Honore de Balzac - Analytical Studies

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"All right, doctor."

You allow your wife to go to Plombieres; but she goes there because
Captain Charles is quartered in the Vosges. She returns in capital
health and the waters of Plombieres have done wonders for her. She has
written to you every day, she has lavished upon you from a distance
every possible caress. The danger of a spinal affection has utterly
disappeared.

There is extant a little pamphlet, whose publication was prompted
doubtless by hate. It was published in Holland, and it contains some
very curious details of the manner in which Madame de Maintenon
entered into an understanding with Fagon, for the purposes of
controlling Louis XIV. Well, some morning your doctor will threaten
you, as Fagon threatened his master, with a fit of apoplexy, if you do
not diet yourself. This witty work of satire, doubtless the production
of some courtier, entitled "Madame de Saint Tron," has been
interpreted by the modern author who has become proverbial as "the
young doctor." But his delightful sketch is very much superior to the
work whose title I cite for the benefit of the book-lovers, and we
have great pleasure in acknowledging that the work of our clever
contemporary has prevented us, out of regard for the glory of the
seventeenth century, from publishing the fragment of the old pamphlet.

Very frequently a doctor becomes duped by the judicious manoeuvres of
a young and delicate wife, and comes to you with the announcement:

"Sir, I would not wish to alarm madame with regard to her condition;
but I will advise you, if you value her health, to keep her in perfect
tranquillity. The irritation at this moment seems to threaten the
chest, and we must gain control of it; there is need of rest for her,
perfect rest; the least agitation might change the seat of the malady.
At this crisis, the prospect of bearing a child would be fatal to
her."

"But, doctor--"

"Ah, yes! I know that!"

He laughs and leaves the house.

Like the rod of Moses, the doctor's mandate makes and unmakes
generations. The doctor will restore you to your marriage bed with the
same arguments that he used in debarring you. He treats your wife for
complaints which she has not, in order to cure her of those which she
has, and all the while you have no idea of it; for the scientific
jargon of doctors can only be compared to the layers in which they
envelop their pills.

An honest woman in her chamber with the doctor is like a minister sure
of a majority; she has it in her power to make a horse, or a carriage,
according to her good pleasure and her taste; she will send you away
or receive you, as she likes. Sometimes she will pretend to be ill in
order to have a chamber separate from yours; sometimes she will
surround herself with all the paraphernalia of an invalid; she will
have an old woman for a nurse, regiments of vials and of bottles, and,
environed by these ramparts, will defy you by her invalid airs. She
will talk to you in such a depressing way of the electuaries and of
the soothing draughts which she has taken, of the agues which she has
had, of her plasters and cataplasms, that she will fill you with
disgust at these sickly details, if all the time these sham sufferings
are not intended to serve as engines by means of which, eventually, a
successful attack may be made on that singular abstraction known as
_your honor_.

In this way your wife will be able to fortify herself at every point
of contact which you possess with the world, with society and with
life. Thus everything will take arms against you, and you will be
alone among all these enemies. But suppose that it is your
unprecedented privilege to possess a wife who is without religious
connections, without parents or intimate friends; that you have
penetration enough to see through all the tricks by which your wife's
lover tries to entrap you; that you still have sufficient love for
your fair enemy to resist all the Martons of the earth; that, in fact,
you have for your doctor a man who is so celebrated that he has no
time to listen to the maunderings of your wife; or that if your
Esculapius is madame's vassal, you demand a consultation, and an
incorruptible doctor intervenes every time the favorite doctor
prescribes a remedy that disquiets you; even in that case, your
prospects will scarcely be more brilliant. In fact, even if you do not
succumb to this invasion of allies, you must not forget that, so far,
your adversary has not, so to speak, struck the decisive blow. If you
hold out still longer, your wife, having flung round you thread upon
thread, as a spider spins his web, an invisible net, will resort to
the arms which nature has given her, which civilization has perfected,
and which will be treated of in the next Meditation.

MEDITATION XXVI.

OF DIFFERENT WEAPONS.

A weapon is anything which is used for the purpose of wounding. From
this point of view, some sentiments prove to be the most cruel weapons
which man can employ against his fellow man. The genius of Schiller,
lucid as it was comprehensive, seems to have revealed all the
phenomena which certain ideas bring to light in the human organization
by their keen and penetrating action. A man may be put to death by a
thought. Such is the moral of those heartrending scenes, when in _The
Brigands_ the poet shows a young man, with the aid of certain ideas,
making such powerful assaults on the heart of an old man, that he ends
by causing the latter's death. The time is not far distant when
science will be able to observe the complicated mechanism of our
thoughts and to apprehend the transmission of our feelings. Some
developer of the occult sciences will prove that our intellectual
organization constitutes nothing more than a kind of interior man, who
projects himself with less violence than the exterior man, and that
the struggle which may take place between two such powers as these,
although invisible to our feeble eyes, is not a less mortal struggle
than that in which our external man compels us to engage.

But these considerations belong to a different department of study
from that in which we are now engaged; these subjects we intend to
deal with in a future publication; some of our friends are already
acquainted with one of the most important,--that, namely, entitled
"THE PATHOLOGY OF SOCIAL LIFE, _or Meditations mathematical, physical,
chemical and transcendental on the manifestations of thought, taken
under all the forms which are produced by the state of society,
whether by living, marriage, conduct, veterinary medicine, or by
speech and action, etc._," in which all these great questions are
fully discussed. The aim of this brief metaphysical observation is
only to remind you that the higher classes of society reason too well
to admit of their being attacked by any other than intellectual arms.

Although it is true that tender and delicate souls are found enveloped
in a body of metallic hardness, at the same time there are souls of
bronze enveloped in bodies so supple and capricious that their grace
attracts the friendship of others, and their beauty calls for a
caress. But if you flatter the exterior man with your hand, the _Homo
duplex_, the interior man, to use an expression of Buffon, immediately
rouses himself and rends you with his keen points of contact.

This description of a special class of human creatures, which we hope
you will not run up against during your earthly journey, presents a
picture of what your wife may be to you. Every one of the sentiments
which nature has endowed your heart with, in their gentlest form, will
become a dagger in the hand of your wife. You will be stabbed every
moment, and you will necessarily succumb; for your love will flow like
blood from every wound.

This is the last struggle, but for her it also means victory.

In order to carry out the distinction which we think we have
established among three sorts of feminine temperament, we will divide
this Meditation into three parts, under the following titles:

1. OF HEADACHES.
2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS.
3. OF MODESTY, IN ITS CONNECTION WITH MARRIAGE.

1. OF HEADACHES.

Women are constantly the dupes or the victims of excessive
sensibility; but we have already demonstrated that with the greater
number of them this delicacy of soul must needs, almost without their
knowing it, receive many rude blows, from the very fact of their
marriage. (See Meditations entitled _The Predestined_ and _Of the
Honeymoon_.) Most of the means of defence instinctively employed by
husbands are nothing but traps set for the liveliness of feminine
affections.

Now the moment comes when the wife, during the Civil War, traces by a
single act of thought the history of her moral life, and is irritated
on perceiving the prodigious way in which you have taken advantage of
her sensibility. It is very rarely that women, moved either by an
innate feeling for revenge, which they themselves can never explain,
or by their instinct of domination, fail to discover that this quality
in their natural machinery, when brought into play against the man, is
inferior to no other instrument for obtaining ascendancy over him.

With admirable cleverness, they proceed to find out what chords in the
hearts of their husbands are most easily touched; and when once they
discover this secret, they eagerly proceed to put it into practice;
then, like a child with a mechanical toy, whose spring excites their
curiosity, they go on employing it, carelessly calling into play the
movements of the instrument, and satisfied simply with their success
in doing so. If they kill you, they will mourn over you with the best
grace in the world, as the most virtuous, the most excellent, the most
sensible of men.

In this way your wife will first arm herself with that generous
sentiment which leads us to respect those who are in pain. The man
most disposed to quarrel with a woman full of life and health becomes
helpless before a woman who is weak and feeble. If your wife has not
attained the end of her secret designs, by means of those various
methods already described, she will quickly seize this all-powerful
weapon. In virtue of this new strategic method, you will see the young
girl, so strong in life and beauty, whom you had wedded in her flower,
metamorphosing herself into a pale and sickly woman.

Now headache is an affection which affords infinite resources to a
woman. This malady, which is the easiest of all to feign, for it is
destitute of any apparent symptom, merely obliges her to say: "I have
a headache." A woman trifles with you and there is no one in the world
who can contradict her skull, whose impenetrable bones defy touch or
ocular test. Moreover, headache is, in our opinion, the queen of
maladies, the pleasantest and the most terrible weapon employed by
wives against their husbands. There are some coarse and violent men
who have been taught the tricks of women by their mistresses, in the
happy hours of their celibacy, and so flatter themselves that they are
never to be caught by this vulgar trap. But all their efforts, all
their arguments end by being vanquished before the magic of these
words: "I have a headache." If a husband complains, or ventures on a
reproach, if he tries to resist the power of this _Il buondo cani_ of
marriage, he is lost.

Imagine a young woman, voluptuously lying on a divan, her head softly
supported by a cushion, one hand hanging down; on a small table close
at hand is her glass of lime-water. Now place by her side a burly
husband. He has made five or six turns round the room; but each time
he has turned on his heels to begin his walk all over again, the
little invalid has made a slight movement of her eyebrows in a vain
attempt to remind him that the slightest noise fatigues her. At last
he musters all his courage and utters a protest against her pretended
malady, in the bold phrase:

"And have you really a headache?"

At these words the young woman slightly raises her languid head, lifts
an arm, which feebly falls back again upon her divan, raises her eyes
to the ceiling, raises all that she has power to raise; then darting
at you a leaden glance, she says in a voice of remarkable feebleness:

"Oh! What can be the matter with me? I suffer the agonies of death!
And this is all the comfort you give me! Ah! you men, it is plainly
seen that nature has not given you the task of bringing children into
the world. What egoists and tyrants you are! You take us in all the
beauty of our youth, fresh, rosy, with tapering waist, and then all is
well! When your pleasures have ruined the blooming gifts which we
received from nature, you never forgive us for having forfeited them
to you! That was all understood. You will allow us to have neither the
virtues nor the sufferings of our condition. You must needs have
children, and we pass many nights in taking care of them. But
child-bearing has ruined our health, and left behind the germs of
serious maladies.--Oh, what pain I suffer! There are few women who are
not subject to headaches; but your wife must be an exception. You even
laugh at our sufferings; that is generosity!--please don't walk about
--I should not have expected this of you!--Stop the clock; the click
of the pendulum rings in my head. Thanks! Oh, what an unfortunate
creature I am! Have you a scent-bottle with you? Yes, oh! for pity's
sake, allow me to suffer in peace, and go away; for this scent splits
my head!"

What can you say in reply? Do you not hear within you a voice which
cries, "And what if she is actually suffering?" Moreover, almost all
husbands evacuate the field of battle very quietly, while their wives
watch them from the corner of their eyes, marching off on tip-toe and
closing the door quietly on the chamber henceforth to be considered
sacred by them.

Such is the headache, true or false, which is patronized at your home.
Then the headache begins to play a regular role in the bosom of your
family. It is a theme on which a woman can play many admirable
variations. She sets it forth in every key. With the aid of the
headache alone a wife can make a husband desperate. A headache seizes
madame when she chooses, where she chooses, and as much as she
chooses. There are headaches of five days, of ten minutes, periodic or
intermittent headaches.

You sometimes find your wife in bed, in pain, helpless, and the blinds
of her room are closed. The headache has imposed silence on every one,
from the regions of the porter's lodge, where he is cutting wood, even
to the garret of your groom, from which he is throwing down innocent
bundles of straw. Believing in this headache, you leave the house, but
on your return you find that madame has decamped! Soon madame returns,
fresh and ruddy:

"The doctor came," she says, "and advised me to take exercise, and I
find myself much better!"

Another day you wish to enter madame's room.

"Oh, sir," says the maid, showing the most profound astonishment,
"madame has her usual headache, and I have never seen her in such
pain! The doctor has been sent for."

"You are a happy man," said Marshal Augereau to General R-----, "to
have such a pretty wife!"

"To have!" replied the other. "If I have my wife ten days in the year,
that is about all. These confounded women have always either the
headache or some other thing!"

The headache in France takes the place of the sandals, which, in
Spain, the Confessor leaves at the door of the chamber in which he is
with his penitent.

If your wife, foreseeing some hostile intentions on your part, wishes
to make herself as inviolable as the charter, she immediately gets up
a little headache performance. She goes to bed in a most deliberate
fashion, she utters shrieks which rend the heart of the hearer. She
goes gracefully through a series of gesticulations so cleverly
executed that you might think her a professional contortionist. Now
what man is there so inconsiderate as to dare to speak to a suffering
woman about desires which, in him, prove the most perfect health?
Politeness alone demands of him perfect silence. A woman knows under
these circumstances that by means of this all-powerful headache, she
can at her will paste on her bed the placard which sends back home the
amateurs who have been allured by the announcement of the Comedie
Francaise, when they read the words: "Closed through the sudden
indisposition of Mademoiselle Mars."

O headache, protectress of love, tariff of married life, buckler
against which all married desires expire! O mighty headache! Can it be
possible that lovers have never sung thy praises, personified thee, or
raised thee to the skies? O magic headache, O delusive headache, blest
be the brain that first invented thee! Shame on the doctor who shall
find out thy preventive! Yes, thou art the only ill that women bless,
doubtless through gratitude for the good things thou dispensest to
them, O deceitful headache! O magic headache!

2. OF NERVOUS AFFECTATIONS.

There is, however, a power which is superior even to that of the
headache; and we must avow to the glory of France, that this power is
one of the most recent which has been won by Parisian genius. As in
the case with all the most useful discoveries of art and science, no
one knows to whose intellect it is due. Only, it is certain that it
was towards the middle of the last century that "Vapors" made their
first appearance in France. Thus while Papin was applying the force of
vaporized water in mechanical problems, a French woman, whose name
unhappily is unknown, had the glory of endowing her sex with the
faculty of vaporizing their fluids. Very soon the prodigious influence
obtained by vapors was extended to the nerves; it was thus in passing
from fibre to fibre that the science of neurology was born. This
admirable science has since then led such men as Philips and other
clever physiologists to the discovery of the nervous fluid in its
circulation; they are now perhaps on the eve of identifying its
organs, and the secret of its origin and of its evaporation. And thus,
thanks to certain quackeries of this kind, we may be enabled some day
to penetrate the mysteries of that unknown power which we have already
called more than once in the present book, the _Will_. But do not let
us trespass on the territory of medical philosophy. Let us consider
the nerves and the vapors solely in their connection with marriage.

Victims of Neurosis (a pathological term under which are comprised all
affections of the nervous system) suffer in two ways, as far as
married women are concerned; for our physiology has the loftiest
disdain for medical classifications. Thus we recognize only:

1. CLASSIC NEUROSIS.
2. ROMANTIC NEUROSIS.

The classic affection has something bellicose and excitable on it.
Those who thus suffer are as violent in their antics as pythonesses,
as frantic as _monads_, as excited as _bacchantes_; it is a revival of
antiquity, pure and simple.

The romantic sufferers are mild and plaintive as the ballads sung amid
the mists of Scotland. They are pallid as young girls carried to their
bier by the dance or by love; they are eminently elegiac and they
breathe all the melancholy of the North.

That woman with black hair, with piercing eye, with high color, with
dry lips and a powerful hand, will become excited and convulsive; she
represents the genius of classic neurosis; while a young blonde woman,
with white skin, is the genius of romantic neurosis; to one belongs
the empire gained by nerves, to the other the empire gained by vapors.

Very frequently a husband, when he comes home, finds his wife in
tears.

"What is the matter, my darling?"

"It is nothing."

"But you are in tears!"

"I weep without knowing why. I am quite sad! I saw faces in the
clouds, and those faces never appear to me except on the eve of some
disaster--I think I must be going to die."

Then she talks to you in a low voice of her dead father, of her dead
uncle, of her dead grandfather, of her dead cousin. She invokes all
these mournful shades, she feels as if she had all their sicknesses,
she is attacked with all the pains they felt, she feels her heart
palpitate with excessive violence, she feels her spleen swelling. You
say to yourself, with a self-satisfied air:

"I know exactly what this is all about!"

And then you try to soothe her; but you find her a woman who yawns
like an open box, who complains of her chest, who begins to weep anew,
who implores you to leave her to her melancholy and her mournful
memories. She talks to you about her last wishes, follows her own
funeral, is buried, plants over her tomb the green canopy of a weeping
willow, and at the very time when you would like to raise a joyful
epithalamium, you find an epitaph to greet you all in black. Your wish
to console her melts away in the cloud of Ixion.

There are women of undoubted fidelity who in this way extort from
their feeling husbands cashmere shawls, diamonds, the payment of their
debts, or the rent of a box at the theatre; but almost always vapors
are employed as decisive weapons in Civil War.

On the plea of her spinal affection or of her weak chest, a woman
takes pains to seek out some distraction or other; you see her
dressing herself in soft fabrics like an invalid with all the symptoms
of spleen; she never goes out because an intimate friend, her mother
or her sister, has tried to tear her away from that divan which
monopolizes her and on which she spends her life in improvising
elegies. Madame is going to spend a fortnight in the country because
the doctor orders it. In short, she goes where she likes and does what
she likes. Is it possible that there can be a husband so brutal as to
oppose such desires, by hindering a wife from going to seek a cure for
her cruel sufferings? For it has been established after many long
discussions that in the nerves originate the most fearful torture.

But it is especially in bed that vapors play their part. There when a
woman has not a headache she has her vapors; and when she has neither
vapors nor headache, she is under the protection of the girdle of
Venus, which, as you know, is a myth.

Among the women who fight with you the battle of vapors, are some more
blonde, more delicate, more full of feeling than others, and who
possess the gift of tears. How admirably do they know how to weep!
They weep when they like, as they like and as much as they like. They
organize a system of offensive warfare which consists of manifesting
sublime resignation, and they gain victories which are all the more
brilliant, inasmuch as they remain all the time in excellent health.

Does a husband, irritated beyond all measure, at last express his
wishes to them? They regard him with an air of submission, bow their
heads and keep silence. This pantomime almost always puts a husband to
rout. In conjugal struggles of this kind, a man prefers a woman should
speak and defend herself, for then he may show elation or annoyance;
but as for these women, not a word. Their silence distresses you and
you experience a sort of remorse, like the murderer who, when he finds
his victim offers no resistance, trembles with redoubled fear. He
would prefer to slay him in self-defence. You return to the subject.
As you draw near, your wife wipes away her tears and hides her
handkerchief, so as to let you see that she has been weeping. You are
melted, you implore your little Caroline to speak, your sensibility
has been touched and you forget everything; then she sobs while she
speaks, and speaks while she sobs. This is a sort of machine
eloquence; she deafens you with her tears, with her words which come
jerked out in confusion; it is the clapper and torrent of a mill.

French women and especially Parisians possess in a marvelous degree
the secret by which such scenes are enacted, and to these scenes their
voices, their sex, their toilet, their manner give a wonderful charm.
How often do the tears upon the cheeks of these adorable actresses
give way to a piquant smile, when they see their husbands hasten to
break the silk lace, the weak fastening of their corsets, or to
restore the comb which holds together the tresses of their hair and
the bunch of golden ringlets always on the point of falling down?

But how all these tricks of modernity pale before the genius of
antiquity, before nervous attacks which are violent, before the
Pyrrhic dance of married life! Oh! how many hopes for a lover are
there in the vivacity of those convulsive movements, in the fire of
those glances, in the strength of those limbs, beautiful even in
contortion! It is then that a woman is carried away like an impetuous
wind, darts forth like the flames of a conflagration, exhibits a
movement like a billow which glides over the white pebbles. She is
overcome with excess of love, she sees the future, she is the seer who
prophesies, but above all, she sees the present moment and tramples on
her husband, and impresses him with a sort of terror.

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