On one occasion Caroline takes the most minute precautions. She writes the day before to Madame Foullepointe to go to St. Maur with Adolphe, to look at a piece of property for sale there. Adolphe would go to breakfast with her. She aids Adolphe in dressing. She twits him with the care he bestows upon his toilet, and asks absurd questions about Madame Foullepointe.
“She’s real nice, and I think she is quite tired of Charles: you’ll inscribe her yet upon your catalogue, you old Don Juan: but you won’t have any further need of Chaumontel’s affair; I’m no longer jealous, you’ve got a passport. Do you like that better than being adored? Monster, observe how considerate I am.”
So soon as her husband has gone, Caroline, who had not omitted, the previous evening, to write to Ferdinand to come to breakfast with her, equips herself in a costume which, in that charming eighteenth century so calumniated by republicans, humanitarians and idiots, women of quality called their fighting-dress.
Caroline has taken care of everything. Love is the first house servant in the world, so the table is set with positively diabolic coquetry. There is the white damask cloth, the little blue service, the silver gilt urn, the chiseled milk pitcher, and flowers all round!
If it is winter, she has got some grapes, and has rummaged the cellar for the very best old wine. The rolls are from the most famous baker’s. The succulent dishes, the pate de foie gras, the whole of this elegant entertainment, would have made the author of the Glutton’s Almanac neigh with impatience: it would make a note-shaver smile, and tell a professor of the old University what the matter in hand is.
Everything is prepared. Caroline has been ready since the night before: she contemplates her work. Justine sighs and arranges the furniture. Caroline picks off the yellow leaves of the plants in the windows. A woman, in these cases, disguises what we may call the prancings of the heart, by those meaningless occupations in which the fingers have all the grip of pincers, when the pink nails burn, and when this unspoken exclamation rasps the throat: “He hasn’t come yet!”
What a blow is this announcement by Justine: “Madame, here’s a letter!”
A letter in place of Ferdinand! How does she ever open it? What ages of life slip by as she unfolds it! Women know this by experience! As to men, when they are in such maddening passes, they murder their shirt-frills.
“Justine, Monsieur Ferdinand is ill!” exclaims Caroline. “Send for a carriage.”
As Justine goes down stairs, Adolphe comes up.
“My poor mistress!” observes Justine. “I guess she won’t want the carriage now.”
“Oh my! Where have you come from?” cries Caroline, on seeing Adolphe standing in ecstasy before her voluptuous breakfast.
Adolphe, whose wife long since gave up treating him to such charming banquets, does not answer. But he guesses what it all means, as he sees the cloth inscribed with the delightful ideas which Madame de Fischtaminel or the syndic of Chaumontel’s affair have often inscribed for him upon tables quite as elegant.
“Whom are you expecting?” he asks in his turn.
“Who could it be, except Ferdinand?” replies Caroline.
“And is he keeping you waiting?”
“He is sick, poor fellow.”
A quizzical idea enters Adolphe’s head, and he replies, winking with one eye only: “I have just seen him.”
“Where?”
“In front of the Cafe de Paris, with some friends.”
“But why have you come back?” says Caroline, trying to conceal her murderous fury.
“Madame Foullepointe, who was tired of Charles, you said, has been with him at Ville d’Avray since yesterday.”
Adolphe sits down, saying: “This has happened very appropriately, for
I’m as hungry as two bears.”
Caroline sits down, too, and looks at Adolphe stealthily: she weeps internally: but she very soon asks, in a tone of voice that she manages to render indifferent, “Who was Ferdinand with?”
“With some fellows who lead him into bad company. The young man is getting spoiled: he goes to Madame Schontz’s. You ought to write to your uncle. It was probably some breakfast or other, the result of a bet made at M’lle Malaga’s.” He looks slyly at Caroline, who drops her eyes to conceal her tears. “How beautiful you have made yourself this morning,” Adolphe resumes. “Ah, you are a fair match for your breakfast. I don’t think Ferdinand will make as good a meal as I shall,” etc., etc.
Adolphe manages the joke so cleverly that he inspires his wife with the idea of punishing Ferdinand. Adolphe, who claims to be as hungry as two bears, causes Caroline to forget that a carriage waits for her at the door.
The female that tends the gate at the house Ferdinand lives in, arrives at about two o’clock, while Adolphe is asleep on a sofa. That Iris of bachelors comes to say to Caroline that Monsieur Ferdinand is very much in need of some one.
“He’s drunk, I suppose,” says Caroline in a rage.
“He fought a duel this morning, madame.”
Caroline swoons, gets up and rushes to Ferdinand, wishing Adolphe at the bottom of the sea.
When women are the victims of these little inventions, which are quite as adroit as their own, they are sure to exclaim, “What abominable monsters men are!”
ULTIMA RATIO.
We have come to our last observation. Doubtless this work is beginning to tire you quite as much as its subject does, if you are married.
This work, which, according to the author, is to the Physiology of Marriage what Fact is to Theory, or History to Philosophy, has its logic, as life, viewed as a whole, has its logic, also.
This logic — fatal, terrible — is as follows. At the close of the first part of the book — a book filled with serious pleasantry — Adolphe has reached, as you must have noticed, a point of complete indifference in matrimonial matters.
He has read novels in which the writers advise troublesome husbands to embark for the other world, or to live in peace with the fathers of their children, to pet and adore them: for if literature is the reflection of manners, we must admit that our manners recognize the defects pointed out by the Physiology of Marriage in this fundamental institution. More than one great genius has dealt this social basis terrible blows, without shaking it.
Adolphe has especially read his wife too closely, and disguises his indifference by this profound word: indulgence. He is indulgent with Caroline, he sees in her nothing but the mother of his children, a good companion, a sure friend, a brother.
When the petty troubles of the wife cease, Caroline, who is more clever than her husband, has come to profit by this advantageous indulgence: but she does not give her dear Adolphe up. It is woman’s nature never to yield any of her rights. DIEU ET MON DROIT — CONJUGAL! is, as is well known, the motto of England, and is especially so to-day.
Women have such a love of domination that we will relate an anecdote, not ten years old, in point. It is a very young anecdote.
One of the grand dignitaries of the Chamber of Peers had a Caroline, as lax as Carolines usually are. The name is an auspicious one for women. This dignitary, extremely old at the time, was on one side of the fireplace, and Caroline on the other. Caroline was hard upon the lustrum when women no longer tell their age. A friend came in to inform them of the marriage of a general who had lately been intimate in their house.
Caroline at once had a fit of despair, with genuine tears; she screamed and made the grand dignitary’s head ache to such a degree, that he tried to console her. In the midst of his condolences, the count forgot himself so far as to say — ”What can you expect, my dear, he really could not marry you!”
And this was one of the highest functionaries of the state, but a friend of Louis XVIII, and necessarily a little bit Pompadour.
The whole difference, then, between the situation of Adolphe and that of Caroline, consists in this: though he no longer cares about her, she retains the right to care about him.
Now, let us listen to “What they
say,” the theme of the concluding chapter of this work.
COMMENTARY.
IN WHICH IS EXPLAINED LA FELICITA OF FINALES.
Who has not heard an Italian opera in the course of his life? You must then have noticed the musical abuse of the word felicita, so lavishly used by the librettist and the chorus at the moment when everybody is deserting his box or leaving the house.
Frightful image of life. We quit it just when we hear la felicita.
Have you reflected upon the profound truth conveyed by this finale, at the instant when the composer delivers his last note and the author his last line, when the orchestra gives the last pull at the fiddle-bow and the last puff at the bassoon, when the principal singers say “Let’s go to supper!” and the chorus people exclaim “How lucky, it doesn’t rain!” Well, in every condition in life, as in an Italian opera, there comes a time when the joke is over, when the trick is done, when people must make up their minds to one thing or the other, when everybody is singing his own felicita for himself. After having gone through with all the duos, the solos, the stretti, the codas, the concerted pieces, the duettos, the nocturnes, the phases which these few scenes, chosen from the ocean of married life, exhibit you, and which are themes whose variations have doubtless been divined by persons with brains as well as by the shallow — for so far as suffering is concerned, we are all equal — the greater part of Parisian households reach, without a given time, the following final chorus:
THE WIFE, to a young woman in the conjugal Indian Summer. My dear, I am the happiest woman in the world. Adolphe is the model of husbands, kind, obliging, not a bit of a tease. Isn’t he, Ferdinand?
Caroline addresses Adolphe’s cousin, a young man with a nice cravat, glistening hair and patent leather boots: his coat is cut in the most elegant fashion: he has a crush hat, kid gloves, something very choice in the way of a waistcoat, the very best style of moustaches, whiskers, and a goatee a la Mazarin; he is also endowed with a profound, mute, attentive admiration of Caroline.
FERDINAND. Adolphe is happy to have a wife like you! What does he want? Nothing.
THE WIFE. In the beginning, we were always vexing each other: but now we get along marvelously. Adolphe no longer does anything but what he likes, he never puts himself out: I never ask him where he is going nor what he has seen. Indulgence, my dear, is the great secret of happiness. You, doubtless, are still in the period of petty troubles, causeless jealousies, cross-purposes, and all sorts of little botherations. What is the good of all this? We women have but a short life, at the best. How much? Ten good years! Why should we fill them with vexation? I was like you. But, one fine morning, I made the acquaintance of Madame de Fischtaminel, a charming woman, who taught me how to make a husband happy. Since then, Adolphe has changed radically; he has become perfectly delightful. He is the first to say to me, with anxiety, with alarm, even, when I am going to the theatre, and he and I are still alone at seven o’clock: “Ferdinand is coming for you, isn’t he?” Doesn’t he, Ferdinand?
FERDINAND. We are the best cousins in the world.
THE INDIAN SUMMER WIFE, very much affected. Shall I ever come to that?
THE HUSBAND, on the Italian Boulevard. My dear boy [he has button-holed Monsieur de Fischtaminel], you still believe that marriage is based upon passion. Let me tell you that the best way, in conjugal life, is to have a plenary indulgence, one for the other, on condition that appearances be preserved. I am the happiest husband in the world. Caroline is a devoted friend, she would sacrifice everything for me, even my cousin Ferdinand, if it were necessary: oh, you may laugh, but she is ready to do anything. You entangle yourself in your laughable ideas of dignity, honor, virtue, social order. We can’t have our life over again, so we must cram it full of pleasure. Not the smallest bitter word has been exchanged between Caroline and me for two years past. I have, in Caroline, a friend to whom I can tell everything, and who would be amply able to console me in a great emergency. There is not the slightest deceit between us, and we know perfectly well what the state of things is. We have thus changed our duties into pleasures. We are often happier, thus, than in that insipid season called the honey-moon. She says to me, sometimes, “I’m out of humor, go away.” The storm then falls upon my cousin. Caroline never puts on her airs of a victim, now, but speaks in the kindest manner of me to the whole world. In short, she is happy in my pleasures. And as she is a scrupulously honest woman, she is conscientious to the last degree in her use of our fortune. My house is well kept. My wife leaves me the right to dispose of my reserve without the slightest control on her part. That’s the way of it. We have oiled our wheels and cogs, while you, my dear Fischtaminel, have put gravel in yours.
CHORUS, in a parlor during a ball. Madame Caroline is a charming woman.
A WOMAN IN A TURBAN. Yes, she is very proper, very dignified.
A WOMAN WHO HAS SEVEN CHILDREN. Ah! she learned early how to manage her husband.
ONE OF FERDINAND’S FRIENDS. But she loves her husband exceedingly.
Besides, Adolphe is a man of great distinction and experience.
ONE OF MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL’S FRIENDS. He adores his wife. There’s no fuss at their house, everybody is at home there.
MONSIEUR FOULLEPOINTE. Yes, it’s a very agreeable house.
A WOMAN ABOUT WHOM THERE IS A GOOD DEAL OF SCANDAL. Caroline is kind and obliging, and never talks scandal of anybody.
A YOUNG LADY, returning to her place after a dance. Don’t you remember how tiresome she was when she visited the Deschars?
MADAME DE FISCHTAMINEL. Oh! She and her husband were two bundles of briars — continually quarreling. [She goes away.]
AN ARTIST. I hear that the individual known as Deschars is getting dissipated: he goes round town —
A WOMAN, alarmed at the turn the conversation is taking, as her daughter can hear. Madame de Fischtaminel is charming, this evening.
A WOMAN OF FORTY, without employment. Monsieur Adolphe appears to be as happy as his wife.
A YOUNG LADY. Oh! what a sweet man Monsieur Ferdinand is! [Her mother reproves her by a sharp nudge with her foot.] What’s the matter, mamma?
HER MOTHER, looking at her fixedly. A young woman should not speak so, my dear, of any one but her betrothed, and Monsieur Ferdinand is not a marrying man.
A LADY DRESSED RATHER LOW IN THE NECK, to another lady dressed equally low, in a whisper. The fact is, my dear, the moral of all this is that there are no happy couples but couples of four.
A FRIEND, whom the author was so imprudent as to consult. Those last words are false.
THE AUTHOR. Do you think so?
THE FRIEND, who has just been married. You all of you use your ink in depreciating social life, on the pretext of enlightening us! Why, there are couples a hundred, a thousand times happier than your boasted couples of four.
THE AUTHOR. Well, shall I deceive the marrying class of the population, and scratch the passage out?
THE FRIEND. No, it will be taken merely as the point of a song in a vaudeville.
THE AUTHOR. Yes, a method of passing truths off upon society.
THE FRIEND, who sticks to his opinion. Such truths as are destined to be passed off upon it.
THE AUTHOR, who wants to have the last word. Who and what is there that does not pass off, or become passe? When your wife is twenty years older, we will resume this conversation.
THE FRIEND. You revenge yourself cruelly for your inability to write the history of happy homes.
THE END
Pathology of Social Life
This is a collection of essays that was started in 1833 and published for the first time in 1839. The book brings together three separately treated essays, of which Balzac had intended to add many more. Unfortunately, the essays have yet to be translated into English and so can only appear in their original French texts in this edition.
An 1840 caricature of the author
TRAITÉ DE LA VIE ÉLÉGANTE
Table des matières
CHAPITRE PREMIER
CHAPITRE II
CHAPITRE III
CHAPITRE IV
TRAITÉ DE LA VIE ÉLÉGANTE
CHAPITRE PREMIER
Prolégomènes
Mens agitat molem.
VIRGILE.
L’esprit d’un homme se devine à la manière dont il porte sa canne.
TRADUCTION FASHIONABLE.
La civilisation a échelonné les hommes sur trois grandes lignes... Il nous aurait été facile de colorier nos catégories à la manière de M. Charles Dupin ; mais, comme le charlatanisme serait un contre-sens dans un ouvrage de philosophie chrétienne, nous nous dispenserons de mêler la peinture aux x de l’algèbre, et nous tâcherons, en professant les doctrines les plus secrètes de la vie élégante, d’être compris même de nos antagonistes, les gens en bottes à revers.
Or, les trois classes d’êtres créés par les mœurs modernes sont :
L’homme qui travaille ;
L’homme qui pense ;
L’homme qui ne fait rien.
De là trois formules d’existence assez complètes pour exprimer tous les genres de vie, depuis le roman poétique et vagabond du bohème jusqu’à l’histoire monotone et somnifère des rois constitutionnels :
La vie occupée ;
La vie d’artiste ;
La vie élégante.
De la vie occupée
Le thème de la vie occupée n’a pas de variantes. En faisant œuvre de ses dix doigts, l’homme abdique toute une destinée ; il devient un moyen, et, malgré toute notre philanthropie, les résultats obtiennent seuls notre admiration. Partout l’homme va se pâmant devant quelques tas de pierres, et, s’il se souvient de ceux qui les ont amoncelés, c’est pour les accabler de sa pitié ; si l’architecte lui apparaît encore comme une grande pensée, ses ouvriers ne sont plus que des espèces de treuils et restent confondus avec les brouettes, les pelles et les pioches.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 1329