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diff --git a/16206-h/16206-h.htm b/16206-h/16206-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b7f2a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/16206-h/16206-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,25046 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Analytical Studies, by Honoré de Balzac</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Analytical Studies, by Honoré de Balzac</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Analytical Studies</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Honoré de Balzac</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 4, 2005 [eBook #16206]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Dagny and John Bickers</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANALYTICAL STUDIES ***</div> + +<h1>ANALYTICAL STUDIES</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">BY HONORÉ DE BALZAC</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>DEDICATION</h3> + +<p> +Notice the words: <i>The man of distinction to whom this book is dedicated</i>. +Need I say: “You are that man.”—T<small>HE</small> A<small>UTHOR</small>. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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: +<i>Ladies must not enter</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">INTRODUCTION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MARRIAGE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p> +The two Analytical Studies, <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> and <i>Petty Troubles +of Married Life</i>, belong quite apart from the action of the <i>Comedie +Humaine</i>, 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 <i>Oeuvres +de Jeunesse</i>, and by the publication, in 1829, of <i>The Chouans</i>, had +made his first real bow to his larger public. In December of that same year +appeared the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i>, followed eleven months later by a +few papers belonging to <i>Petty Troubles of Married Life</i>. Meanwhile, +between these two Analytical Studies, came a remarkable novelette, <i>At the +Sign of the Cat and Racket</i>, followed soon after by one of the most famous +stories of the entire <i>Comedie</i>, <i>The Magic Skin</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is hard to determine Balzac’s full purpose in including the Analytical +Studies in the <i>Comedie</i>. They are not novels. The few, lightly-sketched +characters are not connected with those of the <i>Comedie</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Physiology</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +On the publication of <i>Petty Troubles of Married Life</i> in <i>La +Presse</i>, the publishers of that periodical had this to say: “M. de Balzac +has already produced, as you know, the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +In <i>Petty Troubles</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Petty Troubles of Married Life</i> is a pendant or sequel to <i>Physiology +of Marriage</i>. It is, as Balzac says, to the <i>Physiology</i> “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 <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> in this +fundamental institution;” and we must concede for <i>Petty Troubles</i> one of +those “terrible blows dealt this social basis.” +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Physiologie du Mariage, ou Meditations de philosophie eclectique sur le +bonheur et le malheur conjugal</i> 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 <i>Etudes Analytiques</i>—the +first edition also of the <i>Comedie Humaine</i>—as Volume XVI. All the +subsequent editions have retained the original small division heads, called +Meditations. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Petites Miseres de la Vie Conjugale</i> 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 <i>La +Presse</i> of December, 1845. The sub-headings have remained unchanged since +the original printing. +</p> + +<h5>J. WALKER MCSPADDEN.</h5> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MARRIAGE;<br/> +OR,<br/> +THE MUSINGS OF AN ECLECTIC PHILOSOPHER ON THE HAPPINESS AND<br/> +UNHAPPINESS OF MARRIED LIFE</h2> + +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Marriage must therefore undergo the gradual development towards perfection to +which all human affairs submit.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>Physiology of Marriage</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Art</i> of preserving foods; on the <i>Art</i> of curing smoky chimneys; on +the <i>Art</i> of making good mortar; on the <i>Art</i> of tying a cravat; on +the <i>Art</i> of carving meat.” +</p> + +<p> +In a moment he had named such a prodigious number of books that the author felt +his head go round. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Physiology of +Marriage</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My aunt made a sign,” said the youngest of the heirs. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The afflicted relations discovered exactly on the spot where the brand had +fallen a certain object artistically enveloped in a mass of plaster. +</p> + +<p> +“Proceed,” said the eldest of the heirs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you noticed, dear, that women in general bestow their love only upon a +fool?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“These women are absolute tyrants!” said the author to himself. “Has the devil +again turned up in a mob cap?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough, duchess! You have absolutely startled me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I swear by my virtue,” she said, “their husbands are worth more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But these are the sort of people they choose for husbands,” the duchess +answered gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” asked the author, “is the disaster which threatens the husband in +France quite inevitable?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When the author got home he said at once to his demon: +</p> + +<p> +“Come! I am ready; let us sign the compact.” +</p> + +<p> +But the demon never returned. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is our work completed?” asked the younger of the two feminine assistants of +the author. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! madame,” I said, “will you ever requite me for all the hatreds which +that work will array against me?” +</p> + +<p> +She waved her hand, and then the author replied to her doubt by a look of +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Physiology of Taste</i>. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +DECEMBER 5, 1829. +</p> + +<h2>FIRST PART.</h2> + +<h3>A GENERAL CONSIDERATION.</h3> + +<p> +We will declaim against stupid laws until they are changed, and in the meantime +blindly submit to them.—Diderot, <i>Supplement to the Voyage of +Bougainville</i>. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION I.</h3> + +<h5>THE SUBJECT.</h5> + +<p> +Physiology, what must I consider your meaning? +</p> + +<p> +Is not your object to prove that marriage unites for life two beings who do not +know each other? +</p> + +<p> +That life consists in passion, and that no passion survives marriage? +</p> + +<p> +That marriage is an institution necessary for the preservation of society, but +that it is contrary to the laws of nature? +</p> + +<p> +That divorce, this admirable release from the misfortunes of marriage, should +with one voice be reinstated? +</p> + +<p> +That, in spite of all its inconveniences, marriage is the foundation on which +property is based? +</p> + +<p> +That it furnishes invaluable pledges for the security of government? +</p> + +<p> +That there is something touching in the association of two human beings for the +purpose of supporting the pains of life? +</p> + +<p> +That there is something ridiculous in the wish that one and the same thoughts +should control two wills? +</p> + +<p> +That the wife is treated as a slave? +</p> + +<p> +That there has never been a marriage entirely happy? +</p> + +<p> +That marriage is filled with crimes and that the known murders are not the +worst? +</p> + +<p> +That fidelity is impossible, at least to the man? +</p> + +<p> +That an investigation if it could be undertaken would prove that in the +transmission of patrimonial property there was more risk than security? +</p> + +<p> +That adultery does more harm than marriage does good? +</p> + +<p> +That infidelity in a woman may be traced back to the earliest ages of society, +and that marriage still survives this perpetuation of treachery? +</p> + +<p> +That the laws of love so strongly link together two human beings that no human +law can put them asunder? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +All these questions furnish material for books; but the books have been written +and the questions are constantly reappearing. +</p> + +<p> +Physiology, what must I take you to mean? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Can it possibly be right to confine women? The Ottomans once did so, and +nowadays they give them their liberty. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>De Matrimonio</i> were thus represented. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Legions of doctors have marshaled their legions of books on the subject of +marriage in its relation to medicine and surgery. +</p> + +<p> +In the nineteenth century the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Physiology, what must I consider your meaning? +</p> + +<p> +Shall I say that you intend to publish pictures more or less skillfully drawn, +for the purpose of convincing us that a man marries: +</p> + +<p> +From ambition—that is well known; +</p> + +<p> +From kindness, in order to deliver a girl from the tyranny of her mother; +</p> + +<p> +From rage, in order to disinherit his relations; +</p> + +<p> +From scorn of a faithless mistress; +</p> + +<p> +From weariness of a pleasant bachelor life; +</p> + +<p> +From folly, for each man always commits one; +</p> + +<p> +In consequence of a wager, which was the case with Lord Byron; +</p> + +<p> +From interest, which is almost always the case; +</p> + +<p> +From youthfulness on leaving college, like a blockhead; +</p> + +<p> +From ugliness,—fear of some day failing to secure a wife; +</p> + +<p> +Through Machiavelism, in order to be the heir of some old woman at an early +date; +</p> + +<p> +From necessity, in order to secure the standing to <i>our</i> son; +</p> + +<p> +From obligation, the damsel having shown herself weak; +</p> + +<p> +From passion, in order to become more surely cured of it; +</p> + +<p> +On account of a quarrel, in order to put an end to a lawsuit; +</p> + +<p> +From gratitude, by which he gives more than he has received; +</p> + +<p> +From goodness, which is the fate of doctrinaires; +</p> + +<p> +From the condition of a will when a dead uncle attaches his legacy to some +girl, marriage with whom is the condition of succession; +</p> + +<p> +From custom, in imitation of his ancestors; +</p> + +<p> +From old age, in order to make an end of life; +</p> + +<p> +From <i>yatidi</i>, that is the hour of going to bed and signifies amongst the +Turks all bodily needs; +</p> + +<p> +From religious zeal, like the Duke of Saint-Aignan, who did not wish to commit +sin?[*] +</p> + +<p> +[*] The foregoing queries came in (untranslatable) alphabetic order in the +original.—Editor +</p> + +<p> +But these incidents of marriage have furnished matter for thirty thousand +comedies and a hundred thousand romances. +</p> + +<p> +Physiology, for the third and last time I ask you—What is your meaning? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Allow me to say to you like Rabelais, who is in every sense our master: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But it is not for you that I am writing. Since you have grown-up children that +ends the matter. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is not for you that the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i> 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 <i>Pease and the Lard</i> with commentary of +Rabelais, or in the one entitled <i>The Dignity of Breeches</i>, and who esteem +highly the fair books of high degree, a quarry hard to run down and redoubtable +to wrestle with. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Undoubtedly. But do you see in this a fresh idea? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>speculum vitae humanae</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION II.</h3> + +<h5>MARRIAGE STATISTICS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The inhabitants of France are generally reckoned at thirty millions. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us explain: +</p> + +<p> +Naturalists consider man to be no more than a unique species of the order +bimana, established by Dumeril in his <i>Analytic Zoology</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>olim</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>femmes comme il faut</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us subject this social elite to a philosophic examination. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It would be easy to prove the fairness of our analysis: let one reflection be +sufficient. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us put this million of women, already winnowed by our fan, through another +examination. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Another twentieth will be in ill-health. This will be to make a very modest +allowance for human infirmities. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is in the midst of this million we are bound to investigate: +</p> + +<p> +The number of honest women; +</p> + +<p> +The number of virtuous women. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION III.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE HONEST WOMAN.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This inquiry suggests certain digressions. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What, is this you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear boy; it looks like me, doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Then they laugh, with more or less intelligence, according to the nature of the +joke which opens the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Whom are you living with now?” +</p> + +<p> +As a general rule she is a charming woman. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Zounds! Mine has dressing-gowns of batiste and diamond rings for the evening!” +said a lawyer’s clerk. +</p> + +<p> +“But she has a box at the Francais!” said an army officer. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +And he patted his companion lightly on the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +What a pleasant thing for a married man to hear! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! what an angel you are, my dear!” is the answer to a request discreetly +whispered into the ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell me her name or point her out to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no; she is an honest woman.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon ton</i> from vulgarity. What then is meant by an +honest woman? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>APHORISMS.</h4> + +<p> +I.<br/> +An honest woman is necessarily a married woman. +</p> + +<p> +II.<br/> +An honest woman is under forty years old. +</p> + +<p> +III.<br/> +A married woman whose favors are to be paid for is not an honest<br/> +woman. +</p> + +<p> +IV.<br/> +A married woman who keeps a private carriage is an honest woman. +</p> + +<p> +V.<br/> +A woman who does her own cooking is not an honest woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +VIII.<br/> +An honest woman ought to be in a financial condition such as forbids<br/> +her lover to think she will ever cost him anything. +</p> + +<p> +IX.<br/> +A woman who lives on the third story of any street excepting the Rue<br/> +de Rivoli and the Rue de Castiglione is not an honest woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XII.<br/> +An honest woman is one whom her lover fears to compromise. +</p> + +<p> +XIII.<br/> +The wife of an artist is always an honest woman. +</p> + +<p> +By the application of these principles even a man from Ardeche can resolve all +the difficulties which our subject presents. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Three hundred thousand landed proprietors enjoy an income of three thousand +five hundred francs and represent all territorial wealth. +</p> + +<p> +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.). +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Here we have a million husbands represented. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>amour-propre</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Is it the conversation of a shop-girl which makes you expect boundless +delights? +</p> + +<p> +In your intercourse with a woman who is beneath you, the delight of flattered +<i>amour-propre</i> is on her side. You are not in the secret of the happiness +which you give. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION IV.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE VIRTUOUS WOMAN.</h5> + +<p> +The question, perhaps, is not so much how many virtuous women there are, as +what possibility there is of an honest woman remaining virtuous. +</p> + +<p> +In order to throw light upon a point so important, let us cast a rapid glance +over the male population. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +From the six millions of privileged men, we must exclude three millions of old +men and children. +</p> + +<p> +It will be affirmed by some one that this subtraction leaves a remainder of +four millions in the case of women. +</p> + +<p> +This difference at first sight seems singular, but is easily accounted for. +</p> + +<p> +The average age at which women are married is twenty years and at forty they +cease to belong to the world of love. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XIV.<br/> +Physically a man is a man much longer than a woman is a woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Our remainder of two millions do not require five sous to make love. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is not necessary that he should have a handsome face nor even a good figure; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +The charms of youth are the unique equipage of love; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“How did you manage it? What did you tell your husband?” you ask. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband!”—Ah! this brings us back again into the depths of our subject. +</p> + +<p> +XV.<br/> +Morally the man is more often and longer a man than the woman is a women. +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +That there are men more stupid and actually more ugly than God would have made +them; +</p> + +<p> +That there are those whose character is like a chestnut without a kernel; +</p> + +<p> +That the clergy are generally chaste; +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Here then we have a people, a society which has been sifted, and you see the +result! +</p> + +<p> +XVI.<br/> +Manners are the hypocrisy of nations, and hypocrisy is more or less perfect. +</p> + +<p> +XVII.<br/> +Virtue, perhaps, is nothing more than politeness of soul. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +That would be a mournful way of solving the difficulty! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>in petto</i> over their secret adventures. +</p> + +<p> +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; <i>foenum habet in cornu</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>comme il faut</i>, +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, virtuous women there certainly are: +</p> + +<p> +Yes, those who have never been tempted and those who die at their first +child-birth, assuming that their husbands had married them virgins; +</p> + +<p> +Yes, those who are ugly as the Kaifakatadary of the Arabian Nights; +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +We will not attempt to enumerate the women who are virtuous from stupidity, for +it is acknowledged that in love all women have intellect. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XVIII.<br/> +A virtuous woman has in her heart one fibre less or one fibre more than other +women; she is either stupid or sublime. +</p> + +<p> +XIX.<br/> +The virtue of women is perhaps a question of temperament. +</p> + +<p> +XX.<br/> +The most virtuous women have in them something which is never chaste. +</p> + +<p> +XXI.<br/> +“That a man of intellect has doubts about his mistress is conceivable, but +about his wife!—that would be too stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +XXII.<br/> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +What a startling conclusion! +</p> + +<p> +On this point the purist in morality, the <i>collets montes</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t they get married?” cries a religious woman. +</p> + +<p> +But what father of good sense would wish his son to be married at twenty years +of age? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Cannot these men, the religious women will always ask, abide in continence like +the priests? +</p> + +<p> +Certainly, madame. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXIII.<br/> +The courtesan is an institution if she is a necessity. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXIV.<br/> +In the social order, inevitable abuses are laws of nature, in accordance with +which mankind should frame their civil and political institutes. +</p> + +<p> +XXV.<br/> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? <i>Caveant consules</i>! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION V.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE PREDESTINED.</h5> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Present company always excepted.” +</p> + +<p> +And then every one will have the right to believe, <i>in petto</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Sentimental Journey</i>, plainly shows. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>should</i> +go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the men whose noses are stained with snuff; +</p> + +<p> +But those who, to their misfortune, have a perpetual cold in their head; +</p> + +<p> +But the sailors who smoke or chew; +</p> + +<p> +But those men whose dry and bilious temperament makes them always look as if +they had eaten a sour apple; +</p> + +<p> +But the men who in private life have certain cynical habits, ridiculous fads, +and who always, in spite of everything, look unwashed; +</p> + +<p> +But the husbands who have obtained the degrading name of “hen-pecked”; +</p> + +<p> +Finally the old men who marry young girls. +</p> + +<p> +All these people are <i>par excellence</i> among the predestined. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXVI.<br/> +Do not begin marriage by a violation of law. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us try to penetrate more deeply into the causes of this conjugal +sickliness. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But to feel this passion is always to feel desire. Can a man always desire his +wife? +</p> + +<p> +Yes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>CATECHISM OF MARRIAGE.</h4> + +<p> +XXVII.<br/> +Marriage is a science. +</p> + +<p> +XXVIII.<br/> +A man ought not to marry without having studied anatomy, and dissected at least +one woman. +</p> + +<p> +XXIX.<br/> +The fate of the home depends on the first night. +</p> + +<p> +XXX.<br/> +A woman deprived of her free will can never have the credit of making a +sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXXIII.<br/> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXXV.<br/> +As ideas are capable of infinite combination, it ought to be the same with +pleasures. +</p> + +<p> +XXXVI.<br/> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXXVII.<br/> +If there are differences between one moment of pleasure and another, a man can +always be happy with the same woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XXXIX. Between two beings who do not love each other this genius is +licentiousness; but the caresses over which love presides are always pure. +</p> + +<p> +XL.<br/> +The married woman who is the most chaste may be also the most voluptuous. +</p> + +<p> +XLI.<br/> +The most virtuous woman can be forward without knowing it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XLIII.<br/> +Power does not consist in striking with force or with frequency, but in +striking true. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XLVI.<br/> +Each night ought to have its <i>menu</i>. +</p> + +<p> +XLVII.<br/> +Marriage must incessantly contend with a monster which devours everything, that +is, familiarity. +</p> + +<p> +XLVIII.<br/> +If a man cannot distinguish the difference between the pleasures of two +consecutive nights, he has married too early. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +L.<br/> +A husband ought never to be the first to go to sleep and the last to awaken. +</p> + +<p> +LI.<br/> +The man who enters his wife’s dressing-room is either a philosopher or an +imbecile. +</p> + +<p> +LII.<br/> +The husband who leaves nothing to desire is a lost man. +</p> + +<p> +LIII.<br/> +The married woman is a slave whom one must know how to set upon a throne. +</p> + +<p> +LIV.<br/> +A man must not flatter himself that he knows his wife, and is making her happy +unless he sees her often at his knees. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, the letter written by Walter Shandy to +his brother Toby, when this last proposed to marry the widow Wadman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>“MY DEAR BROTHER TOBY,</h4> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twere better to keep ideas of baldness out of her fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Always carry it in thy mind, and act upon it as a sure maxim, Toby— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>‘That women are timid.’</i> And ’tis well they are—else there would be no +dealing with them. +</p> + +<p> +“Let not thy breeches be too tight, or hang too loose about thy thighs, like +the trunk-hose of our ancestors. +</p> + +<p> +“A just medium prevents all conclusions. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Rabelais</i>, or <i>Scarron</i>, or <i>Don Quixote</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“They are all books which excite laughter; and thou knowest, dear Toby, that +there is no passion so serious as lust. +</p> + +<p> +“Stick a pin in the bosom of thy shirt, before thou enterest her parlor. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Avicenna</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing further for thee, which occurs to me at present— +</p> + +<p> +“Unless the breaking out of a fresh war.—So wishing everything, dear Toby, for +the best, +</p> + +<p> +“I rest thy affectionate brother, +</p> + +<h5>“WALTER SHANDY.”</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +This is our answer: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION VI.</h3> + +<h5>OF BOARDING SCHOOLS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I mean to say that you should call to mind the secret and profound instruction +which the pupils have acquired <i>de natura rerum</i>,—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us stop here!—The mother-in-law requires a whole Meditation for herself. +</p> + +<p> +So that, whichever way you turn, the bed of marriage, in this connection, is +equally full of thorns. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Vicar of +Wakefield</i>, 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is, for example, beyond doubt that the probabilities will be in your favor: +</p> + +<p> +I. If you have chosen a young lady whose temperament resembles that of the +women of Louisiana or the Carolinas. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +II. If you choose a young lady who, without being plain, does not belong to the +class of pretty women. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Among people of fixed principles the girls are careless, the women severe; the +contrary is the case among people of no principle.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But in good faith, would the emancipation of girls set free such a host of +dangers? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“When there are ten of us, we cross ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>PROBLEM.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A man would find himself in a position of danger even more critical if his wife +drank nothing but water [see the Meditation entitled <i>Conjugal Hygiene</i>]; +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION VII.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE HONEYMOON.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The expression <i>honeymoon</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +How can the honeymoon rise upon two beings who cannot possibly love each other? +</p> + +<p> +How can it set, when once it has risen? +</p> + +<p> +Have all marriages their honeymoon? +</p> + +<p> +Let us proceed to answer these questions in order. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LVIII. We do not attach ourselves permanently to any possessions, excepting in +proportion to the trouble, toil and longing which they have cost us. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LIX.<br/> +In every case we receive only in proportion to what we give. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>THEOREM.</h4> + +<p> +Man goes from aversion to love; but if he has begun by loving, and afterwards +comes to feel aversion, he never returns to love. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>ritornello</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +FIRST EPOCH.—Is it possible that I shall ever have white hair? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +One morning you hear a young voice, which love much oftener makes to vibrate +than lulls to silence, exclaiming: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I declare! You have a white hair!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +FOURTH EPOCH.—The wig is so skillfully put on that you deceive every one who +does not know you. +</p> + +<p> +The wig takes up all your attention, and <i>amour-propre</i> makes you every +morning as busy as the most skillful hairdresser. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +SEVENTH EPOCH.—Your wig is as scraggy as dog’s tooth grass; and —excuse the +expression—you are making fun of your wig. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, madame, he would doubtless be indifferent to his wig!” +</p> + +<p> +We looked at each other, she with a well-assumed air of dignity, I with a +suppressed smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Dictionary of Mythology</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>inconsistent</i> the +husband must be, according to me, <i>minotaurized</i>. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +You have dried the green wood in preparation for a fire. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>grande passion</i>, +who has not dreamed of it, and who does not believe that it is easily kindled, +for there is always found a certain <i>amour-propre</i> ready to reinforce that +conquered enemy—a jaded wife. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION VIII.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE FIRST SYMPTOMS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>roues</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!<br/> +Is it right to be heir of the man who we slay?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>amour-propre</i> by drawing all +eyes upon her in the midst of parties and public entertainments. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She will adroitly distinguish between the duties which are all she has to +perform and the rights which she can demand to exercise. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LX.<br/> +The more a man judges the less he loves. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>varium et mutabile +femina</i> 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 <i>la bete feroce</i>; but we never see these whims in a woman +who is happy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Now here we will lay down a principle, and you must engrave it on your memory +in letters of fire. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>ego</i> which made her a being distinct from yours. She had identified +herself with your nature and was obedient to that vow of the heart, <i>Una +caro</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Physiology of Pleasure</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Home Instruction</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Then your wife begins to say, “<i>My</i> chamber, <i>my</i> bed, <i>my</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The number of things which you do not understand increases day by day. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>rattle-power</i>. +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: +</p> + +<p> +That you are very fortunate to have such an excellent wife; +</p> + +<p> +That she has done you too much honor in marrying you; +</p> + +<p> +That women often see clearer than men; +</p> + +<p> +That you ought to take the advice of your wife in everything, and almost always +ought to follow it; +</p> + +<p> +That you ought to respect the mother of your children, to honor her and have +confidence in her; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +That a lawful wife is a man’s best friend; +</p> + +<p> +That a woman is mistress in her own house and queen in her drawing-room, etc. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Now the difficult course which a man has to steer in presence of such serious +incidents as these, is what we may call the <i>haute politique</i> 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 +<i>man</i> to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At this fatal epoch, you will see that she is adroitly setting up a right to go +out alone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She will perhaps begin dinner without waiting for you. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Oh!” said he, “if I am not a cuckold, I shall very soon be one.” +</p> + +<p> +You go on a journey for eight days and you receive no letters, or you receive +one, three pages of which are blank.—Symptom. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION IX.</h3> + +<h5>EPILOGUE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Gallia togata</i>, and their ideas of marriage penetrated more or +less into the “land of customs.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These two principles of the servitude and the sovereignty of women retain +possession of the ground, each of them defended by fresh arguments. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Patria potestas</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Julie</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Emile</i> and +<i>La Nouvelle Heloise</i> 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 <i>Julie</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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!—— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h2>SECOND PART</h2> + +<h3>MEANS OF DEFENCE, INTERIOR AND EXTERIOR.</h3> + +<p> +“To be or not to be,<br/> +That is the question.”<br/> +—Shakspeare, <i>Hamlet</i>. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION X.</h3> + +<h5>A TREATISE ON MARITAL POLICY.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>amour +propre</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXI.<br/> +If a man strike his mistress it is a self-inflicted wound; but if he strike his +wife it is suicide! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My good friend, don’t go away,” cried the geometrician. “This is my wife!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go, my child, this is one of my pupils.” +</p> + +<p> +The young woman bent her head towards the scholar as a bird perched on a bough +stretches its neck to pick up a seed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not possible,” said the husband, heaving a sigh, “and I am going to +prove it to you by A plus B.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us drop that, sir, I beg you,” she answered, pointing with a wink to me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, child, I constitute you judge in the matter; our income is ten +thousand francs.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pate de foie gras</i> that my pretty +hostess said to her husband, with a determined air: +</p> + +<p> +“Alexander, if you were really nice you would give me that pair of ear-rings +that we saw at Fossin’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!——” +</p> + +<p> +“You bad man!” said she, with a winning smile. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I had seen the flowers!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” answered he, “keep your money.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep it, my darling, it is your lawful property—nonsense, I shall gamble this +winter and get all that back again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Gamble!” cried she, with an expression of horror. “Alexander, take back these +notes! Come, sir, I wish you to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——-?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will think about what you asked of me,” said I to my comrade. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He must be mad,” thought I as I went away, “to talk of a thousand crowns to a +law student.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>a la Jeannette</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So after all, madame, you have your cross?” I said to her first. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I fairly won it!” she replied, with a smile hard to describe. +</p> + +<p> +“How is this! no ear-rings?” I remarked to the wife of my friend. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she replied, “I have enjoyed possession of them during a whole luncheon +time, but you see that I have ended by converting Alexander.” +</p> + +<p> +“He allowed himself to be easily convinced?” +</p> + +<p> +She answered with a look of triumph. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XI.</h3> + +<h5>INSTRUCTION IN THE HOME.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>statu quo</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +That women are beautiful mirrors, which naturally reflect the most brilliant +ideas; +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +That, above all, reading ends in making the eyes dull, etc. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Confessions</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Confessions</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>heroes</i> of poetry are as rare in real life as the +<i>Apollos</i> of sculpture! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Rene</i>, a book more dangerous to you when in her hands than <i>Therese +Philosophe</i>. You might create in her an utter disgust for reading by giving +her tedious books; and plunge her into utter idiocy with <i>Marie Alacoque</i>, +<i>The Brosse de Penitence</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Ragois</i> and chronology in the <i>Tables du +Citoyen Chantreau</i>, 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?’” +</p> + +<p> +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, +<i>The Cabinet des Fees</i>, <i>The Arabian Nights</i>, Redoute’s <i>Roses</i>, +<i>The Customs of China</i>, <i>The Pigeons</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pater +quem nuptiae demonstrant</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>a man</i>, we mean to speak of +those rare and noble creatures of whom Goethe has given us a model in his +Claire of <i>Egmont</i>; 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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XII.</h3> + +<h5>THE HYGIENE OF MARRIAGE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon mot</i>. Pythagoras +must needs have cast his spell over her, and become as much petted by her as a +poodle or an ape. +</p> + +<p> +Never commit the imprudence of certain men who, for the sake of putting on the +appearance of wit, controvert the feminine dictum, <i>that the figure is +preserved by meagre diet</i>. Women on such a diet never grow fat, that is +clear and positive; do you stick to that. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: <i>Muger y gallina pierna quebrantada</i> [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!” +</p> + +<p> +What an admirable manoeuvre it would be to make a wife dance, and to feed her +on vegetables! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,—” +</p> + +<p> +This is our answer: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is an exact image of the despotism with which you ought to shape and +reshape your wife. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Vae victis!</i> Woe to the conquered! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XIII.</h3> + +<h5>OF PERSONAL MEASURES.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Emile</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +This first expedient is in reality your own personal business. It will give you +a great advantage in carrying out all the other methods. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>auto-da-fe</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us continue our examination of such personal methods. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>amour-propre</i>, your vanity, +your all, were at stake. +</p> + +<p> +I had the good fortune in my youth to win the confidence of an old +<i>emigre</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“I would never have believed that my uncle was such a dashing blade?” said the +nephew. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>qui vive</i>. 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It would seem as if my dear aunt were fond of a little fun,” said the officer +to me in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Or of denouements that do not come off!” I added. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to play backgammon?—We will leave you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you leave us?” said she, “you will have all tomorrow to show your +friend the reverse of the medals.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tours de force</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>sublata causa tollitur effectus</i>,—Latin words which may be freely +translated “there is no effect without a cause.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Study how to combine the system of blisters with the mimic wiles of Carlin, the +immortal Carlin of the <i>Comedie-Italienne</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XIV.</h3> + +<h5>OF APARTMENTS.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>a la Bartholo</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +You may learn your duty from this child. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Before everything else determine to have for your porter a <i>single man</i> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Marriage of Figaro</i> will no doubt have taught you to put your wife’s +chamber at a great height from the ground. All celibates are Cherubins. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXII.<br/> +The bed is the whole of marriage. +</p> + +<p> +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.”) +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Sofa</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>ultima ratio</i> of husbands; a wife +has nothing to say when everything is lavished on her. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +A husband will never take lodgings on the ground floor. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XV.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE CUSTOM HOUSE.</h5> + +<p> +“But no, madame, no—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for there is such inconvenience in the arrangement.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>a priori</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Lavater’s <i>Physiognomy</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the moment of entering how many things does he utter without even opening +his mouth! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Or he hums a French or an Italian air, merry or sad, in a voice which may be +either tenor, contralto, soprano or baritone. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he takes care to see that the ends of his necktie are properly +adjusted. +</p> + +<p> +Or he smoothes down the ruffles or front of his shirt or evening-dress. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he looks at his nails to see whether they are clean and duly cut. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Or by slow and repeated movements he tries to place his chin exactly over the +centre of his necktie. +</p> + +<p> +Or perhaps he crosses one foot over the other, putting his hands in his +pockets. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Or perhaps he remains as motionless as a Dutchman smoking his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he hesitates to pull the bell; perhaps he seizes it negligently, +precipitately, familiarly, or like a man who is quite sure of himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he exhales a delicate scent, as he chews a pastille. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps this celibate seems a young or an old man, is cold or hot, arrives +slowly, with an expression of sadness or merriment, etc. +</p> + +<p> +You see that here, at the very foot of your staircase, you are met by an +astonishing mass of things to observe. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>porte-cochere</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +These observations, stolen from our Meditation, <i>Of the Last Symptoms</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XVI.</h3> + +<h5>THE CHARTER OF MARRIAGE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said I, to this Othello of the council of state who did not seem to me +peculiarly strong in the <i>haute politique</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Scarcely had I said these words when the Vicomte de V——- grasped my arm tightly +and cried: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>to lose +nothing</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Santa +Hermandad</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>The Act of Putting Death into Life!</i> 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 <i>Life in Death</i>. This personage crosses the oceans of the +world in pursuit of a living skeleton called <i>Death in Life</i>—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—” +</p> + +<p> +The viscount began to laugh at this literary disappointment of mine, and he +said to me, with a self-satisfied air: +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! sir, how grateful you ought to be for a life which is so completely filled +up!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>unctores</i>, the +<i>fricatores</i>, the <i>alipilarili</i>, the <i>dropacistae</i>, the +<i>paratiltriae</i>, the <i>picatrices</i>, the <i>tracatrices</i>, the swan +whiteners, and all the rest. —Talk to her about this multitude of slaves whose +names are given by Mirabeau in his <i>Erotika Biblion</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do it by opposing her?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +He could not restrain a laugh and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t my wife be astonished at the Last Judgment?” +</p> + +<p> +“I scarcely know,” I replied, “whether you or she will be most astonished.” +</p> + +<p> +The jealous man frowned, but his face resumed its calmness as I added: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +We stepped toward the divan, and saw the word FOOL lightly traced upon the +fatal cushion, by four +</p> + +<p> +Things that I know not, plucked by lover’s hand<br/> +From Cypris’ orchard, where the fairy band<br/> +Are dancing, once by nobles thought to be<br/> +Worthy an order of new chivalry,<br/> +A brotherhood, wherein, with script of gold,<br/> +More mortal men than gods should be enrolled. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody in my house has black hair!” said the husband, growing pale. +</p> + +<p> +I hurried away, for I was seized with an irresistible fit of laughter, which I +could not easily overcome. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You have already told me that the viscountess was extremely ingenious,” I +said, with unfeeling gaiety. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>valet de chambre</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did the viscountess perceive your distress during these three days? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a great man unrecognized,” I cried, “and you are not—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XVII.</h3> + +<h5>THE THEORY OF THE BED.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Should wise husbands adopt these beds on castors? This is the problem which we +have to solve. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“But, gentlemen, you must all have received at your houses the notification in +which the second question is stated.” +</p> + +<p> +“I rise to make an observation,” exclaimed the youngest of the jealous husbands +there assembled. +</p> + +<p> +The president took his seat with a gesture of assent. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>ab ovo</i> +produce the harmony, the sense of which is to so large an extent innate in +Italians. For these reasons I move that we adjourn.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the gentleman sat down. +</p> + +<p> +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.) +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Rossinist</i> as for being a <i>Solidist</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>1. TWIN BEDS. 2. SEPARATE ROOMS. 3. ONE BED FOR BOTH.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The most incontrovertible principle which can be laid down in this matter is, +<i>that the bed was made to sleep upon</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>amour-propre</i>? Here we +have a subject which it would be curious to investigate. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There are some people who slumber with their mouths open in the silliest +fashion. +</p> + +<p> +There are others who snore loud enough to make the timbers shake. +</p> + +<p> +Most people look like the impish devils that Michael Angelo sculptured, putting +out their tongues in silent mockery of the passers-by. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +A husband should sleep as lightly as a watch-dog, so as never to be caught with +his eyes shut. +</p> + +<p> +A man should accustom himself from childhood to go to bed bareheaded. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +From these preliminary observations, we conclude that it is not natural for two +to lie under the canopy in the same bed; +</p> + +<p> +That a man is almost always ridiculous when he is asleep; +</p> + +<p> +And that this constant living together threatens the husband with inevitable +dangers. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>1. TWIN BEDS.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The argument in support of this may be briefly stated. The following are its +main lines: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But no, he was rather some predestined one who distrusted his power of checking +a snore. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Iris, we love those features sweet,<br/> +Your graces all are fresh and free;<br/> +And flowerets spring beneath your feet,<br/> +Where naught, alas! but flowers are seen.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXIII.<br/> +That it shall appear either sublime or grotesque are the alternatives to which +we have reduced a desire. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Venice Preserved</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Moniteur</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>valet de chambre</i>, ‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Comte de Noce could not help laughing, and the old marquis, quite put out +of countenance, stopped short. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But he will kill you!” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>civil war</i> +(See Part Third) of what extreme usefulness a bed is and how many secrets a +wife reveals in bed, without knowing it. +</p> + +<p> +Do not therefore allow yourself to be led astray by the specious good nature of +such an institution as that of twin beds. +</p> + +<p> +It is the silliest, the most treacherous, the most dangerous in the world. +Shame and anathema to him who conceived it! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>2. SEPARATE ROOMS.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The power of putting this system into practice shows the highest degree of +intellectual and masculine force. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We now proceed to solve the difficulties which superficial minds may detect in +this method, for which our predilection is manifest. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>3. ONE BED FOR BOTH.</h4> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +To sleep every night with one’s wife may seem, we confess, an act of the most +insolent folly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, such is the decision of a doctor of arts and sciences conjugal. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i>. 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 <i>coup de +main</i> means a bold undertaking. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I hear numberless voices crying out that this book is a special advocate for +women and neglects the cause of men; +</p> + +<p> +That the majority of women are unworthy of these delicate attentions and would +abuse them; +</p> + +<p> +That there are women given to licentiousness who would not lend themselves to +very much of what they would call mystification; +</p> + +<p> +That women are nothing but vanity and think of nothing but dress; +</p> + +<p> +That they have notions which are truly unreasonable; +</p> + +<p> +That they are very often annoyed by an attention; +</p> + +<p> +That they are fools, they understand nothing, are worth nothing, etc. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXIV.<br/> +A wife is to her husband just what her husband has made her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XVIII.</h3> + +<h5>OF MARITAL REVOLUTIONS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Nolo coronari!</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But what policy is it that demands this course of action? Is there such a +policy?” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly there is. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This passion is JEALOUSY. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +To be jealous is to exhibit, at once, the height of egotism, the error of +<i>amour-propre</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And now the last act of the comedy is in preparation. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XIX.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE LOVER.</h5> + +<p> +We offer the following maxims for your consideration: +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>amour-propre</i> aside, and if by chance +you find here a single new thought, send it to the devil, who suggested this +work. +</p> + +<p> +LXV.<br/> +To speak of love is to make love. +</p> + +<p> +LXVI.<br/> +In a lover the coarsest desire always shows itself as a burst of honest +admiration. +</p> + +<p> +LXVII.<br/> +A lover has all the good points and all the bad points which are lacking in a +husband. +</p> + +<p> +LXVIII.<br/> +A lover not only gives life to everything, he makes one forget life; the +husband does not give life to anything. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXX.<br/> +A lover betrays by his manner alone the degree of intimacy in which he stands +to a married woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXII.<br/> +A clever husband never betrays his supposition that his wife has a lover. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXIV.<br/> +A lover teaches a wife all that her husband has concealed from her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXVII.<br/> +A lover always starts from his mistress to himself; with a husband the contrary +is the case. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXX.<br/> +A lover is never in the wrong. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Essay on Police</i>, the <i>Art of Returning Home</i>, +and <i>Catastrophes</i>. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XX.</h3> + +<h5>ESSAY ON POLICE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We will divide this treatise on Police into five captions: +</p> + +<h4>1. OF MOUSE-TRAPS. 2. OF CORRESPONDENCE. 3. OF SPIES. 4. THE INDEX. 5. OF +THE BUDGET.</h4> + +<h4>1. OF MOUSE-TRAPS.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>mouse-traps</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>The Irresistible</i>, <i>The Fallacious</i>, and that +which is <i>Touch and Go</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Irresistible.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +HUSBAND A. (irritably)—You will agree at least, madame, that they are not very +amiable to you. +</p> + +<p> +WIFE B. (with vivacity)—Who told you so? +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +THE MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE. (aside to Wife A)—You well deserved it, my dear. +(Wife A shrugs her shoulders.) +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Dreams of a Young Girl</i>, +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— +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +HUSBAND A. (aside)—There can be no doubt of it! +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Fallacious.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +HER HUSBAND. (carelessly)—Ah! that is true. +</p> + +<p> +<i>(Three days afterwards.)</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +HIS WIFE. (vivaciously)—But why should you go alone? You know how I adore +music! +</p> + +<p> +<i>The Touch and Go Mouse-Trap.</i> +</p> + +<p> +THE WIFE.—Why did you go away so early this evening? +</p> + +<p> +THE HUSBAND. (mysteriously)—Ah! It is a sad business, and all the more so +because I don’t know how I can settle it. +</p> + +<p> +THE WIFE.—What is it all about, Adolph? You are a wretch if you do not tell me +what you are going to do! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +THE HUSBAND. (aside)—She is in love with M. de Fontanges. (Aloud.) Celestine! +(He shouts out still louder.) Celestine! Come quick, madame is ill! +</p> + +<p> +You will understand that a clever husband will discover a thousand ways of +setting these three kinds of traps. +</p> + +<h4>2. OF CORRESPONDENCE.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The inexorable box which keeps its mouth open to all comers receives its +epistolary provender from all hands. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Of the Custom House</i>? 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We cannot believe that a husband, even of moderate intelligence, will fail to +see through this feminine manoeuvre, when once he suspects its existence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tout a vous,” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me the letter,” said the lawyer, “that I may see whether it is correct +before signing it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tout</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +[*] Thus giving a feminine ending to the signature, and lending the impression +that the note emanated from the wife personally—J.W.M. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame begs that you will take this to the house of M. Adolph; now, be quick +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And the eyes of the lawyer flashed ominously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>3. OF SPIES.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I see here my first symptoms,” I said to myself. +</p> + +<p> +We sat down. The first word of the husband, who spoke without thinking, and for +the sake of talking, was the question: +</p> + +<p> +“Has any one been here to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a soul,” replied his wife, without lifting her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +There is something of gratitude, something in fact instinctive, in the +predilection of fathers for their daughters and mothers for their sons. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the finest piece of horn work that I have ever seen!” cried the victor +of Fontenoy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>4. THE INDEX.</h4> + +<p> +The Pope puts books only on the Index; you will mark with a stigma of +reprobation men and things. +</p> + +<p> +It is forbidden to madame to go into a bath except in her own house. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It is forbidden to madame to take a walk without you. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The History of Changes in the Marital Church</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>espaliers</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>5. OF THE BUDGET.</h4> + +<p> +In outlining the portrait of a sane and sound husband (See <i>Meditation on the +Predestined</i>), we urgently advise that he should conceal from his wife the +real amount of his income. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But let us, in the first place, deal with the question of heart, before we +proceed to that of money. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you put there then, general?” asked a young girl. +</p> + +<p> +“The key of my safe.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I would gladly marry the general in spite of his forty-five years.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Now look at the other system. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, by seeking in this way a method of defence, consider what admirable +aids are offered to you by this plan of finances. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>E sempre bene.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Catastrophes</i>, that in the very crisis produced by the +follies of your wife, you will have brilliant opportunities of slaying the +Minotaur. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These are the true principles which should govern the conjugal budget. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXI.</h3> + +<h5>THE ART OF RETURNING HOME.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>banderillo</i>, disembowel with furious +horns horses, matadors, picadors, toreadors and their attendants. +</p> + +<p> +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!— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Such are the ideas which ought to be expressed by your face and bearing, but +perhaps all the while you say to yourself: +</p> + +<p> +“Probably he has been here!” +</p> + +<p> +Always to bring home a pleasant face, is a rule which admits of no exception. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The manner of coming home is to be regulated in accordance with a number of +circumstances. For example: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, my lord; but would you have the goodness to throw over my horse +also?” +</p> + +<p> +But the phlegmatic nobleman had already taken the arm of his wife as he gravely +said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXII.</h3> + +<h5>OF CATASTROPHES.</h5> + +<p> +The word <i>Catastrophe</i> is a term of literature which signifies the final +climax of a play. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, this method is the last of all those which science has been able to +discover up to this present moment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>se subodore</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +A husband, in accordance with the principles comprised in our Meditation on +<i>Police</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Here we find all the conditions necessary to bring about the finest possible of +conjugal catastrophes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In that case you will either catch two lovers together, or your wife, +forewarned by the maid, will have hidden the celibate. +</p> + +<p> +Now let us consider these two unique situations. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus a husband, from the moment that his wife has caused him to perceive +certain <i>first symptoms</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“As for me,” you should say, “I should have no hesitation in killing the man I +caught at my wife’s feet.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear Caroline, I have never been able to love you as I should!” +</p> + +<p> +He weeps, and she weeps, and this tearful catastrophe leaves nothing to be +desired. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us pursue this subject. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The hiding-place being discovered, you must walk straight up to the lover. You +must meet him face to face! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +When the celibate has gone, you will find yourself alone with your wife, and +then is the time when you must subjugate her forever. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my +poor child</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Now what the deuce would you expect a woman to answer? Why a catastrophe +naturally follows, without a single word. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Marriage</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Othello</i>; or a pair of slippers, as in <i>Don Juan</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +So that the catastrophe in the science of marriage is what figures are in +arithmetic. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Civil War</i> many tears will be shed and many vows of repentance +breathed. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Civil War</i>. +</p> + +<p> +To arms then, to arms! +</p> + +<h2>THIRD PART</h2> + +<h3>RELATING TO CIVIL WAR.</h3> + +<p> +“Lovely as the seraphs of Klopstock,<br/> +Terrible as the devils of Milton.”<br/> +—DIDEROT. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXIII.</h3> + +<h5>OF MANIFESTOES.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXXII.<br/> +Anything may be expected and anything may be supposed of a woman who is in +love. +</p> + +<p> +LXXXIII.<br/> +The actions of a woman who intends to deceive her husband are almost always the +result of study, but never dictated by reason. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXXV.<br/> +A husband should never allow himself to address a single disparaging remark to +his wife, in presence of a third party. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +LXXXIX.<br/> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These axioms relate to the contest alone. As for the catastrophe, others will +be needed for that. +</p> + +<p> +We have called this crisis <i>Civil War</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Of Various Weapons</i>, in the paragraph, <i>Of Modesty +in its Connection with Marriage</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Very few men have sufficient force of mind not to succumb to this preliminary +comedy, which is always cleverly played, and resembles the <i>hourra</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXIV.</h3> + +<h5>PRINCIPLES OF STRATEGY.</h5> + +<p> +The Archduke Charles published a very fine treatise on military under the title +<i>Principles of Strategy in Relation to the Campaigns of 1796</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +This, in a few words, is the history of our work. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is just what your wife will do. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +You say to yourself: +</p> + +<p> +“She would be nicely caught if I consented! She asks me only to be refused.” +</p> + +<p> +Then you reply to her: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, dearest, go and dress yourself, while Celine finishes dressing me; +but don’t keep me waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready now, love,” you cry out, at the end of ten minutes, as you stand +shaved and dressed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Las Symptoms</i>] that you see the innocence of Monsieur A——- +and the culpability of the baron. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Cicisbeo</i> and hated the <i>Patito</i>, she arranged that she and the +<i>Patito</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that Monsieur C——- is with you at this moment. I am waiting for +him to blow his brains out.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, my dear,” she said to him; “go on talking, I am listening to you.” +</p> + +<p> +C——- talked away and she replied, all the while writing the following note: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my happy experience,” he said, “that to them nothing is sacred.” +</p> + +<p> +The ladies protested. +</p> + +<p> +“But I can cite an instance in point.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an exception!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us hear the story,” said a young lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, tell it to us,” cried all the guests. +</p> + +<p> +The prudent old gentleman cast his eyes around, and, after having formed his +conclusions as to the age of the ladies, smiled and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Since we are all experienced in life, I consent to relate the adventure.” +</p> + +<p> +Dead silence followed, and the narrator read the following from a little book +which he had taken from his pocket: +</p> + +<p> +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——-. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” she said, “already here? Is this fidelity or merely a want of something +to do? Won’t you come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice and her manner had a meaning in them, but I was far from inclined at +that moment to indulge in a romance. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I answered with a bow and on being requested to leave the Opera box, I obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to this gentleman’s house,” she said to the lackey. “Say he will not be +home till to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It certainly is, but what am I going to do there? What good will I be in this +reconciliation?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have taken possession of you for my own amusement!” she said with an +imperious air, “so please don’t preach.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have counted, then, upon that chance, it seems to me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not seen anything,” she said. “I must take you to the apartments of +my husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, five years ago I caused them to be pulled down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Indeed!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +At the dinner, what must she do but offer the master some fish, on which he +said to her: +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, I have been living on milk for the last three years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Indeed!” she said again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Then turning to me, he added in a tone of profound sarcasm: +</p> + +<p> +“You will please to pardon me, and obtain also pardon from madame.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I was afraid, however,” I said, “that that sudden jolt in the carriage and +the surprising consequences may have frightened you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am not so easily alarmed!” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear it has left a little cloud on your mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“What must I do to reassure you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me the kiss here which chance—” +</p> + +<p> +“I will gladly do so; for if I do not, your vanity will lead you to think that +I fear you.” +</p> + +<p> +I took the kiss. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We must go in,” said she, “for the air of the river is icy, and it is not +worth while—” +</p> + +<p> +“I think to go in would be more dangerous,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so! Never mind, we will go in.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are modest,” she said smiling, “and you credit me with singular +consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? Well, since you take it in this way, we will go in; I demand +it.” +</p> + +<p> +A stupid proposition, when made by two people who are forcing themselves to say +something utterly different from what they think. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, madame, should everything that the public amuses itself by saying claim +our belief?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But, madame, the air is really too icy for us to stay here. Would you like to +go in?” said I with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you find it so?—That is singular. The air is quite warm.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>Entre nous</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said to me with an angelic voice, “let us leave this dangerous spot. +Resistance here is beyond our strength.” +</p> + +<p> +She drew me away and we left the pavilion with regret. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! how happy is she!” cried Madame de T——-. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom do you mean?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I speak?” said she with a look of alarm. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes indeed,” said I. “But must this bank be always ominous? Is there a regret? +Is there—?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Moved by a sentiment of curiosity I protested that I was a very good child. She +changed the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he is rather cross, but I suppose he could not be otherwise to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! he is so already.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was tempted to interpret this adventure as a trap, but as she noticed the +impression made by her words, she added: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She doubtless thought this remark in good taste, but she said: “You promised to +be good!” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Now will you ever love the countess as much as you do me?” +</p> + +<p> +I was about to answer when her maid, her confidante, appeared saying: +</p> + +<p> +“You must go. It is broad daylight, eleven o’clock, and the chateau is already +awake.” +</p> + +<p> +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——-! +</p> + +<p> +“You did not expect to see me so early, did you?” he said. “How has it all gone +off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know that I was here?” I asked in utter amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +These last words gave me the key to the whole mystery, and I saw how I stood. +</p> + +<p> +“But why should you have come so soon?” I asked him; “it would have been more +prudent to have waited a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” I replied, “she doubtless had her reasons. Perhaps I did not +play my part very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has everything been very pleasant? Tell me the particulars; come, tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“It wasn’t a very nice one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not worry yourself; there are no bad parts for good actors.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, you acquitted yourself well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Admirably.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Madame de T——-?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is adorable.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have succeeded—?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite agree with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet <i>entre nous</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, has he been good?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I was received like a dog!” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand. Let us go in, let us look for Madame de T——-. She must be up by +this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“But should we not out of decency begin with the husband?” I said to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may judge by the way he receives me; but let us go at once to his +apartment.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>valet de chambre</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I quite agree that there is no one like you for putting a woman to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and a husband too, and if necessary a lover, my dear friend.” +</p> + +<p> +At last Monsieur de T——- was admitted to his wife’s apartment, and there we +were all summoned. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” I said, and she must have perceived the feeling that was in my +tones—“I come to say good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He has played his part well,” the marquis said to her in a low voice, pointing +to me, “and my gratitude—” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us drop the subject,” interrupted Madame de T——-; “you may be sure that I +am well aware of all I owe him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped and her thought evaporated in a sigh; but she checked the rising +flood of sensibility and smiled significantly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She wrung my hand and left me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXV.</h3> + +<h5>OF ALLIES.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>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.</h4> + +<h4>1. OF RELIGIONS AND OF CONFESSION; CONSIDERED IN THEIR CONNECTION +WITH MARRIAGE.</h4> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The author thinks that La Bruyere is mistaken. +</p> + +<h4>2. OF THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.</h4> + +<p> +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 <i>feminisms</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A husband should never let his wife visit her mother unattended. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>3. OF BOARDING SCHOOL FRIENDS AND INTIMATE FRIENDS.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to take you home to your house,” said the baroness to Madame +B——-. “Monsieur de V——-, offer your arm to Emilie!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Louise,” she said, “she is overtired. Going out does not suit her, her +tastes are so simple. At Ecouen she was always reading—” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, what used you to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I, sir? Oh, I thought about nothing but acting comely. It was my passion!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I jealous!” cried Monsieur de V——-, “after four years of marriage, and after +having had three children!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Emilie, striking the fingers of the baron with her fan, “Louise is +not asleep!” +</p> + +<p> +The carriage stopped, and the baron offered his hand to his wife’s fair friend +and helped her to get out. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” said Madame B——-, “that you will not prevent Louise from coming to +the ball which I am giving this week.” +</p> + +<p> +The baron made her a respectful bow. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——-. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The husband, caught like a mouse in a trap, concealed himself in the closet. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, my dear!” said the two women, kissing each other. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you come so early?” asked Emilie. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my dear, cannot you guess? I came to have an understanding with you!” +</p> + +<p> +“What, a duel?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a very pretty jacket you have on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? My maid made it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I shall get Anastasia to take a lesson from Flore—” +</p> + +<p> +“So, then, my dear, I count on your friendship to refrain from bringing trouble +in my house.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my darling, let us speak no more about it,” said Emilie, interrupting +her friend, “for it tires me to death.” +</p> + +<p> +After a few trifling remarks the baroness left. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What must I do then to convince you of my love?” cried the baron, fixing his +gaze on the young woman. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Demon!” exclaimed the husband. “Yes, you are a demon, and not a woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come now, you are really amusing!” said the young woman as she seized the +bell-rope. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no, Emilie,” continued the lover of forty, in a calmer voice. “Do not +ring; stop, forgive me! I will sacrifice everything for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do not promise you anything!” she answered quickly with a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“My God! How you make me suffer!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This anecdote, which we have chosen from a thousand others, exemplifies the +services which two women can render each other. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>4. OF THE LOVER’S ALLIES.</h4> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I have seen the most cunning men on earth thus taken in. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>5. OF THE MAID.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You show a great deal of vanity in keeping near you such an accomplished +creature,” said a lady to the mistress of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear, some day perhaps you will find yourself jealous of me in +possessing Celestine.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must be endowed with very rare qualities, I suppose? She perhaps dresses +you well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, very badly!” +</p> + +<p> +“She sews well?” +</p> + +<p> +“She never touches her needle.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is faithful?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is one of those whose fidelity costs more than the most cunning +dishonesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“You astonish me, my dear; she is then your foster-sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +At last the questioner of Madame V——y understood. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>6. OF THE DOCTOR.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like the way in which the doctor feels my pulse!” +</p> + +<p> +And of course the doctor is dropped. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Very frequently a doctor becomes duped by the judicious manoeuvres of a young +and delicate wife, and comes to you with the announcement: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, doctor—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes! I know that!” +</p> + +<p> +He laughs and leaves the house. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>your honor</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXVI.</h3> + +<h5>OF DIFFERENT WEAPONS.</h5> + +<p> +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 <i>The Brigands</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>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.</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Homo duplex</i>, the interior man, to use an +expression of Buffon, immediately rouses himself and rends you with his keen +points of contact. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is the last struggle, but for her it also means victory. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>1. OF HEADACHES. 2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS. 3. OF MODESTY, IN ITS +CONNECTION WITH MARRIAGE.</h4> + +<h4>1. OF HEADACHES.</h4> + +<p> +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 <i>The +Predestined</i> and <i>Of the Honeymoon</i>.) Most of the means of defence +instinctively employed by husbands are nothing but traps set for the liveliness +of feminine affections. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Il buondo cani</i> of marriage, he is lost. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And have you really a headache?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor came,” she says, “and advised me to take exercise, and I find +myself much better!” +</p> + +<p> +Another day you wish to enter madame’s room. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a happy man,” said Marshal Augereau to General R——-, “to have such a +pretty wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<h4>2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS.</h4> + +<p> +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 <i>Will</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<h4>1. CLASSIC NEUROSIS. 2. ROMANTIC NEUROSIS.</h4> + +<p> +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 +<i>monads</i>, as excited as <i>bacchantes</i>; it is a revival of antiquity, +pure and simple. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Very frequently a husband, when he comes home, finds his wife in tears. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, my darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are in tears!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I know exactly what this is all about!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Nervous attacks of this kind are very fatiguing and become every day more rare. +Romanticism, however, has maintained its ground. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>3. OF MODESTY, IN ITS CONNECTION WITH MARRIAGE.</h4> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Justice may be done to all these questions. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The opinion of Diderot is of still less weight. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Let us grant, then, that one sex has as much modesty as the other, and let us +inquire in what modesty consists. +</p> + +<p> +Rousseau makes modesty the outcome of all those coquetries which females +display before males. This opinion appears to us equally mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Conjugal +Catechism, Meditation IV.</i>], 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +All this, my dear sir, is so much more horrible because— +</p> + +<h4>XCII. LOVERS IGNORE MODESTY.</h4> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXVII.</h3> + +<h5>OF THE LAST SYMPTOMS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We have marked with an asterisk the symptoms which seem to concern the latter +kind. +</p> + +<h4>MINOTAURIC OBSERVATIONS.</h4> + +<h4>I.</h4> + +<p> +*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: <i>The flag protects the +cargo</i>. +</p> + +<h4>II.</h4> + +<p> +A woman is at a ball, one of her friends comes up to her and says: +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband has much wit.” +</p> + +<p> +“You find it so?” +</p> + +<h4>III.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>IV.</h4> + +<p> +*In Lord Abergavenny’s suit for divorce, the <i>valet de chambre</i> 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.” +</p> + +<h4>V.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>VI.</h4> + +<p> +The woman who is happy in her affections does not go much into the world. +</p> + +<h4>VII.</h4> + +<p> +The woman who has a lover becomes very indulgent in judging others. +</p> + +<h4>VIII.</h4> + +<p> +*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. +</p> + +<h4>IX.</h4> + +<p> +*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! +</p> + +<h4>X.</h4> + +<p> +A woman who was a sloven suddenly develops extreme nicety in her attire. There +is a Minotaur at hand! +</p> + +<h4>XI.</h4> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear, I know no greater torment than not to be understood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear, but when one is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that scarcely ever happens.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h4>XII.</h4> + +<p> +*The day when a wife behaves nicely to her husband—all is over. +</p> + +<h4>XIII.</h4> + +<p> +I asked her: “Where have you been, Jeanne?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to your friend’s to get your plate that you left there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, indeed! everything is still mine,” I said. The following year I repeated +the question under similar circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been to bring back our plate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, part of the things are still mine,” I said. But after that, when I +questioned her, she spoke very differently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” I said, “nothing is left me.” +</p> + +<h4>XIV.</h4> + +<p> +Do not trust a woman who talks of her virtue. +</p> + +<h4>XV.</h4> + +<p> +Some one said to the Duchess of Chaulnes, whose life was despaired of: +</p> + +<p> +“The Duke of Chaulnes would like to see you once more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h4>XVI.</h4> + +<p> +*Some women try to persuade their husbands that they have duties to perform +towards certain persons. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h4>XVII.</h4> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h4>XVIII.</h4> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<h4>XIX.</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>XX.</h4> + +<p> +It is a terrible day when a husband fails to explain to himself the motive of +some action of his wife. +</p> + +<h4>XXI.</h4> + +<p> +*The woman who allows herself to be found out deserves her fate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +M. de Roquemont slept once a month in the chamber of his wife, and he used to +say, as he went away: +</p> + +<p> +“I wash my hands of anything that may happen.” +</p> + +<p> +There is something disgusting in that remark, and perhaps something profound in +its suggestion of conjugal policy. +</p> + +<p> +A diplomat, when he saw his wife’s lover enter, left his study and, going to +his wife’s chamber, said to the two: +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will at least refrain from fighting.” +</p> + +<p> +This was good humor. +</p> + +<p> +M. de Boufflers was asked what he would do if on returning after a long absence +he found his wife with child? +</p> + +<p> +“I would order my night dress and slippers to be taken to her room.” +</p> + +<p> +This was magnanimity. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This was nobility. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>LAST AXIOMS.</h4> + +<p> +XCIII.<br/> +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. +</p> + +<p> +XCIV.<br/> +A husband will be best avenged by his wife’s lover. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXVIII.</h3> + +<h5>OF COMPENSATIONS.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he is a fine fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pate de fois +gras</i>, you are struck dumb on finding this <i>pate</i> 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 +<i>pate</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear girl, we have not means which warrant our buying +<i>pates</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it costs us nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! ho!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is M. Achille’s brother who sent it to him.” +</p> + +<p> +You catch sight of M. Achille in a corner. The celibate greets you, he is +radiant on seeing that you have accepted the <i>pate</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“That you are director-general!” she cries, showing him a royal despatch. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I well know,” he says, “that justice would be rendered me under whatever +ministers I served.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear! But M. Villeplaine has answered for you with his life, and his +eminence the Cardinal de ——- of whom he is the—” +</p> + +<p> +“M. de Villeplaine?” +</p> + +<p> +This is such a munificent recompense, that the husband adds with the smile of a +director-general: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, deuce take it, my dear, this is your doing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! don’t thank me for it; Adolphe did it from personal attachment to you.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, after all, she is my wife!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where the devil did she get that—but it’s a random shot!” he says to himself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But how shall we treat those compensations which are most pleasing to husbands? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Imagine charming Mme. de T——-, the heroine of our Meditation of +<i>Strategy</i>, saying with a fascinating smile: +</p> + +<p> +“I never before found you so agreeable!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The First Symptoms</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O Monsieur Adolphe!” cried the young lady as she saw her friend with an air of +gayety take his seat in the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing, madame, he is one of my friends; we have shaken hands.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” he says to him, “I cuckolded you, last night!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>comfortabilisme</i> of accepting certain +compensations, a <i>comfortabilisme</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXIX.</h3> + +<h5>OF CONJUGAL PEACE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Theory of the Bed</i>. [See Meditation XVII.] +</p> + +<p> +“I have the honor to present to you the Marquise de T——-,” he said to me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see, sir, what you can say against a marriage such as ours,” said the +old man to me. +</p> + +<p> +“The laws of Rome forefend!” I cried, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, is your work finished?” asked the old man, in the unctuous tones +peculiar to men of the ancient aristocracy. +</p> + +<p> +And with these words he gave a sardonic smile, as if for commentary. +</p> + +<p> +“Very nearly, sir,” I replied. “I have come to the philosophic situation, which +you appear to have reached, but I confess that I—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are searching for ideas?” he added—finishing for me a sentence, which I +confess I did not know how to end. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What! would you deny the existence of love on the day after that of marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may be sure that I have arranged a pleasant surprise for her in my +will,” he replied, gayly. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, Joseph,” cried the marchioness, approaching a servant who carried +an overcoat lined with silk. “The marquis is probably feeling the cold.” +</p> + +<p> +The old marquis put on his overcoat, buttoned it up, and taking my arm, led me +to the sunny side of the terrace. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Eclectic,” I said, smiling, seeing he could not remember this philosophic +term. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I made a sign of assent. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” I said, “love only reveals its pleasures to those who mingle in one +their thoughts, their fortunes, their sentiments, their souls, their lives—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He suddenly stopped, and fixed his eyes upon the heavens. +</p> + +<p> +“The poor fellow has lost his wits!” I thought to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<h3>MEDITATION XXX.</h3> + +<h5>CONCLUSION.</h5> + +<p> +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 +<i>amour-propre</i> was vastly tickled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Certain retired soldiers complained of the corns which tortured them, and spoke +of Austerlitz, and of their tight boots. +</p> + +<p> +At the second halt, certain men of the world whispered together: +</p> + +<p> +“But this prophet is a fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever heard him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I? I came from sheer curiosity.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I because I saw the fellow had a large following.” (The last man who spoke +was a fashionable.) +</p> + +<p> +“He is a mere charlatan.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that since all these duties make up one-third of the public revenues, +we should be seriously embarrassed if—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken, madame,” said the Provencal, “it was her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“The speaker is called to order,” cried the president, “and condemned to dine +the whole party, for having used the word <i>husband</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +That the honest woman not only gives life to the children of the peerage, but +also to its financial funds; +</p> + +<p> +That manufacturers owe their prosperity to this <i>systolic</i> movement; +</p> + +<p> +That the honest woman is a being essentially <i>budgetative</i>, and active as +a consumer; +</p> + +<p> +That the least decline in public love would involve incalculable miseries to +the treasury, and to men of invested fortunes; +</p> + +<p> +That a husband has at least a third of his fortune invested in the inconstancy +of his wife, etc. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but the annoyances, the children, the troubles—” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“If a man never grew old, I would never wish him to have a wife!” +</p> + +<h3>POSTSCRIPT.</h3> + +<p> +“And so you are going to be married?” asked the duchess of the author who had +read his manuscript to her. +</p> + +<p> +She was one of those ladies to whom the author has already paid his respects in +the introduction of this work. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, madame,” I replied. “To meet a woman who has courage enough to +become mine, would satisfy the wildest of my hopes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this resignation or infatuation?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>Diadeste</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even a kiss?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I have won the <i>Diadeste</i> twenty times in that way,” she laughingly +replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“This would indeed enrich me. You have done me so many favors already, that I +cannot repay—” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled slyly, and replied as follows: +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The seductive creature piqued by this slight said to him in a melodious voice: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +The philosopher kept his eyes lowered as he replied: +</p> + +<p> +“The subject of this book is beyond the comprehension of ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Absolutely all?” said the daughter of the desert. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, all! And it has been only by a constant study of womankind that I have +come to regard them without fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the young Arabian girl, lowering the long lashes of her white +eyelids. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I must relate to you a very singular adventure I have just had.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am listening, my gazelle,” replied the Arab, who sat down on a rug and +crossed his feet after the Oriental manner. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, go on!” cried the Arab. +</p> + +<p> +“I listened to his avowal. He was young, ardent—and you came just in time to +save my tottering virtue.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Fatima!” cried the husband, “if you would save your life, answer me —Where is +the traitor?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So I shall have my fine chain of gold, after all!” she cried, dancing for joy. +“You have lost the <i>Diadeste</i>. Be more mindful next time.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Diadeste</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>PARIS, 1824-29.</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE</h2> + +<h5>BY</h5> + +<h5>HONORÉ DE BALZAC</h5> + +<h2>PART FIRST</h2> + +<h3>PREFACE</h3> + +<h5>IN WHICH EVERY ONE WILL FIND HIS OWN IMPRESSIONS OF MARRIAGE.</h5> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Usually, chance interviews are premeditated. And you speak with this object, +who has now become very timid. +</p> + +<p> +YOU.—“A delightful evening!” +</p> + +<p> +SHE.—“Oh! yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +You are allowed to become the suitor of this young person. +</p> + +<p> +THE MOTHER-IN-LAW (to the intended groom).—“You can’t imagine how susceptible +the dear girl is of attachment.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile there is a delicate pecuniary question to be discussed by the two +families. +</p> + +<p> +YOUR FATHER (to the mother-in-law).—“My property is valued at five hundred +thousand francs, my dear madame!” +</p> + +<p> +YOUR FUTURE MOTHER-IN-LAW.—“And our house, my dear sir, is on a corner lot.” +</p> + +<p> +A contract follows, drawn up by two hideous notaries, a small one, and a big +one. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then what? . . . . . Why, then come a crowd of petty unforeseen troubles, like +the following: +</p> + +<h2>PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE</h2> + +<h3>THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.</h3> + +<p> +Is it a petty or a profound trouble? I knew not; it is profound for your +sons-in-law or daughters-in-law, but exceedingly petty for you. +</p> + +<p> +“Petty! You must be joking; why, a child costs terribly dear!” exclaims a +ten-times-too-happy husband, at the baptism of his eleventh, called the little +last newcomer,—a phrase with which women beguile their families. +</p> + +<p> +“What trouble is this?” you ask me. Well! this is, like many petty troubles of +married life, a blessing for some one. +</p> + +<p> +You have, four months since, married off your daughter, whom we will call by +the sweet name of CAROLINE, and whom we will make the type of all wives. +Caroline is, like all other young ladies, very charming, and you have found for +her a husband who is either a lawyer, a captain, an engineer, a judge, or +perhaps a young viscount. But he is more likely to be what sensible families +must seek,—the ideal of their desires—the only son of a rich landed proprietor. +(See the <i>Preface</i>.) +</p> + +<p> +This phoenix we will call ADOLPHE, whatever may be his position in the world, +his age, and the color of his hair. +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer, the captain, the engineer, the judge, in short, the son-in-law, +Adolphe, and his family, have seen in Miss Caroline: +</p> + +<p> +I.—Miss Caroline; +</p> + +<p> +II.—The only daughter of your wife and you. +</p> + +<p> +Here, as in the Chamber of Deputies, we are compelled to call for a division of +the house: +</p> + +<p> +1.—As to your wife. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife is to inherit the property of a maternal uncle, a gouty old fellow +whom she humors, nurses, caresses, and muffles up; to say nothing of her +father’s fortune. Caroline has always adored her uncle, —her uncle who trotted +her on his knee, her uncle who—her uncle whom—her uncle, in short,—whose +property is estimated at two hundred thousand. +</p> + +<p> +Further, your wife is well preserved, though her age has been the subject of +mature reflection on the part of your son-in-law’s grandparents and other +ancestors. After many skirmishes between the mothers-in-law, they have at last +confided to each other the little secrets peculiar to women of ripe years. +</p> + +<p> +“How is it with you, my dear madame?” +</p> + +<p> +“I, thank heaven, have passed the period; and you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really hope I have, too!” says your wife. +</p> + +<p> +“You can marry Caroline,” says Adolphe’s mother to your future son-in-law; +“Caroline will be the sole heiress of her mother, of her uncle, and her +grandfather.” +</p> + +<p> +2.—As to yourself. +</p> + +<p> +You are also the heir of your maternal grandfather, a good old man whose +possessions will surely fall to you, for he has grown imbecile, and is +therefore incapable of making a will. +</p> + +<p> +You are an amiable man, but you have been very dissipated in your youth. +Besides, you are fifty-nine years old, and your head is bald, resembling a bare +knee in the middle of a gray wig. +</p> + +<p> +III.—A dowry of three hundred thousand. +</p> + +<p> +IV.—Caroline’s only sister, a little dunce of twelve, a sickly child, who bids +fair to fill an early grave. +</p> + +<p> +V.—Your own fortune, father-in-law (in certain kinds of society they say +<i>papa father-in-law</i>) yielding an income of twenty thousand, and which +will soon be increased by an inheritance. +</p> + +<p> +VI.—Your wife’s fortune, which will be increased by two inheritances —from her +uncle and her grandfather. In all, thus: +</p> + +<p> +Three inheritances and interest, 750,000<br/> +Your fortune, 250,000<br/> +Your wife’s fortune, 250,000<br/> +_________ +</p> + +<p> +Total, 1,250,000 +</p> + +<p> +which surely cannot take wing! +</p> + +<p> +Such is the autopsy of all those brilliant marriages that conduct their +processions of dancers and eaters, in white gloves, flowering at the +button-hole, with bouquets of orange flowers, furbelows, veils, coaches and +coach-drivers, from the magistrate’s to the church, from the church to the +banquet, from the banquet to the dance, from the dance to the nuptial chamber, +to the music of the orchestra and the accompaniment of the immemorial +pleasantries uttered by relics of dandies, for are there not, here and there in +society, relics of dandies, as there are relics of English horses? To be sure, +and such is the osteology of the most amorous intent. +</p> + +<p> +The majority of the relatives have had a word to say about this marriage. +</p> + +<p> +Those on the side of the bridegroom: +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe has made a good thing of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Those on the side of the bride: +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline has made a splendid match. Adolphe is an only son, and will have an +income of sixty thousand, <i>some day or other</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Some time afterwards, the happy judge, the happy engineer, the happy captain, +the happy lawyer, the happy only son of a rich landed proprietor, in short +Adolphe, comes to dine with you, accompanied by his family. +</p> + +<p> +Your daughter Caroline is exceedingly proud of the somewhat rounded form of her +waist. All women display an innocent artfulness, the first time they find +themselves facing motherhood. Like a soldier who makes a brilliant toilet for +his first battle, they love to play the pale, the suffering; they rise in a +certain manner, and walk with the prettiest affectation. While yet flowers, +they bear a fruit; they enjoy their maternity by anticipation. All those little +ways are exceedingly charming—the first time. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife, now the mother-in-law of Adolphe, subjects herself to the pressure +of tight corsets. When her daughter laughs, she weeps; when Caroline wishes her +happiness public, she tries to conceal hers. After dinner, the discerning eye +of the co-mother-in-law divines the work of darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife also is an expectant mother! The news spreads like lightning, and +your oldest college friend says to you laughingly: “Ah! so you are trying to +increase the population again!” +</p> + +<p> +You have some hope in a consultation that is to take place to-morrow. You, +kind-hearted man that you are, you turn red, you hope it is merely the dropsy; +but the doctors confirm the arrival of a <i>little last one</i>! +</p> + +<p> +In such circumstances some timorous husbands go to the country or make a +journey to Italy. In short, a strange confusion reigns in your household; both +you and your wife are in a false position. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” says a friend +to you on the Boulevard. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! do as much if you can,” is your angry retort. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s as bad as being robbed on the highway!” says your son-in-law’s family. +“Robbed on the highway” is a flattering expression for the mother-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +The family hopes that the child which divides the expected fortune in three +parts, will be, like all old men’s children, scrofulous, feeble, an abortion. +Will it be likely to live? The family awaits the delivery of your wife with an +anxiety like that which agitated the house of Orleans during the confinement of +the Duchess de Berri: a second son would secure the throne to the younger +branch without the onerous conditions of July; Henry V would easily seize the +crown. From that moment the house of Orleans was obliged to play double or +quits: the event gave them the game. +</p> + +<p> +The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline’s first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not live. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother’s last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds, with two +teeth and luxuriant hair. +</p> + +<p> +For sixteen years you have desired a son. This conjugal annoyance is the only +one that makes you beside yourself with joy. For your rejuvenated wife has +attained what must be called the <i>Indian Summer</i> of women; she nurses, she +has a full breast of milk! Her complexion is fresh, her color is pure pink and +white. In her forty-second year, she affects the young woman, buys little baby +stockings, walks about followed by a nurse, embroiders caps and tries on the +cunningest headdresses. Alexandrine has resolved to instruct her daughter by +her example; she is delightful and happy. And yet this is a trouble, a petty +one for you, a serious one for your son-in-law. This annoyance is of the two +sexes, it is common to you and your wife. In short, in this instance, your +paternity renders you all the more proud from the fact that it is +incontestable, my dear sir! +</p> + +<h3>REVELATIONS.</h3> + +<p> +Generally speaking, a young woman does not exhibit her true character till she +has been married two or three years. She hides her faults, without intending +it, in the midst of her first joys, of her first parties of pleasure. She goes +into society to dance, she visits her relatives to show you off, she journeys +on with an escort of love’s first wiles; she is gradually transformed from +girlhood to womanhood. Then she becomes mother and nurse, and in this +situation, full of charming pangs, that leaves neither a word nor a moment for +observation, such are its multiplied cares, it is impossible to judge of a +woman. You require, then, three or four years of intimate life before you +discover an exceedingly melancholy fact, one that gives you cause for constant +terror. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife, the young lady in whom the first pleasures of life and love supplied +the place of grace and wit, so arch, so animated, so vivacious, whose least +movements spoke with delicious eloquence, has cast off, slowly, one by one, her +natural artifices. At last you perceive the truth! You try to disbelieve it, +you think yourself deceived; but no: Caroline lacks intellect, she is dull, she +can neither joke nor reason, sometimes she has little tact. You are frightened. +You find yourself forever obliged to lead this darling through the thorny +paths, where you must perforce leave your self-esteem in tatters. +</p> + +<p> +You have already been annoyed several times by replies that, in society, were +politely received: people have held their tongues instead of smiling; but you +were certain that after your departure the women looked at each other and said: +“Did you hear Madame Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your little woman, she is—” +</p> + +<p> +“A regular cabbage-head.” +</p> + +<p> +“How could he, who is certainly a man of sense, choose—?” +</p> + +<p> +“He should educate, teach his wife, or make her hold her tongue.” +</p> + +<h3>AXIOMS.</h3> + +<p> +Axiom.—In our system of civilization a man is entirely responsible for his +wife. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—The husband does not mould the wife. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline has one day obstinately maintained, at the house of Madame de +Fischtaminel, a very distinguished lady, that her little last one resembled +neither its father nor its mother, but looked like a certain friend of the +family. She perhaps enlightens Monsieur de Fischtaminel, and overthrows the +labors of three years, by tearing down the scaffolding of Madame de +Fischtaminel’s assertions, who, after this visit, will treat you will coolness, +suspecting, as she does, that you have been making indiscreet remarks to your +wife. +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion, Caroline, after having conversed with a writer about his +works, counsels the poet, who is already a prolific author, to try to write +something likely to live. Sometimes she complains of the slow attendance at the +tables of people who have but one servant and have put themselves to great +trouble to receive her. Sometimes she speaks ill of widows who marry again, +before Madame Deschars who has married a third time, and on this occasion, an +ex-notary, Nicolas-Jean-Jerome-Nepomucene-Ange-Marie-Victor-Joseph Deschars, a +friend of your father’s. +</p> + +<p> +In short, you are no longer yourself when you are in society with your wife. +Like a man who is riding a skittish horse and glares straight between the +beast’s two ears, you are absorbed by the attention with which you listen to +your Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +In order to compensate herself for the silence to which young ladies are +condemned, Caroline talks; or rather babbles. She wants to make a sensation, +and she does make a sensation; nothing stops her. She addresses the most +eminent men, the most celebrated women. She introduces herself, and puts you on +the rack. Going into society is going to the stake. +</p> + +<p> +She begins to think you are cross-grained, moody. The fact is, you are watching +her, that’s all! In short, you keep her within a small circle of friends, for +she has already embroiled you with people on whom your interests depended. +</p> + +<p> +How many times have you recoiled from the necessity of a remonstrance, in the +morning, on awakening, when you had put her in a good humor for listening! A +woman rarely listens. How many times have you recoiled from the burthen of your +imperious obligations! +</p> + +<p> +The conclusion of your ministerial communication can be no other than: “You +have no sense.” You foresee the effect of your first lesson. Caroline will say +to herself: “Ah I have no sense! Haven’t I though?” +</p> + +<p> +No woman ever takes this in good part. Both of you must draw the sword and +throw away the scabbard. Six weeks after, Caroline may prove to you that she +has quite sense enough to <i>minotaurize</i> you without your perceiving it. +</p> + +<p> +Frightened at such a prospect, you make use of all the eloquent phrases to gild +this pill. In short, you find the means of flattering Caroline’s various +self-loves, for: +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—A married woman has several self-loves. +</p> + +<p> +You say that you are her best friend, the only one well situated to enlighten +her; the more careful you are, the more watchful and puzzled she is. At this +moment she has plenty of sense. +</p> + +<p> +You ask your dear Caroline, whose waist you clasp, how she, who is so brilliant +when alone with you, who retorts so charmingly (you remind her of sallies that +she has never made, which you put in her mouth, and, which she smilingly +accepts), how she can say this, that, and the other, in society. She is, +doubtless, like many ladies, timid in company. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” you say, “many very distinguished men who are just the same.” +</p> + +<p> +You cite the case of some who are admirable tea-party oracles, but who cannot +utter half a dozen sentences in the tribune. Caroline should keep watch over +herself; you vaunt silence as the surest method of being witty. In society, a +good listener is highly prized. +</p> + +<p> +You have broken the ice, though you have not even scratched its glossy surface: +you have placed your hand upon the croup of the most ferocious and savage, the +most wakeful and clear-sighted, the most restless, the swiftest, the most +jealous, the most ardent and violent, the simplest and most elegant, the most +unreasonable, the most watchful chimera of the moral world—THE VANITY OF A +WOMAN! +</p> + +<p> +Caroline clasps you in her arms with a saintly embrace, thanks you for your +advice, and loves you the more for it; she wishes to be beholden to you for +everything, even for her intellect; she may be a dunce, but, what is better +than saying fine things, she knows how to do them! But she desires also to be +your pride! It is not a question of taste in dress, of elegance and beauty; she +wishes to make you proud of her intelligence. You are the luckiest of men in +having successfully managed to escape from this first dangerous pass in +conjugal life. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going this evening to Madame Deschars’, where they never know what to +do to amuse themselves; they play all sorts of forfeit games on account of a +troop of young women and girls there; you shall see!” she says. +</p> + +<p> +You are so happy at this turn of affairs, that you hum airs and carelessly chew +bits of straw and thread, while still in your shirt and drawers. You are like a +hare frisking on a flowering dew-perfumed meadow. You leave off your morning +gown till the last extremity, when breakfast is on the table. During the day, +if you meet a friend and he happens to speak of women, you defend them; you +consider women charming, delicious, there is something divine about them. +</p> + +<p> +How often are our opinions dictated to us by the unknown events of our life! +</p> + +<p> +You take your wife to Madame Deschars’. Madame Deschars is a mother and is +exceedingly devout. You never see any newspapers at her house: she keeps watch +over her daughters by three different husbands, and keeps them all the more +closely from the fact that she herself has, it is said, some little things to +reproach herself with during the career of her two former lords. At her house, +no one dares risk a jest. Everything there is white and pink and perfumed with +sanctity, as at the houses of widows who are approaching the confines of their +third youth. It seems as if every day were Sunday there. +</p> + +<p> +You, a young husband, join the juvenile society of young women and girls, +misses and young people, in the chamber of Madame Deschars. The serious people, +politicians, whist-players, and tea-drinkers, are in the parlor. +</p> + +<p> +In Madame Deschars’ room they are playing a game which consists in hitting upon +words with several meanings, to fit the answers that each player is to make to +the following questions: +</p> + +<p> +How do you like it? +</p> + +<p> +What do you do with it? +</p> + +<p> +Where do you put it? +</p> + +<p> +Your turn comes to guess the word, you go into the parlor, take part in a +discussion, and return at the call of a smiling young lady. They have selected +a word that may be applied to the most enigmatical replies. Everybody knows +that, in order to puzzle the strongest heads, the best way is to choose a very +ordinary word, and to invent phrases that will send the parlor Oedipus a +thousand leagues from each of his previous thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +This game is a poor substitute for lansquenet or dice, but it is not very +expensive. +</p> + +<p> +The word MAL has been made the Sphinx of this particular occasion. Every one +has determined to put you off the scent. The word, among other acceptations, +has that of <i>mal</i> [evil], a substantive that signifies, in aesthetics, the +opposite of good; of <i>mal</i> [pain, disease, complaint], a substantive that +enters into a thousand pathological expressions; then <i>malle</i> [a +mail-bag], and finally <i>malle</i> [a trunk], that box of various forms, +covered with all kinds of skin, made of every sort of leather, with handles, +that journeys rapidly, for it serves to carry travelling effects in, as a man +of Delille’s school would say. +</p> + +<p> +For you, a man of some sharpness, the Sphinx displays his wiles; he spreads his +wings and folds them up again; he shows you his lion’s paws, his woman’s neck, +his horse’s loins, and his intellectual head; he shakes his sacred fillets, he +strikes an attitude and runs away, he comes and goes, and sweeps the place with +his terrible equine tail; he shows his shining claws, and draws them in; he +smiles, frisks, and murmurs. He puts on the looks of a joyous child and those +of a matron; he is, above all, there to make fun of you. +</p> + +<p> +You ask the group collectively, “How do you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it for love’s sake,” says one. +</p> + +<p> +“I like it regular,” says another. +</p> + +<p> +“I like it with a long mane.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it with a spring lock.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it unmasked.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it on horseback.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like it as coming from God,” says Madame Deschars. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you like it?” you say to your wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I like it legitimate.” +</p> + +<p> +This response of your wife is not understood, and sends you a journey into the +constellated fields of the infinite, where the mind, dazzled by the multitude +of creations, finds it impossible to make a choice. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you put it?” +</p> + +<p> +“In a carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a garret.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a steamboat.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the closet.” +</p> + +<p> +“On a cart.” +</p> + +<p> +“In prison.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the ears.” +</p> + +<p> +“In a shop.” +</p> + +<p> +Your wife says to you last of all: “In bed.” +</p> + +<p> +You were on the point of guessing it, but you know no word that fits this +answer, Madame Deschars not being likely to have allowed anything improper. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I make it my sole happiness,” says your wife, after the answers of all the +rest, who have sent you spinning through a whole world of linguistic +suppositions. +</p> + +<p> +This response strikes everybody, and you especially; so you persist in seeking +the meaning of it. You think of the bottle of hot water that your wife has put +to her feet when it is cold,—of the warming pan, above all! Now of her +night-cap,—of her handkerchief,—of her curling paper,—of the hem of her +chemise,—of her embroidery,—of her flannel jacket,—of your bandanna,—of the +pillow. +</p> + +<p> +In short, as the greatest pleasure of the respondents is to see their Oedipus +mystified, as each word guessed by you throws them into fits of laughter, +superior men, perceiving no word that will fit all the explanations, will +sooner give it up than make three unsuccessful attempts. According to the law +of this innocent game you are condemned to return to the parlor after leaving a +forfeit; but you are so exceedingly puzzled by your wife’s answers, that you +ask what the word was. +</p> + +<p> +“Mal,” exclaims a young miss. +</p> + +<p> +You comprehend everything but your wife’s replies: she has not played the game. +Neither Madame Deschars, nor any one of the young women understand. She has +cheated. You revolt, there is an insurrection among the girls and young women. +They seek and are puzzled. You want an explanation, and every one participates +in your desire. +</p> + +<p> +“In what sense did you understand the word, my dear?” you say to Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, <i>male</i>!” [male.] +</p> + +<p> +Madame Deschars bites her lips and manifests the greatest displeasure; the +young women blush and drop their eyes; the little girls open theirs, nudge each +other and prick up their ears. Your feet are glued to the carpet, and you have +so much salt in your throat that you believe in a repetition of the event which +delivered Lot from his wife. +</p> + +<p> +You see an infernal life before you; society is out of the question. +</p> + +<p> +To remain at home with this triumphant stupidity is equivalent to condemnation +to the state’s prison. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Moral tortures exceed physical sufferings by all the difference which +exists between the soul and the body. +</p> + +<h3>THE ATTENTIONS OF A WIFE.</h3> + +<p> +Among the keenest pleasures of bachelor life, every man reckons the +independence of his getting up. The fancies of the morning compensate for the +glooms of evening. A bachelor turns over and over in his bed: he is free to +gape loud enough to justify apprehensions of murder, and to scream at a pitch +authorizing the suspicion of joys untold. He can forget his oaths of the day +before, let the fire burn upon the hearth and the candle sink to its socket,—in +short, go to sleep again in spite of pressing work. He can curse the expectant +boots which stand holding their black mouths open at him and pricking up their +ears. He can pretend not to see the steel hooks which glitter in a sunbeam +which has stolen through the curtains, can disregard the sonorous summons of +the obstinate clock, can bury himself in a soft place, saying: “Yes, I was in a +hurry, yesterday, but am so no longer to-day. Yesterday was a dotard. To-day is +a sage: between them stands the night which brings wisdom, the night which +gives light. I ought to go, I ought to do it, I promised I would—I am weak, I +know. But how can I resist the downy creases of my bed? My feet feel flaccid, I +think I must be sick, I am too happy just here. I long to see the ethereal +horizon of my dreams again, those women without claws, those winged beings and +their obliging ways. In short, I have found the grain of salt to put upon the +tail of that bird that was always flying away: the coquette’s feet are caught +in the line. I have her now—” +</p> + +<p> +Your servant, meantime, reads your newspaper, half-opens your letters, and +leaves you to yourself. And you go to sleep again, lulled by the rumbling of +the morning wagons. Those terrible, vexatious, quivering teams, laden with +meat, those trucks with big tin teats bursting with milk, though they make a +clatter most infernal and even crush the paving stones, seem to you to glide +over cotton, and vaguely remind you of the orchestra of Napoleon Musard. Though +your house trembles in all its timbers and shakes upon its keel, you think +yourself a sailor cradled by a zephyr. +</p> + +<p> +You alone have the right to bring these joys to an end by throwing away your +night-cap as you twist up your napkin after dinner, and by sitting up in bed. +Then you take yourself to task with such reproaches as these: “Ah, mercy on me, +I must get up!” “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy—!” “Get +up, lazy bones!” +</p> + +<p> +All this time you remain perfectly tranquil. You look round your chamber, you +collect your wits together. Finally, you emerge from the bed, spontaneously! +Courageously! of your own accord! You go to the fireplace, you consult the most +obliging of timepieces, you utter hopeful sentences thus couched: “Whatshisname +is a lazy creature, I guess I shall find him in. I’ll run. I’ll catch him if +he’s gone. He’s sure to wait for me. There is a quarter of an hour’s grace in +all appointments, even between debtor and creditor.” +</p> + +<p> +You put on your boots with fury, you dress yourself as if you were afraid of +being caught half-dressed, you have the delight of being in a hurry, you call +your buttons into action, you finally go out like a conqueror, whistling, +brandishing your cane, pricking up your ears and breaking into a canter. +</p> + +<p> +After all, you say to yourself, you are responsible to no one, you are your own +master! +</p> + +<p> +But you, poor married man, you were stupid enough to say to your wife, +“To-morrow, my dear” (sometimes she knows it two days beforehand), “I have got +to get up early.” Unfortunate Adolphe, you have especially proved the +importance of this appointment: “It’s to—and to—and above all to—in short to—” +</p> + +<p> +Two hours before dawn, Caroline wakes you up gently and says to you softly: +“Adolphy dear, Adolphy love!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter? Fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, go to sleep again, I’ve made a mistake; but the hour hand was on it, any +way! It’s only four, you can sleep two hours more.” +</p> + +<p> +Is not telling a man, “You’ve only got two hours to sleep,” the same thing, on +a small scale, as saying to a criminal, “It’s five in the morning, the ceremony +will be performed at half-past seven”? Such sleep is troubled by an idea +dressed in grey and furnished with wings, which comes and flaps, like a bat, +upon the windows of your brain. +</p> + +<p> +A woman in a case like this is as exact as a devil coming to claim a soul he +has purchased. When the clock strikes five, your wife’s voice, too well known, +alas! resounds in your ear; she accompanies the stroke, and says with an +atrocious calmness, “Adolphe, it’s five o’clock, get up, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye-e-e-s, ah-h-h-h!” +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe, you’ll be late for your business, you said so yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah-h-h-h, ye-e-e-e-s.” You turn over in despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, love. I got everything ready last night; now you must, my dear; do +you want to miss him? There, up, I say; it’s broad daylight.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline throws off the blankets and gets up: she wants to show you that +<i>she</i> can rise without making a fuss. She opens the blinds, she lets in +the sun, the morning air, the noise of the street, and then comes back. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adolphe, you <i>must</i> get up! Who ever would have supposed you had no +energy! But it’s just like you men! I am only a poor, weak woman, but when I +say a thing, I do it.” +</p> + +<p> +You get up grumbling, execrating the sacrament of marriage. There is not the +slightest merit in your heroism; it wasn’t you, but your wife, that got up. +Caroline gets you everything you want with provoking promptitude; she foresees +everything, she gives you a muffler in winter, a blue-striped cambric shirt in +summer, she treats you like a child; you are still asleep, she dresses you and +has all the trouble. She finally thrusts you out of doors. Without her nothing +would go straight! She calls you back to give you a paper, a pocketbook, you +had forgotten. You don’t think of anything, she thinks of everything! +</p> + +<p> +You return five hours afterwards to breakfast, between eleven and noon. The +chambermaid is at the door, or on the stairs, or on the landing, talking with +somebody’s valet: she runs in on hearing or seeing you. Your servant is laying +the cloth in a most leisurely style, stopping to look out of the window or to +lounge, and coming and going like a person who knows he has plenty of time. You +ask for your wife, supposing that she is up and dressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame is still in bed,” says the maid. +</p> + +<p> +You find your wife languid, lazy, tired and asleep. She had been awake all +night to wake you in the morning, so she went to bed again, and is quite hungry +now. +</p> + +<p> +You are the cause of all these disarrangements. If breakfast is not ready, she +says it’s because you went out. If she is not dressed, and if everything is in +disorder, it’s all your fault. For everything which goes awry she has this +answer: “Well, you would get up so early!” “He would get up so early!” is the +universal reason. She makes you go to bed early, because you got up early. She +can do nothing all day, because you would get up so unusually early. +</p> + +<p> +Eighteen months afterwards, she still maintains, “Without me, you would never +get up!” To her friends she says, “My husband get up! If it weren’t for me, he +never <i>would</i> get up!” +</p> + +<p> +To this a man whose hair is beginning to whiten, replies, “A graceful +compliment to you, madame!” This slightly indelicate comment puts an end to her +boasts. +</p> + +<p> +This petty trouble, repeated several times, teaches you to live alone in the +bosom of your family, not to tell all you know, and to have no confidant but +yourself: and it often seems to you a question whether the inconveniences of +the married state do not exceed its advantages. +</p> + +<h3>SMALL VEXATIONS.</h3> + +<p> +You have made a transition from the frolicsome allegretto of the bachelor to +the heavy andante of the father of a family. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of that fine English steed prancing and snorting between the polished +shafts of a tilbury as light as your own heart, and moving his glistening croup +under the quadruple network of the reins and ribbons that you so skillfully +manage with what grace and elegance the Champs Elysees can bear witness—you +drive a good solid Norman horse with a steady, family gait. +</p> + +<p> +You have learned what paternal patience is, and you let no opportunity slip of +proving it. Your countenance, therefore, is serious. +</p> + +<p> +By your side is a domestic, evidently for two purposes like the carriage. The +vehicle is four-wheeled and hung upon English springs: it is corpulent and +resembles a Rouen scow: it has glass windows, and an infinity of economical +arrangements. It is a barouche in fine weather, and a brougham when it rains. +It is apparently light, but, when six persons are in it, it is heavy and tires +out your only horse. +</p> + +<p> +On the back seat, spread out like flowers, is your young wife in full bloom, +with her mother, a big marshmallow with a great many leaves. These two flowers +of the female species twitteringly talk of you, though the noise of the wheels +and your attention to the horse, joined to your fatherly caution, prevent you +from hearing what they say. +</p> + +<p> +On the front seat, there is a nice tidy nurse holding a little girl in her lap: +by her side is a boy in a red plaited shirt, who is continually leaning out of +the carriage and climbing upon the cushions, and who has a thousand times drawn +down upon himself those declarations of every mother, which he knows to be +threats and nothing else: “Be a good boy, Adolphe, or else—” “I declare I’ll +never bring you again, so there!” +</p> + +<p> +His mamma is secretly tired to death of this noisy little boy: he has provoked +her twenty times, and twenty times the face of the little girl asleep has +calmed her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am his mother,” she says to herself. And so she finally manages to keep her +little Adolphe quiet. +</p> + +<p> +You have put your triumphant idea of taking your family to ride into execution. +You left your home in the morning, all the opposite neighbors having come to +their windows, envying you the privilege which your means give you of going to +the country and coming back again without undergoing the miseries of a public +conveyance. So you have dragged your unfortunate Norman horse through Paris to +Vincennes, from Vincennes to Saint Maur, from Saint Maur to Charenton, from +Charenton opposite some island or other which struck your wife and +mother-in-law as being prettier than all the landscapes through which you had +driven them. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go to Maison’s!” somebody exclaims. +</p> + +<p> +So you go to Maison’s, near Alfort. You come home by the left bank of the +Seine, in the midst of a cloud of very black Olympian dust. The horse drags +your family wearily along. But alas! your pride has fled, and you look without +emotion upon his sunken flanks, and upon two bones which stick out on each side +of his belly. His coat is roughened by the sweat which has repeatedly come out +and dried upon him, and which, no less than the dust, has made him gummy, +sticky and shaggy. The horse looks like a wrathy porcupine: you are afraid he +will be foundered, and you caress him with the whip-lash in a melancholy way +that he perfectly understands, for he moves his head about like an omnibus +horse, tired of his deplorable existence. +</p> + +<p> +You think a good deal of this horse; your consider him an excellent one and he +cost you twelve hundred francs. When a man has the honor of being the father of +a family, he thinks as much of twelve hundred francs as you think of this +horse. You see at once the frightful amount of your extra expenses, in case +Coco should have to lie by. For two days you will have to take hackney coaches +to go to your business. You wife will pout if she can’t go out: but she will go +out, and take a carriage. The horse will cause the purchase of numerous extras, +which you will find in your coachman’s bill,—your only coachman, a model +coachman, whom you watch as you do a model anybody. +</p> + +<p> +To these thoughts you give expression in the gentle movement of the whip as it +falls upon the animal’s ribs, up to his knees in the black dust which lines the +road in front of La Verrerie. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment, little Adolphe, who doesn’t know what to do in this rolling +box, has sadly twisted himself up into a corner, and his grandmother anxiously +asks him, “What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m hungry,” says the child. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s hungry,” says the mother to her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“And why shouldn’t he be hungry? It is half-past five, we are not at the +barrier, and we started at two!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get back to the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“The cook might have had the day to herself. But Adolphe is right, after all: +it’s cheaper to dine at home,” adds the mother-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe,” exclaims your wife, stimulated by the word “cheaper,” “we go so slow +that I shall be seasick, and you keep driving right in this nasty dust. What +are you thinking of? My gown and hat will be ruined!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you rather ruin the horse?” you ask, with the air of a man who can’t be +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no matter for your horse; just think of your son who is dying of hunger: +he hasn’t tasted a thing for seven hours. Whip up your old horse! One would +really think you cared more for your nag than for your child!” +</p> + +<p> +You dare not give your horse a single crack with the whip, for he might still +have vigor enough left to break into a gallop and run away. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Adolphe tries to vex me, he’s going slower,” says the young wife to her +mother. “My dear, go as slow as you like. But I know you’ll say I am +extravagant when you see me buying another hat.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket made by +the wheels. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the use of replying with reasons that haven’t got an ounce of +common-sense?” cries Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to the horse, +to avoid an accident. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you’ll be rid of us. +Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger. See how pale he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“But Caroline,” puts in the mother-in-law, “he’s doing the best he can.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing annoys you so much as to have your mother-in-law take your part. She is +a hypocrite and is delighted to see you quarreling with her daughter. Gently +and with infinite precaution she throws oil on the fire. +</p> + +<p> +When you arrive at the barrier, your wife is mute. She says not a word, she +sits with her arms crossed, and will not look at you. You have neither soul, +heart, nor sentiment. No one but you could have invented such a party of +pleasure. If you are unfortunate enough to remind Caroline that it was she who +insisted on the excursion, that morning, for her children’s sake, and in behalf +of her milk—she nurses the baby—you will be overwhelmed by an avalanche of +frigid and stinging reproaches. +</p> + +<p> +You bear it all so as “not to turn the milk of a nursing mother, for whose sake +you must overlook some little things,” so your atrocious mother-in-law whispers +in your ear. +</p> + +<p> +All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart. +</p> + +<p> +In reply to the sacramental words pronounced by the officer of the customs, +“Have you anything to declare?” your wife says, “I declare a great deal of +ill-humor and dust.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughs, the officer laughs, and you feel a desire to tip your family into +the Seine. +</p> + +<p> +Unluckily for you, you suddenly remember the joyous and perverse young woman +who wore a pink bonnet and who made merry in your tilbury six years before, as +you passed this spot on your way to the chop-house on the river’s bank. What a +reminiscence! Was Madame Schontz anxious about babies, about her bonnet, the +lace of which was torn to pieces in the bushes? No, she had no care for +anything whatever, not even for her dignity, for she shocked the rustic police +of Vincennes by the somewhat daring freedom of her style of dancing. +</p> + +<p> +You return home, you have frantically hurried your Norman horse, and have +neither prevented an indisposition of the animal, nor an indisposition of your +wife. +</p> + +<p> +That evening, Caroline has very little milk. If the baby cries and if your head +is split in consequence, it is all your fault, as you preferred the health of +your horse to that of your son who was dying of hunger, and of your daughter +whose supper has disappeared in a discussion in which your wife was right, +<i>as she always is</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” she says, “men are not mothers!” +</p> + +<p> +As you leave the chamber, you hear your mother-in-law consoling her daughter by +these terrible words: “Come, be calm, Caroline: that’s the way with them all: +they are a selfish lot: your father was just like that!” +</p> + +<h3>THE ULTIMATUM.</h3> + +<p> +It is eight o’clock; you make your appearance in the bedroom of your wife. +There is a brilliant light. The chambermaid and the cook hover lightly about. +The furniture is covered with dresses and flowers tried on and laid aside. +</p> + +<p> +The hair-dresser is there, an artist par excellence, a sovereign authority, at +once nobody and everything. You hear the other domestics going and coming: +orders are given and recalled, errands are well or ill performed. The disorder +is at its height. This chamber is a studio from whence to issue a parlor Venus. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife desires to be the fairest at the ball which you are to attend. Is it +still for your sake, or only for herself, or is it for somebody else? Serious +questions these. +</p> + +<p> +The idea does not even occur to you. +</p> + +<p> +You are squeezed, hampered, harnessed in your ball accoutrement: you count your +steps as you walk, you look around, you observe, you contemplate talking +business on neutral ground with a stock-broker, a notary or a banker, to whom +you would not like to give an advantage over you by calling at their house. +</p> + +<p> +A singular fact which all have probably observed, but the causes of which can +hardly be determined, is the peculiar repugnance which men dressed and ready to +go to a party have for discussions or to answer questions. At the moment of +starting, there are few husbands who are not taciturn and profoundly absorbed +in reflections which vary with their characters. Those who reply give curt and +peremptory answers. +</p> + +<p> +But women, at this time, are exceedingly aggravating. They consult you, they +ask your advice upon the best way of concealing the stem of a rose, of giving a +graceful fall to a bunch of briar, or a happy turn to a scarf. As a neat +English expression has it, “they fish for compliments,” and sometimes for +better than compliments. +</p> + +<p> +A boy just out of school would discern the motive concealed behind the willows +of these pretexts: but your wife is so well known to you, and you have so often +playfully joked upon her moral and physical perfections, that you are harsh +enough to give your opinion briefly and conscientiously: you thus force +Caroline to put that decisive question, so cruel to women, even those who have +been married twenty years: +</p> + +<p> +“So I don’t suit you then?” +</p> + +<p> +Drawn upon the true ground by this inquiry, you bestow upon her such little +compliments as you can spare and which are, as it were, the small change, the +sous, the liards of your purse. +</p> + +<p> +“The best gown you ever wore!” “I never saw you so well dressed.” “Blue, pink, +yellow, cherry [take your pick], becomes you charmingly.” “Your head-dress is +quite original.” “As you go in, every one will admire you.” “You will not only +be the prettiest, but the best dressed.” “They’ll all be mad not to have your +taste.” “Beauty is a natural gift: taste is like intelligence, a thing that we +may be proud of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? Are you in earnest, Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +Your wife is coquetting with you. She chooses this moment to force from you +your pretended opinion of one and another of her friends, and to insinuate the +price of the articles of her dress you so much admire. Nothing is too dear to +please you. She sends the cook out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go,” you say. +</p> + +<p> +She sends the chambermaid out after having dismissed the hair-dresser, and +begins to turn round and round before her glass, showing off to you her most +glorious beauties. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s go,” you say. +</p> + +<p> +“You are in a hurry,” she returns. +</p> + +<p> +And she goes on exhibiting herself with all her little airs, setting herself +off like a fine peach magnificently exhibited in a fruiterer’s window. But +since you have dined rather heartily, you kiss her upon the forehead merely, +not feeling able to countersign your opinions. Caroline becomes serious. +</p> + +<p> +The carriage waits. All the household looks at Caroline as she goes out: she is +the masterpiece to which all have contributed, and everybody admires the common +work. +</p> + +<p> +Your wife departs highly satisfied with herself, but a good deal displeased +with you. She proceeds loftily to the ball, just as a picture, caressed by the +painter and minutely retouched in the studio, is sent to the annual exhibition +in the vast bazaar of the Louvre. Your wife, alas! sees fifty women handsomer +than herself: they have invented dresses of the most extravagant price, and +more or less original: and that which happens at the Louvre to the masterpiece, +happens to the object of feminine labor: your wife’s dress seems pale by the +side of another very much like it, but the livelier color of which crushes it. +Caroline is nobody, and is hardly noticed. When there are sixty handsome women +in a room, the sentiment of beauty is lost, beauty is no longer appreciated. +Your wife becomes a very ordinary affair. The petty stratagem of her smile, +made perfect by practice, has no meaning in the midst of countenances of noble +expression, of self-possessed women of lofty presence. She is completely put +down, and no one asks her to dance. She tries to force an expression of +pretended satisfaction, but, as she is not satisfied, she hears people say, +“Madame Adolphe is looking very ill to-night.” Women hypocritically ask her if +she is indisposed and “Why don’t you dance?” They have a whole catalogue of +malicious remarks veneered with sympathy and electroplated with charity, enough +to damn a saint, to make a monkey serious, and to give the devil the shudders. +</p> + +<p> +You, who are innocently playing cards or walking backwards and forwards, and so +have not seen one of the thousand pin-pricks with which your wife’s self-love +has been tattooed, you come and ask her in a whisper, “What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Order <i>my</i> carriage!” +</p> + +<p> +This <i>my</i> is the consummation of marriage. For two years she has said +“<i>my husband’s</i> carriage,” “<i>the</i> carriage,” “<i>our</i> carriage,” +and now she says “<i>my</i> carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +You are in the midst of a game, you say, somebody wants his revenge, or you +must get your money back. +</p> + +<p> +Here, Adolphe, we allow that you have sufficient strength of mind to say yes, +to disappear, and <i>not</i> to order the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +You have a friend, you send him to dance with your wife, for you have commenced +a system of concessions which will ruin you. You already dimly perceive the +advantage of a friend. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, you order the carriage. You wife gets in with concentrated rage, she +hurls herself into a corner, covers her face with her hood, crosses her arms +under her pelisse, and says not a word. +</p> + +<p> +O husbands! Learn this fact; you may, at this fatal moment, repair and redeem +everything: and never does the impetuosity of lovers who have been caressing +each other the whole evening with flaming gaze fail to do it! Yes, you can +bring her home in triumph, she has now nobody but you, you have one more +chance, that of taking your wife by storm! But no, idiot, stupid and +indifferent that you are, you ask her, “What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—A husband should always know what is the matter with his wife, for she +always knows what is not. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m cold,” she says. +</p> + +<p> +“The ball was splendid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! nobody of distinction! People have the mania, nowadays, to invite all +Paris into a hole. There were women even on the stairs: their gowns were +horribly smashed, and mine is ruined.” +</p> + +<p> +“We had a good time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you men, you play and that’s the whole of it. Once married, you care about +as much for your wives as a lion does for the fine arts.” +</p> + +<p> +“How changed you are; you were so gay, so happy, so charming when we arrived.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you never understand us women. I begged you to go home, and you left me +there, as if a woman ever did anything without a reason. You are not without +intelligence, but now and then you are so queer I don’t know what you are +thinking about.” +</p> + +<p> +Once upon this footing, the quarrel becomes more bitter. When you give your +wife your hand to lift her from the carriage, you grasp a woman of wood: she +gives you a “thank you” which puts you in the same rank as her servant. You +understood your wife no better before than you do after the ball: you find it +difficult to follow her, for instead of going up stairs, she flies up. The +rupture is complete. +</p> + +<p> +The chambermaid is involved in your disgrace: she is received with blunt No’s +and Yes’s, as dry as Brussells rusks, which she swallows with a slanting glance +at you. “Monsieur’s always doing these things,” she mutters. +</p> + +<p> +You alone might have changed Madame’s temper. She goes to bed; she has her +revenge to take: you did not comprehend her. Now she does not comprehend you. +She deposits herself on her side of the bed in the most hostile and offensive +posture: she is wrapped up in her chemise, in her sack, in her night-cap, like +a bale of clocks packed for the East Indies. She says neither good-night, nor +good-day, nor dear, nor Adolphe: you don’t exist, you are a bag of wheat. +</p> + +<p> +Your Caroline, so enticing five hours before in this very chamber where she +frisked about like an eel, is now a junk of lead. Were you the Tropical Zone in +person, astride of the Equator, you could not melt the ice of this little +personified Switzerland that pretends to be asleep, and who could freeze you +from head to foot, if she liked. Ask her one hundred times what is the matter +with her, Switzerland replies by an ultimatum, like the Diet or the Conference +of London. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing is the matter with her: she is tired: she is going to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The more you insist, the more she erects bastions of ignorance, the more she +isolates herself by chevaux-de-frise. If you get impatient, Caroline begins to +dream! You grumble, you are lost. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Inasmuch as women are always willing and able to explain their strong +points, they leave us to guess at their weak ones. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline will perhaps also condescend to assure you that she does not feel +well. But she laughs in her night-cap when you have fallen asleep, and hurls +imprecations upon your slumbering body. +</p> + +<h3>WOMEN’S LOGIC.</h3> + +<p> +You imagine you have married a creature endowed with reason: you are woefully +mistaken, my friend. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Sensitive beings are not sensible beings. +</p> + +<p> +Sentiment is not argument, reason is not pleasure, and pleasure is certainly +not a reason. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! sir!” she says. +</p> + +<p> +Reply “Ah! yes! Ah!” You must bring forth this “ah!” from the very depths of +your thoracic cavern, as you rush in a rage from the house, or return, +confounded, to your study. +</p> + +<p> +Why? Now? Who has conquered, killed, overthrown you! Your wife’s logic, which +is not the logic of Aristotle, nor that of Ramus, nor that of Kant, nor that of +Condillac, nor that of Robespierre, nor that of Napoleon: but which partakes of +the character of all these logics, and which we must call the universal logic +of women, the logic of English women as it is that of Italian women, of the +women of Normandy and Brittany (ah, these last are unsurpassed!), of the women +of Paris, in short, that of the women in the moon, if there are women in that +nocturnal land, with which the women of the earth have an evident +understanding, angels that they are! +</p> + +<p> +The discussion began after breakfast. Discussions can never take place in a +household save at this hour. A man could hardly have a discussion with his wife +in bed, even if he wanted to: she has too many advantages over him, and can too +easily reduce him to silence. On leaving the nuptial chamber with a pretty +woman in it, a man is apt to be hungry, if he is young. Breakfast is usually a +cheerful meal, and cheerfulness is not given to argument. In short, you do not +open the business till you have had your tea or your coffee. +</p> + +<p> +You have taken it into your head, for instance, to send your son to school. All +fathers are hypocrites and are never willing to confess that their own flesh +and blood is very troublesome when it walks about on two legs, lays its +dare-devil hands on everything, and is everywhere at once like a frisky +pollywog. Your son barks, mews, and sings; he breaks, smashes and soils the +furniture, and furniture is dear; he makes toys of everything, he scatters your +papers, and he cuts paper dolls out of the morning’s newspaper before you have +read it. +</p> + +<p> +His mother says to him, referring to anything of yours: “Take it!” but in +reference to anything of hers she says: “Take care!” +</p> + +<p> +She cunningly lets him have your things that she may be left in peace. Her bad +faith as a good mother seeks shelter behind her child, your son is her +accomplice. Both are leagued against you like Robert Macaire and Bertrand +against the subscribers to their joint stock company. The boy is an axe with +which foraging excursions are performed in your domains. He goes either boldly +or slyly to maraud in your wardrobe: he reappears caparisoned in the drawers +you laid aside that morning, and brings to the light of day many articles +condemned to solitary confinement. He brings the elegant Madame Fischtaminel, a +friend whose good graces you cultivate, your girdle for checking corpulency, +bits of cosmetic for dyeing your moustache, old waistcoats discolored at the +arm-holes, stockings slightly soiled at the heels and somewhat yellow at the +toes. It is quite impossible to remark that these stains are caused by the +leather! +</p> + +<p> +Your wife looks at your friend and laughs; you dare not be angry, so you laugh +too, but what a laugh! The unfortunate all know that laugh. +</p> + +<p> +Your son, moreover, gives you a cold sweat, if your razors happen to be out of +their place. If you are angry, the little rebel laughs and shows his two rows +of pearls: if you scold him, he cries. His mother rushes in! And what a mother +she is! A mother who will detest you if you don’t give him the razor! With +women there is no middle ground; a man is either a monster or a model. +</p> + +<p> +At certain times you perfectly understand Herod and his famous decrees relative +to the Massacre of the Innocents, which have only been surpassed by those of +the good Charles X! +</p> + +<p> +Your wife has returned to her sofa, you walk up and down, and stop, and you +boldly introduce the subject by this interjectional remark: +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline, we must send Charles to boarding school.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charles cannot go to boarding school,” she returns in a mild tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is six years old, the age at which a boy’s education begins.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the first place,” she replies, “it begins at seven. The royal princes are +handed over to their governor by their governess when they are seven. That’s +the law and the prophets. I don’t see why you shouldn’t apply to the children +of private people the rule laid down for the children of princes. Is your son +more forward than theirs? The king of Rome—” +</p> + +<p> +“The king of Rome is not a case in point.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Is not the king of Rome the son of the Emperor? [Here she changes the +subject.] Well, I declare, you accuse the Empress, do you? Why, Doctor Dubois +himself was present, besides—” +</p> + +<p> +“I said nothing of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“How you do interrupt, Adolphe.” +</p> + +<p> +“I say that the king of Rome [here you begin to raise your voice], the king of +Rome, who was hardly four years old when he left France, is no example for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“That doesn’t prevent the fact of the Duke de Bordeaux’s having been placed in +the hands of the Duke de Riviere, his tutor, at seven years.” [Logic.] +</p> + +<p> +“The case of the young Duke of Bordeaux is different.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you confess that a boy can’t be sent to school before he is seven years +old?” she says with emphasis. [More logic.] +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dear, I don’t confess that at all. There is a great deal of difference +between private and public education.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s precisely why I don’t want to send Charles to school yet. He ought to +be much stronger than he is, to go there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charles is very strong for his age.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charles? That’s the way with men! Why, Charles has a very weak constitution; +he takes after you. [Here she changes from <i>tu</i> to <i>vous</i>.] But if +you are determined to get rid of your son, why put him out to board, of course. +I have noticed for some time that the dear child annoys you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Annoys me? The idea! But we are answerable for our children, are we not? It is +time Charles’ education was began: he is getting very bad habits here, he obeys +no one, he thinks himself perfectly free to do as he likes, he hits everybody +and nobody dares to hit him back. He ought to be placed in the midst of his +equals, or he will grow up with the most detestable temper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you: so I am bringing Charles up badly!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say that: but you will always have excellent reasons for keeping him +at home.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the <i>vous</i> becomes reciprocal and the discussion takes a bitter turn +on both sides. Your wife is very willing to wound you by saying <i>vous</i>, +but she feels cross when it becomes mutual. +</p> + +<p> +“The long and the short of it is that you want to get my child away, you find +that he is between us, you are jealous of your son, you want to tyrannize over +me at your ease, and you sacrifice your boy! Oh, I am smart enough to see +through you!” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me out like Abraham with his knife! One would think there were no +such things as schools! So the schools are empty; nobody sends their children +to school!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are trying to make me appear ridiculous,” she retorts. “I know that there +are schools well enough, but people don’t send boys of six there, and Charles +shall not start now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t get angry, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“As if I ever get angry! I am a woman and know how to suffer in silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, let us reason together.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have talked nonsense enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is time that Charles should learn to read and write; later in life, he will +find difficulties sufficient to disgust him.” +</p> + +<p> +Here, you talk for ten minutes without interruption, and you close with an +appealing “Well?” armed with an intonation which suggests an interrogation +point of the most crooked kind. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” she replies, “it is not yet time for Charles to go to school.” +</p> + +<p> +You have gained nothing at all. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear, Monsieur Deschars certainly sent his little Julius to school at +six years. Go and examine the schools and you will find lots of little boys of +six there.” +</p> + +<p> +You talk for ten minutes more without the slightest interruption, and then you +ejaculate another “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Little Julius Deschars came home with chilblains,” she says. +</p> + +<p> +“But Charles has chilblains here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” she replies, proudly. +</p> + +<p> +In a quarter of an hour, the main question is blocked by a side discussion on +this point: “Has Charles had chilblains or not?” +</p> + +<p> +You bandy contradictory allegations; you no longer believe each other; you must +appeal to a third party. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Every household has its Court of Appeals which takes no notice of the +merits, but judges matters of form only. +</p> + +<p> +The nurse is sent for. She comes, and decides in favor of your wife. It is +fully decided that Charles has never had chilblains. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline glances triumphantly at you and utters these monstrous words: “There, +you see Charles can’t possibly go to school!” +</p> + +<p> +You go out breathless with rage. There is no earthly means of convincing your +wife that there is not the slightest reason for your son’s not going to school +in the fact that he has never had chilblains. +</p> + +<p> +That evening, after dinner, you hear this atrocious creature finishing a long +conversation with a woman with these words: “He wanted to send Charles to +school, but I made him see that he would have to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +Some husbands, at a conjuncture like this, burst out before everybody; their +wives take their revenge six weeks later, but the husbands gain this by it, +that Charles is sent to school the very day he gets into any mischief. Other +husbands break the crockery, and keep their rage to themselves. The knowing +ones say nothing and bide their time. +</p> + +<p> +A woman’s logic is exhibited in this way upon the slightest occasion, about a +promenade or the proper place to put a sofa. This logic is extremely simple, +inasmuch as it consists in never expressing but one idea, that which contains +the expression of their will. Like everything pertaining to female nature, this +system may be resolved into two algebraic terms—Yes: no. There are also certain +little movements of the head which mean so much that they may take the place of +either. +</p> + +<h3>THE JESUITISM OF WOMEN.</h3> + +<p> +The most jesuitical Jesuit of Jesuits is yet a thousand times less jesuitical +than the least jesuitical woman,—so you may judge what Jesuits women are! They +are so jesuitical that the cunningest Jesuit himself could never guess to what +extent of jesuitism a woman may go, for there are a thousand ways of being +jesuitical, and a woman is such an adroit Jesuit, that she has the knack of +being a Jesuit without having a jesuitical look. You can rarely, though you can +sometimes, prove to a Jesuit that he is one: but try once to demonstrate to a +woman that she acts or talks like a Jesuit. She would be cut to pieces rather +than confess herself one. +</p> + +<p> +She, a Jesuit! The very soul of honor and loyalty! She a Jesuit! What do you +mean by “Jesuit?” She does not know what a Jesuit is: what is a Jesuit? She has +never seen or heard of a Jesuit! It’s you who are a Jesuit! And she proves with +jesuitical demonstration that you are a subtle Jesuit. +</p> + +<p> +Here is one of the thousand examples of a woman’s jesuitism, and this example +constitutes the most terrible of the petty troubles of married life; it is +perhaps the most serious. +</p> + +<p> +Induced by a desire the thousandth time expressed by Caroline, who complained +that she had to go on foot or that she could not buy a new hat, a new parasol, +a new dress, or any other article of dress, often enough: +</p> + +<p> +That she could not dress her baby as a sailor, as a lancer, as an artilleryman +of the National Guard, as a Highlander with naked legs and a cap and feather, +in a jacket, in a roundabout, in a velvet sack, in boots, in trousers: that she +could not buy him toys enough, nor mechanical moving mice and Noah’s Arks +enough: +</p> + +<p> +That she could not return Madame Deschars or Madame de Fischtaminel their +civilities, a ball, a party, a dinner: nor take a private box at the theatre, +thus avoiding the necessity of sitting cheek by jowl with men who are either +too polite or not enough so, and of calling a cab at the close of the +performance; apropos of which she thus discourses: +</p> + +<p> +“You think it cheaper, but you are mistaken: men are all the same! I soil my +shoes, I spoil my hat, my shawl gets wet and my silk stockings get muddy. You +economize twenty francs by not having a carriage,—no not twenty, sixteen, for +your pay four for the cab—and you lose fifty francs’ worth of dress, besides +being wounded in your pride on seeing a faded bonnet on my head: you don’t see +why it’s faded, but it’s those horrid cabs. I say nothing of the annoyance of +being tumbled and jostled by a crowd of men, for it seems you don’t care for +that!” +</p> + +<p> +That she could not buy a piano instead of hiring one, nor keep up with the +fashions; (there are some women, she says, who have all the new styles, but +just think what they give in return! She would rather throw herself out of the +window than imitate them! She loves you too much. Here she sheds tears. She +does not understand such women). That she could not ride in the Champs Elysees, +stretched out in her own carriage, like Madame de Fischtaminel. (There’s a +woman who understands life: and who has a well-taught, well-disciplined and +very contented husband: his wife would go through fire and water for him!) +</p> + +<p> +Finally, beaten in a thousand conjugal scenes, beaten by the most logical +arguments (the late logicians Tripier and Merlin were nothing to her, as the +preceding chapter has sufficiently shown you), beaten by the most tender +caresses, by tears, by your own words turned against you, for under +circumstances like these, a woman lies in wait in her house like a jaguar in +the jungle; she does not appear to listen to you, or to heed you; but if a +single word, a wish, a gesture, escapes you, she arms herself with it, she +whets it to an edge, she brings it to bear upon you a hundred times over; +beaten by such graceful tricks as “If you will do so and so, I will do this and +that;” for women, in these cases, become greater bargainers than the Jews and +Greeks (those, I mean, who sell perfumes and little girls), than the Arabs +(those, I mean, who sell little boys and horses), greater higglers than the +Swiss and the Genevese, than bankers, and, what is worse than all, than the +Genoese! +</p> + +<p> +Finally, beaten in a manner which may be called beaten, you determine to risk a +certain portion of your capital in a business undertaking. One evening, at +twilight, seated side by side, or some morning on awakening, while Caroline, +half asleep, a pink bud in her white linen, her face smiling in her lace, is +beside you, you say to her, “You want this, you say, or you want that: you told +me this or you told me that:” in short, you hastily enumerate the numberless +fancies by which she has over and over again broken your heart, for there is +nothing more dreadful than to be unable to satisfy the desires of a beloved +wife, and you close with these words: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, an opportunity offers of quintupling a hundred thousand francs, +and I have decided to make the venture.” +</p> + +<p> +She is wide awake now, she sits up in bed, and gives you a kiss, ah! this time, +a real good one! +</p> + +<p> +“You are a dear boy!” is her first word. +</p> + +<p> +We will not mention her last, for it is an enormous and unpronounceable +onomatope. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” she says, “tell me all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +You try to explain the nature of the affair. But in the first place, women do +not understand business, and in the next they do not wish to seem to understand +it. Your dear, delighted Caroline says you were wrong to take her desires, her +groans, her sighs for new dresses, in earnest. She is afraid of your venture, +she is frightened at the directors, the shares, and above all at the running +expenses, and doesn’t exactly see where the dividend comes in. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Women are always afraid of things that have to be divided. +</p> + +<p> +In short, Caroline suspects a trap: but she is delighted to know that she can +have her carriage, her box, the numerous styles of dress for her baby, and the +rest. While dissuading you from engaging in the speculation, she is visibly +glad to see you investing your money in it. +</p> + +<p> +FIRST PERIOD.—“Oh, I am the happiest woman on the face of the earth! Adolphe +has just gone into the most splendid venture. I am going to have a carriage, +oh! ever so much handsomer than Madame de Fischtaminel’s; hers is out of +fashion. Mine will have curtains with fringes. My horses will be mouse-colored, +hers are bay,—they are as common as coppers.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this venture, madame?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s splendid—the stock is going up; he explained it to me before he went +into it, for Adolphe never does anything without consulting me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very fortunate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marriage would be intolerable without entire confidence, and Adolphe tells me +everything.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus, Adolphe, you are the best husband in Paris, you are adorable, you are a +man of genius, you are all heart, an angel. You are petted to an uncomfortable +degree. You bless the marriage tie. Caroline extols men, calling them “kings of +creation,” women were made for them, man is naturally generous, and matrimony +is a delightful institution. +</p> + +<p> +For three, sometimes six, months, Caroline executes the most brilliant +concertos and solos upon this delicious theme: “I shall be rich! I shall have a +thousand a month for my dress: I am going to keep my carriage!” +</p> + +<p> +If your son is alluded to, it is merely to ask about the school to which he +shall be sent. +</p> + +<p> +SECOND PERIOD.—“Well, dear, how is your business getting on?—What has become of +it?—How about that speculation which was to give me a carriage, and other +things?—It is high time that affair should come to something.—It is a good +while cooking.—When <i>will</i> it begin to pay? Is the stock going up?—There’s +nobody like you for hitting upon ventures that never amount to anything.” +</p> + +<p> +One day she says to you, “Is there really an affair?” +</p> + +<p> +If you mention it eight or ten months after, she returns: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Then there really <i>is</i> an affair!” +</p> + +<p> +This woman, whom you thought dull, begins to show signs of extraordinary wit, +when her object is to make fun of you. During this period, Caroline maintains a +compromising silence when people speak of you, or else she speaks disparagingly +of men in general: “Men are not what they seem: to find them out you must try +them.” “Marriage has its good and its bad points.” “Men never can finish +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +THIRD PERIOD.—<i>Catastrophe</i>.—This magnificent affair which was to yield +five hundred per cent, in which the most cautious, the best informed persons +took part—peers, deputies, bankers—all of them Knights of the Legion of +Honor—this venture has been obliged to liquidate! The most sanguine expect to +get ten per cent of their capital back. You are discouraged. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline has often said to you, “Adolphe, what is the matter? Adolphe, there is +something wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +Finally, you acquaint Caroline with the fatal result: she begins by consoling +you. +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred thousand francs lost! We shall have to practice the strictest +economy,” you imprudently add. +</p> + +<p> +The jesuitism of woman bursts out at this word “economy.” It sets fire to the +magazine. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s what comes of speculating! How is it that <i>you, ordinarily so +prudent</i>, could go and risk a hundred thousand francs! <i>You know I was +against it from the beginning!</i> BUT YOU WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME!” +</p> + +<p> +Upon this, the discussion grows bitter. +</p> + +<p> +You are good for nothing—you have no business capacity; women alone take clear +views of things. You have risked your children’s bread, though she tried to +dissuade you from it.—You cannot say it was for her. Thank God, she has nothing +to reproach herself with. A hundred times a month she alludes to your disaster: +“If my husband had not thrown away his money in such and such a scheme, I could +have had this and that.” “The next time you want to go into an affair, perhaps +you’ll consult me!” Adolphe is accused and convicted of having foolishly lost +one hundred thousand francs, without an object in view, like a dolt, and +without having consulted his wife. Caroline advises her friends not to marry. +She complains of the incapacity of men who squander the fortunes of their +wives. Caroline is vindictive, she makes herself generally disagreeable. Pity +Adolphe! Lament, ye husbands! O bachelors, rejoice and be exceeding glad! +</p> + +<h3>MEMORIES AND REGRETS.</h3> + +<p> +After several years of wedded life, your love has become so placid, that +Caroline sometimes tries, in the evening, to wake you up by various little +coquettish phrases. There is about you a certain calmness and tranquillity +which always exasperates a lawful wife. Women see in it a sort of insolence: +they look upon the indifference of happiness as the fatuity of confidence, for +of course they never imagine their inestimable equalities can be regarded with +disdain: their virtue is therefore enraged at being so cordially trusted in. +</p> + +<p> +In this situation, which is what every couple must come to, and which both +husband and wife must expect, no husband dares confess that the constant +repetition of the same dish has become wearisome; but his appetite certainly +requires the condiments of dress, the ideas excited by absence, the stimulus of +an imaginary rivalry. +</p> + +<p> +In short, at this period, you walk very comfortably with your wife on your arm, +without pressing hers against your heart with the solicitous and watchful +cohesion of a miser grasping his treasure. You gaze carelessly round upon the +curiosities in the street, leading your wife in a loose and distracted way, as +if you were towing a Norman scow. Come now, be frank! If, on passing your wife, +an admirer were gently to press her, accidentally or purposely, would you have +the slightest desire to discover his motives? Besides, you say, no woman would +seek to bring about a quarrel for such a trifle. Confess this, too, that the +expression “such a trifle” is exceedingly flattering to both of you. +</p> + +<p> +You are in this position, but you have as yet proceeded no farther. Still, you +have a horrible thought which you bury in the depths of your heart and +conscience: Caroline has not come up to your expectations. Caroline has +imperfections, which, during the high tides of the honey-moon, were concealed +under the water, but which the ebb of the gall-moon has laid bare. You have +several times run against these breakers, your hopes have been often +shipwrecked upon them, more than once your desires—those of a young marrying +man—(where, alas, is that time!) have seen their richly laden gondolas go to +pieces there: the flower of the cargo went to the bottom, the ballast of the +marriage remained. In short, to make use of a colloquial expression, as you +talk over your marriage with yourself you say, as you look at Caroline, “<i>She +is not what I took her to be!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Some evening, at a ball, in society, at a friend’s house, no matter where, you +meet a sublime young woman, beautiful, intellectual and kind: with a soul, oh! +a soul of celestial purity, and of miraculous beauty! Yes, there is that +unchangeable oval cut of face, those features which time will never impair, +that graceful and thoughtful brow. The unknown is rich, well-educated, of noble +birth: she will always be what she should be, she knows when to shine, when to +remain in the background: she appears in all her glory and power, the being you +have dreamed of, your wife that should have been, she whom you feel you could +love forever. She would always have flattered your little vanities, she would +understand and admirably serve your interests. She is tender and gay, too, this +young lady who reawakens all your better feelings, who rekindles your +slumbering desires. +</p> + +<p> +You look at Caroline with gloomy despair, and here are the phantom-like +thoughts which tap, with wings of a bat, the beak of a vulture, the body of a +death’s-head moth, upon the walls of the palace in which, enkindled by desire, +glows your brain like a lamp of gold: +</p> + +<p> +FIRST STANZA. Ah, dear me, why did I get married? Fatal idea! I allowed myself +to be caught by a small amount of cash. And is it really over? Cannot I have +another wife? Ah, the Turks manage things better! It is plain enough that the +author of the Koran lived in the desert! +</p> + +<p> +SECOND STANZA. My wife is sick, she sometimes coughs in the morning. If it is +the design of Providence to remove her from the world, let it be speedily done +for her sake and for mine. The angel has lived long enough. +</p> + +<p> +THIRD STANZA. I am a monster! Caroline is the mother of my children! +</p> + +<p> +You go home, that night, in a carriage with your wife: you think her perfectly +horrible: she speaks to you, but you answer in monosyllables. She says, “What +is the matter?” and you answer, “Nothing.” She coughs, you advise her to see +the doctor in the morning. Medicine has its hazards. +</p> + +<p> +FOURTH STANZA. I have been told that a physician, poorly paid by the heirs of +his deceased patient, imprudently exclaimed, “What! they cut down my bill, when +they owe me forty thousand a year.” <i>I</i> would not haggle over fees! +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline,” you say to her aloud, “you must take care of yourself; cross your +shawl, be prudent, my darling angel.” +</p> + +<p> +Your wife is delighted with you since you seem to take such an interest in her. +While she is preparing to retire, you lie stretched out upon the sofa. You +contemplate the divine apparition which opens to you the ivory portals of your +castles in the air. Delicious ecstasy! ’Tis the sublime young woman that you +see before you! She is as white as the sail of the treasure-laden galleon as it +enters the harbor of Cadiz. Your wife, happy in your admiration, now +understands your former taciturnity. You still see, with closed eyes, the +sublime young woman; she is the burden of your thoughts, and you say aloud: +</p> + +<p> +FIFTH AND LAST STANZA. Divine! Adorable! Can there be another woman like her? +Rose of Night! Column of ivory! Celestial maiden! Morning and Evening Star! +</p> + +<p> +Everyone says his prayers; you have said four. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, your wife is delightful, she coughs no more, she has no need +of a doctor; if she dies, it will be of good health; you launched four +maledictions upon her, in the name of your sublime young woman, and four times +she blessed you for it. Caroline does not know that in the depths of your heart +there wriggles a little red fish like a crocodile, concealed beneath conjugal +love like the other would be hid in a basin. +</p> + +<p> +A few days before, your wife had spoken of you in rather equivocal terms to +Madame de Fischtaminel: your fair friend comes to visit her, and Caroline +compromises you by a long and humid gaze; she praises you and says she never +was happier. +</p> + +<p> +You rush out in a rage, you are beside yourself, and are glad to meet a friend, +that you may work off your bile. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you ever marry, George; it’s better to see your heirs carrying away your +furniture while the death-rattle is in your throat, better to go through an +agony of two hours without a drop to cool your tongue, better to be +assassinated by inquiries about your will by a nurse like the one in Henry +Monnier’s terrible picture of a ‘Bachelor’s Last Moments!’ Never marry under +any pretext!” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately you see the sublime young woman no more. You are saved from the +tortures to which a criminal passion was leading you. You fall back again into +the purgatory of your married bliss; but you begin to be attentive to Madame de +Fischtaminel, with whom you were dreadfully in love, without being able to get +near her, while you were a bachelor. +</p> + +<h3>OBSERVATIONS.</h3> + +<p> +When you have arrived at this point in the latitude or longitude of the +matrimonial ocean, there appears a slight chronic, intermittent affection, not +unlike the toothache. Here, I see, you stop me to ask, “How are we to find the +longitude in this sea? When can a husband be sure he has attained this nautical +point? And can the danger be avoided?” +</p> + +<p> +You may arrive at this point, look you, as easily after ten months as ten years +of wedlock; it depends upon the speed of the vessel, its style of rigging, upon +the trade winds, the force of the currents, and especially upon the composition +of the crew. You have this advantage over the mariner, that he has but one +method of calculating his position, while husbands have at least a thousand of +reckoning theirs. +</p> + +<p> +EXAMPLE: Caroline, your late darling, your late treasure, who is now merely +your humdrum wife, leans much too heavily upon your arm while walking on the +boulevard, or else says it is much more elegant not to take your arm at all; +</p> + +<p> +Or else she notices men, older or younger as the case may be, dressed with more +or less taste, whereas she formerly saw no one whatever, though the sidewalk +was black with hats and traveled by more boots than slippers; +</p> + +<p> +Or, when you come home, she says, “It’s no one but my husband:” instead of +saying “Ah! ’tis Adolphe!” as she used to say with a gesture, a look, an accent +which caused her admirers to think, “Well, here’s a happy woman at last!” This +last exclamation of a woman is suitable for two eras,—first, while she is +sincere; second, while she is hypocritical, with her “Ah! ’tis Adolphe!” When +she exclaims, “It’s only my husband,” she no longer deigns to play a part. +</p> + +<p> +Or, if you come home somewhat late—at eleven, or at midnight—you find +her—snoring! Odious symptom! +</p> + +<p> +Or else she puts on her stockings in your presence. Among English couples, this +never happens but once in a lady’s married life; the next day she leaves for +the Continent with some captain or other, and no longer thinks of putting on +her stockings at all. +</p> + +<p> +Or else—but let us stop here. +</p> + +<p> +This is intended for the use of mariners and husbands who are weatherwise. +</p> + +<h3>THE MATRIMONIAL GADFLY.</h3> + +<p> +Very well! In this degree of longitude, not far from a tropical sign upon the +name of which good taste forbids us to make a jest at once coarse and unworthy +of this thoughtful work, a horrible little annoyance appears, ingeniously +called the Matrimonial Gadfly, the most provoking of all gnats, mosquitoes, +blood-suckers, fleas and scorpions, for no net was ever yet invented that could +keep it off. The gadfly does not immediately sting you; it begins by buzzing in +your ears, and <i>you do not at first know what it is</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, apropos of nothing, in the most natural way in the world, Caroline says: +“Madame Deschars had a lovely dress on, yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a woman of taste,” returns Adolphe, though he is far from thinking so. +</p> + +<p> +“Her husband gave it to her,” resumes Caroline, with a shrug of her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a four hundred franc dress! It’s the very finest quality of velvet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Four hundred francs!” cries Adolphe, striking the attitude of the apostle +Thomas. +</p> + +<p> +“But then there are two extra breadths and enough for a high waist!” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Deschars does things on a grand scale,” replies Adolphe, taking +refuge in a jest. +</p> + +<p> +“All men don’t pay such attentions to their wives,” says Caroline, curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“What attentions?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adolphe, thinking of extra breadths and of a waist to make the dress good +again, when it is no longer fit to be worn low in the neck.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe says to himself, “Caroline wants a dress.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor man! +</p> + +<p> +Some time afterward, Monsieur Deschars furnishes his wife’s chamber anew. Then +he has his wife’s diamonds set in the prevailing fashion. Monsieur Deschars +never goes out without his wife, and never allows his wife to go out without +offering her his arm. +</p> + +<p> +If you bring Caroline anything, no matter what, it is never equal to what +Monsieur Deschars has done. If you allow yourself the slightest gesture or +expression a little livelier than usual, if you speak a little bit loud, you +hear the hissing and viper-like remark: +</p> + +<p> +“You wouldn’t see Monsieur Deschars behaving like this! Why don’t you take +Monsieur Deschars for a model?” +</p> + +<p> +In short, this idiotic Monsieur Deschars is forever looming up in your +household on every conceivable occasion. +</p> + +<p> +The expression—“Do you suppose Monsieur Deschars ever allows himself” —is a +sword of Damocles, or what is worse, a Damocles pin: and your self-love is the +cushion into which your wife is constantly sticking it, pulling it out, and +sticking it in again, under a variety of unforeseen pretexts, at the same time +employing the most winning terms of endearment, and with the most agreeable +little ways. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, stung till he finds himself tattooed, finally does what is done by +police authorities, by officers of government, by military tacticians. He casts +his eye on Madame de Fischtaminel, who is still young, elegant and a little bit +coquettish, and places her (this had been the rascal’s intention for some time) +like a blister upon Caroline’s extremely ticklish skin. +</p> + +<p> +O you, who often exclaim, “I don’t know what is the matter with my wife!” you +will kiss this page of transcendent philosophy, for you will find in it <i>the +key to every woman’s character</i>! But as to knowing women as well as I know +them, it will not be knowing them much; they don’t know themselves! In fact, as +you well know, God was Himself mistaken in the only one that He attempted to +manage and to whose manufacture He had given personal attention. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is very willing to sting Adolphe at all hours, but this privilege of +letting a wasp off now and then upon one’s consort (the legal term), is +exclusively reserved to the wife. Adolphe is a monster if he starts off a +single fly at Caroline. On her part, it is a delicious joke, a new jest to +enliven their married life, and one dictated by the purest intentions; while on +Adolphe’s part, it is a piece of cruelty worthy a Carib, a disregard of his +wife’s heart, and a deliberate plan to give her pain. But that is nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“So you are really in love with Madame de Fischtaminel?” Caroline asks. “What +is there so seductive in the mind or the manners of the spider?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Caroline—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t undertake to deny your eccentric taste,” she returns, checking a +negation on Adolphe’s lips. “I have long seen that you prefer that Maypole +[Madame de Fischtaminel is thin] to me. Very well! go on; you will soon see the +difference.” +</p> + +<p> +Do you understand? You cannot suspect Caroline of the slightest inclination for +Monsieur Deschars, a low, fat, red-faced man, formerly a notary, while you are +in love with Madame de Fischtaminel! Then Caroline, the Caroline whose +simplicity caused you such agony, Caroline who has become familiar with +society, Caroline becomes acute and witty: you have two gadflies instead of +one. +</p> + +<p> +The next day she asks you, with a charming air of interest, “How are you coming +on with Madame de Fischtaminel?” +</p> + +<p> +When you go out, she says: “Go and drink something calming, my dear.” For, in +their anger with a rival, all women, duchesses even, will use invectives, and +even venture into the domain of Billingsgate; they make an offensive weapon of +anything and everything. +</p> + +<p> +To try to convince Caroline that she is mistaken and that you are indifferent +to Madame de Fischtaminel, would cost you dear. This is a blunder that no +sensible man commits; he would lose his power and spike his own guns. +</p> + +<p> +Oh! Adolphe, you have arrived unfortunately at that season so ingeniously +called the <i>Indian Summer of Marriage</i>. +</p> + +<p> +You must now—pleasing task!—win your wife, your Caroline, over again, seize her +by the waist again, and become the best of husbands by trying to guess at +things to please her, so as to act according to her whims instead of according +to your will. This is the whole question henceforth. +</p> + +<h3>HARD LABOR.</h3> + +<p> +Let us admit this, which, in our opinion, is a truism made as good as new: +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Most men have some of the wit required by a difficult position, when +they have not the whole of it. +</p> + +<p> +As for those husbands who are not up to their situation, it is impossible to +consider their case here: without any struggle whatever they simply enter the +numerous class of the <i>Resigned</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe says to himself: “Women are children: offer them a lump of sugar, and +you will easily get them to dance all the dances that greedy children dance; +but you must always have a sugar plum in hand, hold it up pretty high, and—take +care that their fancy for sweetmeats does not leave them. Parisian women—and +Caroline is one—are very vain, and as for their voracity—don’t speak of it. Now +you cannot govern men and make friends of them, unless you work upon them +through their vices, and flatter their passions: my wife is mine!” +</p> + +<p> +Some days afterward, during which Adolphe has been unusually attentive to his +wife, he discourses to her as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline, dear, suppose we have a bit of fun: you’ll put on your new gown—the +one like Madame Deschars!—and we’ll go to see a farce at the Varieties.” +</p> + +<p> +This kind of proposition always puts a wife in the best possible humor. So away +you go! Adolphe has ordered a dainty little dinner for two, at Borrel’s +<i>Rocher de Cancale</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“As we are going to the Varieties, suppose we dine at the tavern,” exclaims +Adolphe, on the boulevard, with the air of a man suddenly struck by a generous +idea. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, delighted with this appearance of good fortune, enters a little +parlor where she finds the cloth laid and that neat little service set, which +Borrel places at the disposal of those who are rich enough to pay for the +quarters intended for the great ones of the earth, who make themselves small +for an hour. +</p> + +<p> +Women eat little at a formal dinner: their concealed harness hampers them, they +are laced tightly, and they are in the presence of women whose eyes and whose +tongues are equally to be dreaded. They prefer fancy eating to good eating, +then: they will suck a lobster’s claw, swallow a quail or two, punish a +woodcock’s wing, beginning with a bit of fresh fish, flavored by one of those +sauces which are the glory of French cooking. France is everywhere sovereign in +matters of taste: in painting, fashions, and the like. Gravy is the triumph of +taste, in cookery. So that grisettes, shopkeepers’ wives and duchesses are +delighted with a tasty little dinner washed down with the choicest wines, of +which, however, they drink but little, the whole concluded by fruit such as can +only be had at Paris; and especially delighted when they go to the theatre to +digest the little dinner, and listen, in a comfortable box, to the nonsense +uttered upon the stage, and to that whispered in their ears to explain it. But +then the bill of the restaurant is one hundred francs, the box costs thirty, +the carriage, dress, gloves, bouquet, as much more. This gallantry amounts to +the sum of one hundred and sixty francs, which is hard upon four thousand +francs a month, if you go often to the Comic, the Italian, or the Grand, Opera. +Four thousand francs a month is the interest of a capital of two millions. But +then the honor of being a husband is fully worth the price! +</p> + +<p> +Caroline tells her friends things which she thinks exceedingly flattering, but +which cause a sagacious husband to make a wry face. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe has been delightful for some time past. I don’t know what I have done +to deserve so much attention, but he overpowers me. He gives value to +everything by those delicate ways which have such an effect upon us women. +After taking me Monday to the <i>Rocher de Cancale</i> to dine, he declared +that Very was as good a cook as Borrel, and he gave me the little party of +pleasure that I told you of all over again, presenting me at dessert with a +ticket for the opera. They sang ‘William Tell,’ which, you know, is my craze.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are lucky indeed,” returns Madame Deschars with evident jealousy. +</p> + +<p> +“Still, a wife who discharges all her duties, deserves such luck, it seems to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +When this terrible sentiment falls from the lips of a married woman, it is +clear that she <i>does her duty</i>, after the manner of school-boys, for the +reward she expects. At school, a prize is the object: in marriage, a shawl or a +piece of jewelry. No more love, then! +</p> + +<p> +“As for me,”—Madame Deschars is piqued—“I am reasonable. Deschars committed +such follies once, but I put a stop to it. You see, my dear, we have two +children, and I confess that one or two hundred francs are quite a +consideration for me, as the mother of a family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, madame,” says Madame de Fischtaminel, “it’s better that our husbands +should have cosy little times with us than with—” +</p> + +<p> +“Deschars!—” suddenly puts in Madame Deschars, as she gets up and says +good-bye. +</p> + +<p> +The individual known as Deschars (a man nullified by his wife) does not hear +the end of the sentence, by which he might have learned that a man may spend +his money with other women. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, flattered in every one of her vanities, abandons herself to the +pleasures of pride and high living, two delicious capital sins. Adolphe is +gaining ground again, but alas! (this reflection is worth a whole sermon in +Lent) sin, like all pleasure, contains a spur. Vice is like an Autocrat, and +let a single harsh fold in a rose-leaf irritate it, it forgets a thousand +charming bygone flatteries. With Vice a man’s course must always be +crescendo!—and forever. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Vice, Courtiers, Misfortune and Love, care only for the PRESENT. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a period of time difficult to determine, Caroline looks in the +glass, at dessert, and notices two or three pimples blooming upon her cheeks, +and upon the sides, lately so pure, of her nose. She is out of humor at the +theatre, and you do not know why, you, so proudly striking an attitude in your +cravat, you, displaying your figure to the best advantage, as a complacent man +should. +</p> + +<p> +A few days after, the dressmaker arrives. She tries on a gown, she exerts all +her strength, but cannot make the hooks and eyes meet. The waiting maid is +called. After a two horse-power pull, a regular thirteenth labor of Hercules, a +hiatus of two inches manifests itself. The inexorable dressmaker cannot conceal +from Caroline the fact that her form is altered. Caroline, the aerial Caroline, +threatens to become like Madame Deschars. In vulgar language, she is getting +stout. The maid leaves her in a state of consternation. +</p> + +<p> +“What! am I to have, like that fat Madame Deschars, cascades of flesh a la +Rubens! That Adolphe is an awful scoundrel. Oh, I see, he wants to make me an +old mother Gigogne, and destroy my powers of fascination!” +</p> + +<p> +Thenceforward Caroline is willing to go to the opera, she accepts two seats in +a box, but she considers it very distingue to eat sparingly, and declines the +dainty dinners of her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” she says, “a well-bred woman should not go often to these places; +you may go once for a joke; but as for making a habitual thing of it—fie, for +shame!” +</p> + +<p> +Borrel and Very, those masters of the art, lose a thousand francs a day by not +having a private entrance for carriages. If a coach could glide under an +archway, and go out by another door, after leaving its fair occupants on the +threshold of an elegant staircase, how many of them would bring the landlord +fine, rich, solid old fellows for customers! +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Vanity is the death of good living. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline very soon gets tired of the theatre, and the devil alone can tell the +cause of her disgust. Pray excuse Adolphe! A husband is not the devil. +</p> + +<p> +Fully one-third of the women of Paris are bored by the theatre. Many of them +are tired to death of music, and go to the opera for the singers merely, or +rather to notice the difference between them in point of execution. What +supports the theatre is this: the women are a spectacle before and after the +play. Vanity alone will pay the exorbitant price of forty francs for three +hours of questionable pleasure, in a bad atmosphere and at great expense, +without counting the colds caught in going out. But to exhibit themselves, to +see and be seen, to be the observed of five hundred observers! What a glorious +mouthful! as Rabelais would say. +</p> + +<p> +To obtain this precious harvest, garnered by self-love, a woman must be looked +at. Now a woman with her husband is very little looked at. Caroline is +chagrined to see the audience entirely taken up with women who are <i>not</i> +with their husbands, with eccentric women, in short. Now, as the very slight +return she gets from her efforts, her dresses, and her attitudes, does not +compensate, in her eyes, for her fatigue, her display and her weariness, it is +very soon the same with the theatre as it was with the good cheer; high living +made her fat, the theatre is making her yellow. +</p> + +<p> +Here Adolphe—or any other man in Adolphe’s place—resembles a certain +Languedocian peasant who suffered agonies from an agacin, or, in French, +corn,—but the term in Lanquedoc is so much prettier, don’t you think so? This +peasant drove his foot at each step two inches into the sharpest stones along +the roadside, saying to the agacin, “Devil take you! Make me suffer again, will +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” says Adolphe, profoundly disappointed, the day when he receives +from his wife a refusal, “I should like very much to know what would please +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline looks loftily down upon her husband, and says, after a pause worthy of +an actress, “I am neither a Strasburg goose nor a giraffe!” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis true, I might lay out four thousand francs a month to better effect,” +returns Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“With the quarter of that sum, presented to estimable burglars, youthful +jail-birds and honorable criminals, I might become somebody, a Man in the Blue +Cloak on a small scale; and then a young woman is proud of her husband,” +Adolphe replies. +</p> + +<p> +This answer is the grave of love, and Caroline takes it in very bad part. An +explanation follows. This must be classed among the thousand pleasantries of +the following chapter, the title of which ought to make lovers smile as well as +husbands. If there are yellow rays of light, why should there not be whole days +of this extremely matrimonial color? +</p> + +<h3>FORCED SMILES.</h3> + +<p> +On your arrival in this latitude, you enjoy numerous little scenes, which, in +the grand opera of marriage, represent the intermezzos, and of which the +following is a type: +</p> + +<p> +You are one evening alone after dinner, and you have been so often alone +already that you feel a desire to say sharp little things to each other, like +this, for instance: +</p> + +<p> +“Take care, Caroline,” says Adolphe, who has not forgotten his many vain +efforts to please her. “I think your nose has the impertinence to redden at +home quite well as at the restaurant.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is not one of your amiable days!” +</p> + +<p> +General Rule.—No man has ever yet discovered the way to give friendly advice to +any woman, not even to his own wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it’s because you are laced too tight. Women make themselves sick that +way.” +</p> + +<p> +The moment a man utters these words to a woman, no matter whom, that woman,—who +knows that stays will bend,—seizes her corset by the lower end, and bends it +out, saying, with Caroline: +</p> + +<p> +“Look, you can get your hand in! I never lace tight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it must be your stomach.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has the stomach got to do with the nose?” +</p> + +<p> +“The stomach is a centre which communicates with all the organs.” +</p> + +<p> +“So the nose is an organ, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your organ is doing you a poor service at this moment.” She raises her eyes +and shrugs her shoulders. “Come, Adolphe, what have I done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I’m only joking, and I am unfortunate enough not to please you,” +returns Adolphe, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“My misfortune is being your wife! Oh, why am I not somebody else’s!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what <i>I</i> say!” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were, and if I had the innocence to say to you, like a coquette who +wishes to know how far she has got with a man, ‘the redness of my nose really +gives me anxiety,’ you would look at me in the glass with all the affectations +of an ape, and would reply, ‘O madame, you do yourself an injustice; in the +first place, nobody sees it: besides, it harmonizes with your complexion; then +again we are all so after dinner!’ and from this you would go on to flatter me. +Do I ever tell you that you are growing fat, that you are getting the color of +a stone-cutter, and that I prefer thin and pale men?” +</p> + +<p> +They say in London, “Don’t touch the axe!” In France we ought to say, “Don’t +touch a woman’s nose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And all this about a little extra natural vermilion!” exclaims Adolphe. +“Complain about it to Providence, whose office it is to put a little more color +in one place than another, not to me, who loves you, who desires you to be +perfect, and who merely says to you, take care!” +</p> + +<p> +“You love me too much, then, for you’ve been trying, for some time past, to +find disagreeable things to say to me. You want to run me down under the +pretext of making me perfect—people said I <i>was</i> perfect, five years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are better than perfect, you are stunning!” +</p> + +<p> +“With too much vermilion?” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, who sees the atmosphere of the north pole upon his wife’s face, sits +down upon a chair by her side. Caroline, unable decently to go away, gives her +gown a sort of flip on one side, as if to produce a separation. This motion is +performed by some women with a provoking impertinence: but it has two +significations; it is, as whist players would say, either a signal <i>for +trumps</i> or a <i>renounce</i>. At this time, Caroline renounces. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” says Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you have a glass of sugar and water?” asks Caroline, busying herself +about your health, and assuming the part of a servant. +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not amiable while digesting, you must be in pain. Perhaps you would +like a drop of brandy in your sugar and water? The doctor spoke of it as an +excellent remedy.” +</p> + +<p> +“How anxious you are about my stomach!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a centre, it communicates with the other organs, it will act upon your +heart, and through that perhaps upon your tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe gets up and walks about without saying a word, but he reflects upon the +acuteness which his wife is acquiring: he sees her daily gaining in strength +and in acrimony: she is getting to display an art in vexation and a military +capacity for disputation which reminds him of Charles XII and the Russians. +Caroline, during this time, is busy with an alarming piece of mimicry: she +looks as if she were going to faint. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sick?” asks Adolphe, attacked in his generosity, the place where women +always have us. +</p> + +<p> +“It makes me sick at my stomach, after dinner, to see a man going back and +forth so, like the pendulum of a clock. But it’s just like you: you are always +in a fuss about something. You are a queer set: all men are more or less +cracked.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe sits down by the fire opposite to his wife, and remains there pensive: +marriage appears to him like an immense dreary plain, with its crop of nettles +and mullen stalks. +</p> + +<p> +“What, are you pouting?” asks Caroline, after a quarter of an hour’s +observation of her husband’s countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am meditating,” replied Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what an infernal temper you’ve got!” she returns, with a shrug of the +shoulders. “Is it for what I said about your stomach, your shape and your +digestion? Don’t you see that I was only paying you back for your vermilion? +You’ll make me think that men are as vain as women. [Adolphe remains frigid.] +It is really quite kind in you to take our qualities. [Profound silence.] I +made a joke and you got angry [she looks at Adolphe], for you are angry. I am +not like you: I cannot bear the idea of having given you pain! Nevertheless, +it’s an idea that a man never would have had, that of attributing your +impertinence to something wrong in your digestion. It’s not my Dolph, it’s his +stomach that was bold enough to speak. I did not know you were a ventriloquist, +that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline looks at Adolphe and smiles: Adolphe is as stiff as if he were glued. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he won’t laugh! And, in your jargon, you call this having character. Oh, +how much better we are!” +</p> + +<p> +She goes and sits down in Adolphe’s lap, and Adolphe cannot help smiling. This +smile, extracted as if by a steam engine, Caroline has been on the watch for, +in order to make a weapon of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, old fellow, confess that you are wrong,” she says. “Why pout? Dear me, I +like you just as you are: in my eyes you are as slender as when I married you, +and slenderer perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline, when people get to deceive themselves in these little matters, where +one makes concessions and the other does not get angry, do you know what it +means?” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it mean?” asks Caroline, alarmed at Adolphe’s dramatic attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“That they love each other less.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you monster, I understand you: you were angry so as to make me believe you +loved me!” +</p> + +<p> +Alas! let us confess it, Adolphe tells the truth in the only way he can—by a +laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Why give me pain?” she says. “If I am wrong in anything, isn’t it better to +tell me of it kindly, than brutally to say [here she raises her voice], ‘Your +nose is getting red!’ No, that is not right! To please you, I will use an +expression of the fair Fischtaminel, ‘It’s not the act of a gentleman!’” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe laughs and pays the expenses of the reconciliation; but instead of +discovering therein what will please Caroline and what will attach her to him, +he finds out what attaches him to her. +</p> + +<h3>NOSOGRAPHY OF THE VILLA.</h3> + +<p> +Is it advantageous for a man not to know what will please his wife after their +marriage? Some women (this still occurs in the country) are innocent enough to +tell promptly what they want and what they like. But in Paris, nearly every +woman feels a kind of enjoyment in seeing a man wistfully obedient to her +heart, her desires, her caprices—three expressions for the same thing!—and +anxiously going round and round, half crazy and desperate, like a dog that has +lost his master. +</p> + +<p> +They call this <i>being loved</i>, poor things! And a good many of them say to +themselves, as did Caroline, “How will he manage?” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe has come to this. In this situation of things, the worthy and excellent +Deschars, that model of the citizen husband, invites the couple known as +Adolphe and Caroline to help him and his wife inaugurate a delightful country +house. It is an opportunity that the Deschars have seized upon, the folly of a +man of letters, a charming villa upon which he lavished one hundred thousand +francs and which has been sold at auction for eleven thousand. Caroline has a +new dress to air, or a hat with a weeping willow plume—things which a tilbury +will set off to a charm. Little Charles is left with his grandmother. The +servants have a holiday. The youthful pair start beneath the smile of a blue +sky, flecked with milk-while clouds merely to heighten the effect. They breathe +the pure air, through which trots the heavy Norman horse, animated by the +influence of spring. They soon reach Marnes, beyond Ville d’Avray, where the +Deschars are spreading themselves in a villa copied from one at Florence, and +surrounded by Swiss meadows, though without all the objectionable features of +the Alps. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! what a delightful thing a country house like this must be!” exclaims +Caroline, as she walks in the admirable wood that skirts Marnes and Ville +d’Avray. “It makes your eyes as happy as if they had a heart in them.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, having no one to take but Adolphe, takes Adolphe, who becomes her +Adolphe again. And then you should see her run about like a fawn, and act once +more the sweet, pretty, innocent, adorable school-girl that she was! Her braids +come down! She takes off her bonnet, and holds it by the strings! She is young, +pink and white again. Her eyes smile, her mouth is a pomegranate endowed with +sensibility, with a sensibility which seems quite fresh. +</p> + +<p> +“So a country house would please you very much, would it, darling?” says +Adolphe, clasping Caroline round the waist, and noticing that she leans upon +him as if to show the flexibility of her form. +</p> + +<p> +“What, will you be such a love as to buy me one? But remember, no extravagance! +Seize an opportunity like the Deschars.” +</p> + +<p> +“To please you and to find out what is likely to give you pleasure, such is the +constant study of your own Dolph.” +</p> + +<p> +They are alone, at liberty to call each other their little names of endearment, +and run over the whole list of their secret caresses. +</p> + +<p> +“Does he really want to please his little girly?” says Caroline, resting her +head on the shoulder of Adolphe, who kisses her forehead, saying to himself, +“Gad! I’ve got her now!” +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—When a husband and a wife have got each other, the devil only knows +which has got the other. +</p> + +<p> +The young couple are captivating, whereupon the stout Madame Deschars gives +utterance to a remark somewhat equivocal for her, usually so stern, prudish and +devout. +</p> + +<p> +“Country air has one excellent property: it makes husbands very amiable.” +</p> + +<p> +M. Deschars points out an opportunity for Adolphe to seize. A house is to be +sold at Ville d’Avray, for a song, of course. Now, the country house is a +weakness peculiar to the inhabitant of Paris. This weakness, or disease, has +its course and its cure. Adolphe is a husband, but not a doctor. He buys the +house and takes possession with Caroline, who has become once more his +Caroline, his Carola, his fawn, his treasure, his girly girl. +</p> + +<p> +The following alarming symptoms now succeed each other with frightful rapidity: +a cup of milk, baptized, costs five sous; when it is anhydrous, as the chemists +say, ten sous. Meat costs more at Sevres than at Paris, if you carefully +examine the qualities. Fruit cannot be had at any price. A fine pear costs more +in the country than in the (anhydrous!) garden that blooms in Chevet’s window. +</p> + +<p> +Before being able to raise fruit for oneself, from a Swiss meadow measuring two +square yards, surrounded by a few green trees which look as if they were +borrowed from the scenic illusions of a theatre, the most rural authorities, +being consulted on the point, declare that you must spend a great deal of +money, and—wait five years! Vegetables dash out of the husbandman’s garden to +reappear at the city market. Madame Deschars, who possesses a gate-keeper that +is at the same time a gardener, confesses that the vegetables raised on her +land, beneath her glass frames, by dint of compost and top-soil, cost her twice +as much as those she used to buy at Paris, of a woman who had rent and taxes to +pay, and whose husband was an elector. Despite the efforts and pledges of the +gate-keeper-gardener, early peas and things at Paris are a month in advance of +those in the country. +</p> + +<p> +From eight in the evening to eleven our couple don’t know what to do, on +account of the insipidity of the neighbors, their small ideas, and the +questions of self-love which arise out of the merest trifles. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Deschars remarks, with that profound knowledge of figures which +distinguishes the ex-notary, that the cost of going to Paris and back, added to +the interest of the cost of his villa, to the taxes, wages of the gate-keeper +and his wife, are equal to a rent of three thousand francs a year. He does not +see how he, an ex-notary, allowed himself to be so caught! For he has often +drawn up leases of chateaux with parks and out-houses, for three thousand a +year. +</p> + +<p> +It is agreed by everybody in the parlor of Madame Deschars, that a country +house, so far from being a pleasure, is an unmitigated nuisance. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see how they sell a cabbage for one sou at market, which has to be +watered every day from its birth to the time you eat it,” says Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“The way to get along in the country,” replies a little retired grocer, “is to +stay there, to live there, to become country-folks, and then everything +changes.” +</p> + +<p> +On going home, Caroline says to her poor Adolphe, “What an idea that was of +yours, to buy a country house! The best way to do about the country is to go +there on visits to other people.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe remembers an English proverb, which says, “Don’t have a newspaper or a +country seat of your own: there are plenty of idiots who will have them for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah!” returns Adolph, who was enlightened once for all upon women’s logic by +the Matrimonial Gadfly, “you are right: but then you know the baby is in +splendid health, here.” +</p> + +<p> +Though Adolphe has become prudent, this reply awakens Caroline’s +susceptibilities. A mother is very willing to think exclusively of her child, +but she does not want him to be preferred to herself. She is silent; the next +day, she is tired to death of the country. Adolphe being absent on business, +she waits for him from five o’clock to seven, and goes alone with little +Charles to the coach office. She talks for three-quarters of an hour of her +anxieties. She was afraid to go from the house to the office. Is it proper for +a young woman to be left alone, so? She cannot support such an existence. +</p> + +<p> +The country house now creates a very peculiar phase; one which deserves a +chapter to itself. +</p> + +<h3>TROUBLE WITHIN TROUBLE.</h3> + +<p> +Axiom.—There are parentheses in worry. +</p> + +<p> +EXAMPLE—A great deal of evil has been said of the stitch in the side; but it is +nothing to the stitch to which we now refer, which the pleasures of the +matrimonial second crop are everlastingly reviving, like the hammer of a note +in the piano. This constitutes an irritant, which never flourishes except at +the period when the young wife’s timidity gives place to that fatal equality of +rights which is at once devastating France and the conjugal relation. Every +season has its peculiar vexation. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, after a week spent in taking note of her husband’s absences, +perceives that he passes seven hours a day away from her. At last, Adolphe, who +comes home as gay as an actor who has been applauded, observes a slight coating +of hoar frost upon Caroline’s visage. After making sure that the coldness of +her manner has been observed, Caroline puts on a counterfeit air of +interest,—the well-known expression of which possesses the gift of making a man +inwardly swear,—and says: “You must have had a good deal of business to-day, +dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, lots!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you take many cabs?” +</p> + +<p> +“I took seven francs’ worth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you find everybody in?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, those with whom I had appointments.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you make appointments with them? The ink in your inkstand is dried +up; it’s like glue; I wanted to write, and spent a whole hour in moistening it, +and even then only produced a thick mud fit to mark bundles with for the East +Indies.” +</p> + +<p> +Here any and every husband looks suspiciously at his better half. +</p> + +<p> +“It is probable that I wrote them at Paris—” +</p> + +<p> +“What business was it, Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I thought you knew. Shall I run over the list? First, there’s +Chaumontel’s affair—” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought Monsieur Chaumontel was in Switzerland—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but he has representatives, a lawyer—” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you do anything else but business?” asks Caroline, interrupting +Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +Here she gives him a direct, piercing look, by which she plunges into her +husband’s eyes when he least expects it: a sword in a heart. +</p> + +<p> +“What could I have done? Made a little counterfeit money, run into debt, or +embroidered a sampler?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, I don’t know. And I can’t even guess. I am too dull, you’ve told me +so a hundred times.” +</p> + +<p> +“There you go, and take an expression of endearment in bad part. How like a +woman that is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you concluded anything?” she asks, pretending to take an interest in +business. +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing,” +</p> + +<p> +“How many persons have you seen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eleven, without counting those who were walking in the streets.” +</p> + +<p> +“How you answer me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and how you question me! As if you’d been following the trade of an +examining judge for the last ten years!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, tell me all you’ve done to-day, it will amuse me. You ought to try to +please me while you are here! I’m dull enough when you leave me alone all day +long.” +</p> + +<p> +“You want me to amuse you by telling you about business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Formerly, you told me everything—” +</p> + +<p> +This friendly little reproach disguises the certitude that Caroline wishes to +enjoy respecting the serious matters which Adolphe wishes to conceal. Adolphe +then undertakes to narrate how he has spent the day. Caroline affects a sort of +distraction sufficiently well played to induce the belief that she is not +listening. +</p> + +<p> +“But you said just now,” she exclaims, at the moment when Adolphe is getting +into a snarl, “that you had paid seven francs for cabs, and you now talk of a +hack! You took it by the hour, I suppose? Did you do your business in a hack?” +she asks, railingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should hacks be interdicted?” inquires Adolphe, resuming his narrative. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you been to Madame de Fischtaminel’s?” she asks in the middle of an +exceedingly involved explanation, insolently taking the words out of your +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I have been there?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would have given me pleasure: I wanted to know whether her parlor is done.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then you <i>have</i> been there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, her upholsterer told me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know her upholsterer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Braschon.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you met the upholsterer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you only went in carriages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear, but to get carriages, you have to go and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! I dare say Braschon was in the carriage, or the parlor was—one or the +other is equally probable.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t listen,” exclaims Adolphe, who thinks that a long story will lull +Caroline’s suspicions. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve listened too much already. You’ve been lying for the last hour, worse +than a drummer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll say nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know enough. I know all I wanted to know. You say you’ve seen lawyers, +notaries, bankers: now you haven’t seen one of them! Suppose I were to go +to-morrow to see Madame de Fischtaminel, do you know what she would say?” +</p> + +<p> +Here, Caroline watches Adolphe closely: but Adolphe affects a delusive +calmness, in the middle of which Caroline throws out her line to fish up a +clue. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she would say that she had had the pleasure of seeing you! How wretched +we poor creatures are! We never know what you are doing: here we are stuck, +chained at home, while you are off at your business! Fine business, truly! If I +were in your place, I would invent business a little bit better put together +than yours! Ah, you set us a worthy example! They say women are perverse. Who +perverted them?” +</p> + +<p> +Here Adolphe tries, by looking fixedly at Caroline, to arrest the torrent of +words. Caroline, like a horse who has just been touched up by the lash, starts +off anew, and with the animation of one of Rossini’s codas: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s a very neat idea, to put your wife out in the country so that you +may spend the day as you like at Paris. So this is the cause of your passion +for a country house! Snipe that I was, to be caught in the trap! You are right, +sir, a villa is very convenient: it serves two objects. But the wife can get +along with it as well as the husband. You may take Paris and its hacks! I’ll +take the woods and their shady groves! Yes, Adolphe, I am really satisfied, so +let’s say no more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe listens to sarcasm for an hour by the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you done, dear?” he asks, profiting by an instant in which she tosses her +head after a pointed interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +Then Caroline concludes thus: “I’ve had enough of the villa, and I’ll never set +foot in it again. But I know what will happen: you’ll keep it, probably, and +leave me in Paris. Well, at Paris, I can at least amuse myself, while you go +with Madame de Fischtaminel to the woods. What is a <i>Villa Adolphini</i> +where you get nauseated if you go six times round the lawn? where they’ve +planted chair-legs and broom-sticks on the pretext of producing shade? It’s +like a furnace: the walls are six inches thick! and my gentleman is absent +seven hours a day! That’s what a country seat means!” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me, Caroline.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t so much mind, if you would only confess what you did to-day. You +don’t know me yet: come, tell me, I won’t scold you. I pardon you beforehand +for all that you’ve done.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, who knows the consequences of a confession too well to make one to his +wife, replies—“Well, I’ll tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a good fellow—I shall love you better.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was three hours—” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure of it—at Madame de Fischtaminel’s!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, at our notary’s, as he had got me a purchaser; but we could not come to +terms: he wanted our villa furnished. When I left there, I went to Braschon’s, +to see how much we owed him—” +</p> + +<p> +“You made up this romance while I was talking to you! Look me in the face! I’ll +go to see Braschon to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe cannot restrain a nervous shudder. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t help laughing, you monster!” +</p> + +<p> +“I laugh at your obstinacy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go to-morrow to Madame de Fischtaminel’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, go wherever you like!” +</p> + +<p> +“What brutality!” says Caroline, rising and going away with her handkerchief at +her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The country house, so ardently longed for by Caroline, has now become a +diabolical invention of Adolphe’s, a trap into which the fawn has fallen. +</p> + +<p> +Since Adolphe’s discovery that it is impossible to reason with Caroline, he +lets her say whatever she pleases. +</p> + +<p> +Two months after, he sells the villa which cost him twenty-two thousand francs +for seven thousand! But he gains this by the adventure—he finds out that the +country is not the thing that Caroline wants. +</p> + +<p> +The question is becoming serious. Nature, with its woods, its forests, its +valleys, the Switzerland of the environs of Paris, the artificial rivers, have +amused Caroline for barely six months. Adolphe is tempted to abdicate and take +Caroline’s part himself. +</p> + +<h3>A HOUSEHOLD REVOLUTION.</h3> + +<p> +One morning, Adolphe is seized by the triumphant idea of letting Caroline find +out for herself what she wants. He gives up to her the control of the house, +saying, “Do as you like.” He substitutes the constitutional system for the +autocratic system, a responsible ministry for an absolute conjugal monarchy. +This proof of confidence —the object of much secret envy—is, to women, a +field-marshal’s baton. Women are then, so to speak, mistresses at home. +</p> + +<p> +After this, nothing, not even the memory of the honey-moon, can be compared to +Adolphe’s happiness for several days. A woman, under such circumstances, is all +sugar. She is too sweet: she would invent the art of petting and cosseting and +of coining tender little names, if this matrimonial sugar-plummery had not +existed ever since the Terrestrial Paradise. At the end of the month, Adolphe’s +condition is like that of children towards the close of New Year’s week. So +Caroline is beginning to say, not in words, but in acts, in manner, in mimetic +expressions: “It’s difficult to tell <i>what</i> to do to please a man!” +</p> + +<p> +Giving up the helm of the boat to one’s wife, is an exceedingly ordinary idea, +and would hardly deserve the qualification of “triumphant,” which we have given +it at the commencement of this chapter, if it were not accompanied by that of +taking it back again. Adolphe was seduced by a wish, which invariably seizes +persons who are the prey of misfortune, to know how far an evil will go!—to try +how much damage fire will do when left to itself, the individual possessing, or +thinking he possesses, the power to arrest it. This curiosity pursues us from +the cradle to the grave. Then, after his plethora of conjugal felicity, +Adolphe, who is treating himself to a farce in his own house, goes through the +following phases: +</p> + +<p> +FIRST EPOCH. Things go on altogether too well. Caroline buys little account +books to keep a list of her expenses in, she buys a nice little piece of +furniture to store her money in, she feeds Adolphe superbly, she is happy in +his approbation, she discovers that very many articles are needed in the house. +It is her ambition to be an incomparable housekeeper. Adolphe, who arrogates to +himself the right of censorship, no longer finds the slightest suggestion to +make. +</p> + +<p> +When he dresses himself, everything is ready to his hands. Not even in Armide’s +garden was more ingenious tenderness displayed than that of Caroline. For her +phoenix husband, she renews the wax upon his razor strap, she substitutes new +suspenders for old ones. None of his button-holes are ever widowed. His linen +is as well cared for as that of the confessor of the devotee, all whose sins +are venial. His stockings are free from holes. At table, his tastes, his +caprices even, are studied, consulted: he is getting fat! There is ink in his +inkstand, and the sponge is always moist. He never has occasion to say, like +Louis XIV, “I came near having to wait!” In short, he hears himself continually +called <i>a love of a man</i>. He is obliged to reproach Caroline for +neglecting herself: she does not pay sufficient attention to her own needs. Of +this gentle reproach Caroline takes note. +</p> + +<p> +SECOND EPOCH. The scene changes, at table. Everything is exceedingly dear. +Vegetables are beyond one’s means. Wood sells as if it came from Campeche. +Fruit? Oh! as to fruit, princes, bankers and great lords alone can eat it. +Dessert is a cause of ruin. Adolphe often hears Caroline say to Madame +Deschars: “How do you manage?” Conferences are held in your presence upon the +proper way to keep cooks under the thumb. +</p> + +<p> +A cook who entered your service without effects, without clothes, and without +talent, has come to get her wages in a blue merino gown, set off by an +embroidered neckerchief, her ears embellished with a pair of ear-rings enriched +with small pearls, her feet clothed in comfortable shoes which give you a +glimpse of neat cotton stockings. She has two trunks full of property, and +keeps an account at the savings bank. +</p> + +<p> +Upon this Caroline complains of the bad morals of the lower classes: she +complains of the education and the knowledge of figures which distinguish +domestics. From time to time she utters little axioms like the following: There +are some mistakes you <i>must</i> make!—It’s only those who do nothing who do +everything well.—She has the anxieties that belong to power.—Ah! men are +fortunate in not having a house to keep.—Women bear the burden of the +innumerable details. +</p> + +<p> +THIRD EPOCH. Caroline, absorbed in the idea that you should eat merely to live, +treats Adolphe to the delights of a cenobitic table. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe’s stockings are either full of holes or else rough with the lichen of +hasty mendings, for the day is not long enough for all that his wife has to do. +He wears suspenders blackened by use. His linen is old and gapes like a +door-keeper, or like the door itself. At a time when Adolphe is in haste to +conclude a matter of business, it takes him an hour to dress: he has to pick +out his garments one by one, opening many an article before finding one fit to +wear. But Caroline is charmingly dressed. She has pretty bonnets, velvet boots, +mantillas. She has made up her mind, she conducts her administration in virtue +of this principle: Charity well understood begins at home. When Adolphe +complains of the contrast between his poverty-stricken wardrobe and Caroline’s +splendor, she says, “Why, you reproached me with buying nothing for myself!” +</p> + +<p> +The husband and the wife here begin to bandy jests more or less acrimonious. +One evening Caroline makes herself very agreeable, in order to insinuate an +avowal of a rather large deficit, just as the ministry begins to eulogize the +tax-payers, and boast of the wealth of the country, when it is preparing to +bring forth a bill for an additional appropriation. There is this further +similitude that both are done in the chamber, whether in administration or in +housekeeping. From this springs the profound truth that the constitutional +system is infinitely dearer than the monarchical system. For a nation as for a +household, it is the government of the happy balance, of mediocrity, of +chicanery. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, enlightened by his past annoyances, waits for an opportunity to +explode, and Caroline slumbers in a delusive security. +</p> + +<p> +What starts the quarrel? Do we ever know what electric current precipitates the +avalanche or decides a revolution? It may result from anything or nothing. But +finally, Adolphe, after a period to be determined in each case by the +circumstances of the couple, utters this fatal phrase, in the midst of a +discussion: “Ah! when I was a bachelor!” +</p> + +<p> +Her husband’s bachelor life is to a woman what the phrase, “My dear deceased,” +is to a widow’s second husband. These two stings produce wounds which are never +completely healed. +</p> + +<p> +Then Adolphe goes on like General Bonaparte haranguing the Five Hundred: “We +are on a volcano!—The house no longer has a head, the time to come to an +understanding has arrived.—You talk of happiness, Caroline, but you have +compromised, imperiled it by your exactions, you have violated the civil code: +you have mixed yourself up in the discussions of business, and you have invaded +the conjugal authority. —We must reform our internal affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline does not shout, like the Five Hundred, “Down with the dictator!” For +people never shout a man down, when they feel that they can put him down. +</p> + +<p> +“When I was a bachelor I had none but new stockings! I had a clean napkin every +day on my plate. The restaurateur only fleeced me of a determinate sum. I have +given up to you my beloved liberty! What have you done with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I then so very wrong, Adolphe, to have sought to spare you numerous cares?” +says Caroline, taking an attitude before her husband. “Take the key of the +money-box back,—but do you know what will happen? I am ashamed, but you will +compel me to go on to the stage to get the merest necessaries of life. Is this +what you want? Degrade your wife, or bring in conflict two contrary, hostile +interests—” +</p> + +<p> +Such, for three quarters of the French people is an exact definition of +marriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Be perfectly easy, dear,” resumes Caroline, seating herself in her chair like +Marius on the ruins of Carthage, “I will never ask you for anything. I am not a +beggar! I know what I’ll do—you don’t know me yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what will you do?” asks Adolphe; “it seems impossible to joke or have an +explanation with you women. What will you do?” +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t concern you at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, madame, quite the contrary. Dignity, honor—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, have no fear of that, sir. For your sake more than for my own, I will keep +it a dead secret.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Caroline, my own Carola, what do you mean to do?” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline darts a viper-like glance at Adolphe, who recoils and proceeds to walk +up and down the room. +</p> + +<p> +“There now, tell me, what will you do?” he repeats after much too prolonged a +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall go to work, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +At this sublime declaration, Adolphe executes a movement in retreat, detecting +a bitter exasperation, and feeling the sharpness of a north wind which had +never before blown in the matrimonial chamber. +</p> + +<h3>THE ART OF BEING A VICTIM.</h3> + +<p> +On and after the Revolution, our vanquished Caroline adopts an infernal system, +the effect of which is to make you regret your victory every hour. She becomes +the opposition! Should Adolphe have one more such triumph, he would appear +before the Court of Assizes, accused of having smothered his wife between two +mattresses, like Shakespeare’s Othello. Caroline puts on the air of a martyr; +her submission is positively killing. On every occasion she assassinates +Adolphe with a “Just as you like!” uttered in tones whose sweetness is +something fearful. No elegiac poet could compete with Caroline, who utters +elegy upon elegy: elegy in action, elegy in speech: her smile is elegiac, her +silence is elegiac, her gestures are elegiac. Here are a few examples, wherein +every household will find some of its impressions recorded: +</p> + +<p> +AFTER BREAKFAST. “Caroline, we go to-night to the Deschars’ grand ball you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, love.” +</p> + +<p> +AFTER DINNER. “What, not dressed yet, Caroline?” exclaims Adolphe, who has just +made his appearance, magnificently equipped. +</p> + +<p> +He finds Caroline arrayed in a gown fit for an elderly lady of strong +conversational powers, a black moire with an old-fashioned fan-waist. Flowers, +too badly imitated to deserve the name of artificial, give a gloomy aspect to a +head of hair which the chambermaid has carelessly arranged. Caroline’s gloves +have already seen wear and tear. +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, in that dress?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no other. A new dress would have cost three hundred francs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I, ask you for anything, after what has happened!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go alone,” says Adolphe, unwilling to be humiliated in his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say you are very glad to,” returns Caroline, in a captious tone, “it’s +plain enough from the way you are got up.” +</p> + +<p> +Eleven persons are in the parlor, all invited to dinner by Adolphe. Caroline is +there, looking as if her husband had invited her too. She is waiting for dinner +to be served. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” says the parlor servant in a whisper to his master, “the cook doesn’t +know what on earth to do!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“You said nothing to her, sir: and she has only two side-dishes, the beef, a +chicken, a salad and vegetables.” +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline, didn’t you give the necessary orders?” +</p> + +<p> +“How did I know that you had company, and besides I can’t take it upon myself +to give orders here! You delivered me from all care on that point, and I thank +heaven for it every day of my life.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Fischtaminel has called to pay Madame Caroline a visit. She finds her +coughing feebly and nearly bent double over her embroidery. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so you are working those slippers for your dear Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe is standing before the fire-place as complacently as may be. +</p> + +<p> +“No, madame, it’s for a tradesman who pays me for them: like the convicts, my +labor enables me to treat myself to some little comforts.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe reddens; he can’t very well beat his wife, and Madame de Fischtaminel +looks at him as much as to say, “What does this mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You cough a good deal, my darling,” says Madame de Fischtaminel. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” returns Caroline, “what is life to me?” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is seated, conversing with a lady of your acquaintance, whose good +opinion you are exceedingly anxious to retain. From the depths of the embrasure +where you are talking with some friends, you gather, from the mere motion of +her lips, these words: “My husband would have it so!” uttered with the air of a +young Roman matron going to the circus to be devoured. You are profoundly +wounded in your several vanities, and wish to attend to this conversation while +listening to your guests: you thus make replies which bring you back such +inquiries as: “Why, what are you thinking of?” For you have lost the thread of +the discourse, and you fidget nervously with your feet, thinking to yourself, +“What is she telling her about me?” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe is dining with the Deschars: twelve persons are at table, and Caroline +is seated next to a nice young man named Ferdinand, Adolphe’s cousin. Between +the first and second course, conjugal happiness is the subject of conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing easier than for a woman to be happy,” says Caroline in reply +to a woman who complains of her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us your secret, madame,” says M. de Fischtaminel agreeably. +</p> + +<p> +“A woman has nothing to do but to meddle with nothing to consider herself as +the first servant in the house or as a slave that the master takes care of, to +have no will of her own, and never to make an observation: thus all goes well.” +</p> + +<p> +This, delivered in a bitter tone and with tears in her voice, alarms Adolphe, +who looks fixedly at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“You forget, madame, the happiness of telling about one’s happiness,” he +returns, darting at her a glance worthy of the tyrant in a melodrama. +</p> + +<p> +Quite satisfied with having shown herself assassinated or on the point of being +so, Caroline turns her head aside, furtively wipes away a tear, and says: +</p> + +<p> +“Happiness cannot be described!” +</p> + +<p> +This incident, as they say at the Chamber, leads to nothing, but Ferdinand +looks upon his cousin as an angel about to be offered up. +</p> + +<p> +Some one alludes to the frightful prevalence of inflammation of the stomach, or +to the nameless diseases of which young women die. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, too happy they!” exclaims Caroline, as if she were foretelling the manner +of her death. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe’s mother-in-law comes to see her daughter. Caroline says, “My husband’s +parlor:” “Your master’s chamber.” Everything in the house belongs to “My +husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s the matter, children?” asks the mother-in-law; “you seem to be at +swords’ points.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear me,” says Adolphe, “nothing but that Caroline has had the management +of the house and didn’t manage it right, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“She got into debt, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dearest mamma.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Adolphe,” says the mother-in-law, after having waited to be left +alone with her son, “would you prefer to have my daughter magnificently +dressed, to have everything go on smoothly, <i>without its costing you +anything</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +Imagine, if you can, the expression of Adolphe’s physiognomy, as he hears +<i>this declaration of woman’s rights</i>! +</p> + +<p> +Caroline abandons her shabby dress and appears in a splendid one. She is at the +Deschars’: every one compliments her upon her taste, upon the richness of her +materials, upon her lace, her jewels. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you have a charming husband!” says Madame Deschars. Adolphe tosses his +head proudly, and looks at Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“My husband, madame! I cost that gentleman nothing, thank heaven! All I have +was given me by my mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe turns suddenly about and goes to talk with Madame de Fischtaminel. +</p> + +<p> +After a year of absolute monarchy, Caroline says very mildly one morning: +</p> + +<p> +“How much have you spent this year, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Examine your accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe discovers that he has spent a third more than during Caroline’s worst +year. +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ve cost you nothing for my dress,” she adds. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is playing Schubert’s melodies. Adolphe takes great pleasure in +hearing these compositions well-executed: he gets up and compliments Caroline. +She bursts into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, I’m nervous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know you were subject to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Adolphe, you won’t see anything! Look, my rings come off my fingers: you +don’t love me any more—I’m a burden to you—” +</p> + +<p> +She weeps, she won’t listen, she weeps afresh at every word Adolphe utters. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose you take the management of the house back again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she exclaims, rising sharply to her feet, like a spring figure in a box, +“now that you’ve had enough of your experience! Thank you! Do you suppose it’s +money that I want? Singular method, yours, of pouring balm upon a wounded +heart. No, go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, just as you like, Caroline.” +</p> + +<p> +This “just as you like” is the first expression of indifference towards a wife: +and Caroline sees before her an abyss towards which she had been walking of her +own free will. +</p> + +<h3>THE FRENCH CAMPAIGN.</h3> + +<p> +The disasters of 1814 afflict every species of existence. After brilliant days +of conquest, after the period during which obstacles change to triumphs, and +the slightest check becomes a piece of good fortune, there comes a time when +the happiest ideas turn out blunders, when courage leads to destruction, and +when your very fortifications are a stumbling-block. Conjugal love, which, +according to authors, is a peculiar phase of love, has, more than anything +else, its French Campaign, its fatal 1814. The devil especially loves to dangle +his tail in the affairs of poor desolate women, and to this Caroline has come. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is trying to think of some means of bringing her husband back. She +spends many solitary hours at home, and during this time her imagination works. +She goes and comes, she gets up, and often stands pensively at the window, +looking at the street and seeing nothing, her face glued to the panes, and +feeling as if in a desert, in the midst of her friends, in the bosom of her +luxuriously furnished apartments. +</p> + +<p> +Now, in Paris, unless a person occupy a house of his own, enclosed between a +court and a garden, all life is double. At every story, a family sees another +family in the opposite house. Everybody plunges his gaze at will into his +neighbor’s domains. There is a necessity for mutual observation, a common right +of search from which none can escape. At a given time, in the morning, you get +up early, the servant opposite is dusting the parlor, she has left the windows +open and has put the rugs on the railing; you divine a multitude of things, and +vice-versa. Thus, in a given time, you are acquainted with the habits of the +pretty, the old, the young, the coquettish, the virtuous woman opposite, or the +caprices of the coxcomb, the inventions of the old bachelor, the color of the +furniture, and the cat of the two pair front. Everything furnishes a hint, and +becomes matter for divination. At the fourth story, a grisette, taken by +surprise, finds herself—too late, like the chaste Susanne,—the prey of the +delighted lorgnette of an aged clerk, who earns eighteen hundred francs a year, +and who becomes criminal gratis. On the other hand, a handsome young gentleman, +who, for the present, works without wages, and is only nineteen years old, +appears before the sight of a pious old lady, in the simple apparel of a man +engaged in shaving. The watch thus kept up is never relaxed, while prudence, on +the contrary, has its moments of forgetfulness. Curtains are not always let +down in time. A woman, just before dark, approaches the window to thread her +needle, and the married man opposite may then admire a head that Raphael might +have painted, and one that he considers worthy of himself—a National Guard +truly imposing when under arms. Oh, sacred private life, where art thou! Paris +is a city ever ready to exhibit itself half naked, a city essentially libertine +and devoid of modesty. For a person’s life to be decorous in it, the said +person should have a hundred thousand a year. Virtues are dearer than vices in +Paris. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, whose gaze sometimes steals between the protecting muslins which hide +her domestic life from the five stories opposite, at last discovers a young +couple plunged in the delights of the honey-moon, and newly established in the +first story directly in view of her window. She spends her time in the most +exciting observations. The blinds are closed early, and opened late. One day, +Caroline, who has arisen at eight o’clock notices, by accident, of course, the +maid preparing a bath or a morning dress, a delicious deshabille. Caroline +sighs. She lies in ambush like a hunter at the cover; she surprises the young +woman, her face actually illuminated with happiness. Finally, by dint of +watching the charming couple, she sees the gentleman and lady open the window, +and lean gently one against the other, as, supported by the railing, they +breathe the evening air. Caroline gives herself a nervous headache, by +endeavoring to interpret the phantasmagorias, some of them having an +explanation and others not, made by the shadows of these two young people on +the curtains, one night when they have forgotten to close the shutters. The +young woman is often seated, melancholy and pensive, waiting for her absent +husband; she hears the tread of a horse, or the rumble of a cab at the street +corner; she starts from the sofa, and from her movements, it is easy for +Caroline to see that she exclaims: “’Tis he!” +</p> + +<p> +“How they love each other!” says Caroline to herself. +</p> + +<p> +By dint of nervous headache, Caroline conceives an exceedingly ingenious plan: +this plan consists in using the conjugal bliss of the opposite neighbors as a +tonic to stimulate Adolphe. The idea is not without depravity, but then +Caroline’s intention sanctifies the means! +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe,” she says, “we have a neighbor opposite, the loveliest woman, a +brunette—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” returns Adolphe, “I know her. She is a friend of Madame de +Fischtaminel’s: Madame Foullepointe, the wife of a broker, a charming man and a +good fellow, very fond of his wife: he’s crazy about her. His office and rooms +are here, in the court, while those on the street are madame’s. I know of no +happier household. Foullepointe talks about his happiness everywhere, even at +the Exchange; he’s really quite tiresome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, be good enough to present Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe to me. +I should be delighted to learn how she manages to make her husband love her so +much: have they been married long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five years, just like us.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Adolphe, dear, I am dying to know her: make us intimately acquainted. Am I +as pretty as she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if I were to meet you at an opera ball, and if you weren’t my wife, I +declare, I shouldn’t know which—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are real sweet to-day. Don’t forget to invite them to dinner Saturday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do it to-night. Foullepointe and I often meet on ’Change.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” says Caroline, “this young woman will doubtless tell me what her method +of action is.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline resumes her post of observation. At about three she looks through the +flowers which form as it were a bower at the window, and exclaims, “Two perfect +doves!” +</p> + +<p> +For the Saturday in question, Caroline invites Monsieur and Madame Deschars, +the worthy Monsieur Fischtaminel, in short, the most virtuous couples of her +society. She has brought out all her resources: she has ordered the most +sumptuous dinner, she has taken the silver out of the chest: she means to do +all honor to the model of wives. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, you will see to-night,” she says to Madame Deschars, at the moment +when all the women are looking at each other in silence, “the most admirable +young couple in the world, our opposite neighbors: a young man of fair +complexion, so graceful and with <i>such</i> manners! His head is like Lord +Byron’s, and he’s a real Don Juan, only faithful: he’s discovered the secret of +making love eternal: I shall perhaps obtain a second crop of it from her +example. Adolphe, when he sees them, will blush at his conduct, and—” +</p> + +<p> +The servant announces: “Monsieur and Madame Foullepointe.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Foullepointe, a pretty brunette, a genuine Parisian, slight and erect in +form, the brilliant light of her eye quenched by her long lashes, charmingly +dressed, sits down upon the sofa. Caroline bows to a fat gentleman with thin +gray hair, who follows this Paris Andalusian, and who exhibits a face and +paunch fit for Silenus, a butter-colored pate, a deceitful, libertine smile +upon his big, heavy lips,—in short, a philosopher! Caroline looks upon this +individual with astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur Foullepointe, my dear,” says Adolphe, presenting the worthy +quinquagenarian. +</p> + +<p> +“I am delighted, madame,” says Caroline, good-naturedly, “that you have brought +your father-in-law [profound sensation], but we shall soon see your husband, I +trust—” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame—!” +</p> + +<p> +Everybody listens and looks. Adolphe becomes the object of every one’s +attention; he is literally dumb with amazement: if he could, he would whisk +Caroline off through a trap, as at the theatre. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Monsieur Foullepointe, my husband,” says Madame Foullepointe. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline turns scarlet as she sees her ridiculous blunder, and Adolphe scathes +her with a look of thirty-six candlepower. +</p> + +<p> +“You said he was young and fair,” whispers Madame Deschars. Madame +Foullepointe,—knowing lady that she is,—boldly stares at the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +A month after, Madame Foullepointe and Caroline become intimate. Adolphe, who +is taken up with Madame de Fischtaminel, pays no attention to this dangerous +friendship, a friendship which will bear its fruits, for—pray learn this— +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Women have corrupted more women than men have ever loved. +</p> + +<h3>A SOLO ON THE HEARSE.</h3> + +<p> +After a period, the length of which depends on the strength of Caroline’s +principles, she appears to be languishing; and when Adolphe, anxious for +decorum’s sake, as he sees her stretched out upon the sofa like a snake in the +sun, asks her, “What is the matter, love? What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I was dead!” she replies. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite a merry and agreeable wish!” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t death that frightens me, it’s suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that means that I don’t make you happy! That’s the way with women!” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe strides about the room, talking incoherently: but he is brought to a +dead halt by seeing Caroline dry her tears, which are really flowing +artistically, in an embroidered handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel sick?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t feel well. [Silence.] I only hope that I shall live long enough to see +my daughter married, for I know the meaning, now, of the expression so little +understood by the young—<i>the choice of a husband</i>! Go to your amusements, +Adolphe: a woman who thinks of the future, a woman who suffers, is not at all +diverting: come, go and have a good time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you feel bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t feel bad, dear: I never was better. I don’t feel anything. No, really, +I am better. There, leave me to myself.” +</p> + +<p> +This time, being the first, Adolphe goes away almost sad. +</p> + +<p> +A week passes, during which Caroline orders all the servants to conceal from +her husband her deplorable situation: she languishes, she rings when she feels +she is going off, she uses a great deal of ether. The domestics finally +acquaint their master with madame’s conjugal heroism, and Adolphe remains at +home one evening after dinner, and sees his wife passionately kissing her +little Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor child! I regret the future only for your sake! What is life, I should +like to know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my dear,” says Adolphe, “don’t take on so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not taking on. Death doesn’t frighten me—I saw a funeral this morning, and +I thought how happy the body was! How comes it that I think of nothing but +death? Is it a disease? I have an idea that I shall die by my own hand.” +</p> + +<p> +The more Adolphe tries to divert Caroline, the more closely she wraps herself +up in the crape of her hopeless melancholy. This second time, Adolphe stays at +home and is wearied to death. At the third attack of forced tears, he goes out +without the slightest compunction. He finally gets accustomed to these +everlasting murmurs, to these dying postures, these crocodile tears. So he +says: +</p> + +<p> +“If you are sick, Caroline, you’d better have a doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just as you like! It will end quicker, so. But bring a famous one, if you +bring any.” +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a month, Adolphe, worn out by hearing the funereal air that +Caroline plays him on every possible key, brings home a famous doctor. At +Paris, doctors are all men of discernment, and are admirably versed in conjugal +nosography. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, madame,” says the great physician, “how happens it that so pretty a +woman allows herself to be sick?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! sir, like the nose of old father Aubry, I aspire to the tomb—” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, out of consideration for Adolphe, makes a feeble effort to smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Tut, tut! But your eyes are clear: they don’t seem to need our infernal +drugs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look again, doctor, I am eaten up with fever, a slow, imperceptible fever—” +</p> + +<p> +And she fastens her most roguish glance upon the illustrious doctor, who says +to himself, “What eyes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, let me see your tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline puts out her taper tongue between two rows of teeth as white as those +of a dog. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a little bit furred at the root: but you have breakfasted—” observes the +great physician, turning toward Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, a mere nothing,” returns Caroline; “two cups of tea—” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe and the illustrious leech look at each other, for the doctor wonders +whether it is the husband or the wife that is trifling with him. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you feel?” gravely inquires the physician. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no appetite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a pain, here.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor examines the part indicated. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, we’ll look at that by and by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now and then a shudder passes over me—” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have melancholy fits, I am always thinking of death, I feel promptings of +suicide—” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me! Really!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have rushes of heat to the face: look, there’s a constant trembling in my +eyelid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Capital! We call that a trismus.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor goes into an explanation, which lasts a quarter of an hour, of the +trismus, employing the most scientific terms. From this it appears that the +trismus is the trismus: but he observes with the greatest modesty that if +science knows that the trismus is the trismus, it is entirely ignorant of the +cause of this nervous affection, which comes and goes, appears and +disappears—“and,” he adds, “we have decided that it is altogether nervous.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it very dangerous?” asks Caroline, anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all. How do you lie at night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubled up in a heap.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. On which side?” +</p> + +<p> +“The left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. How many mattresses are there on your bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. Is there a spring bed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the spring bed stuffed with?” +</p> + +<p> +“Horse hair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Capital. Let me see you walk. No, no, naturally, and as if we weren’t looking +at you.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline walks like Fanny Elssler, communicating the most Andalusian little +motions to her tournure. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel a sensation of heaviness in your knees?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no—” she returns to her place. “Ah, no that I think of it, it seems to +me that I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. Have you been in the house a good deal lately?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal too much—and alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. I thought so. What do you wear on your head at night?” +</p> + +<p> +“An embroidered night-cap, and sometimes a handkerchief over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you feel a heat there, a slight perspiration?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I, when I’m asleep?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you find your night-cap moist on your forehead, when you wake up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Capital. Give me your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor takes out his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I tell you that I have a vertigo?” asks Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” says the doctor, counting the pulse. “In the evening?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, bless me, a vertigo in the morning,” says the doctor, looking at Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“The Duke of G. has not gone to London,” says the great physician, while +examining Caroline’s skin, “and there’s a good deal to be said about it in the +Faubourg St. Germain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you patients there?” asks Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“Nearly all my patients are there. Dear me, yes; I’ve got seven to see this +morning; some of them are in danger.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of me, sir?” says Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, you need attention, a great deal of attention, you must take quieting +liquors, plenty of syrup of gum, a mild diet, white meat, and a good deal of +exercise.” +</p> + +<p> +“There go twenty francs,” says Adolphe to himself with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +The great physician takes Adolphe by the arm, and draws him out with him, as he +takes his leave: Caroline follows them on tiptoe. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir,” says the great physician, “I have just prescribed very +insufficiently for your wife. I did not wish to frighten her: this affair +concerns you more nearly than you imagine. Don’t neglect her; she has a +powerful temperament, and enjoys violent health; all this reacts upon her. +Nature has its laws, which, when disregarded, compel obedience. She may get +into a morbid state, which would cause you bitterly to repent having neglected +her. If you love her, why, love her: but if you don’t love her, and +nevertheless desire to preserve the mother of your children, the resolution to +come to is a matter of hygiene, but it can only proceed from you!” +</p> + +<p> +“How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself. She opens the door and +says: “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!” +</p> + +<p> +The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into his +pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and says: +</p> + +<p> +“What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline retires to her sofa to weep. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am to live a long time—I am in the way—you don’t love me any more—I won’t +consult that doctor again—I don’t know why Madame Foullepointe advised me to +see him, he told me nothing but trash—I know better than he what I need!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you need?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on Adolphe’s +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself: “The doctor’s right, she may get +to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me? Here I am compelled +to choose between Caroline’s physical extravagance, or some young cousin or +other.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert’s melodies with all the +agitation of a hypochondriac. +</p> + +<h2>PART SECOND</h2> + +<h3>PREFACE</h3> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“What color?” some grocer will doubtless ask; “books are bound in yellow, blue, +green, pearl-gray, white—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as if we didn’t +have our petty troubles, too!” +</p> + +<p> +Oh, women! You have been heard, for if you do not always make yourselves +understood, you are always sure to make yourselves heard. +</p> + +<p> +It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the reproaches that +every being brought under the yoke (<i>conjugium</i>) has the right to heap +upon that necessary, sacred, useful, eminently conservative institution,—one, +however, that is often somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, +though sometimes it is also too loose there. +</p> + +<p> +I will go further! Such partiality would be a piece of idiocy. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Furthermore, an author who speaks for himself in the middle of his book, +resembles the old fellow in “The Speaking Picture,” when he puts his face in +the hole cut in the painting. The author does not forget that in the Chamber, +no one can take the floor <i>between two votes</i>. Enough, therefore! +</p> + +<p> +Here follows the female portion of the book: for, to resemble marriage +perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic. +</p> + +<h2>PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE</h2> + +<h3>HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH.</h3> + +<p> +Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early friends at +M’lle Machefer’s boarding school, one of the most celebrated educational +institutions in the Faubourg St. Honoré, met at a ball given by Madame de +Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took place in a window-seat in the +boudoir. +</p> + +<p> +It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe the fresh +night air, some time before the two young women. He had placed himself in the +angle of the balcony, and, as there were many flowers before the window, the +two friends thought themselves alone. This man was the author’s best friend. +</p> + +<p> +One of the two ladies, standing at the corner of the embrasure, kept watch by +looking at the boudoir and the parlors. The other had so placed herself as not +to be in the draft, which was nevertheless tempered by the muslin and silk +curtains. +</p> + +<p> +The boudoir was empty, the ball was just beginning, the gaming-tables were +open, offering their green cloths and their packs of cards still compressed in +the frail case placed upon them by the customs office. The second quadrille was +in progress. +</p> + +<p> +All who go to balls will remember that phase of large parties when the guests +are not yet all arrived, but when the rooms are already filled —a moment which +gives the mistress of the house a transitory pang of terror. This moment is, +other points of comparison apart, like that which decides a victory or the loss +of a battle. +</p> + +<p> +You will understand, therefore, how what was meant to be a secret now obtains +the honors of publicity. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Caroline?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Stephanie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +A double sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you forgotten our agreement?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why haven’t you been to see me, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am never left alone. Even here we shall hardly have time to talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! if Adolphe were to get into such habits as that!” exclaimed Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw us, Armand and me, when he paid me what is called, I don’t know why, +his court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I admired him, I thought you very happy, you had found your ideal, a +fine, good-sized man, always well dressed, with yellow gloves, his beard well +shaven, patent leather boots, a clean shirt, exquisitely neat, and so +attentive—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“In short, quite an elegant man: his voice was femininely sweet, and then such +gentleness! And his promises of happiness and liberty! His sentences were +veneered with rosewood. He stocked his conversation with shawls and laces. In +his smallest expression you heard the rumbling of a coach and four. Your +wedding presents were magnificent. Armand seemed to me like a husband of +velvet, of a robe of birds’ feathers in which you were to be wrapped.” +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline, my husband uses tobacco.” +</p> + +<p> +“So does mine; that is, he smokes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But mine, dear, uses it as they say Napoleon did: in short, he chews, and I +hold tobacco in horror. The monster found it out, and went without out it for +seven months.” +</p> + +<p> +“All men have their habits. They absolutely must use something.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no idea of the tortures I endure. At night I am awakened with a start +by one of my own sneezes. As I go to sleep my motions bring the grains of snuff +scattered over the pillow under my nose, I inhale, and explode like a mine. It +seems that Armand, the wretch, is used to these <i>surprises</i>, and doesn’t +wake up. I find tobacco everywhere, and I certainly didn’t marry the customs +office.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear child, what does this trifling inconvenience amount to, if your +husband is kind and possesses a good disposition?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is as cold as marble, as particular as an old bachelor, as communicative as +a sentinel; and he’s one of those men who say yes to everything, but who never +do anything but what they want to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Deny him, once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve tried it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What came of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He threatened to reduce my allowance, and to keep back a sum big enough for +him to get along without me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Stephanie! He’s not a man, he’s a monster.” +</p> + +<p> +“A calm and methodical monster, who wears a scratch, and who, every night—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, every night—” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a minute!—who takes a tumbler every night, and puts seven false teeth in +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a trap your marriage was! At any rate, Armand is rich.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens! Why, you seem to me on the point of becoming very unhappy—or +very happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear, how is it with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as for me, I have nothing as yet but a pin that pricks me: but it is +intolerable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor creature! You don’t know your own happiness: come, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Here the young woman whispered in the other’s ear, so that it was impossible to +catch a single word. The conversation recommenced, or rather finished by a sort +of inference. +</p> + +<p> +“So, your Adolphe is jealous?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jealous of whom? We never leave each other, and that, in itself, is an +annoyance. I can’t stand it. I don’t dare to gape. I am expected to be forever +enacting the woman in love. It’s fatiguing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Resign myself. What are you? +</p> + +<p> +“Fight the customs office.” +</p> + +<p> +This little trouble tends to prove that in the matter of personal deception, +the two sexes can well cry quits. +</p> + +<h3>DISAPPOINTED AMBITION.</h3> + +<h4>I. CHODOREILLE THE GREAT.</h4> + +<p> +A young man has forsaken his natal city in the depths of one of the +departments, rather clearly marked by M. Charles Dupin. He felt that glory of +some sort awaited him: suppose that of a painter, a novelist, a journalist, a +poet, a great statesman. +</p> + +<p> +Young Adolphe de Chodoreille—that we may be perfectly understood —wished to be +talked about, to become celebrated, to be somebody. This, therefore, is +addressed to the mass of aspiring individuals brought to Paris by all sorts of +vehicles, whether moral or material, and who rush upon the city one fine +morning with the hydrophobic purpose of overturning everybody’s reputation, and +of building themselves a pedestal with the ruins they are to make,—until +disenchantment follows. As our intention is to specify this peculiarity so +characteristic of our epoch, let us take from among the various personages the +one whom the author has elsewhere called <i>A Distinguished Provencal</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe has discovered that the most admirable trade is that which consists in +buying a bottle of ink, a bunch of quills, and a ream of paper, at a +stationer’s for twelve francs and a half, and in selling the two thousand +sheets in the ream over again, for something like fifty thousand francs, after +having, of course, written upon each leaf fifty lines replete with style and +imagination. +</p> + +<p> +This problem,—twelve francs and a half metamorphosed into fifty thousand +francs, at the rate of five sous a line—urges numerous families who might +advantageously employ their members in the retirement of the provinces, to +thrust them into the vortex of Paris. +</p> + +<p> +The young man who is the object of this exportation, invariably passes in his +natal town for a man of as much imagination as the most famous author. He has +always studied well, he writes very nice poetry, he is considered a fellow of +parts: he is besides often guilty of a charming tale published in the local +paper, which obtains the admiration of the department. +</p> + +<p> +His poor parents will never know what their son has come to Paris to learn at +great cost, namely: That it is difficult to be a writer and to understand the +French language short of a dozen years of heculean labor: That a man must have +explored every sphere of social life, to become a genuine novelist, inasmuch as +the novel is the private history of nations: That the great story-tellers, +Aesop, Lucian, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, La Fontaine, Lesage, +Sterne, Voltaire, Walter Scott, the unknown Arabians of the <i>Thousand and One +Nights</i>, were all men of genius as well as giants of erudition. +</p> + +<p> +Their Adolphe serves his literary apprenticeship in two or three coffee-houses, +becomes a member of the Society of Men of Letters, attacks, with or without +reason, men of talent who don’t read his articles, assumes a milder tone on +seeing the powerlessness of his criticisms, offers novelettes to the papers +which toss them from one to the other as if they were shuttlecocks: and, after +five or six years of exercises more or less fatiguing, of dreadful privations +which seriously tax his parents, he attains a certain position. +</p> + +<p> +This position may be described as follows: Thanks to a sort of reciprocal +support extended to each other, and which an ingenious writer has called +“Mutual Admiration,” Adolphe often sees his name cited among the names of +celebrities, either in the prospectuses of the book-trade, or in the lists of +newspapers about to appear. Publishers print the title of one of his works +under the deceitful heading “IN PRESS,” which might be called the typographical +menagerie of bears.[*] Chodoreille is sometimes mentioned among the promising +young men of the literary world. +</p> + +<p> +[*] A bear (<i>ours</i>) is a play which has been refused by a multitude of +theatres, but which is finally represented at a time when some manager or other +feels the need of one. The word has necessarily passed from the language of the +stage into the jargon of journalism, and is applied to novels which wander the +streets in search of a publisher. +</p> + +<p> +For eleven years Adolphe Chodoreille remains in the ranks of the promising +young men: he finally obtains a free entrance to the theatres, thanks to some +dirty work or certain articles of dramatic criticism: he tries to pass for a +good fellow; and as he loses his illusions respecting glory and the world of +Paris, he gets into debt and his years begin to tell upon him. +</p> + +<p> +A paper which finds itself in a tight place asks him for one of his bears +revised by his friends. This has been retouched and revamped every five years, +so that it smells of the pomatum of each prevailing and then forgotten fashion. +To Adolphe it becomes what the famous cap, which he was constantly staking, was +to Corporal Trim, for during five years “Anything for a Woman” (the title +decided upon) “will be one of the most entertaining productions of our epoch.” +</p> + +<p> +After eleven years, Chodoreille is regarded as having written some respectable +things, five or six tales published in the dismal magazines, in ladies’ +newspapers, or in works intended for children of tender age. +</p> + +<p> +As he is a bachelor, and possesses a coat and a pair of black cassimere +trousers, and when he pleases may thus assume the appearance of an elegant +diplomat, and as he is not without a certain intelligent air, he is admitted to +several more or less literary salons: he bows to the five or six academicians +who possess genius, influence or talent, he visits two or three of our great +poets, he allows himself, in coffee-rooms, to call the two or three justly +celebrated women of our epoch by their Christian names; he is on the best of +terms with the blue stockings of the second grade,—who ought to be called +<i>socks</i>,—and he shakes hands and takes glasses of absinthe with the stars +of the smaller newspapers. +</p> + +<p> +Such is the history of every species of ordinary men—men who have been denied +what they call good luck. This good luck is nothing less than unyielding will, +incessant labor, contempt for an easily won celebrity, immense learning, and +that patience which, according to Buffon, is the whole of genius, but which +certainly is the half of it. +</p> + +<p> +You do not yet see any indication of a petty trouble for Caroline. You imagine +that this history of five hundred young men engaged at this moment in wearing +smooth the paving stones of Paris, was written as a sort of warning to the +families of the eighty-six departments of France: but read these two letters +which lately passed between two girls differently married, and you will see +that it was as necessary as the narrative by which every true melodrama was +until lately expected to open. You will divine the skillful manoeuvres of the +Parisian peacock spreading his tail in the recesses of his native village, and +polishing up, for matrimonial purposes, the rays of his glory, which, like +those of the sun, are only warm and brilliant at a distance. +</p> + +<p> +From Madame Claire de la Roulandiere, nee Jugault, to Madame Adolphe de +Chodoreille, nee Heurtaut. +</p> + +<h5>“VIVIERS.</h5> + +<p> +“You have not yet written to me, and it’s real unkind in you. Don’t you +remember that the happier was to write first and to console her who remained in +the country? +</p> + +<p> +“Since your departure for Paris, I have married Monsieur de la Roulandiere, the +president of the tribunal. You know him, and you can judge whether I am happy +or not, with my heart <i>saturated</i>, as it is, with our ideas. I was not +ignorant what my lot would be: I live with the ex-president, my husband’s +uncle, and with my mother-in-law, who has preserved nothing of the ancient +parliamentary society of Aix but its pride and its severity of manners. I am +seldom alone, I never go out unless accompanied by my mother-in-law or my +husband. We receive the heavy people of the city in the evening. They play +whist at two sous a point, and I listen to conversations of this nature: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Monsieur Vitremont is dead, and leaves two hundred and eighty thousand +francs,’ says the associate judge, a young man of forty-seven, who is as +entertaining as a northwest wind. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Are you quite sure of that?’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>that</i> refers to the two hundred and eighty thousand francs. A little +judge then holds forth, he runs over the investments, the others discuss their +value, and it is definitely settled that if he has not left two hundred and +eighty thousand, he left something near it. +</p> + +<p> +“Then comes a universal concert of eulogy heaped upon the dead man’s body, for +having kept his bread under lock and key, for having shrewdly invested his +little savings accumulated sou by sou, in order, probably, that the whole city +and those who expect legacies may applaud and exclaim in admiration, ‘He leaves +two hundred and eighty thousand francs!’ Now everybody has rich relations of +whom they say ‘Will he leave anything like it?’ and thus they discuss the quick +as they have discussed the dead. +</p> + +<p> +“They talk of nothing but the prospects of fortune, the prospects of a vacancy +in office, the prospects of the harvest. +</p> + +<p> +“When we were children, and used to look at those pretty little white mice, in +the cobbler’s window in the rue St. Maclou, that turned and turned the circular +cage in which they were imprisoned, how far I was from thinking that they would +one day be a faithful image of my life! +</p> + +<p> +“Think of it, my being in this condition!—I who fluttered my wings so much more +than you, I whose imagination was so vagabond! My sins have been greater than +yours, and I am the more severely punished. I have bidden farewell to my +dreams: I am <i>Madame la Presidente</i> in all my glory, and I resign myself +to giving my arm for forty years to my big awkward Roulandiere, to living +meanly in every way, and to having forever before me two heavy brows and two +wall-eyes pierced in a yellow face, which is destined never to know what it is +to smile. +</p> + +<p> +“But you, Caroline dear, you who, between ourselves, were admitted among the +big girls while I still gamboled among the little ones, you whose only sin was +pride, you,—at the age of twenty-seven, and with a dowry of two hundred +thousand francs,—capture and captivate a truly great man, one of the wittiest +men in Paris, one of the two talented men that our village has produced.—What +luck! +</p> + +<p> +“You now circulate in the most brilliant society of Paris. Thanks to the +sublime privileges of genius. You may appear in all the salons of the Faubourg +St. Germain, and be cordially received. You have the exquisite enjoyment of the +company of the two or three celebrated women of our age, where so many good +things are said, where the happy speeches which arrive out here like Congreve +rockets, are first fired off. You go to the Baron Schinner’s of whom Adolphe so +often spoke to us, whom all the great artists and foreigners of celebrity +visit. In short, before long, you will be one of the queens of Paris, if you +wish. You can receive, too, and have at your house the lions of literature, +fashion and finance, whether male or female, for Adolphe spoke in such terms +about his illustrious friendships and his intimacy with the favorites of the +hour, that I imagine you giving and receiving honors. +</p> + +<p> +“With your ten thousand francs a year, and the legacy from your Aunt Carabas, +added to the twenty thousand francs that your husband earns, you must keep a +carriage; and since you go to all the theatres without paying, since +journalists are the heroes of all the inaugurations so ruinous for those who +keep up with the movement of Paris, and since they are constantly invited to +dinner, you live as if you had an income of sixty thousand francs a year! Happy +Caroline! I don’t wonder you forget me! +</p> + +<p> +“I can understand how it is that you have not a moment to yourself. Your bliss +is the cause of your silence, so I pardon you. Still, if, fatigued with so many +pleasures, you one day, upon the summit of your grandeur, think of your poor +Claire, write to me, tell me what a marriage with a great man is, describe +those great Parisian ladies, especially those who write. Oh! I should <i>so</i> +much like to know what they are made of! Finally don’t forget anything, unless +you forget that you are loved, as ever, by your poor +</p> + +<h5>“CLAIRE JUGAULT.”</h5> + +<p> +From Madame Adolphe de Chodoreille to Madame la Presidente de la Roulandiere, +at Viviers. +</p> + +<h5>“PARIS.</h5> + +<p> +“Ah! my poor Claire, could you have known how many wretched little griefs your +innocent letter would awaken, you never would have written it. Certainly no +friend, and not even an enemy, on seeing a woman with a thousand mosquito-bites +and a plaster over them, would amuse herself by tearing it off and counting the +stings. +</p> + +<p> +“I will begin by telling you that for a woman of twenty-seven, with a face +still passable, but with a form a little too much like that of the Emperor +Nicholas for the humble part I play, I am happy! Let me tell you why: Adolphe, +rejoicing in the deceptions which have fallen upon me like a hail-storm, +smoothes over the wounds in my self-love by so much affection, so many +attentions, and such charming things, that, in good truth, women—so far as they +are simply women—would be glad to find in the man they marry defects so +advantageous. But all men of letters (Adolphe, alas! is barely a man of +letters), who are beings not a bit less irritable, nervous, fickle and +eccentric than women, are far from possessing such solid qualities as those of +Adolphe, and I hope they have not all been as unfortunate as he. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Claire, we love each other well enough for me to tell you the simple +truth. I have saved my husband, dear, from profound but skillfully concealed +poverty. Far from receiving twenty thousand francs a year, he has not earned +that sum in the entire fifteen years that he has been at Paris. We occupy a +third story in the rue Joubert, and pay twelve hundred francs for it; we have +some eighty-five hundred francs left, with which I endeavor to keep house +honorably. +</p> + +<p> +“I have brought Adolphe luck; for since our marriage, he has obtained the +control of a feuilleton which is worth four hundred francs a month to him, +though it takes but a small portion of his time. He owes this situation to an +investment. We employed the seventy thousand francs left me by my Aunt Carabas +in giving security for a newspaper; on this we get nine per cent, and we have +stock besides. Since this transaction, which was concluded some ten months ago, +our income has doubled, and we now possess a competence, I can complain of my +marriage in a pecuniary point of view no more than as regards my affections. My +vanity alone has suffered, and my ambition has been swamped. You will +understand the various petty troubles which have assailed me, by a single +specimen. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe, you remember, appeared to us on intimate terms with the famous +Baroness Schinner, so renowned for her wit, her influence, her wealth and her +connection with celebrated men. I supposed that he was welcomed at her house as +a friend: my husband presented me, and I was coldly received. I saw that her +rooms were furnished with extravagant luxury; and instead of Madame Schinner’s +returning my call, I received a card, twenty days afterward, and at an +insolently improper hour. +</p> + +<p> +“On arriving at Paris, I went to walk upon the boulevard, proud of my anonymous +great man. He nudged me with his elbow, and said, pointing out a fat little +ill-dressed man, ‘There’s so and so!’ He mentioned one of the seven or eight +illustrious men in France. I got ready my look of admiration, and I saw Adolphe +rapturously doffing his hat to the truly great man, who replied by the curt +little nod that you vouchsafe a person with whom you have doubtless exchanged +hardly four words in ten years. Adolphe had begged a look for my sake. ‘Doesn’t +he know you?’ I said to my husband. ‘Oh, yes, but he probably took me for +somebody else,’ replied he. +</p> + +<p> +“And so of poets, so of celebrated musicians, so of statesmen. But, as a +compensation, we stop and talk for ten minutes in front of some arcade or +other, with Messieurs Armand du Cantal, George Beaunoir, Felix Verdoret, of +whom you have never heard. Mesdames Constantine Ramachard, Anais Crottat, and +Lucienne Vouillon threaten me with their <i>blue</i> friendship. We dine +editors totally unknown in our province. Finally I have had the painful +happiness of seeing Adolphe decline an invitation to an evening party to which +I was not bidden. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Claire dear, talent is still the rare flower of spontaneous growth, that +no greenhouse culture can produce. I do not deceive myself: Adolphe is an +ordinary man, known, estimated as such: he has no other chance, as he himself +says, than to take his place among the <i>utilities</i> of literature. He was +not without wit at Viviers: but to be a man of wit at Paris, you must possess +every kind of wit in formidable doses. +</p> + +<p> +“I esteem Adolphe: for, after some few fibs, he frankly confessed his position, +and, without humiliating himself too deeply, he promised that I should be +happy. He hopes, like numerous other ordinary men, to obtain some place, that +of an assistant librarian, for instance, or the pecuniary management of a +newspaper. Who knows but we may get him elected deputy for Viviers, in the +course of time? +</p> + +<p> +“We live in obscurity; we have five or six friends of either sex whom we like, +and such is the brilliant style of life which your letter gilded with all the +social splendors. +</p> + +<p> +“From time to time I am caught in a squall, or am the butt of some malicious +tongue. Thus, yesterday, at the opera, I heard one of our most ill-natured +wits, Leon de Lora, say to one of our most famous critics, ‘It takes +Chodoreille to discover the Caroline poplar on the banks of the Rhone!’ They +had heard my husband call me by my Christian name. At Viviers I was considered +handsome. I am tall, well made, and fat enough to satisfy Adolphe! In this way +I learn that the beauty of women from the country is, at Paris, precisely like +the wit of country gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +“In short, I am absolutely nobody, if that is what you wish to know: but if you +desire to learn how far my philosophy goes, understand that I am really happy +in having found an ordinary man in my pretended great one. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, dear Claire! It is still I, you see, who, in spite of my delusions +and the petty troubles of my life, am the most favorably situated: for Adolphe +is young, and a charming fellow. +</p> + +<h5>“CAROLINE HEURTAUT.”</h5> + +<p> +Claire’s reply contained, among other passages, the following: “I hope that the +indescribable happiness which you enjoy, will continue, thanks to your +philosophy.” Claire, as any intimate female friend would have done, consoled +herself for her president by insinuations respecting Adolphe’s prospects and +future conduct. +</p> + +<h4>II. ANOTHER GLANCE AT CHODOREILLE.</h4> + +<p> +(Letter discovered one day in a casket, while she was making me wait a long +time and trying to get rid of a hanger-on who could not be made to understand +hidden meanings. I caught cold—but I got hold of this letter.) +</p> + +<p> +This fatuous note was found on a paper which the notary’s clerks had thought of +no importance in the inventory of the estate of M. Ferdinand de Bourgarel, who +was mourned of late by politics, arts and amours, and in whom is ended the +great Provencal house of Borgarelli; for as is generally known the name +Bourgarel is a corruption of Borgarelli just as the French Girardin is the +Florentine Gherardini. +</p> + +<p> +An intelligent reader will find little difficulty in placing this letter in its +proper epoch in the lives of Adolphe and Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Friend: +</p> + +<p> +“I thought myself lucky indeed to marry an artist as superior in his talent as +in his personal attributes, equally great in soul and mind, worldly-wise, and +likely to rise by following the public road without being obliged to wander +along crooked, doubtful by-paths. However, you knew Adolphe; you appreciated +his worth. I am loved, he is a father, I idolize our children. Adolphe is +kindness itself to me; I admire and love him. But, my dear, in this complete +happiness lurks a thorn. The roses upon which I recline have more than one +fold. In the heart of a woman, folds speedily turn to wounds. These wounds soon +bleed, the evil spreads, we suffer, the suffering awakens thoughts, the +thoughts swell and change the course of sentiment. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear, you shall know all about it, though it is a cruel thing to +say—but we live as much by vanity as by love. To live by love alone, one must +dwell somewhere else than in Paris. What difference would it make to us whether +we had only one white percale gown, if the man we love did not see other women +dressed differently, more elegantly than we—women who inspire ideas by their +ways, by a multitude of little things which really go to make up great +passions? Vanity, my dear, is cousin-german to jealousy, to that beautiful and +noble jealousy which consists in not allowing one’s empire to be invaded, in +reigning undisturbed in a soul, and passing one’s life happily in a heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, my woman’s vanity is on the rack. Though some troubles may seem +petty indeed, I have learned, unfortunately, that in the home there are no +petty troubles. For everything there is magnified by incessant contact with +sensations, with desires, with ideas. Such then is the secret of that sadness +which you have surprised in me and which I did not care to explain. It is one +of those things in which words go too far, and where writing holds at least the +thought within bounds by establishing it. The effects of a moral perspective +differ so radically between what is said and what is written! All is so solemn, +so serious on paper! One cannot commit any more imprudences. Is it not this +fact which makes a treasure out of a letter where one gives one’s self over to +one’s thoughts? +</p> + +<p> +“You doubtless thought me wretched, but I am only wounded. You discovered me +sitting alone by the fire, and no Adolphe. I had just finished putting the +children to bed; they were asleep. Adolphe for the tenth time had been invited +out to a house where I do not go, where they want Adolphe without his wife. +There are drawing-rooms where he goes without me, just at there are many +pleasures in which he alone is the guest. If he were M. de Navarreins and I a +d’Espard, society would never think of separating us; it would want us always +together. His habits are formed; he does not suspect the humiliation which +weighs upon my heart. Indeed, if he had the slightest inkling of this small +sorrow which I am ashamed to own, he would drop society, he would become more +of a prig than the people who come between us. But he would hamper his +progress, he would make enemies, he would raise up obstacles by imposing me +upon the salons where I would be subject to a thousand slights. That is why I +prefer my sufferings to what would happen were they discovered. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe will succeed! He carries my revenge in his beautiful head, does this +man of genius. One day the world shall pay for all these slights. But when? +Perhaps I shall be forty-five. My beautiful youth will have passed in my +chimney-corner, and with this thought: Adolphe smiles, he is enjoying the +society of fair women, he is playing the devoted to them, while none of these +attentions come my way. +</p> + +<p> +“It may be that these will finally take him from me! +</p> + +<p> +“No one undergoes slight without feeling it, and I feel that I am slighted, +though young, beautiful and virtuous. Now, can I keep from thinking this way? +Can I control my anger at the thought that Adolphe is dining in the city +without me? I take no part in his triumphs; I do not hear the witty or profound +remarks made to others! I could no longer be content with bourgeois receptions +whence he rescued me, upon finding me <i>distinguee</i>, wealthy, young, +beautiful and witty. There lies the evil, and it is irremediable. +</p> + +<p> +“In a word, for some cause, it is only since I cannot go to a certain salon +that I want to go there. Nothing is more natural of the ways of a human heart. +The ancients were wise in having their <i>gyneceums</i>. The collisions between +the pride of the women, caused by these gatherings, though it dates back only +four centuries, has cost our own day much disaffection and numerous bitter +debates. +</p> + +<p> +“Be that as it may, my dear, Adolphe is always warmly welcomed when he comes +back home. Still, no nature is strong enough to await always with the same +ardor. What a morrow that will be, following the evening when his welcome is +less warm! +</p> + +<p> +“Now do you see the depth of the fold which I mentioned? A fold in the heart is +an abyss, like a crevasse in the Alps—a profundity whose depth and extent we +have never been able to calculate. Thus it is between two beings, no matter how +near they may be drawn to each other. One never realizes the weight of +suffering which oppresses his friend. This seems such a little thing, yet one’s +life is affected by it in all its length, in all its breadth. I have thus +argued with myself; but the more I have argued, the more thoroughly have I +realized the extent of this hidden sorrow. And I can only let the current carry +me whither it will. +</p> + +<p> +“Two voices struggle for supremacy when—by a rarely fortunate chance —I am +alone in my armchair waiting for Adolphe. One, I would wager, comes from Eugene +Delacroix’s <i>Faust</i> which I have on my table. Mephistopheles speaks, that +terrible aide who guides the swords so dexterously. He leaves the engraving, +and places himself diabolically before me, grinning through the hole which the +great artist has placed under his nose, and gazing at me with that eye whence +fall rubies, diamonds, carriages, jewels, laces, silks, and a thousand luxuries +to feed the burning desire within me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Are you not fit for society?’ he asks. ‘You are the equal of the fairest +duchesses. Your voice is like a siren’s, your hands command respect and love. +Ah! that arm!—place bracelets upon it, and how pleasingly it would rest upon +the velvet of a robe! Your locks are chains which would fetter all men. And you +could lay all your triumphs at Adolphe’s feet, show him your power and never +use it. Then he would fear, where now he lives in insolent certainty. Come! To +action! Inhale a few mouthfuls of disdain and you will exhale clouds of +incense. Dare to reign! Are you not next to nothing here in your +chimney-corner? Sooner or later the pretty spouse, the beloved wife will die, +if you continue like this, in a dressing-gown. Come, and you shall perpetuate +your sway through the arts of coquetry! Show yourself in salons, and your +pretty foot shall trample down the love of your rivals.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The other voice comes from my white marble mantel, which rustles like a +garment. I think I see a veritable goddess crowned with white roses, and +bearing a palm-branch in her hand. Two blue eyes smile down on me. This simple +image of virtue says to me: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Be content! Remain good always, and make this man happy. That is the whole of +your mission. The sweetness of angels triumphs over all pain. Faith in +themselves has enabled the martyrs to obtain solace even on the brasiers of +their tormentors. Suffer a moment; you shall be happy in the end.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes Adolphe enters at that moment and I am content. But, my dear, I have +less patience than love. I almost wish to tear in pieces the woman who can go +everywhere, and whose society is sought out by men and women alike. What +profound thought lies in the line of Moliere: +</p> + +<p> +“‘The world, dear Agnes, is a curious thing!’ +</p> + +<p> +“You know nothing of this petty trouble, you fortunate Mathilde! You are well +born. You can do a great deal for me. Just think! I can write you things that I +dared not speak about. Your visits mean so much; come often to see your poor +</p> + +<p> +“Caroline.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I to the notary’s clerk, “do you know what was the nature of this +letter to the late Bourgarel?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“A note of exchange.” +</p> + +<p> +Neither clerk nor notary understood my meaning. Do you? +</p> + +<h3>THE PANGS OF INNOCENCE.</h3> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, in the married state, many things will happen to you which you are +far from expecting: but then others will happen which you expect still less. +For instance—” +</p> + +<p> +The author (may we say the ingenious author?) <i>qui castigat ridendo +mores</i>, and who has undertaken the <i>Petty Troubles of Married Life</i>, +hardly needs to remark, that, for prudence’ sake, he here allows a lady of high +distinction to speak, and that he does not assume the responsibility of her +language, though he professes the most sincere admiration for the charming +person to whom he owes his acquaintance with this petty trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“For instance—” she says. +</p> + +<p> +He nevertheless thinks proper to avow that this person is neither Madame +Foullepointe, nor Madame de Fischtaminel, nor Madame Deschars. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Deschars is too prudish, Madame Foullepointe too absolute in her +household, and she knows it; indeed, what doesn’t she know? She is +good-natured, she sees good society, she wishes to have the best: people +overlook the vivacity of her witticisms, as, under louis XIV, they overlooked +the remarks of Madame Cornuel. They overlook a good many things in her; there +are some women who are the spoiled children of public opinion. +</p> + +<p> +As to Madame de Fischtaminel, who is, in fact, connected with the affair, as +you shall see, she, being unable to recriminate, abstains from words and +recriminates in acts. +</p> + +<p> +We give permission to all to think that the speaker is Caroline herself, not +the silly little Caroline of tender years. But Caroline when she has become a +woman of thirty. +</p> + +<p> +“For instance,” she remarks to a young woman whom she is edifying, “you will +have children, God willing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” I say, “don’t let us mix the deity up in this, unless it is an +allusion—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are impertinent,” she replies, “you shouldn’t interrupt a woman—” +</p> + +<p> +“When she is busy with children, I know: but, madame, you ought not to trifle +with the innocence of young ladies. Mademoiselle is going to be married, and if +she were led to count upon the intervention of the Supreme Being in this +affair, she would fall into serious errors. We should not deceive the young. +Mademoiselle is beyond the age when girls are informed that their little +brother was found under a cabbage.” +</p> + +<p> +“You evidently want to get me confused,” she replies, smiling and showing the +loveliest teeth in the world. “I am not strong enough to argue with you, so I +beg you to let me go on with Josephine. What was I saying?” +</p> + +<p> +“That if I get married, I shall have children,” returns the young lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I will not represent things to you worse than they are, but it is +extremely probable that each child will cost you a tooth. With every baby I +have lost a tooth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Happily,” I remark at this, “this trouble was with you less than petty, it was +positively nothing.”—They were side teeth.—“But take notice, miss, that this +vexation has no absolute, unvarying character as such. The annoyance depends +upon the condition of the tooth. If the baby causes the loss of a decayed +tooth, you are fortunate to have a baby the more and a bad tooth the less. +Don’t let us confound blessings with bothers. Ah! if you were to lose one of +your magnificent front teeth, that would be another thing! And yet there is +many a woman that would give the best tooth in her head for a fine, healthy +boy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” resumes Caroline, with animation, “at the risk of destroying your +illusions, poor child, I’ll just show you a petty trouble that counts! Ah, it’s +atrocious! And I won’t leave the subject of dress which this gentleman +considers the only subject we women are equal to.” +</p> + +<p> +I protest by a gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“I had been married about two years,” continues Caroline, “and I loved my +husband. I have got over it since and acted differently for his happiness and +mine. I can boast of having one of the happiest homes in Paris. In short, my +dear, I loved the monster, and, even when out in society, saw no one but him. +My husband had already said to me several times, ‘My dear, young women never +dress well; your mother liked to have you look like a stick,—she had her +reasons for it. If you care for my advice, take Madame de Fischtaminel for a +model: she is a lady of taste.’ I, unsuspecting creature that I was, saw no +perfidy in the recommendation. +</p> + +<p> +“One evening as we returned from a party, he said, ‘Did you notice how Madame +de Fischtaminel was dressed!’ ‘Yes, very neatly.’ And I said to myself, ‘He’s +always talking about Madame de Fischtaminel; I must really dress just like +her.’ I had noticed the stuff and the make of the dress, and the style of the +trimmings. I was as happy as could be, as I went trotting about town, doing +everything I could to obtain the same articles. I sent for the very same +dressmaker. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You work for Madame de Fischtaminel,’ I said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, madame.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, I will employ you as my dressmaker, but on one condition: you see I +have procured the stuff of which her gown is made, and I want you to make me +one exactly like it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I confess that I did not at first pay any attention to a rather shrewd smile +of the dressmaker, though I saw it and afterwards accounted for it. ‘So like +it,’ I added, ‘that you can’t tell them apart.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” says Caroline, interrupting herself and looking at me, “you men teach us +to live like spiders in the depths of their webs, to see everything without +seeming to look at it, to investigate the meaning and spirit of words, +movements, looks. You say, ‘How cunning women are!’ But you should say, ‘How +deceitful men are!’ +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell you how much care, how many days, how many manoeuvres, it cost me +to become Madame de Fischtaminel’s duplicate! But these are our battles, +child,” she adds, returning to Josephine. “I could not find a certain little +embroidered neckerchief, a very marvel! I finally learned that it was made to +order. I unearthed the embroideress, and ordered a kerchief like Madame de +Fischtaminel’s. The price was a mere trifle, one hundred and fifty francs! It +had been ordered by a gentleman who had made a present of it to Madame de +Fischtaminel. All my savings were absorbed by it. Now we women of Paris are all +of us very much restricted in the article of dress. There is not a man worth a +hundred thousand francs a year, that loses ten thousand a winter at whist, who +does not consider his wife extravagant, and is not alarmed at her bills for +what he calls ‘rags’! ‘Let my savings go,’ I said. And they went. I had the +modest pride of a woman in love: I would not speak a word to Adolphe of my +dress; I wanted it to be a surprise, goose that I was! Oh, how brutally you men +take away our blessed ignorance!” +</p> + +<p> +This remark is meant for me, for me who had taken nothing from the lady, +neither tooth, nor anything whatever of the things with a name and without a +name that may be taken from a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“I must tell you that my husband took me to Madame de Fischtaminel’s, where I +dined quite often. I heard her say to him, ‘Why, your wife looks very well!’ +She had a patronizing way with me that I put up with: Adolphe wished that I +could have her wit and preponderance in society. In short, this phoenix of +women was my model. I studied and copied her, I took immense pains not to be +myself—oh!—it was a poem that no one but us women can understand! Finally, the +day of my triumph dawned. My heart beat for joy, as if I were a child, as if I +were what we all are at twenty-two. My husband was going to call for me for a +walk in the Tuileries: he came in, I looked at him radiant with joy, but he +took no notice. Well, I can confess it now, it was one of those frightful +disasters—but I will say nothing about it —this gentleman here would make fun +of me.” +</p> + +<p> +I protest by another movement. +</p> + +<p> +“It was,” she goes on, for a woman never stops till she has told the whole of a +thing, “as if I had seen an edifice built by a fairy crumble into ruins. +Adolphe manifested not the slightest surprise. We got into the carriage. +Adolphe noticed my sadness, and asked me what the matter was: I replied as we +always do when our hearts are wrung by these petty vexations, ‘Oh, nothing!’ +Then he took his eye-glass, and stared at the promenaders on the Champs +Elysees, for we were to go the rounds of the Champs Elysees, before taking our +walk at the Tuileries. Finally, a fit of impatience seized me. I felt a slight +attack of fever, and when I got home, I composed myself to smile. ‘You haven’t +said a word about my dress!’ I muttered. ‘Ah, yes, your gown is somewhat like +Madame de Fischtaminel’s.’ He turned on his heel and went away. +</p> + +<p> +“The next day I pouted a little, as you may readily imagine. Just as we were +finishing breakfast by the fire in my room—I shall never forget it—the +embroideress called to get her money for the neckerchief. I paid her. She bowed +to my husband as if she knew him. I ran after her on pretext of getting her to +receipt the bill, and said: ‘You didn’t ask <i>him</i> so much for Madame de +Fischtaminel’s kerchief!’ ‘I assure you, madame, it’s the same price, the +gentleman did not beat me down a mite.’ I returned to my room where I found my +husband looking as foolish as—” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitates and then resumes: “As a miller just made a bishop. ‘I understand, +love, now, that I shall never be anything more than <i>somewhat like</i> Madame +de Fischtaminel.’ ‘You refer to her neckerchief, I suppose: well, I <i>did</i> +give it to her,—it was for her birthday. You see, we were formerly—’ ‘Ah, you +were formerly more intimate than you are now!’ Without replying to this, he +added, ‘<i>But it’s altogether moral.</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +“He took his hat and went out, leaving me with this fine declaration of the +Rights of Man. He did not return and came home late at night. I remained in my +chamber and wept like a Magdalen, in the chimney-corner. You may laugh at me, +if you will,” she adds, looking at me, “but I shed tears over my youthful +illusions, and I wept, too, for spite, at having been taken for a dupe. I +remembered the dressmaker’s smile! Ah, that smile reminded me of the smiles of +a number of women, who laughed at seeing me so innocent and unsuspecting at +Madame de Fischtaminel’s! I wept sincerely. Until now I had a right to give my +husband credit for many things which he did not possess, but in the existence +of which young married women pertinaciously believe. +</p> + +<p> +“How many great troubles are included in this petty one! You men are a vulgar +set. There is not a woman who does not carry her delicacy so far as to +embroider her past life with the most delightful fibs, while you—but I have had +my revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” I say, “you are giving this young lady too much information.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” she returns, “I will tell you the sequel some other time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thus, you see, mademoiselle,” I say, “you imagine you are buying a neckerchief +and you find a <i>petty trouble</i> round your neck: if you get it given to +you—” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a <i>great</i> trouble,” retorts the woman of distinction. “Let us stop +here.” +</p> + +<p> +The moral of this fable is that you must wear your neckerchief without thinking +too much about it. The ancient prophets called this world, even in their time, +a valley of woe. Now, at that period, the Orientals had, with the permission of +the constituted authorities, a swarm of comely slaves, besides their wives! +What shall we call the valley of the Seine between Calvary and Charenton, where +the law allows but one lawful wife. +</p> + +<h3>THE UNIVERSAL AMADIS.</h3> + +<p> +You will understand at once that I began to gnaw the head of my cane, to +consult the ceiling, to gaze at the fire, to examine Caroline’s foot, and I +thus held out till the marriageable young lady was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“You must excuse me,” I said, “if I have remained behind, perhaps in spite of +you: but your vengeance would lose by being recounted by and by, and if it +constituted a petty trouble for your husband, I have the greatest interest in +hearing it, and you shall know why.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she returned, “that expression, ‘<i>it’s altogether moral,</i>’ which he +gave as an excuse, shocked me to the last degree. It was a great consolation, +truly, to me, to know that I held the place, in his household, of a piece of +furniture, a block; that my kingdom lay among the kitchen utensils, the +accessories of my toilet, and the physicians’ prescriptions; that our conjugal +love had been assimilated to dinner pills, to veal soup and white mustard; that +Madame de Fischtaminel possessed my husband’s soul, his admiration, and that +she charmed and satisfied his intellect, while I was a kind of purely physical +necessity! What do you think of a woman’s being degraded to the situation of a +soup or a plate of boiled beef, and without parsley, at that! Oh, I composed a +catilinic, that evening—” +</p> + +<p> +“Philippic is better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, either. I’ll say anything you like, for I was perfectly furious, and I +don’t remember what I screamed in the desert of my bedroom. Do you suppose that +this opinion that husbands have of their wives, the parts they give them, is +not a singular vexation for us? Our petty troubles are always pregnant with +greater ones. My Adolphe needed a lesson. You know the Vicomte de Lustrac, a +desperate amateur of women and music, an epicure, one of those ex-beaux of the +Empire, who live upon their earlier successes, and who cultivate themselves +with excessive care, in order to secure a second crop?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said, “one of those laced, braced, corseted old fellows of sixty, who +work such wonders by the grace of their forms, and who might give a lesson to +the youngest dandies among us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur de Lustrac is as selfish as a king, but gallant and pretentious, +spite of his jet black wig.” +</p> + +<p> +“As to his whiskers, he dyes them.” +</p> + +<p> +“He goes to ten parties in an evening: he’s a butterfly.” +</p> + +<p> +“He gives capital dinners and concerts, and patronizes inexperienced +songstresses.” +</p> + +<p> +“He takes bustle for pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but he makes off with incredible celerity whenever a misfortune occurs. +Are you in mourning, he avoids you. Are you confined, he awaits your churching +before he visits you. He possesses a mundane frankness and a social intrepidity +which challenge admiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“But does it not require courage to appear to be what one really is?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she resumed, after we had exchanged our observations on this point, +“this young old man, this universal Amadis, whom we call among ourselves +Chevalier <i>Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore</i>, became the object of my +admiration. I made him a few of those advances which never compromise a woman; +I spoke of the good taste exhibited in his latest waistcoats and in his canes, +and he thought me a lady of extreme amiability. I thought him a chevalier of +extreme youth; he called upon me; I put on a number of little airs, and +pretended to be unhappy at home, and to have deep sorrows. You know what a +woman means when she talks of her sorrows, and complains that she is not +understood. The old ape replied much better than a young man would, and I had +the greatest difficulty in keeping a straight face while I listened to him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah, that’s the way with husbands, they pursue the very worst polity, they +respect their wives, and, sooner or later, every woman is enraged at finding +herself respected, and divines the secret education to which she is entitled. +Once married, you ought not to live like a little school-girl, etc.’ +</p> + +<p> +“As he spoke, he leaned over me, he squirmed, he was horrible to see. He looked +like a wooden Nuremberg doll, he stuck out his chin, he stuck out his chair, he +stuck out his hand—in short, after a variety of marches and countermarches, of +declarations that were perfectly angelic—” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. <i>Petit-Bon-Homme-vil-encore</i> had abandoned the classicism of his +youth for the romanticism now in fashion: he spoke of the soul, of angels, of +adoration, of submission, he became ethereal, and of the darkest blue. He took +me to the opera, and handed me to my carriage. This old young man went when I +went, his waistcoats multiplied, he compressed his waist, he excited his horse +to a gallop in order to catch and accompany my carriage to the promenade: he +compromised me with the grace of a young collegian, and was considered madly in +love with me. I was steadfastly cruel, but accepted his arm and his bouquets. +We were talked about. I was delighted, and managed before long to be surprised +by my husband, with the viscount on the sofa in my boudoir, holding my hands in +his, while I listened in a sort of external ecstasy. It is incredible how much +a desire for vengeance will induce us to put up with! I appeared vexed at the +entrance of my husband, who made a scene on the viscount’s departure: ‘I assure +you, sir,’ said I, after having listened to his reproaches, ‘that <i>it’s +altogether moral</i>.’ My husband saw the point and went no more to Madame de +Fischtaminel’s. I received Monsieur de Lustrac no more, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” I interrupted, “this Lustrac that you, like many others, take for a +bachelor, is a widower, and childless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really!” +</p> + +<p> +“No man ever buried his wife deeper than he buried his: she will hardly be +found at the day of judgment. He married before the Revolution, and your +<i>altogether moral</i> reminds me of a speech of his that I shall have to +repeat for your benefit. Napoleon appointed Lustrac to an important office, in +a conquered province. Madame de Lustrac, abandoned for governmental duties, +took a private secretary for her private affairs, though it was altogether +moral: but she was wrong in selecting him without informing her husband. +Lustrac met this secretary in a state of some excitement, in consequence of a +lively discussion in his wife’s chamber, and at an exceedingly early hour in +the morning. The city desired nothing better than to laugh at its governor, and +this adventure made such a sensation that Lustrac himself begged the Emperor to +recall him. Napoleon desired his representatives to be men of morality, and he +held that such disasters as this must inevitably take from a man’s +consideration. You know that among the Emperor’s unhappy passions, was that of +reforming his court and his government. Lustrac’s request was granted, +therefore, but without compensation. When he returned to Paris, he reappeared +at his mansion, with his wife; he took her into society—a step which is +certainly conformable to the most refined habits of the aristocracy —but then +there are always people who want to find out about it. They inquired the reason +of this chivalrous championship. ‘So you are reconciled, you and Madame de +Lustrac,’ some one said to him in the lobby of the Emperor’s theatre, ‘you have +pardoned her, have you? So much the better.’ ‘Oh,’ replied he, with a satisfied +air, ‘I became convinced—’ ‘Ah, that she was innocent, very good.’ ‘No, I +became convinced that it was altogether physical.’” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“The opinion of your admirer reduced this weighty trouble to what is, in this +case as in yours, a very petty one.” +</p> + +<p> +“A petty trouble!” she exclaimed, “and pray for what do you take the fatigue of +coquetting with a de Lustrac, of whom I have made an enemy! Ah, women often pay +dearly enough for the bouquets they receive and the attentions they accept. +Monsieur de Lustrac said of me to Monsieur de Bourgarel, ‘I would not advise +you to pay court to that woman; she is too dear.’” +</p> + +<h3>WITHOUT AN OCCUPATION.</h3> + +<h4>“PARIS, 183-</h4> + +<p> +“You ask me, dear mother, whether I am happy with my husband. Certainly +Monsieur de Fischtaminel was not the ideal of my dreams. I submitted to your +will, as you know. His fortune, that supreme consideration, spoke, indeed, +sufficiently loud. With these arguments, —a marriage, without stooping, with +the Count de Fischtaminel, his having thirty thousand a year, and a home at +Paris—you were strongly armed against your poor daughter. Besides, Monsieur de +Fischtaminel is good looking for a man of thirty-six years; he received the +cross of the Legion of Honor from Napoleon upon the field of battle, he is an +ex-colonel, and had it not been for the Restoration, which put him upon +half-pay, he would be a general. These are certainly extenuating circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“Many women consider that I have made a good match, and I am bound to confess +that there is every appearance of happiness,—for the public, that is. But you +will acknowledge that if you had known of the return of my Uncle Cyrus and of +his intention to leave me his money, you would have given me the privilege of +choosing for myself. +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to say against Monsieur de Fischtaminel: he does not gamble, he +is indifferent to women, he doesn’t like wine, and he has no expensive fancies: +he possesses, as you said, all the negative qualities which make husbands +passable. Then, what is the matter with him? Well, mother, he has nothing to +do. We are together the whole blessed day! Would you believe that it is during +the night, when we are the most closely united, that I am the most alone? His +sleep is my asylum, my liberty begins when he slumbers. This state of siege +will yet make me sick: I am never alone. If Monsieur de Fischtaminel were +jealous, I should have a resource. There would then be a struggle, a comedy: +but how could the aconite of jealousy have taken root in his soul? He has never +left me since our marriage. He feels no shame in stretching himself out upon a +sofa and remaining there for hours together. +</p> + +<p> +“Two felons pinioned to the same chain do not find time hang heavy: for they +have their escape to think of. But we have no subject of conversation; we have +long since talked ourselves out. A little while ago he was so far reduced as to +talk politics. But even politics are exhausted, Napoleon, unfortunately for me, +having died at St. Helena, as is well known. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur de Fischtaminel abhors reading. If he sees me with a book, he comes +and says a dozen times an hour—‘Nina, dear, haven’t you finished yet?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I endeavored to persuade this innocent persecutor to ride out every day on +horseback, and I alleged a consideration usually conclusive with men of forty +years,—his health! But he said that after having been twelve years on +horseback, he felt the need of repose. +</p> + +<p> +“My husband, dear mother, is a man who absorbs you, he uses up the vital fluid +of his neighbor, his ennui is gluttonous: he likes to be amused by those who +call upon us, and, after five years of wedlock, no one ever comes: none visit +us but those whose intentions are evidently dishonorable for him, and who +endeavor, unsuccessfully, to amuse him, in order to earn the right to weary his +wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur de Fischtaminel, mother, opens the door of my chamber, or of the room +to which I have flown for refuge, five or six times an hour, and comes up to me +in an excited way, and says, ‘Well, what are you doing, my belle?’ (the +expression in fashion during the Empire) without perceiving that he is +constantly repeating the same phrase, which is to me like the one pint too much +that the executioner formerly poured into the torture by water. +</p> + +<p> +“Then there’s another bore! We can’t go to walk any more. A promenade without +conversation, without interest, is impossible. My husband walks with me for the +walk, as if he were alone. I have the fatigue without the pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +“The interval between getting up and breakfast is employed in my toilet, in my +household duties; and I manage to get through with this part of the day. But +between breakfast and dinner, there is a whole desert to plough, a waste to +traverse. My husband’s want of occupation does not leave me a moment of repose, +he overpowers me by his uselessness; his idle life positively wears me out. His +two eyes always open and gazing at mine compel me to keep them lowered. Then +his monotonous remarks: +</p> + +<p> +“‘What o’clock is it, love? What are you doing now? What are you thinking of? +What do you mean to do? Where shall we go this evening? Anything new? What +weather! I don’t feel well, etc., etc.’ +</p> + +<p> +“All these variations upon the same theme—the interrogation point —which +compose Fischtaminel’s repertory, will drive me mad. Add to these leaden arrows +everlastingly shot off at me, one last trait which will complete the +description of my happiness, and you will understand my life. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur de Fischtaminel, who went away in 1809, with the rank of +sub-lieutenant, at the age of eighteen, has had no other education than that +due to discipline, to the natural sense of honor of a noble and a soldier: but +though he possesses tact, the sentiment of probity, and a proper subordination, +his ignorance is gross, he knows absolutely nothing, and he has a horror of +learning anything. Oh, dear mother, what an accomplished door-keeper this +colonel would have made, had he been born in indigence! I don’t think a bit the +better of him for his bravery, for he did not fight against the Russians, the +Austrians, or the Prussians: he fought against ennui. When he rushed upon the +enemy, Captain Fischtaminel’s purpose was to get away from himself. He married +because he had nothing else to do. +</p> + +<p> +“We have another slight difficulty to content with: my husband harasses the +servants to such a degree that we change them every six months. +</p> + +<p> +“I so ardently desire, dear mother, to remain a virtuous woman, that I am going +to try the effect of traveling for half the year. During the winter, I shall go +every evening to the Italian or the French opera, or to parties: but I don’t +know whether our fortune will permit such an expenditure. Uncle Cyrus ought to +come to Paris—I would take care of him as I would of an inheritance. +</p> + +<p> +“If you discover a cure for my woes, let your daughter know of it —your +daughter who loves you as much as she deplores her misfortunes, and who would +have been glad to call herself by some other name than that of +</p> + +<h5>“NINA FISCHTAMINEL.”</h5> + +<p> +Besides the necessity of describing this petty trouble, which could only be +described by the pen of a woman,—and what a woman she was! —it was necessary to +make you acquainted with a character whom you saw only in profile in the first +half of this book, the queen of the particular set in which Caroline lived,—a +woman both envied and adroit, who succeeded in conciliating, at an early date, +what she owed to the world with the requirements of the heart. This letter is +her absolution. +</p> + +<h3>INDISCRETIONS.</h3> + +<p> +Women are either chaste—or vain—or simply proud. They are therefore all subject +to the following petty trouble: +</p> + +<p> +Certain husbands are so delighted to have, in the form of a wife, a woman to +themselves,—a possession exclusively due to the legal ceremony,—that they dread +the public’s making a mistake, and they hasten to brand their consort, as +lumber-dealers brand their logs while floating down stream, or as the Berry +stock-raisers brand their sheep. They bestow names of endearment, right before +people, upon their wives: names taken, after the Roman fashion (columbella), +from the animal kingdom, as: my chick, my duck, my dove, my lamb; or, choosing +from the vegetable kingdom, they call them: my cabbage, my fig (this only in +Provence), my plum (this only in Alsatia). Never: —My flower! Pray note this +discretion. +</p> + +<p> +Or else, which is more serious, they call their wives:—Bobonne, +—mother,—daughter,—good woman,—old lady: this last when she is very young. +</p> + +<p> +Some venture upon names of doubtful propriety, such as: Mon bichon, ma niniche, +Tronquette! +</p> + +<p> +We once heard one of our politicians, a man extremely remarkable for his +ugliness, call his wife, <i>Moumoutte</i>! +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather he would strike me,” said this unfortunate to her neighbor. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little woman, she is really unhappy,” resumed the neighbor, looking at me +when Moumoutte had gone: “when she is in company with her husband she is upon +pins and needles, and keeps out of his way. One evening, he actually seized her +by the neck and said: ‘Come fatty, let’s go home!’” +</p> + +<p> +It has been alleged that the cause of a very famous husband-poisoning with +arsenic, was nothing less than a series of constant indiscretions like these +that the wife had to bear in society. This husband used to give the woman he +had won at the point of the Code, public little taps on her shoulder, he would +startle her by a resounding kiss, he dishonored her by a conspicuous +tenderness, seasoned by those impertinent attentions the secret of which +belongs to the French savages who dwell in the depths of the provinces, and +whose manners are very little known, despite the efforts of the realists in +fiction. It was, it is said, this shocking situation,—one perfectly appreciated +by a discerning jury,—which won the prisoner a verdict softened by the +extenuating circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +The jurymen said to themselves: +</p> + +<p> +“For a wife to murder her husband for these conjugal offences, is certainly +going rather far; but then a woman is very excusable, when she is so harassed!” +</p> + +<p> +We deeply regret, in the interest of elegant manners, that these arguments are +not more generally known. Heaven grant, therefore, that our book may have an +immense success, as women will obtain this advantage from it, that they will be +treated as they deserve, that is, as queens. +</p> + +<p> +In this respect, love is much superior to marriage, it is proud of indiscreet +sayings and doings. There are some women that seek them, fish for them, and woe +to the man who does not now and then commit one! +</p> + +<p> +What passion lies in an accidental <i>thou</i>! +</p> + +<p> +Out in the country I heard a husband call his wife: “Ma berline!” She was +delighted with it, and saw nothing ridiculous in it: she called her husband, +“Mon fiston!” This delicious couple were ignorant of the existence of such +things as petty troubles. +</p> + +<p> +It was in observing this happy pair that the author discovered this axiom: +</p> + +<p> +Axiom:—In order to be happy in wedlock, you must either be a man of genius +married to an affectionate and intellectual woman, or, by a chance which is not +as common as might be supposed, you must both of you be exceedingly stupid. +</p> + +<p> +The too celebrated history of the cure of a wounded self-love by arsenic, +proves that, properly speaking, there are no petty troubles for women in +married life. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Woman exists by sentiment where man exists by action. +</p> + +<p> +Now, sentiment can at any moment render a petty trouble either a great +misfortune, or a wasted life, or an eternal misery. Should Caroline begin, in +her ignorance of life and the world, by inflicting upon her husband the +vexations of her stupidity (re-read REVELATIONS), Adolphe, like any other man, +may find a compensation in social excitement: he goes out, comes back, goes +here and there, has business. But for Caroline, the question everywhere is, To +love or not to love, to be or not to be loved. +</p> + +<p> +Indiscretions are in harmony with the character of the individuals, with times +and places. Two examples will suffice. +</p> + +<p> +Here is the first. A man is by nature dirty and ugly: he is ill-made and +repulsive. There are men, and often rich ones, too, who, by a sort of +unobserved constitution, soil a new suit of clothes in twenty-four hours. They +were born disgusting. It is so disgraceful for a women to be anything more than +just simply a wife to this sort of Adolphe, that a certain Caroline had long +ago insisted upon the suppression of the modern <i>thee</i> and <i>thou</i> and +all other insignia of the wifely dignity. Society had been for five or six +years accustomed to this sort of thing, and supposed Madame and Monsieur +completely separated, and all the more so as it had noticed the accession of a +Ferdinand II. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, in the presence of a dozen persons, this man said to his wife: +“Caroline, hand me the tongs, there’s a love.” It is nothing, and yet +everything. It was a domestic revelation. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur de Lustrac, the Universal Amadis, hurried to Madame de Fischtaminel’s, +narrated this little scene with all the spirit at his command, and Madame de +Fischtaminel put on an air something like Celimene’s and said: “Poor creature, +what an extremity she must be in!” +</p> + +<p> +I say nothing of Caroline’s confusion,—you have already divined it. +</p> + +<p> +Here is the second. Think of the frightful situation in which a lady of great +refinement was lately placed: she was conversing agreeably at her country seat +near Paris, when her husband’s servant came and whispered in her ear, “Monsieur +has come, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Benoit.” +</p> + +<p> +Everybody had heard the rumblings of the vehicle. It was known that the husband +had been at Paris since Monday, and this took place on Saturday, at four in the +afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s got something important to say to you, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +Though this dialogue was held in a whisper, it was perfectly understood, and +all the more so from the fact that the lady of the house turned from the pale +hue of the Bengal rose to the brilliant crimson of the wheatfield poppy. She +nodded and went on with the conversation, and managed to leave her company on +the pretext of learning whether her husband had succeeded in an important +undertaking or not: but she seemed plainly vexed at Adolphe’s want of +consideration for the company who were visiting her. +</p> + +<p> +During their youth, women want to be treated as divinities, they love the +ideal; they cannot bear the idea of being what nature intended them to be. +</p> + +<p> +Some husbands, on retiring to the country, after a week in town, are worse than +this: they bow to the company, put their arm round their wife’s waist, take a +little walk with her, appear to be talking confidentially, disappear in a clump +of trees, get lost, and reappear half an hour afterward. +</p> + +<p> +This, ladies, is a genuine petty trouble for a young woman, but for a woman +beyond forty, this sort of indiscretion is so delightful, that the greatest +prudes are flattered by it, for, be it known: +</p> + +<p> +That women of a certain age, women on the shady side, want to be treated as +mortals, they love the actual; they cannot bear the idea of no longer being +what nature intended them to be. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Modesty is a relative virtue; there is the modesty of the woman of +twenty, the woman of thirty, the woman of forty-five. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the author said to a lady who told him to guess at her age: “Madame, yours +is the age of indiscretion.” +</p> + +<p> +This charming woman of thirty-nine was making a Ferdinand much too conspicuous, +while her daughter was trying to conceal her Ferdinand I. +</p> + +<h3>BRUTAL DISCLOSURES.</h3> + +<p> +FIRST STYLE. Caroline adores Adolphe, she thinks him handsome, she thinks him +superb, especially in his National Guard uniform. She starts when a sentinel +presents arms to him, she considers him moulded like a model, she regards him +as a man of wit, everything he does is right, nobody has better taste than he, +in short, she is crazy about Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +It’s the old story of Cupid’s bandage. This is washed every ten years, and +newly embroidered by the altered manners of the period, but it has been the +same old bandage since the days of Greece. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is at a ball with one of her young friends. A man well known for his +bluntness, whose acquaintance she is to make later in life, but whom she now +sees for the first time, Monsieur Foullepointe, has commenced a conversation +with Caroline’s friend. According to the custom of society, Caroline listens to +this conversation without mingling in it. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray tell me, madame,” says Monsieur Foullepointe, “who is that queer man who +has been talking about the Court of Assizes before a gentleman whose acquittal +lately created such a sensation: he is all the while blundering, like an ox in +a bog, against everybody’s sore spot. A lady burst into tears at hearing him +tell of the death of a child, as she lost her own two months ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that fat man, dressed like a waiter in a cafe, frizzled like a barber’s +apprentice, there, he’s trying now to make himself agreeable to Madame de +Fischtaminel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” whispers the lady quite alarmed, “it’s the husband of the little woman +next to me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it’s your husband?” says Monsieur Foullepointe. “I am delighted, madame, +he’s a charming man, so vivacious, gay and witty. I am going to make his +acquaintance immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +And Foullepointe executes his retreat, leaving a bitter suspicion in Caroline’s +soul, as to the question whether her husband is really as handsome as she +thinks him. +</p> + +<p> +SECOND STYLE. Caroline, annoyed by the reputation of Madame Schinner, who is +credited with the possession of epistolary talents, and styled the “Sevigne of +the note”, tired of hearing about Madame de Fischtaminel, who has ventured to +write a little 32mo book on the education of the young, in which she has boldly +reprinted Fenelon, without the style:—Caroline has been working for six months +upon a tale tenfold poorer than those of Berquin, nauseatingly moral, and +flamboyant in style. +</p> + +<p> +After numerous intrigues such as women are skillful in managing in the interest +of their vanity, and the tenacity and perfection of which would lead you to +believe that they have a third sex in their head, this tale, entitled “The +Lotus,” appears in three installments in a leading daily paper. It is signed +Samuel Crux. +</p> + +<p> +When Adolphe takes up the paper at breakfast, Caroline’s heart beats up in her +very throat: she blushes, turns pale, looks away and stares at the ceiling. +When Adolphe’s eyes settle upon the feuilleton, she can bear it no longer: she +gets up, goes out, comes back, having replenished her stock of audacity, no one +knows where. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there a feuilleton this morning?” she asks with an air that she thinks +indifferent, but which would disturb a husband still jealous of his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, one by a beginner, Samuel Crux. The name is a disguise, clearly: the tale +is insignificant enough to drive an insect to despair, if he could read: and +vulgar, too: the style is muddy, but then it’s—” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline breathes again. “It’s—” she suggests. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s incomprehensible,” resumes Adolphe. “Somebody must have paid Chodoreille +five or six hundred francs to insert it; or else it’s the production of a +blue-stocking in high society who has promised to invite Madame Chodoreille to +her house; or perhaps it’s the work of a woman in whom the editor is personally +interested. Such a piece of stupidity cannot be explained any other way. +Imagine, Caroline, that it’s all about a little flower picked on the edge of a +wood in a sentimental walk, which a gentleman of the Werther school has sworn +to keep, which he has had framed, and which the lady claims again eleven years +after (the poor man has had time to change his lodgings three times). It’s +quite new, about as old as Sterne or Gessner. What makes me think it’s a woman, +is that the first literary idea of the whole sex is to take vengeance on some +one.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe might go on pulling “The Lotus” to pieces; Caroline’s ears are full of +the tinkling of bells. She is like the woman who threw herself over the Pont +des Arts, and tried to find her way ten feet below the level of the Seine. +</p> + +<p> +ANOTHER STYLE. Caroline, in her paroxysms of jealousy, has discovered a hiding +place used by Adolphe, who, as he can’t trust his wife, and as he knows she +opens his letters and rummages in his drawers, has endeavored to save his +correspondence with Hector from the hooked fingers of the conjugal police. +</p> + +<p> +Hector is an old schoolmate, who has married in the Loire Inferieure. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe lifts up the cloth of his writing desk, a cloth the border of which has +been embroidered by Caroline, the ground being blue, black or red velvet,—the +color, as you see, is perfectly immaterial,—and he slips his unfinished letters +to Madame de Fischtaminel, to his friend Hector, between the table and the +cloth. +</p> + +<p> +The thickness of a sheet of paper is almost nothing, velvet is a downy, +discreet material, but, no matter, these precautions are in vain. The male +devil is fairly matched by the female devil: Tophet will furnish them of all +genders. Caroline has Mephistopheles on her side, the demon who causes tables +to spurt forth fire, and who, with his ironic finger points out the hiding +place of keys—the secret of secrets. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline has noticed the thickness of a letter sheet between this velvet and +this table: she hits upon a letter to Hector instead of hitting upon one to +Madame de Fischtaminel, who has gone to Plombieres Springs, and reads the +following: +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Hector: +</p> + +<p> +“I pity you, but you have acted wisely in entrusting me with a knowledge of the +difficulties in which you have voluntarily involved yourself. You never would +see the difference between the country woman and the woman of Paris. In the +country, my dear boy, you are always face to face with your wife, and, owing to +the ennui which impels you, you rush headforemost into the enjoyment of your +bliss. This is a great error: happiness is an abyss, and when you have once +reached the bottom, you never get back again, in wedlock. +</p> + +<p> +“I will show you why. Let me take, for your wife’s sake, the shortest path—the +parable. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember having made a journey from Paris to Ville-Parisis, in that vehicle +called a ’bus: distance, twenty miles: ’bus, lumbering: horse, lame. Nothing +amuses me more than to draw from people, by the aid of that gimlet called the +interrogation, and to obtain, by means of an attentive air, the sum of +information, anecdotes and learning that everybody is anxious to part with: and +all men have such a sum, the peasant as well as the banker, the corporal as +well as the marshal of France. +</p> + +<p> +“I have often noticed how ready these casks, overflowing with wit, are to open +their sluices while being transported by diligence or ’bus, or by any vehicle +drawn by horses, for nobody talks in a railway car. +</p> + +<p> +“At the rate of our exit from Paris, the journey would take full seven hours: +so I got an old corporal to talk, for my diversion. He could neither read nor +write: he was entirely illiterate. Yet the journey seemed short. The corporal +had been through all the campaigns, he told me of things perfectly unheard of, +that historians never trouble themselves about. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Hector, how superior is practice to theory! Among other things, and in +reply to a question relative to the infantry, whose courage is much more tried +by marching than by fighting, he said this, which I give you free from +circumlocution: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sir, when Parisians were brought to our 45th, which Napoleon called The +Terrible (I am speaking of the early days of the Empire, when the infantry had +legs of steel, and when they needed them), I had a way of telling beforehand +which of them would remain in the 45th. They marched without hurrying, they did +their little six leagues a day, neither more nor less, and they pitched camp in +condition to begin again on the morrow. The plucky fellows who did ten leagues +and wanted to run to the victory, stopped half way at the hospital.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The worthy corporal was talking of marriage while he thought he was talking of +war, and you have stopped half way, Hector, at the hospital. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember the sympathetic condolence of Madame de Sevigne counting out three +hundred thousand francs to Monsieur de Grignan, to induce him to marry one of +the prettiest girls in France! ‘Why,’ said she to herself, ‘he will have to +marry her every day, as long as she lives! Decidedly, I don’t think three +hundred francs too much.’ Is it not enough to make the bravest tremble? +</p> + +<p> +“My dear fellow, conjugal happiness is founded, like that of nations, upon +ignorance. It is a felicity full of negative conditions. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am happy with my little Caroline, it is due to the strictest observance +of that salutary principle so strongly insisted upon in the <i>Physiology of +Marriage</i>. I have resolved to lead my wife through paths beaten in the snow, +until the happy day when infidelity will be difficult. +</p> + +<p> +“In the situation in which you have placed yourself, and which resembles that +of Duprez, who, on his first appearance at Paris, went to singing with all the +voice his lungs would yield, instead of imitating Nourrit, who gave the +audience just enough to enchant them, the following, I think, is your proper +course to—” +</p> + +<p> +The letter broke off here: Caroline returned it to its place, at the same time +wondering how she would make her dear Adolphe expiate his obedience to the +execrable precepts of the <i>Physiology of Marriage</i>. +</p> + +<h3>A TRUCE.</h3> + +<p> +This trouble doubtless occurs sufficiently often and in different ways enough +in the existence of married women, for this personal incident to become the +type of the genus. +</p> + +<p> +The Caroline in question here is very pious, she loves her husband very much, +her husband asserts that she loves him too much, even: but this is a piece of +marital conceit, if, indeed, it is not a provocation, as he only complains to +his wife’s young lady friends. +</p> + +<p> +When a person’s conscience is involved, the least thing becomes exceedingly +serious. Madame de ——- has told her young friend, Madame de Fischtaminel, that +she had been compelled to make an extraordinary confession to her spiritual +director, and to perform penance, the director having decided that she was in a +state of mortal sin. This lady, who goes to mass every morning, is a woman of +thirty-six years, thin and slightly pimpled. She has large soft black eyes, her +upper lip is strongly shaded: still her voice is sweet, her manners gentle, her +gait noble—she is a woman of quality. +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Fischtaminel, whom Madame de ——- has made her friend (nearly all +pious women patronize a woman who is considered worldly, on the pretext of +converting her),—Madame de Fischtaminel asserts that these qualities, in this +Caroline of the Pious Sort, are a victory of religion over a rather violent +natural temper. +</p> + +<p> +These details are necessary to describe the trouble in all its horror. +</p> + +<p> +This lady’s Adolphe had been compelled to leave his wife for two months, in +April, immediately after the forty days’ fast that Caroline scrupulously +observes. Early in June, therefore, madame expected her husband, she expected +him day by day. From one hope to another, +</p> + +<p> +“Conceived every morn and deferred every eve.” +</p> + +<p> +She got along as far as Sunday, the day when her presentiments, which had now +reached a state of paroxysm, told her that the longed-for husband would arrive +at an early hour. +</p> + +<p> +When a pious woman expects her husband, and that husband has been absent from +home nearly four months, she takes much more pains with her toilet than a young +girl does, though waiting for her first betrothed. +</p> + +<p> +This virtuous Caroline was so completely absorbed in exclusively personal +preparations, that she forgot to go to eight o’clock mass. She proposed to hear +a low mass, but she was afraid of losing the delight of her dear Adolphe’s +first glance, in case he arrived at early dawn. Her chambermaid—who +respectfully left her mistress alone in the dressing-room where pious and +pimpled ladies let no one enter, not even their husbands, especially if they +are thin—her chambermaid heard her exclaim several times, “If it’s your master, +let me know!” +</p> + +<p> +The rumbling of a vehicle having made the furniture rattle, Caroline assumed a +mild tone to conceal the violence of her legitimate emotions. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! ’tis he! Run, Justine: tell him I am waiting for him here.” Caroline +trembled so that she dropped into an arm-chair. +</p> + +<p> +The vehicle was a butcher’s wagon. +</p> + +<p> +It was in anxieties like this that the eight o’clock mass slipped by, like an +eel in his slime. Madame’s toilet operations were resumed, for she was engaged +in dressing. The chambermaid’s nose had already been the recipient of a superb +muslin chemise, with a simple hem, which Caroline had thrown at her from the +dressing-room, though she had given her the same kind for the last three +months. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you thinking of, Justine? I told you to choose from the chemises that +are not numbered.” +</p> + +<p> +The unnumbered chemises were only seven or eight, in the most magnificent +trousseau. They are chemises gotten up and embroidered with the greatest care: +a woman must be a queen, a young queen, to have a dozen. Each one of Caroline’s +was trimmed with valenciennes round the bottom, and still more coquettishly +garnished about the neck. This feature of our manners will perhaps serve to +suggest a suspicion, in the masculine world, of the domestic drama revealed by +this exceptional chemise. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline had put on a pair of Scotch thread stockings, little prunella buskins, +and her most deceptive corsets. She had her hair dressed in the fashion that +most became her, and embellished it with a cap of the most elegant form. It is +unnecessary to speak of her morning gown. A pious lady who lives at Paris and +who loves her husband, knows as well as a coquette how to choose those pretty +little striped patterns, have them cut with an open waist, and fastened by +loops to buttons in a way which compels her to refasten them two or three times +in an hour, with little airs more or less charming, as the case may be. +</p> + +<p> +The nine o’clock mass, the ten o’clock mass, every mass, went by in these +preparations, which, for women in love, are one of their twelve labors of +Hercules. +</p> + +<p> +Pious women rarely go to church in a carriage, and they are right. Except in +the case of a pouring shower, or intolerably bad weather, a person ought not to +appear haughty in the place where it is becoming to be humble. Caroline was +afraid to compromise the freshness of her dress and the purity of her thread +stockings. Alas! these pretexts concealed a reason. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am at church when Adolphe comes, I shall lose the pleasure of his first +glance: and he will think I prefer high mass to him.” +</p> + +<p> +She made this sacrifice to her husband in a desire to please him—a fearfully +worldly consideration. Prefer the creature to the Creator! A husband to heaven! +Go and hear a sermon and you will learn what such an offence will cost you. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” says Caroline, quoting her confessor, “society is founded upon +marriage, which the Church has included among its sacraments.” +</p> + +<p> +And this is the way in which religious instruction may be put aside in favor of +a blind though legitimate love. Madame refused breakfast, and ordered the meal +to be kept hot, just as she kept herself ready, at a moment’s notice, to +welcome the precious absentee. +</p> + +<p> +Now these little things may easily excite a laugh: but in the first place they +are continually occurring with couples who love each other, or where one of +them loves the other: besides, in a woman so strait-laced, so reserved, so +worthy, as this lady, these acknowledgments of affection went beyond the limits +imposed upon her feelings by the lofty self-respect which true piety induces. +When Madame de Fischtaminel narrated this little scene in a devotee’s life, +dressing it up with choice by-play, acted out as ladies of the world know how +to act out their anecdotes, I took the liberty of saying that it was the +Canticle of canticles in action. +</p> + +<p> +“If her husband doesn’t come,” said Justine to the cook, “what will become of +us? She has already thrown her chemise in my face.” +</p> + +<p> +At last, Caroline heard the crack of a postilion’s whip, the well-known +rumbling of a traveling carriage, the racket made by the hoofs of post-horses, +and the jingling of their bells! Oh, she could doubt no longer, the bells made +her burst forth, as thus: +</p> + +<p> +“The door! Open the door! ’Tis he, my husband! Will you never go to the door!” +And the pious woman stamped her foot and broke the bell-rope. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, madame,” said Justine, with the vivacity of a servant doing her duty, +“it’s some people going away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” replied Caroline, half ashamed, to herself, “I will never let +Adolphe go traveling again without me.” +</p> + +<p> +A Marseilles poet—it is not known whether it was Mery or Barthelemy +—acknowledged that if his best fried did not arrive punctually at the dinner +hour, he waited patiently five minutes: at the tenth minute, he felt a desire +to throw the napkin in his face: at the twelfth he hoped some great calamity +would befall him: at the fifteenth, he would not be able to restrain himself +from stabbing him several times with a dirk. +</p> + +<p> +All women, when expecting somebody, are Marseilles poets, if, indeed, we may +compare the vulgar throes of hunger to the sublime Canticle of canticles of a +pious wife, who is hoping for the joys of a husband’s first glance after a +three months’ absence. Let all those who love and who have met again after an +absence ten thousand times accursed, be good enough to recall their first +glance: it says so many things that the lovers, if in the presence of a third +party, are fain to lower their eyes! This poem, in which every man is as great +as Homer, in which he seems a god to the woman who loves him, is, for a pious, +thin and pimpled lady, all the more immense, from the fact that she has not, +like Madame de Fischtaminel, the resource of having several copies of it. In +her case, her husband is all she’s got! +</p> + +<p> +So you will not be surprised to learn that Caroline missed every mass and had +no breakfast. This hunger and thirst for Adolphe gave her a violent cramp in +the stomach. She did not think of religion once during the hours of mass, nor +during those of vespers. She was not comfortable when she sat, and she was very +uncomfortable when she stood: Justine advised her to go to bed. Caroline, quite +overcome, retired at about half past five in the evening, after having taken a +light soup: but she ordered a dainty supper at ten. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall doubtless sup with my husband,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +This speech was the conclusion of dreadful catalinics, internally fulminated. +She had reached the Marseilles poet’s several stabs with a dirk. So she spoke +in a tone that was really terrible. At three in the morning Caroline was in a +profound sleep: Adolphe arrived without her hearing either carriage, or horse, +or bell, or opening door! +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, who would not permit her to be disturbed, went to bed in the spare +room. When Caroline heard of his return in the morning, two tears issued from +her eyes; she rushed to the spare room without the slightest preparatory +toilet; a hideous attendant, posted on the threshold, informed her that her +husband, having traveled two hundred leagues and been two nights without sleep, +requested that he might not be awakened: he was exceedingly tired. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline—pious woman that she was—opened the door violently without being able +to wake the only husband that heaven had given her, and then hastened to church +to listen to a thanksgiving mass. +</p> + +<p> +As she was visibly snappish for three whole days, Justine remarked, in reply to +an unjust reproach, and with a chambermaid’s finesse: +</p> + +<p> +“Why, madame, your husband’s got back!” +</p> + +<p> +“He has only got back to Paris,” returned the pious Caroline. +</p> + +<h3>USELESS CARE.</h3> + +<p> +Put yourself in the place of a poor woman of doubtful beauty, who owes her +husband to the weight of her dowry, who gives herself infinite pains, and +spends a great deal of money to appear to advantage and follow the fashions, +who does her best to keep house sumptuously and yet economically—a house, too, +not easy to manage—who, from morality and dire necessity, perhaps, loves no one +but her husband, who has no other study but the happiness of this precious +husband, who, to express all in one word, joins the maternal sentiment <i>to +the sentiment of her duties</i>. This underlined circumlocution is the +paraphrase of the word love in the language of prudes. +</p> + +<p> +Have you put yourself in her place? Well, this too-much-loved husband by chance +remarked at his friend Monsieur de Fischtaminel’s, that he was very fond of +mushrooms <i>a l’Italienne</i>. +</p> + +<p> +If you have paid some attention to the female nature, in its good, great, and +grand manifestations, you know that for a loving wife there is no greater +pleasure than that of seeing the beloved one absorbing his favorite viands. +This springs from the fundamental idea upon which the affection of women is +based: that of being the source of all his pleasures, big and little. Love +animates everything in life, and conjugal love has a peculiar right to descend +to the most trivial details. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline spends two or three days in inquiries before she learns how the +Italians dress mushrooms. She discovers a Corsican abbe who tells her that at +Biffi’s, in the rue de Richelieu, she will not only learn how the Italians +dress mushrooms, but that she will be able to obtain some Milanese mushrooms. +Our pious Caroline thanks the Abbe Serpolini, and resolves to send him a +breviary in acknowledgment. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline’s cook goes to Biffi’s, comes back from Biffi’s, and exhibits to the +countess a quantity of mushrooms as big as the coachman’s ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” she says, “did he explain to you how to cook them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for us cooks, them’s a mere nothing,” replies the cook. +</p> + +<p> +As a general rule, cooks know everything, in the cooking way, except how a cook +may feather his nest. +</p> + +<p> +At evening, during the second course, all Caroline’s fibres quiver with +pleasure at observing the servant bringing to the table a certain suggestive +dish. She has positively waited for this dinner as she had waited for her +husband. +</p> + +<p> +But between waiting with certainty and expecting a positive pleasure, there is, +to the souls of the elect—and everybody will include a woman who adores her +husband among the elect—there is, between these two worlds of expectation, the +difference that exists between a fine night and a fine day. +</p> + +<p> +The dish is presented to the beloved Adolphe, he carelessly plunges his spoon +in and helps himself, without perceiving Caroline’s extreme emotion, to several +of those soft, fat, round things, that travelers who visit Milan do not for a +long time recognize; they take them for some kind of shell-fish. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you recognize them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Recognize what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your mushrooms <i>a l’Italienne</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“These mushrooms! I thought they were—well, yes, they <i>are</i> mushrooms!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and <i>a l’Italienne</i>, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, they are old preserved mushrooms, <i>a la milanaise</i>. I abominate +them!” +</p> + +<p> +“What kind is it you like, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Fungi trifolati</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Let us observe—to the disgrace of an epoch which numbers and labels everything, +which puts the whole creation in bottles, which is at this moment classifying +one hundred and fifty thousand species of insects, giving them all the +termination <i>us</i>, so that a <i>Silbermanus</i> is the same individual in +all countries for the learned men who dissect a butterfly’s legs with +pincers—that we still want a nomenclature for the chemistry of the kitchen, to +enable all the cooks in the world to produce precisely similar dishes. It would +be diplomatically agreed that French should be the language of the kitchen, as +Latin has been adopted by the scientific for botany and entomology, unless it +were desired to imitate them in that, too, and thus really have kitchen Latin. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” resumes Adolphe, on seeing the clouded and lengthened face of his +chaste Caroline, “in France the dish in question is called Mushrooms <i>a +l’Italienne, a la provencale, a la bordelaise</i>. The mushrooms are minced, +fried in oil with a few ingredients whose names I have forgotten. You add a +taste of garlic, I believe—” +</p> + +<p> +Talk about calamities, of petty troubles! This, do you see, is, to a woman’s +heart, what the pain of an extracted tooth is to a child of eight. <i>Ab uno +disce omnes</i>: which means, “There’s one of them: find the rest in your +memory.” For we have taken this culinary description as a prototype of the +vexations which afflict loving but indifferently loved women. +</p> + +<h3>SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE.</h3> + +<p> +A woman full of faith in the man she loves is a romancer’s fancy. This feminine +personage no more exists than does a rich dowry. A woman’s confidence glows +perhaps for a few moments, at the dawn of love, and disappears in a trice like +a shooting star. +</p> + +<p> +With women who are neither Dutch, nor English, nor Belgian, nor from any marshy +country, love is a pretext for suffering, an employment for the superabundant +powers of their imaginations and their nerves. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the second idea that takes possession of a happy woman, one who is really +loved, is the fear of losing her happiness, for we must do her the justice to +say that her first idea is to enjoy it. All who possess treasures are in dread +of thieves, but they do not, like women, lend wings and feet to their golden +stores. +</p> + +<p> +The little blue flower of perfect felicity is not so common, that the +heaven-blessed man who possesses it, should be simpleton enough to abandon it. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—A woman is never deserted without a reason. +</p> + +<p> +This axiom is written in the heart of hearts of every woman. Hence the rage of +a woman deserted. +</p> + +<p> +Let us not infringe upon the petty troubles of love: we live in a calculating +epoch when women are seldom abandoned, do what they may: for, of all wives or +women, nowadays, the legitimate is the least expensive. Now, every woman who is +loved, has gone through the petty annoyance of suspicion. This suspicion, +whether just or unjust, engenders a multitude of domestic troubles, and here is +the biggest of all. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is one day led to notice that her cherished Adolphe leaves her rather +too often upon a matter of business, that eternal Chaumontel’s affair, which +never comes to an end. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Every household has its Chaumontel’s affair. (See TROUBLE WITHIN +TROUBLE.) +</p> + +<p> +In the first place, a woman no more believes in matters of business than +publishers and managers do in the illness of actresses and authors. The moment +a beloved creature absents himself, though she has rendered him even too happy, +every woman straightway imagines that he has hurried away to some easy +conquest. In this respect, women endow men with superhuman faculties. Fear +magnifies everything, it dilates the eyes and the heart: it makes a woman mad. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is my husband going? What is my husband doing? Why has he left me? Why +did he not take me with him?” +</p> + +<p> +These four questions are the four cardinal points of the compass of suspicion, +and govern the stormy sea of soliloquies. From these frightful tempests which +ravage a woman’s heart springs an ignoble, unworthy resolution, one which every +woman, the duchess as well as the shopkeeper’s wife, the baroness as well as +the stockbroker’s lady, the angel as well as the shrew, the indifferent as well +as the passionate, at once puts into execution. They imitate the government, +every one of them; they resort to espionage. What the State has invented in the +public interest, they consider legal, legitimate and permissible, in the +interest of their love. This fatal woman’s curiosity reduces them to the +necessity of having agents, and the agent of any woman who, in this situation, +has not lost her self-respect,—a situation in which her jealousy will not +permit her to respect anything: neither your little boxes, nor your clothes, +nor the drawers of your treasury, of your desk, of your table, of your bureau, +nor your pocketbook with private compartments, nor your papers, nor your +traveling dressing-case, nor your toilet articles (a woman discovers in this +way that her husband dyed his moustache when he was a bachelor), nor your +india-rubber girdles—her agent, I say, the only one in whom a woman trusts, is +her maid, for her maid understands her, excuses her, and approves her. +</p> + +<p> +In the paroxysm of excited curiosity, passion and jealousy, a woman makes no +calculations, takes no observations. She simply wishes to know the whole truth. +</p> + +<p> +And Justine is delighted: she sees her mistress compromising herself with her, +and she espouses her passion, her dread, her fears and her suspicions, with +terrible friendship. Justine and Caroline hold councils and have secret +interviews. All espionage involves such relationships. In this pass, a maid +becomes the arbitress of the fate of the married couple. Example: Lord Byron. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” Justine one day observes, “monsieur really <i>does</i> go out to see +a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline turns pale. +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t be alarmed, madame, it’s an old woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Justine, to some men no women are old: men are inexplicable.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, madame, it isn’t a lady, it’s a woman, quite a common woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Justine, Lord Byron loved a fish-wife at Venice, Madame de Fischtaminel +told me so.” +</p> + +<p> +And Caroline bursts into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been pumping Benoit.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is Benoit’s opinion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Benoit thinks that the woman is a go-between, for monsieur keeps his secret +from everybody, even from Benoit.” +</p> + +<p> +For a week Caroline lives the life of the damned; all her savings go to pay +spies and to purchase reports. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, Justine goes to see the woman, whose name is Madame Mahuchet; she +bribes her and learns at last that her master has preserved a witness of his +youthful follies, a nice little boy that looks very much like him, and that +this woman is his nurse, the second-hand mother who has charge of little +Frederick, who pays his quarterly school-bills, and through whose hands pass +the twelve hundred or two thousand francs which Adolphe is supposed annually to +lose at cards. +</p> + +<p> +“What of the mother?” exclaims Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +To end the matter, Justine, Caroline’s good genius, proves to her that M’lle +Suzanne Beauminet, formerly a grisette and somewhat later Madame +Sainte-Suzanne, died at the hospital, or else that she has made her fortune, or +else, again, that her place in society is so low there is no danger of madame’s +ever meeting her. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline breathes again: the dirk has been drawn from her heart, she is quite +happy; but she had no children but daughters, and would like a boy. This little +drama of unjust suspicions, this comedy of the conjectures to which Mother +Mahuchet gives rise, these phases of a causeless jealousy, are laid down here +as the type of a situation, the varieties of which are as innumerable as +characters, grades and sorts. +</p> + +<p> +This source of petty troubles is pointed out here, in order that women seated +upon the river’s bank may contemplate in it the course of their own married +life, following its ascent or descent, recalling their own adventures to mind, +their untold disasters, the foibles which caused their errors, and the peculiar +fatalities to which were due an instant of frenzy, a moment of unnecessary +despair, or sufferings which they might have spared themselves, happy in their +self-delusions. +</p> + +<p> +This vexation has a corollary in the following, one which is much more serious +and often without remedy, especially when its root lies among vices of another +kind, and which do not concern us, for, in this work, women are invariably +esteemed honest—until the end. +</p> + +<h3>THE DOMESTIC TYRANT.</h3> + +<p> +“My dear Caroline,” says Adolphe one day to his wife, “are you satisfied with +Justine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear, quite so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think she speaks to you rather impertinently?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose I would notice a maid? But it seems <i>you</i> notice her!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say?” asks Adolphe in an indignant way that is always delightful +to women. +</p> + +<p> +Justine is a genuine maid for an actress, a woman of thirty stamped by the +small-pox with innumerable dimples, in which the loves are far from sporting: +she is as brown as opium, has a good deal of leg and not much body, gummy eyes, +and a tournure to match. She would like to have Benoit marry her, but at this +unexpected suggestion, Benoit asked for his discharge. Such is the portrait of +the domestic tyrant enthroned by Caroline’s jealousy. +</p> + +<p> +Justine takes her coffee in the morning, in bed, and manages to have it as good +as, not to say better than, that of her mistress. Justine sometimes goes out +without asking leave, dressed like the wife of a second-class banker. She +sports a pink hat, one of her mistress’ old gowns made over, an elegant shawl, +shoes of bronze kid, and jewelry of doubtful character. +</p> + +<p> +Justine is sometimes in a bad humor, and makes her mistress feel that she too +is a woman like herself, though she is not married. She has her whims, her fits +of melancholy, her caprices. She even dares to have her nerves! She replies +curtly, she makes herself insupportable to the other servants, and, to +conclude, her wages have been considerably increased. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, this girl is getting more intolerable every day,” says Adolphe one +morning to his wife, on noticing Justine listening at the key-hole, “and if you +don’t send her away, I will!” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, greatly alarmed, is obliged to give Justine a talking to, while her +husband is out. +</p> + +<p> +“Justine, you take advantage of my kindness to you: you have high wages, here, +you have perquisites, presents: try to keep your place, for my husband wants to +send you away.” +</p> + +<p> +The maid humbles herself to the earth, she sheds tears: she is so attached to +madame! Ah! she would rush into the fire for her: she would let herself be +chopped into mince-meat: she is ready for anything. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had anything to conceal, madame, I would take it on myself and say it +was me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Justine, very good, my girl,” says Caroline, terrified: “but that’s +not the point: just try to keep in your place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ha!” says Justine to herself, “monsieur wants to send me away, does he? +Wait and see the deuce of a life I’ll lead you, you old curmudgeon!” +</p> + +<p> +A week after, Justine, who is dressing her mistress’ hair, looks in the glass +to make sure that Caroline can see all the grimaces of her countenance: and +Caroline very soon inquires, “Why, what’s the matter, Justine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would tell you, readily, madame, but then, madame, you are so weak with +monsieur!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, go on, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know now, madame, why master wanted to show me the door: he has confidence +in nobody but Benoit, and Benoit is playing the mum with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what does that prove? Has anything been discovered?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure that between the two they are plotting something against you madame,” +returns the maid with authority. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, whom Justine watches in the glass, turns pale: all the tortures of +the previous petty trouble return, and Justine sees that she has become as +indispensable to her mistress as spies are to the government when a conspiracy +is discovered. Still, Caroline’s friends do not understand why she keeps so +disagreeable a servant girl, one who wears a hat, whose manners are +impertinent, and who gives herself the airs of a lady. +</p> + +<p> +This stupid domination is talked of at Madame Deschars’, at Madame de +Fischtaminel’s, and the company consider it funny. A few ladies think they can +see certain monstrous reasons for it, reasons which compromise Caroline’s +honor. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—In society, people can put cloaks on every kind of truth, even the +prettiest. +</p> + +<p> +In short the <i>aria della calumnia</i> is executed precisely as if Bartholo +were singing it. +</p> + +<p> +It is averred that Caroline cannot discharge her maid. +</p> + +<p> +Society devotes itself desperately to discovering the secret of this enigma. +Madame de Fischtaminel makes fun of Adolphe who goes home in a rage, has a +scene with Caroline and discharges Justine. +</p> + +<p> +This produces such an effect upon Justine, that she falls sick, and takes to +her bed. Caroline observes to her husband, that it would be awkward to turn a +girl in Justine’s condition into the street, a girl who is so much attached to +them, too, and who has been with them sine their marriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Let her go then as soon as she is well!” says Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, reassured in regard to Adolphe, and indecently swindled by Justine, +at last comes to desire to get rid of her: she applies a violent remedy to the +disease, and makes up her mind to go under the Caudine Forks of another petty +trouble, as follows: +</p> + +<h3>THE AVOWAL.</h3> + +<p> +One morning, Adolphe is petted in a very unusual manner. The too happy husband +wonders what may be the cause of this development of affection, and he hears +Caroline, in her most winning tones, utter the word: “Adolphe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he replies, in alarm at the internal agitation betrayed by Caroline’s +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise not to be angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to be vexed with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never. Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“To forgive me and never say anything about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me what it is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, you are the one that’s in the wrong—” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak, or I’ll go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no one but you that can get me out of the scrape—and it was you that +got me into it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s about—” +</p> + +<p> +“About—” +</p> + +<p> +“About Justine!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t speak of her, she’s discharged. I won’t see her again, her style of +conduct exposes your reputation—” +</p> + +<p> +“What can people say—what have they said?” +</p> + +<p> +The scene changes, the result of which is a secondary explanation which makes +Caroline blush, as she sees the bearing of the suppositions of her best +friends. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, Adolphe, it’s to you I owe all this. Why didn’t you tell me about +Frederick?” +</p> + +<p> +“Frederick the Great? The King of Prussia?” +</p> + +<p> +“What creatures men are! Hypocrite, do you want to make me believe that you +have forgotten your son so soon, M’lle Suzanne Beauminet’s son?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you know—?” +</p> + +<p> +“The whole thing! And old other Mahuchet, and your absences from home to give +him a good dinner on holidays.” +</p> + +<p> +“How like moles you pious women can be if you try!” exclaims Adolphe, in his +terror. +</p> + +<p> +“It was Justine that found it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Now I understand the reason of her insolence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, your Caroline has been very wretched, dear, and this spying system, which +was produced by my love for you, for I do love you, and madly too,—if you +deceived me, I would fly to the extremity of creation,—well, as I was going to +say, this unfounded jealousy has put me in Justine’s power, so, my precious, +get me out of it the best way you can!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let this teach you, my angel, never to make use of your servants, if you want +them to be of use to you. It is the lowest of tyrannies, this being at the +mercy of one’s people.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe takes advantage of this circumstance to alarm Caroline, he thinks of +future Chaumontel’s affairs, and would be glad to have no more espionage. +</p> + +<p> +Justine is sent for, Adolphe peremptorily dismisses her without waiting to hear +her explanation. Caroline imagines her vexations at an end. She gets another +maid. +</p> + +<p> +Justine, whose twelve or fifteen thousand francs have attracted the notice of a +water carrier, becomes Madame Chavagnac, and goes into the apple business. Ten +months after, in Adolphe’s absence, Caroline receives a letter written upon +school-boy paper, in strides which would require orthopedic treatment for three +months, and thus conceived: +</p> + +<p> +“Madam! +</p> + +<p> +“Yu ar shaimphoolly diseeved bi yure huzban fur mame Deux fischtaminelle, hee +goze their evry eavning, yu ar az blynde az a Batt. Your gott wott yu dizzurv, +and I am Glad ovit, and I have thee honur ov prezenting yu the assurunz ov Mi +moaste ds Sting guischt respecks.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline starts like a lion who has been stung by a bumble-bee; she places +herself once more, and of her own accord, upon the griddle of suspicion, and +begins her struggle with the unknown all over again. +</p> + +<p> +When she has discovered the injustice of her suspicions, there comes another +letter with an offer to furnish her with details relative to a Chaumontel’s +affair which Justine has unearthed. +</p> + +<p> +The petty trouble of avowals, ladies, is often more serious than this, as you +perhaps have occasion to remember. +</p> + +<h3>HUMILIATIONS.</h3> + +<p> +To the glory of women, let it be said, they care for their husbands even when +their husbands care no more for them, not only because there are more ties, +socially speaking, between a married woman and a man, than between the man and +the wife; but also because woman has more delicacy and honor than man, the +chief conjugal question apart, as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—In a husband, there is only a man; in a married woman, there is a man, a +father, a mother and a woman. +</p> + +<p> +A married woman has sensibility enough for four, or for five even, if you look +closely. +</p> + +<p> +Now, it is not improper to observe in this place, that, in a woman’s eyes, love +is a general absolution: the man who is a good lover may commit crimes, if he +will, he is always as pure as snow in the eyes of her who loves him, if he +truly loves her. As to a married woman, loved or not, she feels so deeply that +the honor and consideration of her husband are the fortune of her children, +that she acts like the woman in love,—so active is the sense of community of +interest. +</p> + +<p> +This profound sentiment engenders, for certain Carolines, petty troubles which, +unfortunately for this book, have their dismal side. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe is compromised. We will not enumerate all the methods of compromising +oneself, for we might become personal. Let us take, as an example, the social +error which our epoch excuses, permits, understands and commits the most of +any—the case of an honest robbery, of skillfully concealed corruption in +office, or of some misrepresentation that becomes excusable when it has +succeeded, as, for instance, having an understanding with parties in power, for +the sale of property at the highest possible price to a city, or a country. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, in a bankruptcy, Adolphe, in order to protect himself (this means to +recover his claims), has become mixed up in certain unlawful doings which may +bring a man to the necessity of testifying before the Court of Assizes. In +fact, it is not known that the daring creditor will not be considered a party. +</p> + +<p> +Take notice that in all cases of bankruptcy, protecting oneself is regarded as +the most sacred of duties, even by the most respectable houses: the thing is to +keep the bad side of the protection out of sight, as they do in prudish +England. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe does not know what to do, as his counsel has told him not to appear in +the matter: so he has recourse to Caroline. He gives her a lesson, he coaches +her, he teaches her the Code, he examines her dress, he equips her as a brig +sent on a voyage, and despatches her to the office of some judge, or some +syndic. The judge is apparently a man of severe morality, but in reality a +libertine: he retains his serious expression on seeing a pretty woman enter, +and makes sundry very uncomplimentary remarks about Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +“I pity you, madame, you belong to a man who may involve you in numerous +unpleasant affairs: a few more matters like this, and he will be quite +disgraced. Have you any children? Excuse my asking; you are so young, it is +perfectly natural.” And the judge comes as near to Caroline as possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, great heavens! what a prospect is yours! My first thought was for the +woman, but now I pity you doubly, I think of the mother. Ah, how you must have +suffered in coming here! Poor, poor woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir, you take an interest in me, do you not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, what can I do?” says the judge, darting a glance sidewise at Caroline. +“What you ask of me is a dereliction of duty, and I am a magistrate before I am +a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, only be a man—” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you aware of the full bearing of that request, fair creature?” At this +point the magistrate tremblingly takes Caroline’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, who remembers that the honor of her husband and children is at stake, +says to herself that this is not the time to play the prude. She abandons her +hand, making just resistance enough for the old man (happily he is an old man) +to consider it a favor. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, my beauty,” resumes the judge, “I should be loath to cause so +lovely a woman to shed tears; we’ll see about it. You shall come to-morrow +evening and tell me the whole affair. We must look at the papers, we will +examine them together—” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s indispensable.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be alarmed, my dear, a judge is likely to know how to grant what is due +to justice and—” he puts on a shrewd look here—“to beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quite at your ease,” he adds, holding her hand closely in his, “and we’ll +try to reduce this great crime down to a peccadillo.” And he goes to the door +with Caroline, who is frightened to death at an appointment thus proposed. +</p> + +<p> +The syndic is a lively young man, and he receives Madame Adolphe with a smile. +He smiles at everything, and he smiles as he takes her round the waist with an +agility which leaves Caroline no time to resist, especially as she says to +herself, “Adolphe particularly recommended me not to vex the syndic.” +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless Caroline escapes, in the interest of the syndic himself, and again +pronounces the “Sir!” which she had said three times to the judge. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry with me, you are irresistible, you are an angel, and your +husband is a monster: for what does he mean by sending a siren to a young man +whom he knows to be inflammable!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, my husband could not come himself; he is in bed, very sick, and you +threatened him so terribly that the urgency of the matter—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hasn’t he got a lawyer, an attorney?” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is terrified by this remark which reveals Adolphe’s profound +rascality. +</p> + +<p> +“He supposed, sir, that you would have pity upon the mother of a family, upon +her children—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ta, ta, ta,” returns the syndic. “You have come to influence my independence, +my conscience, you want me to give the creditors up to you: well, I’ll do more, +I give you up my heart, my fortune! Your husband wants to save <i>his</i> +honor, <i>my</i> honor is at your disposal!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” cries Caroline, as she tries to raise the syndic who has thrown himself +at her feet. “You alarm me!” +</p> + +<p> +She plays the terrified female and thus reaches the door, getting out of a +delicate situation as women know how to do it, that is, without compromising +anything or anybody. +</p> + +<p> +“I will come again,” she says smiling, “when you behave better.” +</p> + +<p> +“You leave me thus! Take care! Your husband may yet find himself seated at the +bar of the Court of Assizes: he is accessory to a fraudulent bankruptcy, and we +know several things about him that are not by any means honorable. It is not +his first departure from rectitude; he has done a good many dirty things, he +has been mixed up in disgraceful intrigues, and you are singularly careful of +the honor of a man who cares as little for his own honor as he does for yours.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, alarmed by these words, lets go the door, shuts it and comes back. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, sir?” she exclaims, furious at this outrageous broadside. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, this affair—” +</p> + +<p> +“Chaumontel’s affair?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, his speculations in houses that he had built by people that were +insolvent.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline remembers the enterprise undertaken by Adolphe to double his income: +(See <i>The Jesuitism of Women</i>) she trembles. Her curiosity is in the +syndic’s favor. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down here. There, at this distance, I will behave well, but I can look at +you.” +</p> + +<p> +And he narrates, at length, the conception due to du Tillet the banker, +interrupting himself to say: “Oh, what a pretty, cunning, little foot; no one +but you could have such a foot as that—<i>Du Tillet, therefore, +compromised.</i> What an ear, too! You have been doubtless told that you had a +delicious ear—<i>And du Tillet was right, for judgment had already been +given</i>—I love small ears, but let me have a model of yours, and I will do +anything you like—<i>du Tillet profited by this to throw the whole loss on your +idiotic husband</i>: oh, what a charming silk, you are divinely dressed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where were we, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I remember while admiring your Raphaelistic head?” +</p> + +<p> +At the twenty-seventh compliment, Caroline considers the syndic a man of wit: +she makes him a polite speech, and goes away without learning much more of the +enterprise which, not long before had swallowed up three hundred thousand +francs. +</p> + +<p> +There are many huge variations of this petty trouble. +</p> + +<p> +EXAMPLE. Adolphe is brave and susceptible: he is walking on the Champs Elysees, +where there is a crowd of people; in this crowd are several ill-mannered young +men who indulge in jokes of doubtful propriety: Caroline puts up with them and +pretends not to hear them, in order to keep her husband out of a duel. +</p> + +<p> +ANOTHER EXAMPLE. A child belonging to the genus Terrible, exclaims in the +presence of everybody: +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma, would you let Justine hit me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask, my little man?” inquires Madame Foullepointe. +</p> + +<p> +“Because she just gave father a big slap, and he’s ever so much stronger than +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Foullepointe laughs, and Adolphe, who intended to pay court to her, is +cruelly joked by her, after having had a first last quarrel with Caroline. +</p> + +<h3>THE LAST QUARREL.</h3> + +<p> +In every household, husbands and wives must one day hear the striking of a +fatal hour. It is a knell, the death and end of jealousy, a great, noble and +charming passion, the only true symptom of love, if it is not even its double. +When a woman is no longer jealous of her husband, all is over, she loves him no +more. So, conjugal love expires in the last quarrel that a woman gives herself +the trouble to raise. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—When a woman ceases to quarrel with her husband, the Minotaur has seated +himself in a corner arm-chair, tapping his boots with his cane. +</p> + +<p> +Every woman must remember her last quarrel, that supreme petty trouble which +often explodes about nothing, but more often still on some occasion of a brutal +fact or of a decisive proof. This cruel farewell to faith, to the childishness +of love, to virtue even, is in a degree as capricious as life itself. Like life +it varies in every house. +</p> + +<p> +Here, the author ought perhaps to search out all the varieties of quarrels, if +he desires to be precise. +</p> + +<p> +Thus, Caroline may have discovered that the judicial robe of the syndic in +Chaumontel’s affair, hides a robe of infinitely softer stuff, of an agreeable, +silky color: that Chaumontel’s hair, in short, is fair, and that his eyes are +blue. +</p> + +<p> +Or else Caroline, who arose before Adolphe, may have seen his greatcoat thrown +wrong side out across a chair; the edge of a little perfumed paper, just +peeping out of the side-pocket, may have attracted her by its whiteness, like a +ray of the sun entering a dark room through a crack in the window: or else, +while taking Adolphe in her arms and feeling his pocket, she may have caused +the note to crackle: or else she may have been informed of the state of things +by a foreign odor that she has long noticed upon him, and may have read these +lines: +</p> + +<p> +“Ungraitfull wun, wot du yu supoz I no About Hipolite. Kum, and yu shal se +whether I Love yu.” +</p> + +<p> +Or this: +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday, love, you made me wait for you: what will it be to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +Or this: +</p> + +<p> +“The women who love you, my dear sir, are very unhappy in hating you so, when +you are not with them: take care, for the hatred which exists during your +absence, may possibly encroach upon the hours you spend in their company.” +</p> + +<p> +Or this: +</p> + +<p> +“You traitorous Chodoreille, what were you doing yesterday on the boulevard +with a woman hanging on your arm? If it was your wife, accept my compliments of +condolence upon her absent charms: she has doubtless deposited them at the +pawnbroker’s, and the ticket to redeem them with is lost.” +</p> + +<p> +Four notes emanating from the grisette, the lady, the pretentious woman in +middle life, and the actress, among whom Adolphe has chosen his <i>belle</i> +(according to the Fischtaminellian vocabulary). +</p> + +<p> +Or else Caroline, taken veiled by Ferdinand to Ranelagh Garden, sees with her +own eyes Adolphe abandoning himself furiously to the polka, holding one of the +ladies of honor to Queen Pomare in his arms; or else, again, Adolphe has for +the seventh time, made a mistake in the name, and called his wife Juliette, +Charlotte or Lisa: or, a grocer or restaurateur sends to the house, during +Adolphe’s absence, certain damning bills which fall into Caroline’s hands. +</p> + +<h4>PAPERS RELATING TO CHAUMONTEL’S AFFAIR.</h4> + +<p> +(Private Tables Served.) +</p> + +<p> +M. Adolphe to Perrault, +</p> + +<p> +To 1 Pate de Foie Gras delivered at Madame Schontz’s, the 6th of January, + fr. 22.50<br/> +Six bottle of assorted wines, 70.00<br/> +To one special breakfast delivered at Congress<br/> +Hotel, the 11th of February, at No. 21——<br/> +Stipulated price, 100.00<br/> +______ +</p> + +<p> +Total, Francs, 192.50 +</p> + +<p> +Caroline examines the dates and remembers them as appointments made for +business connected with Chaumontel’s affair. Adolphe had designated the sixth +of January as the day fixed for a meeting at which the creditors in +Chaumontel’s affair were to receive the sums due them. On the eleventh of +February he had an appointment with the notary, in order to sign a receipt +relative to Chaumontel’s affair. +</p> + +<p> +Or else—but an attempt to mention all the chances of discovery would be the +undertaking of a madman. +</p> + +<p> +Every woman will remember to herself how the bandage with which her eyes were +bound fell off: how, after many doubts, and agonies of heart, she made up her +mind to have a final quarrel for the simple purpose of finishing the romance, +putting the seal to the book, stipulating for her independence, or beginning +life over again. +</p> + +<p> +Some women are fortunate enough to have anticipated their husbands, and they +then have the quarrel as a sort of justification. +</p> + +<p> +Nervous women give way to a burst of passion and commit acts of violence. +</p> + +<p> +Women of mild temper assume a decided tone which appalls the most intrepid +husbands. Those who have no vengeance ready shed a great many tears. +</p> + +<p> +Those who love you forgive you. Ah, they conceive so readily, like the woman +called “Ma berline,” that their Adolphe must be loved by the women of France, +that they are rejoiced to possess, legally, a man about whom everybody goes +crazy. +</p> + +<p> +Certain women with lips tight shut like a vise, with a muddy complexion and +thin arms, treat themselves to the malicious pleasure of promenading their +Adolphe through the quagmire of falsehood and contradiction: they question him +(see <i>Troubles within Troubles</i>), like a magistrate examining a criminal, +reserving the spiteful enjoyment of crushing his denials by positive proof at a +decisive moment. Generally, in this supreme scene of conjugal life, the fair +sex is the executioner, while, in the contrary case, man is the assassin. +</p> + +<p> +This is the way of it: This last quarrel (you shall know why the author has +called it the <i>last</i>), is always terminated by a solemn, sacred promise, +made by scrupulous, noble, or simply intelligent women (that is to say, by all +women), and which we give here in its grandest form. +</p> + +<p> +“Enough, Adolphe! We love each other no more; you have deceived me, and I shall +never forget it. I may forgive it, but I can never forget it.” +</p> + +<p> +Women represent themselves as implacable only to render their forgiveness +charming: they have anticipated God. +</p> + +<p> +“We have now to live in common like two friends,” continues Caroline. “Well, +let us live like two comrades, two brothers, I do not wish to make your life +intolerable, and I never again will speak to you of what has happened—” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe gives Caroline his hand: she takes it, and shakes it in the English +style. Adolphe thanks Caroline, and catches a glimpse of bliss: he has +converted his wife into a sister, and hopes to be a bachelor again. +</p> + +<p> +The next day Caroline indulges in a very witty allusion (Adolphe cannot help +laughing at it) to Chaumontel’s affair. In society she makes general remarks +which, to Adolphe, are very particular remarks, about their last quarrel. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a fortnight a day never passes without Caroline’s recalling their +last quarrel by saying: “It was the day when I found Chaumontel’s bill in your +pocket:” or “it happened since our last quarrel:” or, “it was the day when, for +the first time, I had a clear idea of life,” etc. She assassinates Adolphe, she +martyrizes him! In society she gives utterance to terrible things. +</p> + +<p> +“We are happy, my dear [to a lady], when we love each other no longer: it’s +then that we learn how to make ourselves beloved,” and she looks at Ferdinand. +</p> + +<p> +In short, the last quarrel never comes to an end, and from this fact flows the +following axiom: +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Putting yourself in the wrong with your lawful wife, is solving the +problem of Perpetual Motion. +</p> + +<h3>A SIGNAL FAILURE.</h3> + +<p> +Women, and especially married women, stick ideas into their brain-pan precisely +as they stick pins into a pincushion, and the devil himself, —do you +mind?—could not get them out: they reserve to themselves the exclusive right of +sticking them in, pulling them out, and sticking them in again. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline is riding home one evening from Madame Foullepointe’s in a violent +state of jealousy and ambition. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Foullepointe, the lioness—but this word requires an explanation. It is a +fashionable neologism, and gives expression to certain rather meagre ideas +relative to our present society: you must use it, if you want to describe a +woman who is all the rage. This lioness rides on horseback every day, and +Caroline has taken it into her head to learn to ride also. +</p> + +<p> +Observe that in this conjugal phase, Adolphe and Caroline are in the season +which we have denominated <i>A Household Revolution</i>, and that they have had +two or three <i>Last Quarrels</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe,” she says, “do you want to do me a favor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“If your request is reasonable, I am willing—” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, already—that’s a true husband’s word—if—” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to learn to ride on horseback.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, is it a possible thing, Caroline?” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline looks out of the window, and tries to wipe away a dry tear. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” resumes Adolphe; “I cannot let you go alone to the riding-school; and +I cannot go with you while business gives me the annoyance it does now. What’s +the matter? I think I have given you unanswerable reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe foresees the hiring of a stable, the purchase of a pony, the +introduction of a groom and of a servant’s horse into the establishment—in +short, all the nuisance of female lionization. +</p> + +<p> +When a man gives a woman reasons instead of giving her what she wants —well, +few men have ventured to descend into that small abyss called the heart, to +test the power of the tempest that suddenly bursts forth there. +</p> + +<p> +“Reasons! If you want reasons, here they are!” exclaims Caroline. “I am your +wife: you don’t seem to care to please me any more. And as to the expenses, you +greatly overrate them, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Women have as many inflections of voice to pronounce these words, <i>My +dear</i>, as the Italians have to say <i>Amico</i>. I have counted twenty-nine +which express only various degrees of hatred. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll see,” resumes Caroline, “I shall be sick, and you will pay the +apothecary and the doctor as much as the price of a horse. I shall be walled up +here at home, and that’s all you want. I asked the favor of you, though I was +sure of a refusal: I only wanted to know how you would go to work to give it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Caroline—” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me alone at the riding-school!” she continues without listening. “Is +that a reason? Can’t I go with Madame de Fischtaminel? Madame de Fischtaminel +is learning to ride on horseback, and I don’t imagine that Monsieur de +Fischtaminel goes with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Caroline—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am delighted with your solicitude. You think a great deal of me, really. +Monsieur de Fischtaminel has more confidence in his wife, than you have in +yours. He does not go with her, not he! Perhaps it’s on account of this +confidence that you don’t want me at the school, where I might see your goings +on with the fair Fischtaminel.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe tries to hide his vexation at this torrent of words, which begins when +they are still half way from home, and has no sea to empty into. When Caroline +is in her room, she goes on in the same way. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that if reasons could restore my health or prevent me from desiring a +kind of exercise pointed out by nature herself, I should not be in want of +reasons, and that I know all the reasons that there are, and that I went over +with the reasons before I spoke to you.” +</p> + +<p> +This, ladies, may with the more truth be called the prologue to the conjugal +drama, from the fact that it is vigorously delivered, embellished with a +commentary of gestures, ornamented with glances and all the other vignettes +with which you usually illustrate such masterpieces. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, when she has once planted in Adolphe’s heart the apprehension of a +scene of constantly reiterated demands, feels her hatred for his control +largely increase. Madame pouts, and she pouts so fiercely, that Adolphe is +forced to notice it, on pain of very disagreeable consequences, for all is +over, be sure of that, between two beings married by the mayor, or even at +Gretna Green, when one of them no longer notices the sulkings of the other. +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—A sulk that has struck in is a deadly poison. +</p> + +<p> +It was to prevent this suicide of love that our ingenious France invented +boudoirs. Women could not well have Virgil’s willows in the economy of our +modern dwellings. On the downfall of oratories, these little cubbies become +boudoirs. +</p> + +<p> +This conjugal drama has three acts. The act of the prologue is already played. +Then comes the act of false coquetry: one of those in which French women have +the most success. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe is walking about the room, divesting himself of his apparel, and the +man thus engaged, divests himself of his strength as well as of his clothing. +To every man of forty, this axiom will appear profoundly just: +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—The ideas of a man who has taken his boots and his suspenders off, are +no longer those of a man who is still sporting these two tyrants of the mind. +</p> + +<p> +Take notice that this is only an axiom in wedded life. In morals, it is what we +call a relative theorem. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline watches, like a jockey on the race course, the moment when she can +distance her adversary. She makes her preparations to be irresistibly +fascinating to Adolphe. +</p> + +<p> +Women possess a power of mimicking pudicity, a knowledge of secrets which might +be those of a frightened dove, a particular register for singing, like +Isabella, in the fourth act of <i>Robert le Diable: “Grace pour toi! Grace pour +moi!”</i> which leave jockeys and horse trainers whole miles behind. As usual, +the <i>Diable</i> succumbs. It is the eternal history, the grand Christian +mystery of the bruised serpent, of the delivered woman becoming the great +social force, as the Fourierists say. It is especially in this that the +difference between the Oriental slave and the Occidental wife appears. +</p> + +<p> +Upon the conjugal pillow, the second act ends by a number of onomatopes, all of +them favorable to peace. Adolphe, precisely like children in the presence of a +slice of bread and molasses, promises everything that Caroline wants. +</p> + +<p> +THIRD ACT. As the curtain rises, the stage represents a chamber in a state of +extreme disorder. Adolphe, in his dressing gown, tries to go out furtively and +without waking Caroline, who is sleeping profoundly, and finally does go out. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, exceedingly happy, gets up, consults her mirror, and makes inquiries +about breakfast. An hour afterward, when she is ready she learns that breakfast +is served. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame, he is in the little parlor.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a nice man he is,” she says, going up to Adolphe, and talking the +babyish, caressing language of the honey-moon. +</p> + +<p> +“What for, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, to let his little Liline ride the horsey.” +</p> + +<p> +OBSERVATION. During the honey-moon, some few married couples,—very young +ones,—make use of languages, which, in ancient days, Aristotle classified and +defined. (See his Pedagogy.) Thus they are perpetually using such terminations +as <i>lala</i>, <i>nana</i>, <i>coachy-poachy</i>, just as mothers and nurses +use them to babies. This is one of the secret reasons, discussed and recognized +in big quartos by the Germans, which determined the Cabires, the creators of +the Greek mythology, to represent Love as a child. There are other reasons very +well known to women, the principal of which is, that, in their opinion, love in +men is always <i>small</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you get that idea, my sweet? You must have dreamed it!” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline stands stark still: she opens wide her eyes which are already +considerably widened by amazement. Being inwardly epileptic, she says not a +word: she merely gazes at Adolphe. Under the satanic fires of their gaze, +Adolphe turns half way round toward the dining-room; but he asks himself +whether it would not be well to let Caroline take one lesson, and to tip the +wink to the riding-master, to disgust her with equestrianism by the harshness +of his style of instruction. +</p> + +<p> +There is nothing so terrible as an actress who reckons upon a success, and who +<i>fait four</i>. +</p> + +<p> +In the language of the stage, to <i>faire four</i> is to play to a wretchedly +thin house, or to obtain not the slightest applause. It is taking great pains +for nothing, in short a <i>signal failure</i>. +</p> + +<p> +This petty trouble—it is very petty—is reproduced in a thousand ways in married +life, when the honey-moon is over, and when the wife has no personal fortune. +</p> + +<p> +In spite of the author’s repugnance to inserting anecdotes in an exclusively +aphoristic work, the tissue of which will bear nothing but the most delicate +and subtle observations,—from the nature of the subject at least,—it seems to +him necessary to illustrate this page by an incident narrated by one of our +first physicians. This repetition of the subject involves a rule of conduct +very much in use with the doctors of Paris. +</p> + +<p> +A certain husband was in our Adolphe’s situation. His Caroline, having once +made a signal failure, was determined to conquer, for Caroline often does +conquer! (See <i>The Physiology of Marriage</i>, Meditation XXVI, Paragraph +<i>Nerves</i>.) She had been lying about on the sofas for two months, getting +up at noon, taking no part in the amusements of the city. She would not go to +the theatre,—oh, the disgusting atmosphere!—the lights, above all, the lights! +Then the bustle, coming out, going in, the music,—it might be fatal, it’s so +terribly exciting! +</p> + +<p> +She would not go on excursions to the country, oh, certainly it was her desire +to do so!—but she would like (desiderata) a carriage of her own, horses of her +own—her husband would not give her an equipage. And as to going in hacks, in +hired conveyances, the bare thought gave her a rising at the stomach! +</p> + +<p> +She would not have any cooking—the smell of the meats produced a sudden nausea. +She drank innumerable drugs that her maid never saw her take. +</p> + +<p> +In short, she expended large amounts of time and money in attitudes, +privations, effects, pearl-white to give her the pallor of a corpse, machinery, +and the like, precisely as when the manager of a theatre spreads rumors about a +piece gotten up in a style of Oriental magnificence, without regard to expense! +</p> + +<p> +This couple had got so far as to believe that even a journey to the springs, to +Ems, to Hombourg, to Carlsbad, would hardly cure the invalid: but madame would +not budge, unless she could go in her own carriage. Always that carriage! +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe held out, and would not yield. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline, who was a woman of great sagacity, admitted that her husband was +right. +</p> + +<p> +“Adolphe is right,” she said to her friends, “it is I who am unreasonable: he +can not, he ought not, have a carriage yet: men know better than we do the +situation of their business.” +</p> + +<p> +At times Adolphe was perfectly furious! Women have ways about them that demand +the justice of Tophet itself. Finally, during the third month, he met one of +his school friends, a lieutenant in the corps of physicians, modest as all +young doctors are: he had had his epaulettes one day only, and could give the +order to fire! +</p> + +<p> +“For a young woman, a young doctor,” said our Adolphe to himself. +</p> + +<p> +And he proposed to the future Bianchon to visit his wife and tell him the truth +about her condition. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, it is time that you should have a physician,” said Adolphe that +evening to his wife, “and here is the best for a pretty woman.” +</p> + +<p> +The novice makes a conscientious examination, questions madame, feels her pulse +discreetly, inquires into the slightest symptoms, and, at the end, while +conversing, allows a smile, an expression, which, if not ironical, are +extremely incredulous, to play involuntarily upon his lips, and his lips are +quite in sympathy with his eyes. He prescribes some insignificant remedy, and +insists upon its importance, promising to call again to observe its effect. In +the ante-chamber, thinking himself alone with his school-mate, he indulges in +an inexpressible shrug of the shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing the matter with your wife, my boy,” he says: “she is trifling +with both you and me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I thought so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if she continues the joke, she will make herself sick in earnest: I am too +sincerely your friend to enter into such a speculation, for I am determined +that there shall be an honest man beneath the physician, in me—” +</p> + +<p> +“My wife wants a carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +As in the <i>Solo on the Hearse</i>, this Caroline listened at the door. +</p> + +<p> +Even at the present day, the young doctor is obliged to clear his path of the +calumnies which this charming woman is continually throwing into it: and for +the sake of a quiet life, he has been obliged to confess his little error—a +young man’s error—and to mention his enemy by name, in order to close her lips. +</p> + +<h3>THE CHESTNUTS IN THE FIRE.</h3> + +<p> +No one can tell how many shades and gradations there are in misfortune, for +everything depends upon the character of the individual, upon the force of the +imagination, upon the strength of the nerves. If it is impossible to catch +these so variable shades, we may at least point out the most striking colors, +and the principal attendant incidents. The author has therefore reserved this +petty trouble for the last, for it is the only one that is at once comic and +disastrous. +</p> + +<p> +The author flatters himself that he has mentioned the principal examples. Thus, +women who have arrived safely at the haven, the happy age of forty, the period +when they are delivered from scandal, calumny, suspicion, when their liberty +begins: these women will certainly do him the justice to state that all the +critical situations of a family are pointed out or represented in this book. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline has her Chaumontel’s affair. She has learned how to induce Adolphe to +go out unexpectedly, and has an understanding with Madame de Fischtaminel. +</p> + +<p> +In every household, within a given time, ladies like Madame de Fischtaminel +become Caroline’s main resource. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline pets Madame de Fischtaminel with all the tenderness that the African +army is now bestowing upon Abd-el-Kader: she is as solicitous in her behalf as +a physician is anxious to avoid curing a rich hypochondriac. Between the two, +Caroline and Madame de Fischtaminel invent occupations for dear Adolphe, when +neither of them desire the presence of that demigod among their penates. Madame +de Fischtaminel and Caroline, who have become, through the efforts of Madame +Foullepointe, the best friends in the world, have even gone so far as to learn +and employ that feminine free-masonry, the rites of which cannot be made +familiar by any possible initiation. +</p> + +<p> +If Caroline writes the following little note to Madame de Fischtaminel: +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest Angel: +</p> + +<p> +“You will probably see Adolphe to-morrow, but do not keep him too long, for I +want to go to ride with him at five: but if you are desirous of taking him to +ride yourself, do so and I will take him up. You ought to teach me your secret +for entertaining used-up people as you do.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame de Fischtaminel says to herself: “Gracious! So I shall have that fellow +on my hands to-morrow from twelve o’clock to five.” +</p> + +<p> +Axiom.—Men do not always know a woman’s positive request when they see it; but +another woman never mistakes it: she does the contrary. +</p> + +<p> +Those sweet little beings called women, and especially Parisian women, are the +prettiest jewels that social industry has invented. Those who do not adore +them, those who do not feel a constant jubilation at seeing them laying their +plots while braiding their hair, creating special idioms for themselves and +constructing with their slender fingers machines strong enough to destroy the +most powerful fortunes, must be wanting in a positive sense. +</p> + +<p> +On one occasion Caroline takes the most minute precautions. She writes the day +before to Madame Foullepointe to go to St. Maur with Adolphe, to look at a +piece of property for sale there. Adolphe would go to breakfast with her. She +aids Adolphe in dressing. She twits him with the care he bestows upon his +toilet, and asks absurd questions about Madame Foullepointe. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s real nice, and I think she is quite tired of Charles: you’ll inscribe +her yet upon your catalogue, you old Don Juan: but you won’t have any further +need of Chaumontel’s affair; I’m no longer jealous, you’ve got a passport. Do +you like that better than being adored? Monster, observe how considerate I am.” +</p> + +<p> +So soon as her husband has gone, Caroline, who had not omitted, the previous +evening, to write to Ferdinand to come to breakfast with her, equips herself in +a costume which, in that charming eighteenth century so calumniated by +republicans, humanitarians and idiots, women of quality called their +fighting-dress. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline has taken care of everything. Love is the first house servant in the +world, so the table is set with positively diabolic coquetry. There is the +white damask cloth, the little blue service, the silver gilt urn, the chiseled +milk pitcher, and flowers all round! +</p> + +<p> +If it is winter, she has got some grapes, and has rummaged the cellar for the +very best old wine. The rolls are from the most famous baker’s. The succulent +dishes, the <i>pate de foie gras</i>, the whole of this elegant entertainment, +would have made the author of the Glutton’s Almanac neigh with impatience: it +would make a note-shaver smile, and tell a professor of the old University what +the matter in hand is. +</p> + +<p> +Everything is prepared. Caroline has been ready since the night before: she +contemplates her work. Justine sighs and arranges the furniture. Caroline picks +off the yellow leaves of the plants in the windows. A woman, in these cases, +disguises what we may call the prancings of the heart, by those meaningless +occupations in which the fingers have all the grip of pincers, when the pink +nails burn, and when this unspoken exclamation rasps the throat: “He hasn’t +come yet!” +</p> + +<p> +What a blow is this announcement by Justine: “Madame, here’s a letter!” +</p> + +<p> +A letter in place of Ferdinand! How does she ever open it? What ages of life +slip by as she unfolds it! Women know this by experience! As to men, when they +are in such maddening passes, they murder their shirt-frills. +</p> + +<p> +“Justine, Monsieur Ferdinand is ill!” exclaims Caroline. “Send for a carriage.” +</p> + +<p> +As Justine goes down stairs, Adolphe comes up. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor mistress!” observes Justine. “I guess she won’t want the carriage +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh my! Where have you come from?” cries Caroline, on seeing Adolphe standing +in ecstasy before her voluptuous breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe, whose wife long since gave up treating <i>him</i> to such charming +banquets, does not answer. But he guesses what it all means, as he sees the +cloth inscribed with the delightful ideas which Madame de Fischtaminel or the +syndic of Chaumontel’s affair have often inscribed for him upon tables quite as +elegant. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom are you expecting?” he asks in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“Who could it be, except Ferdinand?” replies Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +“And is he keeping you waiting?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is sick, poor fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +A quizzical idea enters Adolphe’s head, and he replies, winking with one eye +only: “I have just seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“In front of the Cafe de Paris, with some friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why have you come back?” says Caroline, trying to conceal her murderous +fury. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Foullepointe, who was tired of Charles, you said, has been with him at +Ville d’Avray since yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe sits down, saying: “This has happened very appropriately, for I’m as +hungry as two bears.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline sits down, too, and looks at Adolphe stealthily: she weeps internally: +but she very soon asks, in a tone of voice that she manages to render +indifferent, “Who was Ferdinand with?” +</p> + +<p> +“With some fellows who lead him into bad company. The young man is getting +spoiled: he goes to Madame Schontz’s. You ought to write to your uncle. It was +probably some breakfast or other, the result of a bet made at M’lle Malaga’s.” +He looks slyly at Caroline, who drops her eyes to conceal her tears. “How +beautiful you have made yourself this morning,” Adolphe resumes. “Ah, you are a +fair match for your breakfast. I don’t think Ferdinand will make as good a meal +as I shall,” etc., etc. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe manages the joke so cleverly that he inspires his wife with the idea of +punishing Ferdinand. Adolphe, who claims to be as hungry as two bears, causes +Caroline to forget that a carriage waits for her at the door. +</p> + +<p> +The female that tends the gate at the house Ferdinand lives in, arrives at +about two o’clock, while Adolphe is asleep on a sofa. That Iris of bachelors +comes to say to Caroline that Monsieur Ferdinand is very much in need of some +one. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s drunk, I suppose,” says Caroline in a rage. +</p> + +<p> +“He fought a duel this morning, madame.” +</p> + +<p> +Caroline swoons, gets up and rushes to Ferdinand, wishing Adolphe at the bottom +of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +When women are the victims of these little inventions, which are quite as +adroit as their own, they are sure to exclaim, “What abominable monsters men +are!” +</p> + +<h3>ULTIMA RATIO.</h3> + +<p> +We have come to our last observation. Doubtless this work is beginning to tire +you quite as much as its subject does, if you are married. +</p> + +<p> +This work, which, according to the author, is to the <i>Physiology of +Marriage</i> what Fact is to Theory, or History to Philosophy, has its logic, +as life, viewed as a whole, has its logic, also. +</p> + +<p> +This logic—fatal, terrible—is as follows. At the close of the first part of the +book—a book filled with serious pleasantry—Adolphe has reached, as you must +have noticed, a point of complete indifference in matrimonial matters. +</p> + +<p> +He has read novels in which the writers advise troublesome husbands to embark +for the other world, or to live in peace with the fathers of their children, to +pet and adore them: for if literature is the reflection of manners, we must +admit that our manners recognize the defects pointed out by the <i>Physiology +of Marriage</i> in this fundamental institution. More than one great genius has +dealt this social basis terrible blows, without shaking it. +</p> + +<p> +Adolphe has especially read his wife too closely, and disguises his +indifference by this profound word: indulgence. He is indulgent with Caroline, +he sees in her nothing but the mother of his children, a good companion, a sure +friend, a brother. +</p> + +<p> +When the petty troubles of the wife cease, Caroline, who is more clever than +her husband, has come to profit by this advantageous indulgence: but she does +not give her dear Adolphe up. It is woman’s nature never to yield any of her +rights. DIEU ET MON DROIT—CONJUGAL! is, as is well known, the motto of England, +and is especially so to-day. +</p> + +<p> +Women have such a love of domination that we will relate an anecdote, not ten +years old, in point. It is a very young anecdote. +</p> + +<p> +One of the grand dignitaries of the Chamber of Peers had a Caroline, as lax as +Carolines usually are. The name is an auspicious one for women. This dignitary, +extremely old at the time, was on one side of the fireplace, and Caroline on +the other. Caroline was hard upon the lustrum when women no longer tell their +age. A friend came in to inform them of the marriage of a general who had +lately been intimate in their house. +</p> + +<p> +Caroline at once had a fit of despair, with genuine tears; she screamed and +made the grand dignitary’s head ache to such a degree, that he tried to console +her. In the midst of his condolences, the count forgot himself so far as to +say—“What can you expect, my dear, he really could not marry you!” +</p> + +<p> +And this was one of the highest functionaries of the state, but a friend of +Louis XVIII, and necessarily a little bit Pompadour. +</p> + +<p> +The whole difference, then, between the situation of Adolphe and that of +Caroline, consists in this: though he no longer cares about her, she retains +the right to care about him. +</p> + +<p> +Now, let us listen to “What <i>they</i> say,” the theme of the concluding +chapter of this work. +</p> + +<h3>COMMENTARY.</h3> + +<h5>IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED LA FELICITA OF FINALES.</h5> + +<p> +Who has not heard an Italian opera in the course of his life? You must then +have noticed the musical abuse of the word <i>felicita</i>, so lavishly used by +the librettist and the chorus at the moment when everybody is deserting his box +or leaving the house. +</p> + +<p> +Frightful image of life. We quit it just when we hear <i>la felicita</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Have you reflected upon the profound truth conveyed by this finale, at the +instant when the composer delivers his last note and the author his last line, +when the orchestra gives the last pull at the fiddle-bow and the last puff at +the bassoon, when the principal singers say “Let’s go to supper!” and the +chorus people exclaim “How lucky, it doesn’t rain!” Well, in every condition in +life, as in an Italian opera, there comes a time when the joke is over, when +the trick is done, when people must make up their minds to one thing or the +other, when everybody is singing his own <i>felicita</i> for himself. After +having gone through with all the duos, the solos, the stretti, the codas, the +concerted pieces, the duettos, the nocturnes, the phases which these few +scenes, chosen from the ocean of married life, exhibit you, and which are +themes whose variations have doubtless been divined by persons with brains as +well as by the shallow—for so far as suffering is concerned, we are all +equal—the greater part of Parisian households reach, without a given time, the +following final chorus: +</p> + +<p> +THE WIFE, <i>to a young woman in the conjugal Indian Summer</i>. My dear, I am +the happiest woman in the world. Adolphe is the model of husbands, kind, +obliging, not a bit of a tease. Isn’t he, Ferdinand? +</p> + +<p> +Caroline addresses Adolphe’s cousin, a young man with a nice cravat, glistening +hair and patent leather boots: his coat is cut in the most elegant fashion: he +has a crush hat, kid gloves, something very choice in the way of a waistcoat, +the very best style of moustaches, whiskers, and a goatee a la Mazarin; he is +also endowed with a profound, mute, attentive admiration of Caroline. +</p> + +<p> +FERDINAND. Adolphe is happy to have a wife like you! What does he want? +Nothing. +</p> + +<p> +THE WIFE. In the beginning, we were always vexing each other: but now we get +along marvelously. Adolphe no longer does anything but what he likes, he never +puts himself out: I never ask him where he is going nor what he has seen. +Indulgence, my dear, is the great secret of happiness. You, doubtless, are +still in the period of petty troubles, causeless jealousies, cross-purposes, +and all sorts of little botherations. What is the good of all this? We women +have but a short life, at the best. How much? Ten good years! Why should we +fill them with vexation? I was like you. But, one fine morning, I made the +acquaintance of Madame de Fischtaminel, a charming woman, who taught me how to +make a husband happy. Since then, Adolphe has changed radically; he has become +perfectly delightful. He is the first to say to me, with anxiety, with alarm, +even, when I am going to the theatre, and he and I are still alone at seven +o’clock: “Ferdinand is coming for you, isn’t he?” Doesn’t he, Ferdinand? +</p> + +<p> +FERDINAND. We are the best cousins in the world. +</p> + +<p> +THE INDIAN SUMMER WIFE, <i>very much affected</i>. Shall I ever come to that? +</p> + +<p> +THE HUSBAND, <i>on the Italian Boulevard</i>. My dear boy [he has button-holed +Monsieur de Fischtaminel], you still believe that marriage is based upon +passion. Let me tell you that the best way, in conjugal life, is to have a +plenary indulgence, one for the other, on condition that appearances be +preserved. I am the happiest husband in the world. Caroline is a devoted +friend, she would sacrifice everything for me, even my cousin Ferdinand, if it +were necessary: oh, you may laugh, but she is ready to do anything. You +entangle yourself in your laughable ideas of dignity, honor, virtue, social +order. We can’t have our life over again, so we must cram it full of pleasure. +Not the smallest bitter word has been exchanged between Caroline and me for two +years past. I have, in Caroline, a friend to whom I can tell everything, and +who would be amply able to console me in a great emergency. There is not the +slightest deceit between us, and we know perfectly well what the state of +things is. We have thus changed our duties into pleasures. We are often +happier, thus, than in that insipid season called the honey-moon. She says to +me, sometimes, “I’m out of humor, go away.” The storm then falls upon my +cousin. Caroline never puts on her airs of a victim, now, but speaks in the +kindest manner of me to the whole world. In short, she is happy in my +pleasures. And as she is a scrupulously honest woman, she is conscientious to +the last degree in her use of our fortune. My house is well kept. My wife +leaves me the right to dispose of my reserve without the slightest control on +her part. That’s the way of it. We have oiled our wheels and cogs, while you, +my dear Fischtaminel, have put gravel in yours. +</p> + +<p> +CHORUS, <i>in a parlor during a ball</i>. Madame Caroline is a charming woman. +</p> + +<p> +A WOMAN IN A TURBAN. Yes, she is very proper, very dignified. +</p> + +<p> +A WOMAN WHO HAS SEVEN CHILDREN. Ah! she learned early how to manage her +husband. +</p> + +<p> +ONE OF FERDINAND’S FRIENDS. But she loves her husband exceedingly. Besides, +Adolphe is a man of great distinction and experience. +</p> + +<p> +ONE OF MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL’S FRIENDS. He adores his wife. There’s no fuss at +their house, everybody is at home there. +</p> + +<p> +MONSIEUR FOULLEPOINTE. Yes, it’s a very agreeable house. +</p> + +<p> +A WOMAN ABOUT WHOM THERE IS A GOOD DEAL OF SCANDAL. Caroline is kind and +obliging, and never talks scandal of anybody. +</p> + +<p> +A YOUNG LADY, <i>returning to her place after a dance</i>. Don’t you remember +how tiresome she was when she visited the Deschars? +</p> + +<p> +MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL. Oh! She and her husband were two bundles of +briars—continually quarreling. [She goes away.] +</p> + +<p> +AN ARTIST. I hear that the individual known as Deschars is getting dissipated: +he goes round town— +</p> + +<p> +A WOMAN, <i>alarmed at the turn the conversation is taking, as her daughter can +hear</i>. Madame de Fischtaminel is charming, this evening. +</p> + +<p> +A WOMAN OF FORTY, <i>without employment</i>. Monsieur Adolphe appears to be as +happy as his wife. +</p> + +<p> +A YOUNG LADY. Oh! what a sweet man Monsieur Ferdinand is! [Her mother reproves +her by a sharp nudge with her foot.] What’s the matter, mamma? +</p> + +<p> +HER MOTHER, <i>looking at her fixedly</i>. A young woman should not speak so, +my dear, of any one but her betrothed, and Monsieur Ferdinand is not a marrying +man. +</p> + +<p> +A LADY DRESSED RATHER LOW IN THE NECK, <i>to another lady dressed equally low, +in a whisper</i>. The fact is, my dear, the moral of all this is that there are +no happy couples but couples of four. +</p> + +<p> +A FRIEND, <i>whom the author was so imprudent as to consult</i>. Those last +words are false. +</p> + +<p> +THE AUTHOR. Do you think so? +</p> + +<p> +THE FRIEND, <i>who has just been married</i>. You all of you use your ink in +depreciating social life, on the pretext of enlightening us! Why, there are +couples a hundred, a thousand times happier than your boasted couples of four. +</p> + +<p> +THE AUTHOR. Well, shall I deceive the marrying class of the population, and +scratch the passage out? +</p> + +<p> +THE FRIEND. No, it will be taken merely as the point of a song in a vaudeville. +</p> + +<p> +THE AUTHOR. Yes, a method of passing truths off upon society. +</p> + +<p> +THE FRIEND, <i>who sticks to his opinion</i>. Such truths as are destined to be +passed off upon it. +</p> + +<p> +THE AUTHOR, <i>who wants to have the last word</i>. Who and what is there that +does not pass off, or become passe? When your wife is twenty years older, we +will resume this conversation. +</p> + +<p> +THE FRIEND. You revenge yourself cruelly for your inability to write the +history of happy homes. +</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANALYTICAL STUDIES ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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