The Memoirs of Two Young Wives

by Honoré de Balzac

  My dear, there are no words to express our surprise when we learned at breakfast that you had gone on your way, and particularly when the coachman who drove you to Marseille handed me your extraordinary letter. But, you wicked thing, your happiness was the one single subject of all those conversations at the foot of the bluff—on Louise’s bench—and you were very wrong to take umbrage. Ingrata! I sentence you to return here the moment I summon you. You did not say, in that odious letter scrawled on some inn’s common paper, just where you would be stopping, and so I am sending this answer to Chantepleurs.

  Listen to me, dear chosen sister, and know, above all, that I want you to be happy. Dear Louise, there is in your husband a greatness of soul and of mind as striking as his natural gravity and noble face; there is, too, a truly majestic force in his expressive homeliness, his velvet gaze. It took me some time to draw him into the familiarity without which two people cannot observe each other in depth. That man was once a first minister, and he adores you as he adores God. He must be a master of dissimulation, and if I wanted to go fishing for secrets in that diplomat’s depths, among the stones of his heart, I needed as much skill as ruse; in the end, however, without our man having guessed, I discovered many things my darling would never suspect. Of we two, I am in a way Reason where you are Imagination; I am grave Duty where you are unbridled Love. Once that contrast of mind existed only for us, but Fate has chosen to extend it into our respective destinies. I am a humble country viscountess of considerable ambition, who must lead her family down the road to prosperity, whereas society knows that Macumer was once the Duke de Soria, and so, as a duchess by right, you reign over that Paris where not even kings have an easy time reigning. You have a fine fortune, which Macumer will double if he sees out those plans for his vast holdings in Sardinia, whose resources are well-known in Marseille. You must admit, if one of us should be jealous, it is I! But let us give thanks to God that our two hearts are elevated enough to maintain our friendship above vulgar pettiness. I know you: you are ashamed to have left. But flee me or not, I will not spare you even one of the words I was planning to say to you today beneath the bluff. I beg you, then, read this letter closely, for its subject is even more you than Macumer, though he has a great deal to do with its message.

  First of all, my darling, you do not love him. You will have wearied of this adoration before two years are out. You will never see Felipe as a husband but only as a lover, and you will scorn him without a second thought, as all women do with their lovers. No, he does not inspire in you, and you do not feel, the deep respect and fearful tenderness a true lover has for the man in whom she sees a God. Oh! I have made a close study of love, my angel, and more than once I have sounded the very depths of my heart. Now that I have carefully examined you, I can tell you: You do not love him. Yes, dear queen of Paris, like all queens, you will yearn to be treated like a shopgirl, you will yearn to be dominated, led along by a strong man who, rather than adoring you, bruises your arm as he grasps it in a jealous rage. Macumer loves you too much to rebuke or resist you. His will dissolves with one single glance from you, one beguiling word. Sooner or later you will despise him for loving you too much. Alas! he is spoiling you, as I spoiled you at the convent, for you are one of the most charming women and one of the most captivating minds that can be imagined. Above all, you are sincere, and for our own happiness the world often demands untruths to which you will never stoop. For instance, the world demands that a woman never show the power she holds over her husband. Socially speaking, a husband must no more seem his wife’s lover, even if he loves her like one, than a wife must play the role of a mistress. And as it happens neither one of you obeys that law. For one thing, my child, what society least forgives—from what you have told me of it—is happiness, and so it must be concealed, but this is nothing. Two lovers are equal in a way that, I believe, must never be seen in a wife and her husband, lest they lose their social standing and suffer irreparable sorrows. An undistinguished man is a sad thing, but an extinguished man is far worse. In time you will make of Macumer a mere shadow of a man, stripped of his will, no longer himself but a thing fashioned for your use; you will have assimilated him so fully to yourself that there will be not two but one person in your household, and that person will of necessity be an incomplete one; you will regret that, and when you do finally open your eyes the damage will be beyond repair. Try as we might, our sex will never have the qualities peculiar to men, and those qualities are not simply necessary but indispensable to the Family. In spite of his blindness, Macumer is now glimpsing that future, and he feels his love has diminished him. His voyage to Sardinia seems to me a sign that he wants a brief separation, so that he might find himself again. You do not hesitate to make use of the power love has handed you. Your authority shows in a gesture, a glance, a tone of voice. Oh! my dear, you are, as your mother said, a bold vixen. To be sure, I believe you understand that I am greatly superior to Louis, but have you ever once seen me contradict him? In public, am I not a wife who respects him as the master of the family? Hypocrisy! you will say. First, any advice I think fit to give him, my opinions, my ideas, I submit to him only in the shadow and silence of the bedroom, but I can swear to you, my angel, that even then I treat him with no superiority. If I did not remain his wife, both in secret and in the eyes of the world, he would have no faith in himself. My dear, true charity requires a self-effacement so complete that the recipient never thinks himself inferior to the giver, and there is joy without end to be found in that secret devotion. My greatest pride, then, is that I deceived even you and heard you tell me of Louis’s many qualities. Indeed, over the past two years, prosperity, happiness, and hope have allowed him to recover everything he had lost through sorrow, poverty, solitude, and doubt.

  In light of my observations, then, I now find that you love Felipe for yourself, not for him. There is a certain truth in what your father told you: your egoism, the egoism of a true grande dame, is merely disguised by the springtime flowers of your love. Ah! my child, no one who did not love you could tell you such cruel truths. Let me inform you, on the condition that not one word of what I say will ever be whispered to the baron, of the end of my last talk with him. We had sung your praises in every key, for he could clearly see that I loved you like a sister who is loved, and after drawing him unawares into a discussion of more secret thoughts, I said to him, “Louise has not yet had to struggle with life; fate treats her like a favored child, and she may well be unhappy if you cannot be a father for her, just as you are a lover.” “But can I?” he answered! He said no more, like a man who sees the abyss into which he is about to tumble. That exclamation told me all I needed to know. Had you not left, he would have told me more a few days later.

  My angel, when that man’s strength is gone, when he grows sated with his pleasures, when he feels, I shall not say degraded but robbed of his dignity in your eyes, then the rebuke he will hear from his conscience will fill him with a remorse that will hurt you precisely because you will blame yourself. In the end, you will feel only disdain for one you have not come to respect. Reflect on that. Disdain is the first form assumed by a woman’s hatred. Your heart is noble, you will always remember the sacrifices Felipe made for you, but having, so to speak, served himself up in that first feast, he will have nothing more to sacrifice, and woe to the man or woman who leaves nothing to be desired! For then everything has been said. To our shame or our glory—a difficult question, that, which I cannot answer—we demand much only of the man who adores us!

  Oh, Louise, change: there is still time. If you do with Macumer as I do with l’Estorade, you can bring the lion hidden in that truly fine man leaping out. As it is, you might almost be seeking vengeance for his superiority. Will you not be proud to exercise your power for reasons other than your own gain, to transform a great man into a genius, as I make a superior man from an ordinary one?

  I would have written you this same letter had you not left us; in conversation, I would have feared yo
ur petulance and sharp wit, whereas I know that on reading my thoughts you will reflect on your future. Dear soul, you have everything you need to be happy. Do not spoil your happiness—and do go back to Paris as soon as November comes. The cares and intrusions of society, which I have so often disparaged, are diversions necessary for your perhaps overly private life. A married woman must have a coquettishness all her own. The mother who does not leave her family wanting more of her by making herself slightly scarce risks allowing boredom into her home. If I have several children—and for the sake of my happiness I hope I shall—then I swear that once they are old enough I will set aside several hours each day to be alone, for it is important to be sought after by everyone, even one’s own children! Farewell, dear jealous one! Do you know that an ordinary woman would be flattered to have caused you this fit of jealousy? Alas! I myself can only regret it, for I am a mother and a sincere friend, and nothing else. A thousand tendernesses. Explain your sudden departure however you please: you may not be sure of Felipe, but I am sure of Louis.

  37

  FROM BARONESS DE MACUMER TO VISCOUNTESS DE L’ESTORADE

  Genoa

  My dear beauty, the fancy took me to see a bit of Italy, and to my great joy Macumer allowed himself to be talked into it, his Sardinian projects put off for another day.

  This country enchants and delights me. There is something ardent and seductive in the churches here, and especially the chapels, something that must fill the heart of any Protestant girl with a longing to convert. Macumer was given a warm welcome; everyone was elated to have gained such a subject. If I wished, Felipe could be the Sardinian ambassador in Paris, for the court has been charming with me. If you write, send your letters to Florence. I do not quite have time to tell you anything in detail; I will give you a full account when you first come to Paris. We will be here only a week, then we leave for Florence by way of Livorno; after one month in Tuscany and another in Naples, we will set off for Rome in November. On our way home we will stop in Venice, where we will spend the first half of December, and then we will continue on to Milan and Turin, arriving in Paris at the beginning of January. We travel like a couple of lovers. The newness of these places puts us in mind of our wonderful honeymoon. Macumer knew nothing of Italy; our first sight of it was that magnificent Grande Corniche road, which might have been built by fairies. Farewell, my dear. Do not be angry if I fail to write. I cannot find a moment for myself when I travel; I have only the time to see, to feel, and to savor my impressions. Once they have taken on the colors of memory, I shall tell you of them.

  38

  FROM VISCOUNTESS DE L’ESTORADE TO BARONESS DE MACUMER

  September

  My dear, awaiting you at Chantepleurs is a rather long answer to the letter you wrote me from Marseille. Your second honeymoon has done so little to assuage the fears I expressed in that reply that I would ask you to write your people in the Nivernais and have them forward it to you at once.

  Word has it that the ministry has decided to dissolve the National Assembly. This is a setback for the king, as the current assembly is sympathetic to his cause, and he was counting on them to enact laws that would strengthen his power, but it is a setback for us as well: Louis will not turn forty until the end of 1827. Fortunately, my father has agreed to have himself named député, and will then submit his resignation when the time comes.

  Your godson took his first steps without his godmother. He is a wonder and is beginning to make charming little gestures that tell me he is no longer a mere organ sucking down a primordial life but a soul: there are thoughts to be seen in his smiles. I am finding such success as a nurse that our Armand will be weaned by December. One year of milk is enough. A child who nurses too long will end up simpleminded. I have every faith in popular sayings. You must be a sensation in Italy, my beautiful blond. A thousand tendernesses.

  39

  FROM BARONESS DE MACUMER TO VISCOUNTESS DE L’ESTORADE

  Rome, December

  I have your horrid letter, which my steward sent down from Chantepleurs at my request. Oh! Renée. . . . But I will spare you all the thoughts my indignation inspired in me. I will tell you only of your letter’s effect. On our return from the charming party thrown for us by the ambassador, where I shone so brightly that Macumer came home more intoxicated with me than I can tell you, I read him your horrible answer, and as I read I wept, at the risk of spoiling my beauty. My dear Abencerrage fell at my feet, calling you a nag; he led me to the balcony of the palace where we are staying, overlooking a part of Rome, and there he spoke words in every way worthy of the view we saw before us, for it was a superb moonlit night. We have already learned Italian, and so it was in that languid tongue, so conducive to passion, that he expressed his love; it was a sublime thing to my ears. Even were you a prophet, he told me, he would trade an entire lifetime for one sweet night with me, or one delicious afternoon. By that measure, he had already lived a thousand years. He wanted me to remain his mistress and wanted no other title than my lover. Each and every day, he is so proud and so happy to find himself my favorite that, if God appeared to him and gave him the choice between living another thirty years by your system, with five children, and living only another five years but years filled with our flower-decked love, he would make his choice at once: better to be loved as I love him and die. As he was whispering these protestations in my ear, encircling my waist with one arm, my head on his shoulder, we suddenly heard the shriek of a bat under attack by a wood owl. So cruel an impression did that death cry make on me that Felipe carried me half conscious to my bed. But fear not! That horoscope had resounded through my very soul, but this morning I feel fine. On rising, I knelt before Felipe, and clasping his hands in mine and looking up into his eyes, I said to him, “My angel, I am a child, and Renée may well be right: perhaps what I love in you is simply love, but know, at least, that there is no other emotion in my heart, and so I do love you, in my own way. But if ever, in my behavior, in the tiniest aspects of my life and my soul, there is anything contrary to what you wanted or hoped from me, you have only to say so! Tell me! I will take pleasure in hearing your words, and in guiding my acts only by the light of your eyes. Renée loves me so, she’s frightened me!”

  Macumer had no voice to answer with: he was dissolving into tears. Now I must thank you, Renée; I hadn’t realized how deeply I was loved by my handsome, regal Macumer. Rome is the city for love. When you have a passion, this is the place to indulge it: you have God and the arts as your accomplices. In Venice we will meet up with the Duke and Duchess de Soria. Should you write, write me in Paris, as we will be leaving Rome in three days. The ambassador’s soirée was a farewell.

  P.S. Dear imbecile, your letter clearly shows that you know love only as an idea. Understand, then, that love is a principle whose effects are so disparate that no theory could ever hope to encompass or direct them. I say this for the benefit of my little professor in a corset.

  40

  FROM COUNTESS DE L’ESTORADE TO BARONESS DE MACUMER

  January 1827

  My father has his appointment, my father-in-law is dead, and I am again about to give birth; such are the great events of the end of this year. I tell them to you straight off so as to dispel at once the ideas given you by this black-bordered paper.

  My darling, your letter from Rome made me tremble. You are two children. Felipe is either a diplomat who concealed his true feelings or a man who loves you as he would love a courtesan to whom he is prepared to abandon his fortune, knowing full well she is betraying him. But enough of that. You think me a nag, so I will hold my tongue. But allow me to tell you that from my study of our two lives I have derived a cruel law: If you wish to be loved, then do not love.

  Louis, my dear, was awarded the cross of the Legion of Honor on being named to the Regional Council. Since he will soon have served for three years, and since my father, whom you will no doubt see in Paris during the session, would like to see his son-in-law promoted to an officer
of that Legion, please be so kind as to approach whatever bigwig it is who oversees these things and take care of that little matter. Do not under any circumstances intercede for my very honored father, Count de Maucombe, who aspires to the title of marquis; save your favors for me alone. Next winter, when Louis becomes a député, we will come up to Paris and move heaven and earth to find him a place in some directorate-general, so that we may save up our revenues and live on the appointments of his position. My father has a seat between the Center and the Right, he wants only a title. Our family was already well-known under King René,[42] so King Charles X will not refuse a Maucombe, but I fear that my father might take it into his head to seek some favor for my younger brother, and if the brass ring of the marquessate is kept just slightly out of his reach, he will be able to think only of himself.

  January 15

  Ah! Louise, I am just back from hell! If I have the courage to tell you of my torment, it is only because I think of you as a second self. And even then, I am not sure I will ever allow my thoughts to turn back to those five awful days! The mere word convulsion sends a shiver through my soul. I have just endured not five days but five centuries of pain. Until a mother has suffered that martyrdom, she will not know the meaning of the word suffering. There were moments when I counted you lucky for not having children—you see how far I was from my right mind!

  The eve of that terrible day, the weather, which was still and humid, almost hot, seemed to be discommoding my little Armand. Ordinarily so sweet and affectionate, he had turned grumpy; he cried for virtually no reason, he wanted to play and then smashed his toys. Perhaps among children all illnesses are foretold by such changes of mood. Alerted by his strange misbehavior, I saw Armand’s face now red, now pale, which I attributed to the four large teeth all coming in at the same time. I kept him beside me as I slept, waking often to see to him. He had a slight fever during the night, which little worried me; I was still blaming it on his teeth. Toward morning he said “Mama!” and made a gesture to ask for some water, but in his voice there was a sharpness and in his gesture a twitch that chilled my blood. I leapt out of bed to make him some sugar water. Imagine my terror when he made no move as I held out the cup; he simply said “Mama” once again, in that voice that was no longer his voice, no longer even a voice at all. I took his hand, but it would not obey, it was going stiff. I put the cup to his lips. The poor child drank in a strange and alarming way, taking three or four spasmodic little sips, and the water made an odd noise in his throat. All at once he clutched at me desperately; I saw his eyes go white, pulled back by some inner force, and I felt no flexibility in his limbs. I let out an awful cry. Louis came running. “Send for a doctor! Send for a doctor! He’s dying!” I shouted. Louis disappeared, and once again my poor little Armand said “Mama! Mama!” as he clung to me. That was the last moment in which he knew he had a mother. The pretty veins of his temples swelled up, and the convulsion began. With an hour to wait before the doctors arrived, that child—once so lively, so pink and so white, that flower who filled me with pride and joy—lay in my arms as stiff as a log, and those eyes! I tremble as I remember them. Deep red, clenched, shrunken, mute, my dear Armand was a mummy. A doctor, then two more doctors brought from Marseille by Louis stood over him like birds of ill omen. They sent a shiver down my spine. One spoke of a brain fever, the other saw nothing more than the sort of convulsions to which children are sometimes prone. Our local doctor seemed to me the wisest, for he had no recommendations. “It’s his teeth,” said the second doctor. “It’s a fever,” said the first. In the end, they agreed to put leeches on his neck and ice on his head. I thought I might die, seeing before me a discolored cadaver, not a cry, not a movement, instead of the bright, noisy creature he was! Half out of my mind, I fell into hysterical laughter when I saw leeches biting that pretty neck I had so often kissed, and a cap of ice placed on that charming head. My dear, they had to cut off the pretty hair we so admired, the hair you caressed, so they could put on that ice. Like my labor pains, his convulsions returned every ten minutes, and the poor child writhed, now livid, now purple. When they struck each other, his limbs made a sound like two pieces of wood. That lifeless creature had once smiled at me, spoken to me, called me Mama! Gales of pain ripped through my soul with those thoughts, lashing it as a hurricane lashes the sea, and I felt a shudder run through the bonds by which a child holds fast to our hearts. My mother might have been able to help me, advise me, or console me, but she is in Paris. I believe mothers know more about convulsions than doctors. After four days and four nights of uncertainties and fears that nearly killed me, the doctors all agreed that a horrible pomade should be applied to his skin, to raise blisters! Oh! blisters on my poor Armand, who just five days before was playing, laughing, trying his best to say Godmother! I refused, preferring to trust in nature. Louis took me to task: he had faith in the doctors. A man is always a man. But at certain moments, these terrible illnesses take on the look of death, and in one such moment, that loathsome remedy seemed Armand’s only chance. My Louise, his skin was so dry, so rough, so arid that the unguent would not stick. I then wept over the bed for so long that the mattress grew wet. And all this time the doctors were at dinner! Finding myself alone, I wiped my child clean of all their medical ointments and took him in my arms, half mad, pressing him to my breast, putting my forehead to his, praying God to give him my life, striving to impart that life to him. I held him that way for a few moments, wanting to die along with him, so that we would not be separated in life or in death. My dear, I felt his limbs move; the convulsions eased, my child stirred, those horrible, sinister colors disappeared! I cried out just as I had when he fell ill; the doctors came up, and I showed them Armand.