes.” + +“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?” + +“Nothing. I’m only joking, and I am unfortunate enough not to please +you,” returns Adolphe, smiling. + +“My misfortune is being your wife! Oh, why am I not somebody else’s!” + +“That’s what _I_ say!” + +“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?” + +They say in London, “Don’t touch the axe!” In France we ought to say, +“Don’t touch a woman’s nose.” + +“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!” + +“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 _was_ perfect, +five years ago.” + +“I think you are better than perfect, you are stunning!” + +“With too much vermilion?” + +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 _for trumps_ or a _renounce_. At this time, +Caroline renounces. + +“What is the matter?” says Adolphe. + +“Will you have a glass of sugar and water?” asks Caroline, busying +herself about your health, and assuming the part of a servant. + +“What for?” + +“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.” + +“How anxious you are about my stomach!” + +“It’s a centre, it communicates with the other organs, it will act upon +your heart, and through that perhaps upon your tongue.” + +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. + +“Are you sick?” asks Adolphe, attacked in his generosity, the place +where women always have us. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What, are you pouting?” asks Caroline, after a quarter of an hour’s +observation of her husband’s countenance. + +“No, I am meditating,” replied Adolphe. + +“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.” + +Caroline looks at Adolphe and smiles: Adolphe is as stiff as if he were +glued. + +“No, he won’t laugh! And, in your jargon, you call this having +character. Oh, how much better we are!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“What does it mean?” asks Caroline, alarmed at Adolphe’s dramatic +attitude. + +“That they love each other less.” + +“Oh! you monster, I understand you: you were angry so as to make me +believe you loved me!” + +Alas! let us confess it, Adolphe tells the truth in the only way he +can—by a laugh. + +“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!’” + +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. + +NOSOGRAPHY OF THE VILLA. + +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. + +They call this _being loved_, poor things! And a good many of them say +to themselves, as did Caroline, “How will he manage?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“What, will you be such a love as to buy me one? But remember, no +extravagance! Seize an opportunity like the Deschars.” + +“To please you and to find out what is likely to give you pleasure, +such is the constant study of your own Dolph.” + +They are alone, at liberty to call each other their little names of +endearment, and run over the whole list of their secret caresses. + +“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!” + +Axiom.—When a husband and a wife have got each other, the devil only +knows which has got the other. + +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. + +“Country air has one excellent property: it makes husbands very +amiable.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +The country house now creates a very peculiar phase; one which deserves +a chapter to itself. + +TROUBLE WITHIN TROUBLE. + +Axiom.—There are parentheses in worry. + +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. + +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?” + +“Oh, lots!” + +“Did you take many cabs?” + +“I took seven francs’ worth.” + +“Did you find everybody in?” + +“Yes, those with whom I had appointments.” + +“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.” + +Here any and every husband looks suspiciously at his better half. + +“It is probable that I wrote them at Paris—” + +“What business was it, Adolphe?” + +“Why, I thought you knew. Shall I run over the list? First, there’s +Chaumontel’s affair—” + +“I thought Monsieur Chaumontel was in Switzerland—” + +“Yes, but he has representatives, a lawyer—” + +“Didn’t you do anything else but business?” asks Caroline, interrupting +Adolphe. + +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. + +“What could I have done? Made a little counterfeit money, run into +debt, or embroidered a sampler?” + +“Oh, dear, I don’t know. And I can’t even guess. I am too dull, you’ve +told me so a hundred times.” + +“There you go, and take an expression of endearment in bad part. How +like a woman that is!” + +“Have you concluded anything?” she asks, pretending to take an interest +in business. + +“No, nothing,” + +“How many persons have you seen?” + +“Eleven, without counting those who were walking in the streets.” + +“How you answer me!” + +“Yes, and how you question me! As if you’d been following the trade of +an examining judge for the last ten years!” + +“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.” + +“You want me to amuse you by telling you about business?” + +“Formerly, you told me everything—” + +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. + +“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. + +“Why should hacks be interdicted?” inquires Adolphe, resuming his +narrative. + +“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. + +“Why should I have been there?” + +“It would have given me pleasure: I wanted to know whether her parlor +is done.” + +“It is.” + +“Ah! then you _have_ been there?” + +“No, her upholsterer told me.” + +“Do you know her upholsterer?” + +“Yes.” + +“Who is it?” + +“Braschon.” + +“So you met the upholsterer?” + +“Yes.” + +“You said you only went in carriages.” + +“Yes, my dear, but to get carriages, you have to go and—” + +“Pooh! I dare say Braschon was in the carriage, or the parlor was—one +or the other is equally probable.” + +“You won’t listen,” exclaims Adolphe, who thinks that a long story will +lull Caroline’s suspicions. + +“I’ve listened too much already. You’ve been lying for the last hour, +worse than a drummer.” + +“Well, I’ll say nothing more.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +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: + +“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.” + +Adolphe listens to sarcasm for an hour by the clock. + +“Have you done, dear?” he asks, profiting by an instant in which she +tosses her head after a pointed interrogation. + +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 _Villa Adolphini_ 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!” + +“Listen to me, Caroline.” + +“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.” + +Adolphe, who knows the consequences of a confession too well to make +one to his wife, replies—“Well, I’ll tell you.” + +“That’s a good fellow—I shall love you better.” + +“I was three hours—” + +“I was sure of it—at Madame de Fischtaminel’s!” + +“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—” + +“You made up this romance while I was talking to you! Look me in the +face! I’ll go to see Braschon to-morrow.” + +Adolphe cannot restrain a nervous shudder. + +“You can’t help laughing, you monster!” + +“I laugh at your obstinacy.” + +“I’ll go to-morrow to Madame de Fischtaminel’s.” + +“Oh, go wherever you like!” + +“What brutality!” says Caroline, rising and going away with her +handkerchief at her eyes. + +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. + +Since Adolphe’s discovery that it is impossible to reason with +Caroline, he lets her say whatever she pleases. + +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. + +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. + +A HOUSEHOLD REVOLUTION. + +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. + +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 _what_ to do to please a man!” + +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: + +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. + +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 _a love of a man_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ 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. + +THIRD EPOCH. Caroline, absorbed in the idea that you should eat merely +to live, treats Adolphe to the delights of a cenobitic table. + +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!” + +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. + +Adolphe, enlightened by his past annoyances, waits for an opportunity +to explode, and Caroline slumbers in a delusive security. + +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!” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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—” + +Such, for three quarters of the French people is an exact definition of +marriage. + +“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.” + +“Well, what will you do?” asks Adolphe; “it seems impossible to joke or +have an explanation with you women. What will you do?” + +“It doesn’t concern you at all.” + +“Excuse me, madame, quite the contrary. Dignity, honor—” + +“Oh, have no fear of that, sir. For your sake more than for my own, I +will keep it a dead secret.” + +“Come, Caroline, my own Carola, what do you mean to do?” + +Caroline darts a viper-like glance at Adolphe, who recoils and proceeds +to walk up and down the room. + +“There now, tell me, what will you do?” he repeats after much too +prolonged a silence. + +“I shall go to work, sir!” + +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. + +THE ART OF BEING A VICTIM. + +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: + +AFTER BREAKFAST. “Caroline, we go to-night to the Deschars’ grand ball +you know.” + +“Yes, love.” + +AFTER DINNER. “What, not dressed yet, Caroline?” exclaims Adolphe, who +has just made his appearance, magnificently equipped. + +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. + +“I am ready, my dear.” + +“What, in that dress?” + +“I have no other. A new dress would have cost three hundred francs.” + +“Why did you not tell me?” + +“I, ask you for anything, after what has happened!” + +“I’ll go alone,” says Adolphe, unwilling to be humiliated in his wife. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Sir,” says the parlor servant in a whisper to his master, “the cook +doesn’t know what on earth to do!” + +“What’s the matter?” + +“You said nothing to her, sir: and she has only two side-dishes, the +beef, a chicken, a salad and vegetables.” + +“Caroline, didn’t you give the necessary orders?” + +“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.” + +Madame de Fischtaminel has called to pay Madame Caroline a visit. She +finds her coughing feebly and nearly bent double over her embroidery. + +“Ah, so you are working those slippers for your dear Adolphe?” + +Adolphe is standing before the fire-place as complacently as may be. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“You cough a good deal, my darling,” says Madame de Fischtaminel. + +“Oh!” returns Caroline, “what is life to me?” + +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?” + +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. + +“There is nothing easier than for a woman to be happy,” says Caroline +in reply to a woman who complains of her husband. + +“Tell us your secret, madame,” says M. de Fischtaminel agreeably. + +“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.” + +This, delivered in a bitter tone and with tears in her voice, alarms +Adolphe, who looks fixedly at his wife. + +“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. + +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: + +“Happiness cannot be described!” + +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. + +Some one alludes to the frightful prevalence of inflammation of the +stomach, or to the nameless diseases of which young women die. + +“Ah, too happy they!” exclaims Caroline, as if she were foretelling the +manner of her death. + +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.” + +“Why, what’s the matter, children?” asks the mother-in-law; “you seem +to be at swords’ points.” + +“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.” + +“She got into debt, I suppose?” + +“Yes, dearest mamma.” + +“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, _without its +costing you anything_?” + +Imagine, if you can, the expression of Adolphe’s physiognomy, as he +hears _this declaration of woman’s rights_! + +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. + +“Ah! you have a charming husband!” says Madame Deschars. Adolphe tosses +his head proudly, and looks at Caroline. + +“My husband, madame! I cost that gentleman nothing, thank heaven! All I +have was given me by my mother.” + +Adolphe turns suddenly about and goes to talk with Madame de +Fischtaminel. + +After a year of absolute monarchy, Caroline says very mildly one +morning: + +“How much have you spent this year, dear?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Examine your accounts.” + +Adolphe discovers that he has spent a third more than during Caroline’s +worst year. + +“And I’ve cost you nothing for my dress,” she adds. + +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. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“Nothing, I’m nervous.” + +“I didn’t know you were subject to that.” + +“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—” + +She weeps, she won’t listen, she weeps afresh at every word Adolphe +utters. + +“Suppose you take the management of the house back again?” + +“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.” + +“Very well, just as you like, Caroline.” + +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. + +THE FRENCH CAMPAIGN. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“How they love each other!” says Caroline to herself. + +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! + +“Adolphe,” she says, “we have a neighbor opposite, the loveliest woman, +a brunette—” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Five years, just like us.” + +“O Adolphe, dear, I am dying to know her: make us intimately +acquainted. Am I as pretty as she?” + +“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—” + +“You are real sweet to-day. Don’t forget to invite them to dinner +Saturday.” + +“I’ll do it to-night. Foullepointe and I often meet on ’Change.” + +“Now,” says Caroline, “this young woman will doubtless tell me what her +method of action is.” + +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!” + +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. + +“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 _such_ 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—” + +The servant announces: “Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe.” + +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. + +“Monsieur Foullepointe, my dear,” says Adolphe, presenting the worthy +quinquagenarian. + +“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—” + +“Madame—!” + +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. + +“This is Monsieur Foullepointe, my husband,” says Madame Foullepointe. + +Caroline turns scarlet as she sees her ridiculous blunder, and Adolphe +scathes her with a look of thirty-six candlepower. + +“You said he was young and fair,” whispers Madame Deschars. Madame +Foullepointe,—knowing lady that she is,—boldly stares at the ceiling. + +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— + +Axiom.—Women have corrupted more women than men have ever loved. + +A SOLO ON THE HEARSE. + +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?” + +“I wish I was dead!” she replies. + +“Quite a merry and agreeable wish!” + +“It isn’t death that frightens me, it’s suffering.” + +“I suppose that means that I don’t make you happy! That’s the way with +women!” + +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. + +“Do you feel sick?” + +“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—_the choice of a husband_! +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.” + +“Where do you feel bad?” + +“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.” + +This time, being the first, Adolphe goes away almost sad. + +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. + +“Poor child! I regret the future only for your sake! What is life, I +should like to know?” + +“Come, my dear,” says Adolphe, “don’t take on so.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“If you are sick, Caroline, you’d better have a doctor.” + +“Just as you like! It will end quicker, so. But bring a famous one, if +you bring any.” + +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. + +“Well, madame,” says the great physician, “how happens it that so +pretty a woman allows herself to be sick?” + +“Ah! sir, like the nose of old father Aubry, I aspire to the tomb—” + +Caroline, out of consideration for Adolphe, makes a feeble effort to +smile. + +“Tut, tut! But your eyes are clear: they don’t seem to need our +infernal drugs.” + +“Look again, doctor, I am eaten up with fever, a slow, imperceptible +fever—” + +And she fastens her most roguish glance upon the illustrious doctor, +who says to himself, “What eyes!” + +“Now, let me see your tongue.” + +Caroline puts out her taper tongue between two rows of teeth as white +as those of a dog. + +“It is a little bit furred at the root: but you have breakfasted—” +observes the great physician, turning toward Adolphe. + +“Oh, a mere nothing,” returns Caroline; “two cups of tea—” + +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. + +“What do you feel?” gravely inquires the physician. + +“I don’t sleep.” + +“Good!” + +“I have no appetite.” + +“Well!” + +“I have a pain, here.” + +The doctor examines the part indicated. + +“Very good, we’ll look at that by and by.” + +“Now and then a shudder passes over me—” + +“Very good!” + +“I have melancholy fits, I am always thinking of death, I feel +promptings of suicide—” + +“Dear me! Really!” + +“I have rushes of heat to the face: look, there’s a constant trembling +in my eyelid.” + +“Capital! We call that a trismus.” + +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.” + +“Is it very dangerous?” asks Caroline, anxiously. + +“Not at all. How do you lie at night?” + +“Doubled up in a heap.” + +“Good. On which side?” + +“The left.” + +“Very well. How many mattresses are there on your bed?” + +“Three.” + +“Good. Is there a spring bed?” + +“Yes.” + +“What is the spring bed stuffed with?” + +“Horse hair.” + +“Capital. Let me see you walk. No, no, naturally, and as if we weren’t +looking at you.” + +Caroline walks like Fanny Elssler, communicating the most Andalusian +little motions to her tournure. + +“Do you feel a sensation of heaviness in your knees?” + +“Well, no—” she returns to her place. “Ah, no that I think of it, it +seems to me that I do.” + +“Good. Have you been in the house a good deal lately?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal too much—and alone.” + +“Good. I thought so. What do you wear on your head at night?” + +“An embroidered night-cap, and sometimes a handkerchief over it.” + +“Don’t you feel a heat there, a slight perspiration?” + +“How can I, when I’m asleep?” + +“Don’t you find your night-cap moist on your forehead, when you wake +up?” + +“Sometimes.” + +“Capital. Give me your hand.” + +The doctor takes out his watch. + +“Did I tell you that I have a vertigo?” asks Caroline. + +“Hush!” says the doctor, counting the pulse. “In the evening?” + +“No, in the morning.” + +“Ah, bless me, a vertigo in the morning,” says the doctor, looking at +Adolphe. + +“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.” + +“Have you patients there?” asks Caroline. + +“Nearly all my patients are there. Dear me, yes; I’ve got seven to see +this morning; some of them are in danger.” + +“What do you think of me, sir?” says Caroline. + +“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.” + +“There go twenty francs,” says Adolphe to himself with a smile. + +The great physician takes Adolphe by the arm, and draws him out with +him, as he takes his leave: Caroline follows them on tiptoe. + +“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!” + +“How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself. She opens the +door and says: “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!” + +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: + +“What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?” + +“Bah! He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently. + +Caroline retires to her sofa to weep. + +“What is it, now?” + +“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!” + +“What do you need?” + +“Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on Adolphe’s +shoulder. + +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.” + +Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert’s melodies with +all the agitation of a hypochondriac. + +PART SECOND + +PREFACE + +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 (_conjugium_) 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 _between two votes_. +Enough, therefore! + +Here follows the female portion of the book: for, to resemble marriage +perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic. + +PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE + +HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH. + +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. Honoré, met at a ball +given by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took +place in a window-seat in the boudoir. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +You will understand, therefore, how what was meant to be a secret now +obtains the honors of publicity. + +“Well, Caroline?” + +“Well, Stephanie?” + +“Well?” + +“Well?” + +A double sigh. + +“Have you forgotten our agreement?” + +“No.” + +“Why haven’t you been to see me, then?” + +“I am never left alone. Even here we shall hardly have time to talk.” + +“Ah! if Adolphe were to get into such habits as that!” exclaimed +Caroline. + +“You saw us, Armand and me, when he paid me what is called, I don’t +know why, his court.” + +“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—” + +“Yes, yes, go on.” + +“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.” + +“Caroline, my husband uses tobacco.” + +“So does mine; that is, he smokes.” + +“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.” + +“All men have their habits. They absolutely must use something.” + +“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 +_surprises_, and doesn’t wake up. I find tobacco everywhere, and I +certainly didn’t marry the customs office.” + +“But, my dear child, what does this trifling inconvenience amount to, +if your husband is kind and possesses a good disposition?” + +“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.” + +“Deny him, once.” + +“I’ve tried it.” + +“What came of it?” + +“He threatened to reduce my allowance, and to keep back a sum big +enough for him to get along without me.” + +“Poor Stephanie! He’s not a man, he’s a monster.” + +“A calm and methodical monster, who wears a scratch, and who, every +night—” + +“Well, every night—” + +“Wait a minute!—who takes a tumbler every night, and puts seven false +teeth in it.” + +“What a trap your marriage was! At any rate, Armand is rich.” + +“Who knows?” + +“Good heavens! Why, you seem to me on the point of becoming very +unhappy—or very happy.” + +“Well, dear, how is it with you?” + +“Oh, as for me, I have nothing as yet but a pin that pricks me: but it +is intolerable.” + +“Poor creature! You don’t know your own happiness: come, what is it?” + +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. + +“So, your Adolphe is jealous?” + +“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.” + +“Caroline?” + +“Well?” + +“What are you going to do?” + +“Resign myself. What are you? + +“Fight the customs office.” + +This little trouble tends to prove that in the matter of personal +deception, the two sexes can well cry quits. + +DISAPPOINTED AMBITION. + +I. CHODOREILLE THE GREAT. + +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. + +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 _A Distinguished Provencal_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Thousand and One Nights_, +were all men of genius as well as giants of erudition. + +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. + +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. + +[*] A bear (_ours_) 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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _socks_,—and +he shakes hands and takes glasses of absinthe with the stars of the +smaller newspapers. + +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. + +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. + +From Madame Claire de la Roulandiere, nee Jugault, to Madame Adolphe de +Chodoreille, nee Heurtaut. + +“VIVIERS. + + +“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? + +“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 _saturated_, 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: + +“‘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. + +“‘Are you quite sure of that?’ + +“The _that_ 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. + +“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. + +“They talk of nothing but the prospects of fortune, the prospects of a +vacancy in office, the prospects of the harvest. + +“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! + +“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 _Madame la Presidente_ 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. + +“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! + +“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. + +“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! + +“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 _so_ 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 + +“CLAIRE JUGAULT.” + + +From Madame Adolphe de Chodoreille to Madame la Presidente de la +Roulandiere, at Viviers. + +“PARIS. + + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 +_blue_ 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. + +“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 +_utilities_ 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. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“CAROLINE HEURTAUT.” + + +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. + +II. ANOTHER GLANCE AT CHODOREILLE. + +(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.) + +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. + +An intelligent reader will find little difficulty in placing this +letter in its proper epoch in the lives of Adolphe and Caroline. + +“My dear Friend: + +“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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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. + +“It may be that these will finally take him from me! + +“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 _distinguee_, wealthy, young, beautiful and witty. There +lies the evil, and it is irremediable. + +“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 _gyneceums_. 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. + +“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! + +“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. + +“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 _Faust_ 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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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: + +“‘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.’ + +“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: + +“‘The world, dear Agnes, is a curious thing!’ + +“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 + +“Caroline.” + +“Well,” said I to the notary’s clerk, “do you know what was the nature +of this letter to the late Bourgarel?” + +“No.” + +“A note of exchange.” + +Neither clerk nor notary understood my meaning. Do you? + +THE PANGS OF INNOCENCE. + +“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—” + +The author (may we say the ingenious author?) _qui castigat ridendo +mores_, and who has undertaken the _Petty Troubles of Married Life_, +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. + +“For instance—” she says. + +He nevertheless thinks proper to avow that this person is neither +Madame Foullepointe, nor Madame de Fischtaminel, nor Madame Deschars. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“For instance,” she remarks to a young woman whom she is edifying, “you +will have children, God willing.” + +“Madame,” I say, “don’t let us mix the deity up in this, unless it is +an allusion—” + +“You are impertinent,” she replies, “you shouldn’t interrupt a woman—” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“That if I get married, I shall have children,” returns the young lady. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +I protest by a gesture. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘You work for Madame de Fischtaminel,’ I said. + +“‘Yes, madame.’ + +“‘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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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!’ + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +I protest by another movement. + +“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. + +“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 +_him_ 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—” + +She hesitates and then resumes: “As a miller just made a bishop. ‘I +understand, love, now, that I shall never be anything more than +_somewhat like_ Madame de Fischtaminel.’ ‘You refer to her neckerchief, +I suppose: well, I _did_ 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, ‘_But it’s altogether +moral._’ + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Madame,” I say, “you are giving this young lady too much information.” + +“True,” she returns, “I will tell you the sequel some other time.” + +“Thus, you see, mademoiselle,” I say, “you imagine you are buying a +neckerchief and you find a _petty trouble_ round your neck: if you get +it given to you—” + +“It’s a _great_ trouble,” retorts the woman of distinction. “Let us +stop here.” + +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. + +THE UNIVERSAL AMADIS. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Ah,” she returned, “that expression, ‘_it’s altogether moral,_’ 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—” + +“Philippic is better.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Monsieur de Lustrac is as selfish as a king, but gallant and +pretentious, spite of his jet black wig.” + +“As to his whiskers, he dyes them.” + +“He goes to ten parties in an evening: he’s a butterfly.” + +“He gives capital dinners and concerts, and patronizes inexperienced +songstresses.” + +“He takes bustle for pleasure.” + +“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.” + +“But does it not require courage to appear to be what one really is?” I +asked. + +“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 _Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore_, 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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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—” + +“No!” + +“Yes. _Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore_ 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 _it’s +altogether moral_.’ My husband saw the point and went no more to Madame +de Fischtaminel’s. I received Monsieur de Lustrac no more, either.” + +“But,” I interrupted, “this Lustrac that you, like many others, take +for a bachelor, is a widower, and childless.” + +“Really!” + +“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 _altogether moral_ 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.’” + +Caroline smiled. + +“The opinion of your admirer reduced this weighty trouble to what is, +in this case as in yours, a very petty one.” + +“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.’” + +WITHOUT AN OCCUPATION. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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?’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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: + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“We have another slight difficulty to content with: my husband harasses +the servants to such a degree that we change them every six months. + +“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. + +“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 + +“NINA FISCHTAMINEL.” + + +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. + +INDISCRETIONS. + +Women are either chaste—or vain—or simply proud. They are therefore all +subject to the following petty trouble: + +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. + +Or else, which is more serious, they call their wives:—Bobonne, +—mother,—daughter,—good woman,—old lady: this last when she is very +young. + +Some venture upon names of doubtful propriety, such as: Mon bichon, ma +niniche, Tronquette! + +We once heard one of our politicians, a man extremely remarkable for +his ugliness, call his wife, _Moumoutte_! + +“I would rather he would strike me,” said this unfortunate to her +neighbor. + +“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!’” + +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. + +The jurymen said to themselves: + +“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!” + +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. + +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! + +What passion lies in an accidental _thou_! + +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. + +It was in observing this happy pair that the author discovered this +axiom: + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—Woman exists by sentiment where man exists by action. + +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. + +Indiscretions are in harmony with the character of the individuals, +with times and places. Two examples will suffice. + +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 _thee_ and _thou_ 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. + +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. + +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!” + +I say nothing of Caroline’s confusion,—you have already divined it. + +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.” + +“Very well, Benoit.” + +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. + +“He’s got something important to say to you, madame.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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. + +Axiom.—Modesty is a relative virtue; there is the modesty of the woman +of twenty, the woman of thirty, the woman of forty-five. + +Thus the author said to a lady who told him to guess at her age: +“Madame, yours is the age of indiscretion.” + +This charming woman of thirty-nine was making a Ferdinand much too +conspicuous, while her daughter was trying to conceal her Ferdinand I. + +BRUTAL DISCLOSURES. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Who do you mean?” + +“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.” + +“Hush,” whispers the lady quite alarmed, “it’s the husband of the +little woman next to me!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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—” + +Caroline breathes again. “It’s—” she suggests. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Hector is an old schoolmate, who has married in the Loire Inferieure. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“My dear Hector: + +“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. + +“I will show you why. Let me take, for your wife’s sake, the shortest +path—the parable. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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: + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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? + +“My dear fellow, conjugal happiness is founded, like that of nations, +upon ignorance. It is a felicity full of negative conditions. + +“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 +_Physiology of Marriage_. I have resolved to lead my wife through paths +beaten in the snow, until the happy day when infidelity will be +difficult. + +“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—” + +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 _Physiology of Marriage_. + +A TRUCE. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +These details are necessary to describe the trouble in all its horror. + +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, + +“Conceived every morn and deferred every eve.” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +The rumbling of a vehicle having made the furniture rattle, Caroline +assumed a mild tone to conceal the violence of her legitimate emotions. + +“Oh! ’tis he! Run, Justine: tell him I am waiting for him here.” +Caroline trembled so that she dropped into an arm-chair. + +The vehicle was a butcher’s wagon. + +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. + +“What are you thinking of, Justine? I told you to choose from the +chemises that are not numbered.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“After all,” says Caroline, quoting her confessor, “society is founded +upon marriage, which the Church has included among its sacraments.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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. + +“Why, madame,” said Justine, with the vivacity of a servant doing her +duty, “it’s some people going away.” + +“Upon my word,” replied Caroline, half ashamed, to herself, “I will +never let Adolphe go traveling again without me.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +“I shall doubtless sup with my husband,” she said. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +As she was visibly snappish for three whole days, Justine remarked, in +reply to an unjust reproach, and with a chambermaid’s finesse: + +“Why, madame, your husband’s got back!” + +“He has only got back to Paris,” returned the pious Caroline. + +USELESS CARE. + +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 _to the sentiment of her +duties_. This underlined circumlocution is the paraphrase of the word +love in the language of prudes. + +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 _a l’Italienne_. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Very good,” she says, “did he explain to you how to cook them?” + +“Oh, for us cooks, them’s a mere nothing,” replies the cook. + +As a general rule, cooks know everything, in the cooking way, except +how a cook may feather his nest. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, Adolphe?” + +“Well, dear.” + +“Don’t you recognize them?” + +“Recognize what?” + +“Your mushrooms _a l’Italienne_?” + +“These mushrooms! I thought they were—well, yes, they _are_ mushrooms!” + +“Yes, and _a l’Italienne_, too.” + +“Pooh, they are old preserved mushrooms, _a la milanaise_. I abominate +them!” + +“What kind is it you like, then?” + +“_Fungi trifolati_.” + +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 _us_, so that a _Silbermanus_ 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. + +“My dear,” resumes Adolphe, on seeing the clouded and lengthened face +of his chaste Caroline, “in France the dish in question is called +Mushrooms _a l’Italienne, a la provencale, a la bordelaise_. The +mushrooms are minced, fried in oil with a few ingredients whose names I +have forgotten. You add a taste of garlic, I believe—” + +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. _Ab uno disce omnes_: 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. + +SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—A woman is never deserted without a reason. + +This axiom is written in the heart of hearts of every woman. Hence the +rage of a woman deserted. + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—Every household has its Chaumontel’s affair. (See TROUBLE WITHIN +TROUBLE.) + +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. + +“Where is my husband going? What is my husband doing? Why has he left +me? Why did he not take me with him?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Madame,” Justine one day observes, “monsieur really _does_ go out to +see a woman.” + +Caroline turns pale. + +“But don’t be alarmed, madame, it’s an old woman.” + +“Ah, Justine, to some men no women are old: men are inexplicable.” + +“But, madame, it isn’t a lady, it’s a woman, quite a common woman.” + +“Ah, Justine, Lord Byron loved a fish-wife at Venice, Madame de +Fischtaminel told me so.” + +And Caroline bursts into tears. + +“I’ve been pumping Benoit.” + +“What is Benoit’s opinion?” + +“Benoit thinks that the woman is a go-between, for monsieur keeps his +secret from everybody, even from Benoit.” + +For a week Caroline lives the life of the damned; all her savings go to +pay spies and to purchase reports. + +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. + +“What of the mother?” exclaims Caroline. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +THE DOMESTIC TYRANT. + +“My dear Caroline,” says Adolphe one day to his wife, “are you +satisfied with Justine?” + +“Yes, dear, quite so.” + +“Don’t you think she speaks to you rather impertinently?” + +“Do you suppose I would notice a maid? But it seems _you_ notice her!” + +“What do you say?” asks Adolphe in an indignant way that is always +delightful to women. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +Caroline, greatly alarmed, is obliged to give Justine a talking to, +while her husband is out. + +“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.” + +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. + +“If you had anything to conceal, madame, I would take it on myself and +say it was me!” + +“Very well, Justine, very good, my girl,” says Caroline, terrified: +“but that’s not the point: just try to keep in your place.” + +“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!” + +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?” + +“I would tell you, readily, madame, but then, madame, you are so weak +with monsieur!” + +“Come, go on, what is it?” + +“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.” + +“Well, what does that prove? Has anything been discovered?” + +“I’m sure that between the two they are plotting something against you +madame,” returns the maid with authority. + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—In society, people can put cloaks on every kind of truth, even +the prettiest. + +In short the _aria della calumnia_ is executed precisely as if Bartholo +were singing it. + +It is averred that Caroline cannot discharge her maid. + +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. + +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. + +“Let her go then as soon as she is well!” says Adolphe. + +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: + +THE AVOWAL. + +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?” + +“Well?” he replies, in alarm at the internal agitation betrayed by +Caroline’s voice. + +“Promise not to be angry.” + +“Well.” + +“Not to be vexed with me.” + +“Never. Go on.” + +“To forgive me and never say anything about it.” + +“But tell me what it is!” + +“Besides, you are the one that’s in the wrong—” + +“Speak, or I’ll go away.” + +“There’s no one but you that can get me out of the scrape—and it was +you that got me into it.” + +“Come, come.” + +“It’s about—” + +“About—” + +“About Justine!” + +“Don’t speak of her, she’s discharged. I won’t see her again, her style +of conduct exposes your reputation—” + +“What can people say—what have they said?” + +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. + +“Well, now, Adolphe, it’s to you I owe all this. Why didn’t you tell me +about Frederick?” + +“Frederick the Great? The King of Prussia?” + +“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?” + +“Then you know—?” + +“The whole thing! And old other Mahuchet, and your absences from home +to give him a good dinner on holidays.” + +“How like moles you pious women can be if you try!” exclaims Adolphe, +in his terror. + +“It was Justine that found it out.” + +“Ah! Now I understand the reason of her insolence.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Madam! + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +The petty trouble of avowals, ladies, is often more serious than this, +as you perhaps have occasion to remember. + +HUMILIATIONS. + +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. + +Axiom.—In a husband, there is only a man; in a married woman, there is +a man, a father, a mother and a woman. + +A married woman has sensibility enough for four, or for five even, if +you look closely. + +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. + +This profound sentiment engenders, for certain Carolines, petty +troubles which, unfortunately for this book, have their dismal side. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“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!” + +“Ah, sir, you take an interest in me, do you not?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, sir, only be a man—” + +“Are you aware of the full bearing of that request, fair creature?” At +this point the magistrate tremblingly takes Caroline’s hand. + +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. + +“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—” + +“Sir—” + +“It’s indispensable.” + +“But, sir—” + +“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.” + +“But, sir—” + +“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. + +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.” + +Nevertheless Caroline escapes, in the interest of the syndic himself, +and again pronounces the “Sir!” which she had said three times to the +judge. + +“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!” + +“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—” + +“Hasn’t he got a lawyer, an attorney?” + +Caroline is terrified by this remark which reveals Adolphe’s profound +rascality. + +“He supposed, sir, that you would have pity upon the mother of a +family, upon her children—” + +“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 _his_ honor, _my_ honor is at your disposal!” + +“Sir,” cries Caroline, as she tries to raise the syndic who has thrown +himself at her feet. “You alarm me!” + +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. + +“I will come again,” she says smiling, “when you behave better.” + +“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.” + +Caroline, alarmed by these words, lets go the door, shuts it and comes +back. + +“What do you mean, sir?” she exclaims, furious at this outrageous +broadside. + +“Why, this affair—” + +“Chaumontel’s affair?” + +“No, his speculations in houses that he had built by people that were +insolvent.” + +Caroline remembers the enterprise undertaken by Adolphe to double his +income: (See _The Jesuitism of Women_) she trembles. Her curiosity is +in the syndic’s favor. + +“Sit down here. There, at this distance, I will behave well, but I can +look at you.” + +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—_Du Tillet, therefore, +compromised._ What an ear, too! You have been doubtless told that you +had a delicious ear—_And du Tillet was right, for judgment had already +been given_—I love small ears, but let me have a model of yours, and I +will do anything you like—_du Tillet profited by this to throw the +whole loss on your idiotic husband_: oh, what a charming silk, you are +divinely dressed!” + +“Where were we, sir?” + +“How can I remember while admiring your Raphaelistic head?” + +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. + +There are many huge variations of this petty trouble. + +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. + +ANOTHER EXAMPLE. A child belonging to the genus Terrible, exclaims in +the presence of everybody: + +“Mamma, would you let Justine hit me?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Why do you ask, my little man?” inquires Madame Foullepointe. + +“Because she just gave father a big slap, and he’s ever so much +stronger than me.” + +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. + +THE LAST QUARREL. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Here, the author ought perhaps to search out all the varieties of +quarrels, if he desires to be precise. + +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. + +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: + +“Ungraitfull wun, wot du yu supoz I no About Hipolite. Kum, and yu shal +se whether I Love yu.” + +Or this: + +“Yesterday, love, you made me wait for you: what will it be to-morrow?” + +Or this: + +“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.” + +Or this: + +“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.” + +Four notes emanating from the grisette, the lady, the pretentious woman +in middle life, and the actress, among whom Adolphe has chosen his +_belle_ (according to the Fischtaminellian vocabulary). + +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. + +PAPERS RELATING TO CHAUMONTEL’S AFFAIR. + +(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 + +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. + +Or else—but an attempt to mention all the chances of discovery would be +the undertaking of a madman. + +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. + +Some women are fortunate enough to have anticipated their husbands, and +they then have the quarrel as a sort of justification. + +Nervous women give way to a burst of passion and commit acts of +violence. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Troubles within Troubles_), 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. + +This is the way of it: This last quarrel (you shall know why the author +has called it the _last_), 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. + +“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.” + +Women represent themselves as implacable only to render their +forgiveness charming: they have anticipated God. + +“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—” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +In short, the last quarrel never comes to an end, and from this fact +flows the following axiom: + +Axiom.—Putting yourself in the wrong with your lawful wife, is solving +the problem of Perpetual Motion. + +A SIGNAL FAILURE. + +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. + +Caroline is riding home one evening from Madame Foullepointe’s in a +violent state of jealousy and ambition. + +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. + +Observe that in this conjugal phase, Adolphe and Caroline are in the +season which we have denominated _A Household Revolution_, and that +they have had two or three _Last Quarrels_. + +“Adolphe,” she says, “do you want to do me a favor?” + +“Of course.” + +“Won’t you refuse?” + +“If your request is reasonable, I am willing—” + +“Ah, already—that’s a true husband’s word—if—” + +“Come, what is it?” + +“I want to learn to ride on horseback.” + +“Now, is it a possible thing, Caroline?” + +Caroline looks out of the window, and tries to wipe away a dry tear. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Women have as many inflections of voice to pronounce these words, _My +dear_, as the Italians have to say _Amico_. I have counted twenty-nine +which express only various degrees of hatred. + +“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.” + +“But, Caroline—” + +“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.” + +“But, Caroline—” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Axiom.—A sulk that has struck in is a deadly poison. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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. + +Take notice that this is only an axiom in wedded life. In morals, it is +what we call a relative theorem. + +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. + +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 _Robert le Diable: “Grace +pour toi! Grace pour moi!”_ which leave jockeys and horse trainers +whole miles behind. As usual, the _Diable_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Tell monsieur.” + +“Madame, he is in the little parlor.” + +“What a nice man he is,” she says, going up to Adolphe, and talking the +babyish, caressing language of the honey-moon. + +“What for, pray?” + +“Why, to let his little Liline ride the horsey.” + +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 _lala_, _nana_, _coachy-poachy_, 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 _small_. + +“Where did you get that idea, my sweet? You must have dreamed it!” + +“What!” + +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. + +There is nothing so terrible as an actress who reckons upon a success, +and who _fait four_. + +In the language of the stage, to _faire four_ 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 _signal failure_. + +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. + +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. + +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 _The Physiology of Marriage_, Meditation XXVI, +Paragraph _Nerves_.) 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! + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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! + +Adolphe held out, and would not yield. + +Caroline, who was a woman of great sagacity, admitted that her husband +was right. + +“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.” + +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! + +“For a young woman, a young doctor,” said our Adolphe to himself. + +And he proposed to the future Bianchon to visit his wife and tell him +the truth about her condition. + +“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.” + +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. + +“There’s nothing the matter with your wife, my boy,” he says: “she is +trifling with both you and me.” + +“Well, I thought so.” + +“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—” + +“My wife wants a carriage.” + +As in the _Solo on the Hearse_, this Caroline listened at the door. + +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. + +THE CHESTNUTS IN THE FIRE. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In every household, within a given time, ladies like Madame de +Fischtaminel become Caroline’s main resource. + +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. + +If Caroline writes the following little note to Madame de Fischtaminel: + +“Dearest Angel: + +“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.” + +Madame de Fischtaminel says to herself: “Gracious! So I shall have that +fellow on my hands to-morrow from twelve o’clock to five.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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! + +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 _pate de foie gras_, 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. + +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!” + +What a blow is this announcement by Justine: “Madame, here’s a letter!” + +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. + +“Justine, Monsieur Ferdinand is ill!” exclaims Caroline. “Send for a +carriage.” + +As Justine goes down stairs, Adolphe comes up. + +“My poor mistress!” observes Justine. “I guess she won’t want the +carriage now.” + +“Oh my! Where have you come from?” cries Caroline, on seeing Adolphe +standing in ecstasy before her voluptuous breakfast. + +Adolphe, whose wife long since gave up treating _him_ 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. + +“Whom are you expecting?” he asks in his turn. + +“Who could it be, except Ferdinand?” replies Caroline. + +“And is he keeping you waiting?” + +“He is sick, poor fellow.” + +A quizzical idea enters Adolphe’s head, and he replies, winking with +one eye only: “I have just seen him.” + +“Where?” + +“In front of the Cafe de Paris, with some friends.” + +“But why have you come back?” says Caroline, trying to conceal her +murderous fury. + +“Madame Foullepointe, who was tired of Charles, you said, has been with +him at Ville d’Avray since yesterday.” + +Adolphe sits down, saying: “This has happened very appropriately, for +I’m as hungry as two bears.” + +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?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“He’s drunk, I suppose,” says Caroline in a rage. + +“He fought a duel this morning, madame.” + +Caroline swoons, gets up and rushes to Ferdinand, wishing Adolphe at +the bottom of the sea. + +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!” + +ULTIMA RATIO. + +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. + +This work, which, according to the author, is to the _Physiology of +Marriage_ what Fact is to Theory, or History to Philosophy, has its +logic, as life, viewed as a whole, has its logic, also. + +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. + +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 _Physiology of Marriage_ in this fundamental +institution. More than one great genius has dealt this social basis +terrible blows, without shaking it. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +And this was one of the highest functionaries of the state, but a +friend of Louis XVIII, and necessarily a little bit Pompadour. + +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. + +Now, let us listen to “What _they_ say,” the theme of the concluding +chapter of this work. + +COMMENTARY. + +IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED LA FELICITA OF FINALES. + + +Who has not heard an Italian opera in the course of his life? You must +then have noticed the musical abuse of the word _felicita_, so lavishly +used by the librettist and the chorus at the moment when everybody is +deserting his box or leaving the house. + +Frightful image of life. We quit it just when we hear _la felicita_. + +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 _felicita_ 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: + +THE WIFE, _to a young woman in the conjugal Indian Summer_. 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? + +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. + +FERDINAND. Adolphe is happy to have a wife like you! What does he want? +Nothing. + +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? + +FERDINAND. We are the best cousins in the world. + +THE INDIAN SUMMER WIFE, _very much affected_. Shall I ever come to +that? + +THE HUSBAND, _on the Italian Boulevard_. 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. + +CHORUS, _in a parlor during a ball_. Madame Caroline is a charming +woman. + +A WOMAN IN A TURBAN. Yes, she is very proper, very dignified. + +A WOMAN WHO HAS SEVEN CHILDREN. Ah! she learned early how to manage her +husband. + +ONE OF FERDINAND’S FRIENDS. But she loves her husband exceedingly. +Besides, Adolphe is a man of great distinction and experience. + +ONE OF MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL’S FRIENDS. He adores his wife. There’s no +fuss at their house, everybody is at home there. + +MONSIEUR FOULLEPOINTE. Yes, it’s a very agreeable house. + +A WOMAN ABOUT WHOM THERE IS A GOOD DEAL OF SCANDAL. Caroline is kind +and obliging, and never talks scandal of anybody. + +A YOUNG LADY, _returning to her place after a dance_. Don’t you +remember how tiresome she was when she visited the Deschars? + +MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL. Oh! She and her husband were two bundles of +briars—continually quarreling. [She goes away.] + +AN ARTIST. I hear that the individual known as Deschars is getting +dissipated: he goes round town— + +A WOMAN, _alarmed at the turn the conversation is taking, as her +daughter can hear_. Madame de Fischtaminel is charming, this evening. + +A WOMAN OF FORTY, _without employment_. Monsieur Adolphe appears to be +as happy as his wife. + +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? + +HER MOTHER, _looking at her fixedly_. A young woman should not speak +so, my dear, of any one but her betrothed, and Monsieur Ferdinand is +not a marrying man. + +A LADY DRESSED RATHER LOW IN THE NECK, _to another lady dressed equally +low, in a whisper_. The fact is, my dear, the moral of all this is that +there are no happy couples but couples of four. + +A FRIEND, _whom the author was so imprudent as to consult_. Those last +words are false. + +THE AUTHOR. Do you think so? + +THE FRIEND, _who has just been married_. 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. + +THE AUTHOR. Well, shall I deceive the marrying class of the population, +and scratch the passage out? + +THE FRIEND. No, it will be taken merely as the point of a song in a +vaudeville. + +THE AUTHOR. Yes, a method of passing truths off upon society. + +THE FRIEND, _who sticks to his opinion_. Such truths as are destined to +be passed off upon it. + +THE AUTHOR, _who wants to have the last word_. 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. + +THE FRIEND. You revenge yourself cruelly for your inability to write +the history of happy homes. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANALYTICAL STUDIES *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: + +• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + +• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + +• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you “AS-IS”, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ + +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |