Honore de Balzac - Analytical Studies

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"Well, go on!" cried the Arab.

"I listened to his avowal. He was young, ardent--and you came just in
time to save my tottering virtue."

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.

"Fatima!" cried the husband, "if you would save your life, answer me
--Where is the traitor?"

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.

"So I shall have my fine chain of gold, after all!" she cried, dancing
for joy. "You have lost the _Diadeste_. Be more mindful next time."

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 _Diadeste_ 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."

"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."

PARIS, 1824-29.

PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE

BY

HONORE DE BALZAC

PART FIRST

PREFACE

IN WHICH EVERY ONE WILL FIND HIS OWN IMPRESSIONS OF MARRIAGE.

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.

Usually, chance interviews are premeditated. And you speak with
this object, who has now become very timid.

YOU.--"A delightful evening!"

SHE.--"Oh! yes, sir."

You are allowed to become the suitor of this young person.

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW (to the intended groom).--"You can't imagine how
susceptible the dear girl is of attachment."

Meanwhile there is a delicate pecuniary question to be discussed
by the two families.

YOUR FATHER (to the mother-in-law).--"My property is valued at
five hundred thousand francs, my dear madame!"

YOUR FUTURE MOTHER-IN-LAW.--"And our house, my dear sir, is on a
corner lot."

A contract follows, drawn up by two hideous notaries, a small one,
and a big one.

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.

Then what? . . . . . Why, then come a crowd of petty unforeseen
troubles, like the following:

PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.

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.

"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.

"What trouble is this?" you ask me. Well! this is, like many petty
troubles of married life, a blessing for some one.

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
_Preface_.)

This phoenix we will call ADOLPHE, whatever may be his position in the
world, his age, and the color of his hair.

The lawyer, the captain, the engineer, the judge, in short, the
son-in-law, Adolphe, and his family, have seen in Miss Caroline:

I.--Miss Caroline;

II.--The only daughter of your wife and you.

Here, as in the Chamber of Deputies, we are compelled to call for a
division of the house:

1.--As to your wife.

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.

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.

"How is it with you, my dear madame?"

"I, thank heaven, have passed the period; and you?"

"I really hope I have, too!" says your wife.

"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."

2.--As to yourself.

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.

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.

III.--A dowry of three hundred thousand.

IV.--Caroline's only sister, a little dunce of twelve, a sickly child,
who bids fair to fill an early grave.

V.--Your own fortune, father-in-law (in certain kinds of society they
say _papa father-in-law_) yielding an income of twenty thousand, and
which will soon be increased by an inheritance.

VI.--Your wife's fortune, which will be increased by two inheritances
--from her uncle and her grandfather. In all, thus:

Three inheritances and interest, 750,000
Your fortune, 250,000
Your wife's fortune, 250,000
_________

Total, 1,250,000

which surely cannot take wing!

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.

The majority of the relatives have had a word to say about this
marriage.

Those on the side of the bridegroom:

"Adolphe has made a good thing of it."

Those on the side of the bride:

"Caroline has made a splendid match. Adolphe is an only son, and will
have an income of sixty thousand, _some day or other_!"

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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 _little
last one_!

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.

"Why, you old rogue, you, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" says a
friend to you on the Boulevard.

"Well! do as much if you can," is your angry retort.

"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.

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.

The mother and the daughter are put to bed nine days apart.

Caroline's first child is a pale, cadaverous little girl that will not
live.

Her mother's last child is a splendid boy, weighing twelve pounds,
with two teeth and luxuriant hair.

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 _Indian Summer_
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!

REVELATIONS.

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.

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.

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?"

"Your little woman, she is--"

"A regular cabbage-head."

"How could he, who is certainly a man of sense, choose--?"

"He should educate, teach his wife, or make her hold her tongue."

AXIOMS.

Axiom.--In our system of civilization a man is entirely responsible
for his wife.

Axiom.--The husband does not mould the wife.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?"

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 _minotaurize_ you without your
perceiving it.

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:

Axiom.--A married woman has several self-loves.

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.

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.

"I know," you say, "many very distinguished men who are just the
same."

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.

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!

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.

"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.

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.

How often are our opinions dictated to us by the unknown events of our
life!

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.

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.

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:

How do you like it?

What do you do with it?

Where do you put it?

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.

This game is a poor substitute for lansquenet or dice, but it is not
very expensive.

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 _mal_ [evil], a substantive that
signifies, in aesthetics, the opposite of good; of _mal_ [pain,
disease, complaint], a substantive that enters into a thousand
pathological expressions; then _malle_ [a mail-bag], and finally
_malle_ [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.

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.

You ask the group collectively, "How do you like it?"

"I like it for love's sake," says one.

"I like it regular," says another.

"I like it with a long mane."

"I like it with a spring lock."

"I like it unmasked."

"I like it on horseback."

"I like it as coming from God," says Madame Deschars.

"How do you like it?" you say to your wife.

"I like it legitimate."

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.

"Where do you put it?"

"In a carriage."

"In a garret."

"In a steamboat."

"In the closet."

"On a cart."

"In prison."

"In the ears."

"In a shop."

Your wife says to you last of all: "In bed."

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.

"What do you do with it?"

"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.

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.

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.

"Mal," exclaims a young miss.

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.

"In what sense did you understand the word, my dear?" you say to
Caroline.

"Why, _male_!" [male.]

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.

You see an infernal life before you; society is out of the question.

To remain at home with this triumphant stupidity is equivalent to
condemnation to the state's prison.

Axiom.--Moral tortures exceed physical sufferings by all the
difference which exists between the soul and the body.

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