The Wild Ass's Skin

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘“That’s the real Foedora,” I said to myself.

  ‘As though to warm herself, she put one foot on the brass bar that was above the fender, removed her gloves, detached her bracelets, and took off over her head a gold chain at the end of which hung her perfumed cassolette decorated with precious stones. I took an inexpressible pleasure in seeing her movements that had the prettiness cats show when they wash themselves in the sunshine. She looked in the mirror and said aloud, rather crossly:

  ‘“I did not look well tonight. My complexion is fading remarkably quickly. I ought to go to bed earlier, I suppose, and give up this dissolute life. But what can Justine be doing?”

  ‘She rang again and the chambermaid came running. Where was her room? I don’t know. She arrived by a secret staircase. I was curious to see what she was like. In my poet’s imagination I had frequently called into question the behaviour of this invisible servant, dark-haired, well-built.

  ‘“Did Madame ring?”

  ‘“Twice,” Foedora replied. “Are you going deaf?”

  ‘“I was preparing Madame’s almond milk.”

  ‘Justine knelt, unlaced Foedora’s boots, and took off her stockings; she was sprawled across an easy chair by the fire, yawning and scratching her head. There was nothing in all her gestures that was not natural and no symptoms revealed to me the secret suffering or the passions I had imagined in her.

  ‘“Georges is in love,” she said. “I shall get rid of him. Has he not drawn the curtains yet this evening? What is he thinking of?’

  ‘At this remark my blood ran cold, but there was no further mention of the curtains.

  ‘“Life is very empty,” went on the Countess. “And just be careful not to scratch me like you did yesterday. Look,” she said, showing her a little satin-smooth knee, “I’ve still got the mark of your nails.” She put her bare feet into slippers lined with swansdown and undid her dress while Justine took a comb to do her hair.

  ‘“You should get married, Madame, have children.”

  ‘“Children! They would be the death of me,” she exclaimed. “A husband! What kind of man could I … Did my hair look well this evening?”

  ‘“Not so very well.”

  ‘“You are a fool.”

  ‘“Nothing is more unbecoming than curling your hair too much,” Justine went on. “Big soft waves suit you a great deal better.”

  ‘“Truly?”

  ‘“Yes indeed, Madame. Very curly hair only looks well on blondes.”

  ‘“Marry? No no … Marriage is a trade I wasn’t born to.”

  ‘What a terrible scene for a lover to witness! Those hard-hearted or banal words uttered by this solitary woman, without family, friends, who didn’t believe in love, or in any feelings; and however feeble the need to open her heart, natural to all human creatures, she was reduced to chatting to her chambermaid to satisfy it! I felt sorry for her. Justine unlaced her. I observed her curiously as the last veil was removed. She had a virgin’s breasts and I was dazzled. Through her chemise and in the candlelight her pink and white body shone like a silver statue in a gauzy wrapping. No, there was no imperfection that should make her fear the furtive glances of love.

  ‘Alas! A beautiful body will always triumph over the most warlike of resolutions. The mistress sat in front of her fire, silent and pensive, while the chambermaid lit the candle of the alabaster lamp hanging in front of the bed. Justine went to fetch a warming-pan, turned back the covers, helped her mistress into bed. Then, after quite a long time taken to perform the minute little tasks which emphasized the high regard Foedora had for herself, the girl left. The Countess turned over several times, she was restless, she uttered little sighs. A slight, almost imperceptible noise indicating impatience came from her lips. She reached towards the table, took a phial, poured some drops of a brown liquid* into her milk, and drank it. Finally, after a few dolorous sighs, she cried: “My God!”

  ‘This exclamation, and especially the tone of voice, broke my heart. Gradually she became still. I was afraid, but soon I heard the strong, rhythmical breathing of a person sleeping. I pushed apart the rustling silk curtains, left my position, and came to sit at the foot of the bed, gazing at her with emotions that were hard to define. Seen thus, she was ravishing. She had one arm over her head like a child. Her pretty face, in repose and framed in lace, was so sweet it aroused me. I had asked too much of myself, I had not realized the torture I would suffer. So near and yet so far. I was obliged to suffer all the torments I had brought upon myself. “My God!” That shred of an incomprehensible thought, all I had to take away with me in the way of enlightenment, had suddenly changed my idea of Foedora.

  ‘That word, insignificant or profound, without substance or full of meaning, could be interpreted equally as happiness or sorrow, physical pain or mental suffering. Was it a curse or a prayer, a memory or a presage, a regret or a fear? There was a whole lifetime in those words, of poverty or of wealth. There was even a crime! The enigma concealed behind this beautiful resemblance to a woman revived; Foedora could be explained in so many ways that she became inexplicable. The varied rhythms of the breath which passed between her lips, now weak, now accentuated, now heavy, now light, formed a sort of language to which I attached thoughts and feelings. I dreamed along with her, I hoped to be initiated into her secrets by penetrating her sleep, I floated between a thousand contrasting opinions, between a thousand judgements of her character. Seeing that beautiful face, calm and pure, it was impossible for me to think this woman had no heart. I resolved to make one more attempt. If I recounted my life, my love, the sacrifices I had made, perhaps I would succeed in arousing her pity, draw forth a tear from this woman who never wept. I had placed all my hopes in this last attempt, when the bustle in the street announced that the day was beginning.

  ‘For one moment I imagined Foedora waking in my arms. I could lie down quietly beside her, slip between the sheets, and clasp her to me. This idea took such hold of me that, in trying to resist it, I escaped into the salon without taking any precautions not to make a noise; but luckily I reached a hidden door that gave onto a small staircase. As I expected, the key was in the lock. I wrenched the door open, went boldly down into the courtyard, and without looking to see whether I was observed, in three bounds I was out on the street.’

  * * *

  ‘Two days later an author was due to read a play at the Countess’s salon, and I went there with the intention of staying till last, to make her this somewhat strange request. I wanted to ask her if she would reserve the evening of the following day and devote it entirely to me, keeping everyone else away. When I found myself alone with her my courage failed. Each tick of the clock scared me. It was a quarter to midnight.

  ‘“If I don’t say anything,” I told myself, “I shall smash my head against the mantelpiece.”

  ‘I gave myself another three minutes, the three minutes went by, I didn’t smash my head against the marble, my heart had become heavy like a sponge in water.

  ‘“You are so amusing …” she said.

  ‘“Oh Madame,” I replied, “if you only knew!”

  ‘“What’s the matter?” she said. “How pale you are!”

  ‘“I am trying to make up my mind to ask a favour of you.” She made a gesture of encouragement, and I asked her for the rendezvous.

  ‘“Of course,” she replied. “But why don’t you say what you want to now?”

  ‘“In order not to mislead you, I must warn you of exactly what you are agreeing to. I wish to spend the evening with you, as though we were brother and sister. Don’t be afraid—I know what things you cannot stand. You know me well enough now to be sure I should not wish to do anything to displease you. In any case, audacious men do not proceed in this way. You have shown me friendship, you are kind, full of indulgence towards me. Well, let me tell you that tomorrow I must bid you farewell. Don’t take back what you promised!” I exclaimed, as I saw she was about to speak.

  ‘I left her.
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  ‘One evening last May, at about eight o’clock, I found myself alone with Foedora in her Gothic boudoir. I was not nervous, I was sure of my imminent happiness. She must be mine, or I would seek refuge in the arms of death. I had condemned my love heretofore as too timid. A man who admits his weakness is a strong man. The Countess, dressed in blue cashmere, was reclining on a divan, her feet on a cushion. An oriental turban such as painters attribute to the first Hebrews had added a certain saucy air to her attractiveness. Her face was marked by a fleeting charm which seemed to prove that we are at every moment creatures born anew, unique, bearing no resemblance to the “we” of the future or the “we” of the past. I had never seen her so dazzlingly beautiful.

  ‘“Do you know,” she said, laughing, “you have aroused my curiosity?”

  ‘“I shall not disappoint you,” I replied coolly, sitting down by her and taking the hand she had extended. “You have a very beautiful singing voice!”

  ‘“But you have never heard me sing!” she cried, with a start of surprise.

  ‘“I shall prove to you otherwise in the fullness of time. But is your delightful singing to remain a mystery? Be reassured, I shall not attempt to fathom it.”

  ‘We remained for another hour chatting in this familiar way. Though I adopted the tone, manner, and gestures of a man to whom Foedora could refuse nothing, I also showed all the respect of a lover. By these tactics I obtained the favour of kissing her hand. She slipped off her glove in a dainty little gesture, and I was then so pleasurably affected by the illusion I was trying to believe in that my soul melted and dissolved in that one kiss. Foedora allowed me to stroke and caress her, with unbelievable abandon. But don’t think I was fooled by this. Had I tried to go one step beyond those fraternal caresses I should have felt her feline claws. We remained for about ten minutes like that, in deep silence. I admired her, attributing charms to her which she did not have. At that moment she was mine, all mine. I possessed this ravishing creature, in the only way permissible: intuitively. I wrapped her in my desire, held her, clasped her, espoused her in my imagination. Thus I conquered the Countess by the power of magnetic attraction. I have always regretted not having subjugated this woman entirely; but at that moment I did not bear a grudge against her body, I was longing for her soul, her life, that ideal and complete happiness, a beautiful dream which we do not believe in for very long.

  ‘“Madame,” I said at length, feeling that my last hour of rapture had come. “Listen, you know I love you, for I have told you so a thousand times and you ought to have understood me. But, since I did not wish to win your love by adopting the mannerisms of a fop or the importunate flattery of a fool I have not been understood. How many ills have I not suffered for you, and of which you are yet innocent! But in a few moments you shall be my judge. There are two kinds of poverty, Madame: the one that frequents the streets wearing rags, which unwittingly revives the position of Diogenes, eating very little, reducing life to its basics, happier perhaps than the wealthy life; at any rate it is carefree, it engages with life at the point where the powerful leave off. The other kind is the poverty of luxury, the poverty of a Spanish grandee who hides his beggarly state under a title; proud, with a feather in his hat, he sports a white waistcoat, yellow gloves, owns carriages, and loses a fortune for lack of a centime. The one is the poverty of the people, the other the poverty of rogues, kings, and men of talent. I am neither a man of the people, nor a king, nor a rogue. Possibly I am not gifted either. I am a man apart. My name requires me to die rather than beg. Fear not, Madame, today I am a rich man. I possess all I need of the earth,” I said to her as her face took on that icy look we adopt when we are accosted by ladies asking money for charity.

  ‘“Do you remember the day you wanted to go to the Gymnasium* without me, thinking you would not see me there?” She nodded.

  ‘“I had used my last crown to go and meet you there. Do you remember our walk in the Jardin des Plantes? Your carriage cost me all the money I possessed.”

  ‘I recounted my sacrifices, described my life, not as I am telling it to you today, intoxicated by wine, but in the noble intoxication of the heart. My passion overflowed in flamboyant words, in emotional outbursts that I have long since forgotten, and that neither art nor memory can reproduce. This was not the lukewarm narration of a love I had come to hate; my love, in the strength and beauty of its aspirations, made me utter words which illustrated my entire life as it echoed the cries of my lacerated soul. My tone was that of the last prayer uttered by a dying man on the field of battle. She burst into tears. I stopped. Great heavens, these tears were the result of a sham emotion you might buy for a hundred sous on entering a theatre! I had had the success of a good actor!

  ‘“If only I had known,” she said.

  ‘“Don’t go on,” I said. “I still love you enough at this moment to kill you.” She made to pull the bell-cord. I burst out laughing.

  ‘“Don’t call for help,” I went on, “I shall let you live out your life in peace. It would be a misunderstanding of hatred if I killed you! Fear no violence from me. I have spent a whole night at the foot of your bed without …”

  ‘“Sir,” she said, with a blush; but after that first instinct for modesty that every woman, even the most unfeeling, must possess, she threw me a scornful look and said:

  ‘“You must have been extremely cold!”

  ‘“Do you think, Madame, that your beauty is so precious to me?” I answered, guessing the thoughts coursing through her brain. “Your face is for me the promise of a soul still more beautiful than your body. Oh Madame, men who see nothing in a woman but the woman may buy odalisques worthy of the seraglio any night they choose, and purchase happiness for a small amount of money! But I was ambitious, I wanted our hearts to be as one—but you have no heart. I know that now. If you were to belong to another man I should murder him. But no, perhaps you would love him and his death would cause you pain … Oh how I am suffering!” I cried.

  ‘“If it’s any consolation to you,” she said, with a laugh, “I can assure you that I shall not belong to anyone.”

  ‘“Well,” I interrupted, “you blaspheme against God himself, and you will be punished! One day, as you lie on your divan, unable to bear noise or light, condemned to live in a sort of tomb, you will suffer unheard-of ills. When you look for the cause of this slow vengeful torture, remember the unhappiness that you have strewn in such quantities on the way. Having sown curses everywhere you will find you reap hatred. We are ourselves the judges, the executioners of the justice which reigns in our world and which ranks above the justice of men, below that of God.”

  ‘“Oh,” she said with a laugh, “so is it a crime not to be in love with you? Is it my fault? No, I do not love you. You are a man and that’s a good enough reason. I am happy on my own, why should I change my life, a selfish life if you like, for the whims of a master? Marriage is a sacrament in which all we do is share our troubles.* Moreover, I find children tiresome. Did I not honestly warn you about my character? Why did you not make do with my friendship? I should like to make up for the pain I have caused you in not guessing at your petty financial worries, and I appreciate the extent of your sacrifices. But love alone could requite your devotion, your attentions to me, and I have so little affection for you that I find this scene most disagreeable.”

  ‘“I know how ridiculous I am, forgive me,” I said to her gently, unable to keep back my tears. “I love you so much,” I went on, “that I thrill to hear the cruel words you utter. Oh, that I could sign my love in blood.”

  ‘“All the men come out with such classic phrases, more or less eloquently,” she went on with a laugh, “but it would appear to be very difficult to expire at our feet, for I keep coming across these walking dead! Now it is midnight, kindly allow me to go to bed.”

  ‘“In two hours time you will cry out: My God!” I told her.

  ‘“Ah yes, the night before last,” she laughed. “I was thinking of my broker; I
had forgotten to ask him to convert my bonds from five percent to three and the three percent had gone down in the course of the day.”

  ‘I gave her a furious look. Oh, I understood that sometimes a crime would itself be a whole poem. No doubt used to receiving the most passionate declarations, she had already forgotten my tears and my words.

  ‘“Would you marry a peer of the realm?” I enquired, coldly.

  ‘“Perhaps, if he were a duke.”

  ‘I took my hat and my leave of her.

  ‘“Allow me to accompany you to the door of my apartment,” she said, with a hurtful irony in her gesture, in the slant of her head, and in her tone of voice.

  ‘“Madame.”

  ‘“Monsieur.”

  ‘“I shall not see you again.”

  ‘“I hope not,” she replied, inclining her head with an insolent expression.

  ‘“Do you wish to be a duchess?” I went on, fired with a kind of frenzy provoked by her attitude. “Are you mad for titles and honours? Then allow yourself to be loved by me alone, tell my pen to speak, my voice to sound only for you; be the secret touchstone of my life, be my guiding light! And do not accept me as a husband until I am a minister, a peer of the realm, a duke. I will become anything you wish!”

  ‘“You have”, she said with a smile, “used your time at the solicitor’s well. Your pleading has a certain warmth.”

  ‘“You have the present,” I cried, “and I have the future. I am only losing a woman, you are losing a name, a family. Time will wreak my revenge, it will bring you ugliness and a solitary death, to me it will bring fame and glory!”