“Is it very dangerous?” asks Caroline, anxiously.
“Not at all. How do you lie at night?”
“Doubled up in a heap.”
“Good. On which side?”
“The left.”
“Very well. How many mattresses are there on your bed?”
“Three.”
“Good. Is there a spring bed?”
“Yes.”
“What is the spring bed stuffed with?”
“Horse hair.”
“Capital. Let me see you walk. No, no, naturally, and as if we weren’t looking at you.”
Caroline walks like Fanny Elssler, communicating the most Andalusian little motions to her tournure.
“Do you feel a sensation of heaviness in your knees?”
“Well, no — ” she returns to her place. “Ah, no that I think of it, it seems to me that I do.”
“Good. Have you been in the house a good deal lately?”
“Oh, yes, sir, a great deal too much — and alone.”
“Good. I thought so. What do you wear on your head at night?”
“An embroidered night-cap, and sometimes a handkerchief over it.”
“Don’t you feel a heat there, a slight perspiration?”
“How can I, when I’m asleep?”
“Don’t you find your night-cap moist on your forehead, when you wake up?”
“Sometimes.”
“Capital. Give me your hand.”
The doctor takes out his watch.
“Did I tell you that I have a vertigo?” asks Caroline.
“Hush!” says the doctor, counting the pulse. “In the evening?”
“No, in the morning.”
“Ah, bless me, a vertigo in the morning,” says the doctor, looking at
Adolphe.
“The Duke of G. has not gone to London,” says the great physician, while examining Caroline’s skin, “and there’s a good deal to be said about it in the Faubourg St. Germain.”
“Have you patients there?” asks Caroline.
“Nearly all my patients are there. Dear me, yes; I’ve got seven to see this morning; some of them are in danger.”
“What do you think of me, sir?” says Caroline.
“Madame, you need attention, a great deal of attention, you must take quieting liquors, plenty of syrup of gum, a mild diet, white meat, and a good deal of exercise.”
“There go twenty francs,” says Adolphe to himself with a smile.
The great physician takes Adolphe by the arm, and draws him out with him, as he takes his leave: Caroline follows them on tiptoe.
“My dear sir,” says the great physician, “I have just prescribed very insufficiently for your wife. I did not wish to frighten her: this affair concerns you more nearly than you imagine. Don’t neglect her; she has a powerful temperament, and enjoys violent health; all this reacts upon her. Nature has its laws, which, when disregarded, compel obedience. She may get into a morbid state, which would cause you bitterly to repent having neglected her. If you love her, why, love her: but if you don’t love her, and nevertheless desire to preserve the mother of your children, the resolution to come to is a matter of hygiene, but it can only proceed from you!”
“How well he understand me!” says Caroline to herself. She opens the door and says: “Doctor, you did not write down the doses!”
The great physician smiles, bows and slips the twenty franc piece into his pocket; he then leaves Adolphe to his wife, who takes him and says:
“What is the fact about my condition? Must I prepare for death?”
“Bah! He says you’re too healthy!” cries Adolphe, impatiently.
Caroline retires to her sofa to weep.
“What is it, now?”
“So I am to live a long time — I am in the way — you don’t love me any more — I won’t consult that doctor again — I don’t know why Madame Foullepointe advised me to see him, he told me nothing but trash — I know better than he what I need!”
“What do you need?”
“Can you ask, ungrateful man?” and Caroline leans her head on
Adolphe’s shoulder.
Adolphe, very much alarmed, says to himself: “The doctor’s right, she may get to be morbidly exacting, and then what will become of me? Here I am compelled to choose between Caroline’s physical extravagance, or some young cousin or other.”
Meanwhile Caroline sits down and sings one of Schubert’s melodies with all the agitation of a hypochondriac.
PART SECOND
PREFACE
If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book, — and infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends, the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good nor the harm it may do — if, then, you have bestowed some attention upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed their color —
“What color?” some grocer will doubtless ask; “books are bound in yellow, blue, green, pearl-gray, white — ”
Alas! books possess another color, they are dyed by the author, and certain writers borrow their dye. Some books let their color come off on to others. More than this. Books are dark or fair, light brown or red. They have a sex, too! I know of male books, and female books, of books which, sad to say, have no sex, which we hope is not the case with this one, supposing that you do this collection of nosographic sketches the honor of calling it a book.
Thus far, the troubles we have described have been exclusively inflicted by the wife upon the husband. You have therefore seen only the masculine side of the book. And if the author really has the sense of hearing for which we give him credit, he has already caught more than one indignant exclamation or remonstrance:
“He tells us of nothing but vexations suffered by our husbands, as if we didn’t have our petty troubles, too!”
Oh, women! You have been heard, for if you do not always make yourselves understood, you are always sure to make yourselves heard.
It would therefore be signally unjust to lay upon you alone the reproaches that every being brought under the yoke (conjugium) has the right to heap upon that necessary, sacred, useful, eminently conservative institution, — one, however, that is often somewhat of an encumbrance, and tight about the joints, though sometimes it is also too loose there.
I will go further! Such partiality would be a piece of idiocy.
A man, — not a writer, for in a writer there are many men, — an author, rather, should resemble Janus, see behind and before, become a spy, examine an idea in all its phases, delve alternately into the soul of Alceste and into that of Philaenete, know everything though he does not tell it, never be tiresome, and —
We will not conclude this programme, for we should tell the whole, and that would be frightful for those who reflect upon the present condition of literature.
Furthermore, an author who speaks for himself in the middle of his book, resembles the old fellow in “The Speaking Picture,” when he puts his face in the hole cut in the painting. The author does not forget that in the Chamber, no one can take the floor between two votes. Enough, therefore!
Here follows the female portion of the book: for, to resemble marriage perfectly, it ought to be more or less hermaphroditic.
HUSBANDS DURING THE SECOND MONTH.
Two young married women, Caroline and Stephanie, who had been early friends at M’lle Machefer’s boarding school, one of the most celebrated educational institutions in the Faubourg St. Honore, met at a ball given by Madame de Fischtaminel, and the following conversation took place in a window-seat in the boudoir.
It was so hot that a man had acted upon the idea of going to breathe the fresh night air, some time before the two young women. He had placed himself in the angle of the balcony, and, as there were many flowers before the window, the two friends thought themselves alone. This man was the author’s best friend.
One of the two ladies, standing at the co
rner of the embrasure, kept watch by looking at the boudoir and the parlors. The other had so placed herself as not to be in the draft, which was nevertheless tempered by the muslin and silk curtains.
The boudoir was empty, the ball was just beginning, the gaming-tables were open, offering their green cloths and their packs of cards still compressed in the frail case placed upon them by the customs office. The second quadrille was in progress.
All who go to balls will remember that phase of large parties when the guests are not yet all arrived, but when the rooms are already filled — a moment which gives the mistress of the house a transitory pang of terror. This moment is, other points of comparison apart, like that which decides a victory or the loss of a battle.
You will understand, therefore, how what was meant to be a secret now obtains the honors of publicity.
“Well, Caroline?”
“Well, Stephanie?”
“Well?”
“Well?”
A double sigh.
“Have you forgotten our agreement?”
“No.”
“Why haven’t you been to see me, then?”
“I am never left alone. Even here we shall hardly have time to talk.”
“Ah! if Adolphe were to get into such habits as that!” exclaimed
Caroline.
“You saw us, Armand and me, when he paid me what is called, I don’t know why, his court.”
“Yes, I admired him, I thought you very happy, you had found your ideal, a fine, good-sized man, always well dressed, with yellow gloves, his beard well shaven, patent leather boots, a clean shirt, exquisitely neat, and so attentive — ”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“In short, quite an elegant man: his voice was femininely sweet, and then such gentleness! And his promises of happiness and liberty! His sentences were veneered with rosewood. He stocked his conversation with shawls and laces. In his smallest expression you heard the rumbling of a coach and four. Your wedding presents were magnificent. Armand seemed to me like a husband of velvet, of a robe of birds’ feathers in which you were to be wrapped.”
“Caroline, my husband uses tobacco.”
“So does mine; that is, he smokes.”
“But mine, dear, uses it as they say Napoleon did: in short, he chews, and I hold tobacco in horror. The monster found it out, and went without out it for seven months.”
“All men have their habits. They absolutely must use something.”
“You have no idea of the tortures I endure. At night I am awakened with a start by one of my own sneezes. As I go to sleep my motions bring the grains of snuff scattered over the pillow under my nose, I inhale, and explode like a mine. It seems that Armand, the wretch, is used to these surprises, and doesn’t wake up. I find tobacco everywhere, and I certainly didn’t marry the customs office.”
“But, my dear child, what does this trifling inconvenience amount to, if your husband is kind and possesses a good disposition?”
“He is as cold as marble, as particular as an old bachelor, as communicative as a sentinel; and he’s one of those men who say yes to everything, but who never do anything but what they want to.”
“Deny him, once.”
“I’ve tried it.”
“What came of it?”
“He threatened to reduce my allowance, and to keep back a sum big enough for him to get along without me.”
“Poor Stephanie! He’s not a man, he’s a monster.”
“A calm and methodical monster, who wears a scratch, and who, every night — ”
“Well, every night — ”
“Wait a minute! — who takes a tumbler every night, and puts seven false teeth in it.”
“What a trap your marriage was! At any rate, Armand is rich.”
“Who knows?”
“Good heavens! Why, you seem to me on the point of becoming very unhappy — or very happy.”
“Well, dear, how is it with you?”
“Oh, as for me, I have nothing as yet but a pin that pricks me: but it is intolerable.”
“Poor creature! You don’t know your own happiness: come, what is it?”
Here the young woman whispered in the other’s ear, so that it was impossible to catch a single word. The conversation recommenced, or rather finished by a sort of inference.
“So, your Adolphe is jealous?”
“Jealous of whom? We never leave each other, and that, in itself, is an annoyance. I can’t stand it. I don’t dare to gape. I am expected to be forever enacting the woman in love. It’s fatiguing.”
“Caroline?”
“Well?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Resign myself. What are you?
“Fight the customs office.”
This little trouble tends to prove that in the matter of personal deception, the two sexes can well cry quits.
DISAPPOINTED AMBITION.
I. CHODOREILLE THE GREAT.
A young man has forsaken his natal city in the depths of one of the departments, rather clearly marked by M. Charles Dupin. He felt that glory of some sort awaited him: suppose that of a painter, a novelist, a journalist, a poet, a great statesman.
Young Adolphe de Chodoreille — that we may be perfectly understood — wished to be talked about, to become celebrated, to be somebody. This, therefore, is addressed to the mass of aspiring individuals brought to Paris by all sorts of vehicles, whether moral or material, and who rush upon the city one fine morning with the hydrophobic purpose of overturning everybody’s reputation, and of building themselves a pedestal with the ruins they are to make, — until disenchantment follows. As our intention is to specify this peculiarity so characteristic of our epoch, let us take from among the various personages the one whom the author has elsewhere called A Distinguished Provencal.
Adolphe has discovered that the most admirable trade is that which consists in buying a bottle of ink, a bunch of quills, and a ream of paper, at a stationer’s for twelve francs and a half, and in selling the two thousand sheets in the ream over again, for something like fifty thousand francs, after having, of course, written upon each leaf fifty lines replete with style and imagination.
This problem, — twelve francs and a half metamorphosed into fifty thousand francs, at the rate of five sous a line — urges numerous families who might advantageously employ their members in the retirement of the provinces, to thrust them into the vortex of Paris.
The young man who is the object of this exportation, invariably passes in his natal town for a man of as much imagination as the most famous author. He has always studied well, he writes very nice poetry, he is considered a fellow of parts: he is besides often guilty of a charming tale published in the local paper, which obtains the admiration of the department.
His poor parents will never know what their son has come to Paris to learn at great cost, namely: That it is difficult to be a writer and to understand the French language short of a dozen years of heculean labor: That a man must have explored every sphere of social life, to become a genuine novelist, inasmuch as the novel is the private history of nations: That the great story-tellers, Aesop, Lucian, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, La Fontaine, Lesage, Sterne, Voltaire, Walter Scott, the unknown Arabians of the Thousand and One Nights, were all men of genius as well as giants of erudition.
Their Adolphe serves his literary apprenticeship in two or three coffee-houses, becomes a member of the Society of Men of Letters, attacks, with or without reason, men of talent who don’t read his articles, assumes a milder tone on seeing the powerlessness of his criticisms, offers novelettes to the papers which toss them from one to the other as if they were shuttlecocks: and, after five or six years of exercises more or less fatiguing, of dreadful privations which seriously tax his parents, he attains a certain position.
This position may be described as follows: Thanks to a sort of reciprocal support extended to each other, and which an ingenious writer has called “Mutual Admiration,” Ado
lphe often sees his name cited among the names of celebrities, either in the prospectuses of the book-trade, or in the lists of newspapers about to appear. Publishers print the title of one of his works under the deceitful heading “IN PRESS,” which might be called the typographical menagerie of bears.[*] Chodoreille is sometimes mentioned among the promising young men of the literary world.
[*] A bear (ours) is a play which has been refused by a multitude of theatres, but which is finally represented at a time when some manager or other feels the need of one. The word has necessarily passed from the language of the stage into the jargon of journalism, and is applied to novels which wander the streets in search of a publisher.
For eleven years Adolphe Chodoreille remains in the ranks of the promising young men: he finally obtains a free entrance to the theatres, thanks to some dirty work or certain articles of dramatic criticism: he tries to pass for a good fellow; and as he loses his illusions respecting glory and the world of Paris, he gets into debt and his years begin to tell upon him.
A paper which finds itself in a tight place asks him for one of his bears revised by his friends. This has been retouched and revamped every five years, so that it smells of the pomatum of each prevailing and then forgotten fashion. To Adolphe it becomes what the famous cap, which he was constantly staking, was to Corporal Trim, for during five years “Anything for a Woman” (the title decided upon) “will be one of the most entertaining productions of our epoch.”
After eleven years, Chodoreille is regarded as having written some respectable things, five or six tales published in the dismal magazines, in ladies’ newspapers, or in works intended for children of tender age.
As he is a bachelor, and possesses a coat and a pair of black cassimere trousers, and when he pleases may thus assume the appearance of an elegant diplomat, and as he is not without a certain intelligent air, he is admitted to several more or less literary salons: he bows to the five or six academicians who possess genius, influence or talent, he visits two or three of our great poets, he allows himself, in coffee-rooms, to call the two or three justly celebrated women of our epoch by their Christian names; he is on the best of terms with the blue stockings of the second grade, — who ought to be called socks, — and he shakes hands and takes glasses of absinthe with the stars of the smaller newspapers.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 1321
