The Wild Ass's Skin

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘I shall not tell you all the sarcastic things I said to her jokingly. Well, not the most cutting remark, the keenest irony, drew from her the least response or gesture of annoyance. She listened to me with the habitual smile on her lips, in her eyes, the smile she wore as if it were a garment, always the same, for friends, strangers, and acquaintances alike.

  ‘“Is it not good of me to allow myself to be placed upon a dissecting table?” said she, taking advantage of a momentary silence on my part. “You see,” she continued, laughing, “I don’t take offence easily in my friendships! Many women would punish your impertinence and shut the door on you.”

  ‘“You can banish me from your house without having to give a reason for your strictness.”

  ‘As I spoke these words I felt I would have killed her if she sent me away.

  ‘“You are crazy,” she cried, with a smile.

  ‘“Have you ever thought”, I went on, “what a violent love can lead to? Desperate men have assassinated their mistresses before now.”

  ‘“Better dead than unhappy,” she answered coldly. “A man as passionate as that is bound one day to abandon his wife and leave her destitute after squandering her fortune.”

  ‘This logic dumbfounded me. I saw an abyss opening up between this woman and myself. We should never be able to understand one another.

  ‘“Farewell,” I said coldly.

  ‘“Farewell,” she replied, nodding in a friendly fashion. “Till tomorrow.”

  ‘I gazed into her eyes for a moment, and all the love I was renouncing was concentrated in that look. She stood smiling at me in a superficial way, the odious smile of a marble statue, which seemed to be friendly, but was cold. Can you conceive, my dear friend, of all the painful thoughts that assailed me as I went home through the rain and the snow, walking along the icy quays for some miles, having lost everything?

  ‘Oh, knowing that she wasn’t even thinking of my poverty and believed me, like her, to be rich and comfortable enough to afford a carriage! How many hopes ruined, what disappointments! It was no longer a question of money, but of all the fortunes of my soul. I wandered along distractedly turning over in my mind the words of this strange conversation, and I so lost track of my thoughts about it that I ended up doubting the literal value of the words and ideas that we had expressed! And I was still in love, in love with this frigid woman whose heart cried out to be won over at any moment, and who constantly expunged the promises of the previous day, presenting herself on the next as a new mistress to be conquered. Turning into the wicket-gates of the Institute,* I was seized by a feverish impulse. I remembered then that I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t have a penny. And worst of all, the rain was making my hat go out of shape. How could I henceforth approach an elegant woman and present myself in a salon without a decent hat! Thanks to my extreme care, but all the while cursing the silly, stupid fashion which condemns us to show off the lining of our hat while keeping it constantly in our hand, I had kept mine so far in a passable state. Without being brand new or old and worn, very silky or denuded of its nap, it might pass muster as the hat of a careful man; but now its artificial life was reaching its end, it was battered, cast aside, finished, a real rag, a worthy representative of its master. For the want of thirty sous I was losing my hard-won elegance.

  ‘Oh, what untold sacrifices I had been making to Foedora these last three months! Often I sacrificed the money I needed for a week’s bread to go and spend a brief time with her. Leaving my work and going without food was nothing! But crossing the streets of Paris without getting splashed, running to avoid the showers, arriving at her place as smartly turned out as the dandies who surrounded her, oh, for a poet, distracted and in love, this task presented innumerable difficulties. My happiness, my love, depended on a smidgeon of dirt on my only white waistcoat! To give up any hope of seeing her if I got dirty or wet! Not to have five sous for a shoe-cleaner to wipe the slightest splash of mud off my boot! My passion had increased with all these small unforeseen tortures, which to an irritable man were immense. Men who live in poverty make sacrifices of which they may not speak to women who live in a world of luxury and elegance, viewing the world through a prism which paints men and objects in a golden light. Debonair because selfish, heartless because it is expected, such women exempt themselves from thinking in the name of their own satisfactions, and absolve themselves from their indifference to other people’s misfortune by being swept up in their own pleasure. For them a penny is never a million, but a million seems to them only a penny. If love must plead its cause by making great sacrifices, it must also draw a delicate veil over them, bury them in silence; but in spending their fortunes and their lives in freely devoting themselves to women, wealthy men profit from the worldly prejudices which give their amorous follies a certain glamour. For them silence speaks out loud and the veil is a grace, whereas my terrible penury condemned me to dreadful sufferings without me being allowed to say: “I am in love!” or “I am dying!” But was this after all a sacrifice? Was I not richly rewarded by the pleasure I took in sacrificing everything for her?

  ‘The Countess had made me attach extreme value, excessive pleasure, to the most commonplace incidents in my life. Though once careless about the way I dressed, I was now respectful of my clothes as if they were another self. Were it a choice between being wounded and tearing my tailcoat, I should not have hesitated! You must put yourself in my place and understand the rage, the increasing frenzy, which agitated me as I walked, and which perhaps was intensified by the walking! I can’t tell you what infernal delight I took in thinking myself the most unfortunate of creatures. I tried to see a presage of good fortune in this last crisis; but evil has boundless resources.

  ‘The door of my house was ajar. Through the heart-shaped openings in the shutters a light was shining out onto the street. Pauline and her mother were chatting as they waited for me. I heard my name spoken, I listened.

  ‘“Raphael”, said Pauline, “is much handsomer than the student at number 7! His fair hair is such a pretty shade! Don’t you think there’s something in his voice, I don’t know, something that makes your heart skip a beat? And then, although he seems a little proud, he is so kind, he has such distinguished manners! Oh, he’s such a nice man, I’m sure all the women must be mad about him.”

  ‘“You speak about him as though you were in love with him,” said Madame Gaudin.

  ‘“Oh, I love him like a brother,” Pauline replied with a laugh. “I certainly should be very ungrateful if I were not his friend. Has he not taught me everything I know, music, drawing, grammar? You haven’t paid much attention to my progress, my dear mother, but I am becoming so educated that in a very short time I shall be accomplished enough to give lessons myself and then we shall be able to afford a maidservant.”

  ‘I withdrew discreetly, and after making a little noise, I went into the hall to get my lamp that Pauline insisted on lighting. The poor child had just put a soothing balm on my wounds. This naive praise gave me back some strength. I needed to believe in myself and gather an impartial judgement about the true worth of the qualities I possessed. My hopes, thus revived, no doubt made me view things in a better light. And perhaps I had not yet paid enough attention to the scene that had been so often displayed by those two women in the middle of the room. But now I admired for real this homely scene that Flemish painters have so artlessly reproduced. The mother seated by the dying fire was knitting stockings with a contented smile on her face. Pauline was painting screens; her colours, her brushes spread out on a little table, were striking to the eyes. But when she rose from her seat to light my lamp, her white skin was lit up with the whole of its rays. One had to be in thrall to a very terrible passion not to admire her pink, translucent hands, the perfect shape of her head, and her maidenly pose. Night and silence lent their charm to the industrious evening tableau, this quiet interior. Their unceasing, cheerful labour spoke of a pious resignation full of lofty feelings. An indefinable harmony existed there b
etween objects and people.

  ‘In Foedora’s house there was a sterile luxury, it made me think bad thoughts, whereas this humble poverty and natural goodness were manna to my soul. Perhaps I felt humiliated in the presence of luxury. In the company of these two women in the middle of this brown room where the simple life seemed to take refuge in the heart’s emotions, I suppose I became reconciled with myself as I found I could show evidence of the protective instinct which men are so eager to exercise. When I was next to Pauline she threw me an almost maternal look and, putting the lamp down, with trembling hands, cried:

  ‘“Oh my goodness, how pale you are! Oh, he is soaked! My mother will dry you out. Monsieur Raphael,” she went on after a slight pause, “You are fond of milk; we had some cream this evening, here it is, do you want a taste?”

  She sprang like a kitten upon a porcelain bowl full of milk and put it under my nose so charmingly and impulsively, that I hesitated.

  ‘“You are not going to refuse?” she said in a disappointed voice. Our two prides understood one another. Pauline seemed to suffer from her poverty, and reproach me for my haughtiness. I was won over. This cream could have been her breakfast next day but I accepted nevertheless. The poor girl tried to hide her joy but her eyes were shining.

  ‘“I needed that,” I said, sitting down. An expression of concern went over her brow. “Do you recall, Pauline, that passage in Bossuet* where he describes God rewarding a man more richly for offering someone a glass of water than for winning a victory?”

  ‘“Yes,” she said, and her heart beat like that of a young linnet in the hands of a child.

  ‘“Well, since we shall soon say goodbye,” I faltered, “allow me to express my thanks for all the kindness you and your mother have shown to me.”

  ‘“Oh, let’s not reckon it up!” she said, laughing. But her laugh concealed an emotion which pained me.

  ‘“My piano”, I went on, without appearing to hear what she said, “is one of Erard’s best instruments.* You have it. You can have it and welcome, I really wouldn’t be able to take it on the journey I am hoping to undertake.”

  ‘The two women, perhaps alerted by the melancholic tone of voice in which I uttered these words, seemed to understand, and looked at me with a curiosity mixed with fright. The affection I had been seeking in the chilly echelons of high society was here: genuine, modest, but soothing and perhaps long-lasting.

  ‘“You mustn’t take things to heart so,” said her mother. “Stay with us. My husband is even now on the way home,” she went on. “This evening I was reading St John’s Gospel while Pauline was dangling our key, fastened in the Bible, between her fingers; the key turned. That is a sign that Gaudin is in good health and is prospering. Pauline did the same for you and the young man in number 7, but the key turned only for you. We shall all be rich and Gaudin will come back a millionaire. In my dream I saw him on a ship full of snakes. Luckily the water was choppy, and that signifies gold and precious stones from across the ocean.”

  ‘These affectionate, meaningless words, like the vague songs which a mother uses to quieten her ailing child, restored a kind of calm in me. The tone and expression of this good woman expressed the gentle kindness that cannot banish sorrow but can assuage, soothe, and soften it. More perspicacious than her mother, Pauline looked at me with a worried expression; her intelligent eyes seemed to guess at my life, my future. I nodded my thanks to both mother and daughter, then made good my escape, fearing I would show my emotion.

  ‘When I found myself alone in my room I fell asleep with my misfortune. My cursed imagination invented a thousand baseless projects for me and dictated impossible solutions. When a man’s mind trails through the ruins of his life he may still find a few resources. But I was at rock bottom. Oh, my dear friend, we are too quick to blame the poor. Let us be indulgent towards those who suffer from that most active of all social dissolvents. Where poverty reigns, one cannot speak of shame, crime, virtue, or intelligence. At that point in my life I was without ideas or strength, like a young girl on her knees before a tiger. A man without passion or money still remains master of his own person. But a poor man who is in love no longer belongs to himself and cannot kill himself. Love gives us a kind of religion, we respect another life in ourselves, so it becomes the most horrible of unfortunate states to be in: it is a state of hope, but hope which makes you accept torture. I fell asleep thinking I would go and tell Rastignac the next day about Foedora’s singular decision.’

  * * *

  ‘“Aha!” said Rastignac, when he saw me arrive at nine o’clock in the morning. “I know what brings you here. Foedora must have thrown you out. Some kindly souls, jealous of the influence you are having over the Countess, have put it about that you are getting married. God knows what follies your rivals have credited you with and what slanderous things they have said about you!”

  ‘“So all is explained!” I cried. I remembered all the impertinent things I had said, and decided the Countess had been sublime. I blamed myself for being an infamous wretch who had not suffered anywhere near enough, and in the indulgence she had shown me I could perceive nothing but the patient charity of love.

  ‘“Not so fast,” said the shrewd Gascon. “Foedora possesses the perceptiveness natural to all deeply egotistical women, and perhaps she only made up her mind about you at a time when all you saw in her was her fortune and her luxurious life. Despite your cleverness she will have seen into your soul. She is dissembling enough not to allow any dissimulation get past her. I believe I have set you on a wrong track,” he went on. “In spite of the finesse of her intellect and manners, this imperious creature seems to me like all women whose pleasure comes from the head rather than the heart. For her, happiness resides wholly in the good things in life, in social pleasures. In her case sentiment is just an act; she would make you unhappy, and you would become her head footman!”

  ‘Rastignac’s words fell on deaf ears. I interrupted him, expounding to him with an apparent cheeriness my financial situation. “Yesterday evening,” he answered, “a piece of ill-luck deprived me of all my money. Without this vulgar stroke of misfortune I should have willingly shared all I have with you. But let us go and breakfast in the tavern, oysters will perhaps provide us with some good counsel.”

  ‘He dressed, called for his tilbury,* then, bold as brass and looking for all the world like a couple of millionaires, like those intrepid speculators who live off imaginary capital, we arrived at the Café de Paris. The diabolical Gascon confounded me with the ease of his manner, and his imperturbable aplomb. Just as we were drinking our coffee to round off an extremely fine and very well-ordered meal, Rastignac, nodding a greeting at a crowd of young men as attractive for their physical attributes as for the elegance of their dress, seeing one of these dandies come in, said to me: “Here’s your man!” And he beckoned to a fellow wearing a smart cravat, who seemed to be looking for a suitable table, to come over to us.

  ‘“This character”, said Rastignac in my ear, “has won honours for publishing works he cannot make head or tail of. He is a chemist, a historian, a novelist, a publisher, he owns quarter, third, half shares in I don’t know how many plays and is ignorant as Don Miguel’s mule.* He is not a man, he is a name, a label the public recognizes. So he would take care not to enter those rooms advertising facilities for writing. He is clever enough to make fools of an entire congress.* In a word, he is a half-breed in matters of morals, neither completely honest nor a complete rogue. But hush, he has already fought a duel and society asks no more of him than that but says: ‘He is an honourable man.’”

  ‘“Well, my excellent friend, how does your Honourable Intelligence fare?” said Rastignac as the stranger sat down at the adjoining table.

  ‘“So-so. I’m snowed under with work. I have in my hands all the material necessary to write some very interesting historical memoirs, and I don’t know who to attribute them to. It’s tormenting me, I have to make haste, memoirs are on the point of going
out of fashion.”

  ‘“Are they contemporary memoirs, or pre-revolutionary, about the court, or what?”

  ‘“About the Necklace Affair.”*

  ‘“Isn’t that a miracle,” Rastignac said to me, laughing. Then, returning to the speculator: “May I introduce a friend of mine, Monsieur de Valentin,” he said, indicating me, “one of our future literary celebrities. He used to have an aunt received at court, a marquise, and for the last two years he has been working on a royalist history of the Revolution.”

  ‘Then, leaning towards this singular businessman, he said in his ear: “He’s a talented man; but he’s also a fool who will write your memoirs for you and attribute them to his aunt for five hundred francs a volume.”

  ‘“It’s a deal,” replied the other, tightening his cravat. “Waiter! My oysters!”

  ‘“Yes, but you’ll give me twenty-five louis commission and pay him for one volume in advance.”

  ‘“No, no, I will only pay an advance of two hundred and fifty francs, to be sure of having my manuscript promptly.”

  ‘Rastignac repeated this commercial transaction to me in a whisper. Then, without waiting for my yes or no: “All right,” he replied. “When shall we come and see you to finalize the contract?”

  ‘“Come and have dinner with me here tomorrow night at seven.”