Another Study of Woman
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Honore de Balzac >> Another Study of Woman
Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com
and John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz
ANOTHER STUDY OF WOMAN
by HONORE DE BALZAC
Translated By
Ellen Marriage and Clara Bell
DEDICATION
To Leon Gozlan as a Token of Literary Good-fellowship.
ANOTHER STUDY OF WOMAN
At Paris there are almost always two separate parties going on at
every ball and rout. First, an official party, composed of the persons
invited, a fashionable and much-bored circle. Each one grimaces for
his neighbor's eye; most of the younger women are there for one person
only; when each woman has assured herself that for that one she is the
handsomest woman in the room, and that the opinion is perhaps shared
by a few others, a few insignificant phrases are exchanged, as: "Do
you think of going away soon to La Crampade?" "How well Madame de
Portenduere sang!" "Who is that little woman with such a load of
diamonds?" Or, after firing off some smart epigrams, which give
transient pleasure, and leave wounds that rankle long, the groups thin
out, the mere lookers on go away, and the waxlights burn down to the
sconces.
The mistress of the house then waylays a few artists, amusing people
or intimate friends, saying, "Do not go yet; we will have a snug
little supper." These collect in some small room. The second, the real
party, now begins; a party where, as of old, every one can hear what
is said, conversation is general, each one is bound to be witty and to
contribute to the amusement of all. Everything is made to tell, honest
laughter takes the place of the gloom which in company saddens the
prettiest faces. In short, where the rout ends pleasure begins.
The Rout, a cold display of luxury, a review of self-conceits in full
dress, is one of those English inventions which tend to /mechanize/
other nations. England seems bent on seeing the whole world as dull as
itself, and dull in the same way. So this second party is, in some
French houses, a happy protest on the part of the old spirit of our
light-hearted people. Only, unfortunately, so few houses protest; and
the reason is a simple one. If we no longer have many suppers
nowadays, it is because never, under any rule, have there been fewer
men placed, established, and successful than under the reign of Louis
Philippe, when the Revolution began again, lawfully. Everybody is on
the march some whither, or trotting at the heels of Fortune. Time has
become the costliest commodity, so no one can afford the lavish
extravagance of going home to-morrow morning and getting up late.
Hence, there is no second soiree now but at the houses of women rich
enough to entertain, and since July 1830 such women may be counted in
Paris.
In spite of the covert opposition of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, two
or three women, among them Madame d'Espard and Mademoiselle des
Touches, have not chosen to give up the share of influence they
exercised in Paris, and have not closed their houses.
The salon of Mademoiselle des Touches is noted in Paris as being the
last refuge where the old French wit has found a home, with its
reserved depths, its myriad subtle byways, and its exquisite
politeness. You will there still find grace of manner notwithstanding
the conventionalities of courtesy, perfect freedom of talk
notwithstanding the reserve which is natural to persons of breeding,
and, above all, a liberal flow of ideas. No one there thinks of
keeping his thought for a play; and no one regards a story as material
for a book. In short, the hideous skeleton of literature at bay never
stalks there, on the prowl for a clever sally or an interesting
subject.
The memory of one of these evenings especially dwells with me, less by
reason of a confidence in which the illustrious de Marsay opened up
one of the deepest recesses of woman's heart, than on account of the
reflections to which his narrative gave rise, as to the changes that
have taken place in the French woman since the fateful revolution of
July.
On that evening chance had brought together several persons, whose
indisputable merits have won them European reputations. This is not a
piece of flattery addressed to France, for there were a good many
foreigners present. And, indeed, the men who most shone were not the
most famous. Ingenious repartee, acute remarks, admirable banter,
pictures sketched with brilliant precision, all sparkled and flowed
without elaboration, were poured out without disdain, but without
effort, and were exquisitely expressed and delicately appreciated. The
men of the world especially were conspicuous for their really artistic
grace and spirit.
Elsewhere in Europe you will find elegant manners, cordiality, genial
fellowship, and knowledge; but only in Paris, in this drawing-room,
and those to which I have alluded, does the particular wit abound
which gives an agreeable and changeful unity to all these social
qualities, an indescribable river-like flow which makes this profusion
of ideas, of definitions, of anecdotes, of historical incidents,
meander with ease. Paris, the capital of taste, alone possesses the
science which makes conversation a tourney in which each type of wit
is condensed into a shaft, each speaker utters his phrase and casts
his experience in a word, in which every one finds amusement,
relaxation, and exercise. Here, then, alone, will you exchange ideas;
here you need not, like the dolphin in the fable, carry a monkey on
your shoulders; here you will be understood, and will not risk staking
your gold pieces against base metal.
Here, again, secrets neatly betrayed, and talk, light or deep, play
and eddy, changing their aspect and hue at every phrase. Eager
criticism and crisp anecdotes lead on from one to the next. All eyes
are listening, a gesture asks a question, and an expressive look gives
the answer. In short, and in a word, everything is wit and mind.
The phenomenon of speech, which, when duly studied and well handled,
is the power of the actor and the story-teller, had never so
completely bewitched me. Nor was I alone under the influence of its
spell; we all spent a delightful evening. The conversation had drifted
into anecdote, and brought out in its rushing course some curious
confessions, several portraits, and a thousand follies, which make
this enchanting improvisation impossible to record; still, by setting
these things down in all their natural freshness and abruptness, their
elusive divarications, you may perhaps feel the charm of a real French
evening, taken at the moment when the most engaging familiarity makes
each one forget his own interests, his personal conceit, or, if you
like, his pretensions.
At about two in the morning, as supper ended, no one was left sitting
round the table but intimate friends, proved by intercourse of fifteen
years, and some persons of great taste and good breeding, who knew the
world. By tacit agreement, perfectly carried out, at supper every one
renounced his pretensions to importance. Perfect equality set the
tone. But indeed there was no one present who was not very proud of
being himself.
Mademoiselle des Touches always insists on her guests remaining at
table till they leave, having frequently remarked the change which a
move produces in the spirit of a party. Between the dining-room and
the drawing-room the charm is destroyed. According to Sterne, the
ideas of an author after shaving are different from those he had
before. If Sterne is right, may it not be boldly asserted that the
frame of mind of a party at table is not the same as that of the same
persons returned to the drawing-room? The atmosphere is not heady, the
eye no longer contemplates the brilliant disorder of the dessert, lost
are the happy effects of that laxness of mood, that benevolence which
comes over us while we remain in the humor peculiar to the well-filled
man, settled comfortably on one of the springy chairs which are made
in these days. Perhaps we are not more ready to talk face to face with
the dessert and in the society of good wine, during the delightful
interval when every one may sit with an elbow on the table and his
head resting on his hand. Not only does every one like to talk then,
but also to listen. Digestion, which is almost always attent, is
loquacious or silent, as characters differ. Then every one finds his
opportunity.
Was not this preamble necessary to make you know the charm of the
narrative, by which a celebrated man, now dead, depicted the innocent
jesuistry of women, painting it with the subtlety peculiar to persons
who have seen much of the world, and which makes statesmen such
delightful storytellers when, like Prince Talleyrand and Prince
Metternich, they vouchsafe to tell a story?
De Marsay, prime minister for some six months, had already given
proofs of superior capabilities. Those who had known him long were not
indeed surprised to see him display all the talents and various
aptitudes of a statesman; still it might yet be a question whether he
would prove to be a solid politician, or had merely been moulded in
the fire of circumstance. This question had just been asked by a man
whom he had made a prefet, a man of wit and observation, who had for a
long time been a journalist, and who admired de Marsay without
infusing into his admiration that dash of acrid criticism by which, in
Paris, one superior man excuses himself from admiring another.
"Was there ever," said he, "in your former life, any event, any
thought or wish which told you what your vocation was?" asked Emile
Blondet; "for we all, like Newton, have our apple, which falls and
leads us to the spot where our faculties develop----"
"Yes," said de Marsay; "I will tell you about it."
Pretty women, political dandies, artists, old men, de Marsay's
intimate friends,--all settled themselves comfortably, each in his
favorite attitude, to look at the Minister. Need it be said that the
servants had left, that the doors were shut, and the curtains drawn
over them? The silence was so complete that the murmurs of the
coachmen's voices could be heard from the courtyard, and the pawing
and champing made by horses when asking to be taken back to their
stable.
"The statesman, my friends, exists by one single quality," said the
Minister, playing with his gold and mother-of-pearl dessert knife. "To
wit: the power of always being master of himself; of profiting more or
less, under all circumstances, by every event, however fortuitous; in
short, of having within himself a cold and disinterested other self,
who looks on as a spectator at all the changes of life, noting our
passions and our sentiments, and whispering to us in every case the
judgment of a sort of moral ready-reckoner."
"That explains why a statesman is so rare a thing in France," said old
Lord Dudley.
"From a sentimental point of view, this is horrible," the Minister
went on. "Hence, when such a phenomenon is seen in a young man--
Richelieu, who, when warned overnight by a letter of Concini's peril,
slept till midday, when his benefactor was killed at ten o'clock--or
say Pitt, or Napoleon, he was a monster. I became such a monster at a
very early age, thanks to a woman."
"I fancied," said Madame de Montcornet with a smile, "that more
politicians were undone by us than we could make."
"The monster of which I speak is a monster just because he withstands
you," replied de Marsay, with a little ironical bow.
"If this is a love-story," the Baronne de Nucingen interposed, "I
request that it may not be interrupted by any reflections."
"Reflection is so antipathetic to it!" cried Joseph Bridau.
"I was seventeen," de Marsay went on; "the Restoration was being
consolidated; my old friends know how impetuous and fervid I was then.
I was in love for the first time, and I was--I may say so now--one of
the handsomest young fellows in Paris. I had youth and good looks, two
advantages due to good fortune, but of which we are all as proud as of
a conquest. I must be silent as to the rest.--Like all youths, I was
in love with a woman six years older than myself. No one of you here,"
said he, looking carefully round the table, "can suspect her name or
recognize her. Ronquerolles alone, at the time, ever guessed my
secret. He had kept it well, but I should have feared his smile.
However, he is gone," said the Minister, looking round.
"He would not stay to supper," said Madame de Nucingen.
"For six months, possessed by my passion," de Marsay went on, "but
incapable of suspecting that it had overmastered me, I had abandoned
myself to that rapturous idolatry which is at once the triumph and the
frail joy of the young. I treasured /her/ old gloves; I drank an
infusion of the flowers /she/ had worn; I got out of bed at night to
go and gaze at /her/ window. All my blood rushed to my heart when I
inhaled the perfume she used. I was miles away from knowing that woman
is a stove with a marble casing."
"Oh! spare us your terrible verdicts," cried Madame de Montcornet with
a smile.
"I believe I should have crushed with my scorn the philosopher who
first uttered this terrible but profoundly true thought," said de
Marsay. "You are all far too keen-sighted for me to say any more on
that point. These few words will remind you of your own follies.
"A great lady if ever there was one, a widow without children--oh! all
was perfect--my idol would shut herself up to mark my linen with her
hair; in short, she responded to my madness by her own. And how can we
fail to believe in passion when it has the guarantee of madness?
"We each devoted all our minds to concealing a love so perfect and so
beautiful from the eyes of the world; and we succeeded. And what charm
we found in our escapades! Of her I will say nothing. She was
perfection then, and to this day is considered one of the most
beautiful women in Paris; but at that time a man would have endured
death to win one of her glances. She had been left with an amount of
fortune sufficient for a woman who had loved and was adored; but the
Restoration, to which she owed renewed lustre, made it seem inadequate
in comparison with her name. In my position I was so fatuous as never
to dream of a suspicion. Though my jealousy would have been of a
hundred and twenty Othello-power, that terrible passion slumbered in
me as gold in the nugget. I would have ordered my servant to thrash me
if I had been so base as ever to doubt the purity of that angel--so
fragile and so strong, so fair, so artless, pure, spotless, and whose
blue eyes allowed my gaze to sound it to the very depths of her heart
with adorable submissiveness. Never was there the slightest hesitancy
in her attitude, her look, or word; always white and fresh, and ready
for the Beloved like the Oriental Lily of the 'Song of Songs!' Ah! my
friends!" sadly exclaimed the Minister, grown young again, "a man must
hit his head very hard on the marble to dispel that poem!"
This cry of nature, finding an echo in the listeners, spurred the
curiosity he had excited in them with so much skill.
"Every morning, riding Sultan--the fine horse you sent me from
England," de Marsay went on, addressing Lord Dudley, "I rode past her
open carriage, the horses' pace being intentionally reduced to a walk,
and read the order of the day signaled to me by the flowers of her
bouquet in case we were unable to exchange a few words. Though we saw
each other almost every evening in society, and she wrote to me every
day, to deceive the curious and mislead the observant we had adopted a
scheme of conduct: never to look at each other; to avoid meeting; to
speak ill of each other. Self-admiration, swagger, or playing the
disdained swain,--all these old manoeuvres are not to compare on
either part with a false passion professed for an indifferent person
and an air of indifference towards the true idol. If two lovers will
only play that game, the world will always be deceived; but then they
must be very secure of each other.
"Her stalking-horse was a man in high favor, a courtier, cold and
sanctimonious, whom she never received at her own house. This little
comedy was performed for the benefit of simpletons and drawing-room
circles, who laughed at it. Marriage was never spoken of between us;
six years' difference of age might give her pause; she knew nothing of
my fortune, of which, on principle, I have always kept the secret. I,
on my part, fascinated by her wit and manners, by the extent of her
knowledge and her experience of the world, would have married her
without a thought. At the same time, her reserve charmed me. If she
had been the first to speak of marriage in a certain tone, I might
perhaps have noted it as vulgar in that accomplished soul.
"Six months, full and perfect--a diamond of the purest water! That has
been my portion of love in this base world.
"One morning, attacked by the feverish stiffness which marks the
beginning of a cold, I wrote her a line to put off one of those secret
festivals which are buried under the roofs of Paris like pearls in the
sea. No sooner was the letter sent than remorse seized me: she will
not believe that I am ill! thought I. She was wont to affect jealousy
and suspiciousness.--When jealousy is genuine," said de Marsay,
interrupting himself, "it is the visible sign of an unique passion."
"Why?" asked the Princesse de Cadignan eagerly.
"Unique and true love," said de Marsay, "produces a sort of corporeal
apathy attuned to the contemplation into which one falls. Then the
mind complicates everything; it works on itself, pictures its fancies,
turns them into reality and torment; and such jealousy is as
delightful as it is distressing."
A foreign minister smiled as, by the light of memory, he felt the
truth of this remark.
"Besides," de Marsay went on, "I said to myself, why miss a happy
hour? Was it not better to go, even though feverish? And, then, if she
learns that I am ill, I believe her capable of hurrying here and
compromising herself. I made an effort; I wrote a second letter, and
carried it myself, for my confidential servant was now gone. The river
lay between us. I had to cross Paris; but at last, within a suitable
distance of her house, I caught sight of a messenger; I charged him to
have the note sent up to her at once, and I had the happy idea of
driving past her door in a hackney cab to see whether she might not by
chance receive the two letters together. At the moment when I arrived
it was two o'clock; the great gate opened to admit a carriage. Whose?
--That of the stalking-horse!
"It is fifteen years since--well, even while I tell the tale, I, the
exhausted orator, the Minister dried up by the friction of public
business, I still feel a surging in my heart and the hot blood about
my diaphragm. At the end of an hour I passed once more; the carriage
was still in the courtyard! My note no doubt was in the porter's
hands. At last, at half-past three, the carriage drove out. I could
observe my rival's expression; he was grave, and did not smile; but he
was in love, and no doubt there was business in hand.
"I went to keep my appointment; the queen of my heart met me; I saw
her calm, pure, serene. And here I must confess that I have always
thought that Othello was not only stupid, but showed very bad taste.
Only a man who is half a Negro could behave so: indeed Shakespeare
felt this when he called his play 'The Moor of Venice.' The sight of
the woman we love is such a balm to the heart that it must dispel
anguish, doubt, and sorrow. All my rage vanished. I could smile again.
Hence this cheerfulness, which at my age now would be the most
atrocious dissimulation, was the result of my youth and my love. My
jealousy once buried, I had the power of observation. My ailing
condition was evident; the horrible doubts that had fermented in me
increased it. At last I found an opening for putting in these words:
'You have had no one with you this morning?' making a pretext of the
uneasiness I had felt in the fear lest she should have disposed of her
time after receiving my first note.--'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'only a man
could have such ideas! As if I could think of anything but your
suffering. Till the moment when I received your second note I could
think only of how I could contrive to see you.'--'And you were
alone?'--'Alone,' said she, looking at me with a face of innocence so
perfect that it must have been his distrust of such a look as that
which made the Moor kill Desdemona. As she lived alone in the house,
the word was a fearful lie. One single lie destroys the absolute
confidence which to some souls is the very foundation of happiness.
"To explain to you what passed in me at that moment it must be assumed
that we have an internal self of which the exterior /I/ is but the
husk; that this self, as brilliant as light, is as fragile as a shade
--well, that beautiful self was in me thenceforth for ever shrouded in
crape. Yes; I felt a cold and fleshless hand cast over me the winding-
sheet of experience, dooming me to the eternal mourning into which the
first betrayal plunges the soul. As I cast my eyes down that she might
not observe my dizziness, this proud thought somewhat restored my
strength: 'If she is deceiving you, she is unworthy of you!'
"I ascribed my sudden reddening and the tears which started to my eyes
to an attack of pain, and the sweet creature insisted on driving me
home with the blinds of the cab drawn. On the way she was full of a
solicitude and tenderness that might have deceived the Moor of Venice
whom I have taken as a standard of comparison. Indeed, if that great
child were to hesitate two seconds longer, every intelligent spectator
feels that he would ask Desdemona's forgiveness. Thus, killing the
woman is the act of a boy.--She wept as we parted, so much was she
distressed at being unable to nurse me herself. She wished she were my
valet, in whose happiness she found a cause of envy, and all this was
as elegantly expressed, oh! as Clarissa might have written in her
happiness. There is always a precious ape in the prettiest and most
angelic woman!"
At these words all the women looked down, as if hurt by this brutal
truth so brutally stated.
"I will say nothing of the night, nor of the week I spent," de Marsay
went on. "I discovered that I was a statesman."
It was so well said that we all uttered an admiring exclamation.
"As I thought over the really cruel vengeance to be taken on a woman,"
said de Marsay, continuing his story, "with infernal ingenuity--for,
as we had loved each other, some terrible and irreparable revenges
were possible--I despised myself, I felt how common I was, I
insensibly formulated a horrible code--that of Indulgence. In taking
vengeance on a woman, do we not in fact admit that there is but one
for us, that we cannot do without her? And, then, is revenge the way
to win her back? If she is not indispensable, if there are other women
in the world, why not grant her the right to change which we assume?
"This, of course, applies only to passion; in any other sense it would
be socially wrong. Nothing more clearly proves the necessity for
indissoluble marriage than the instability of passion. The two sexes
must be chained up, like wild beasts as they are, by inevitable law,
deaf and mute. Eliminate revenge, and infidelity in love is nothing.
Those who believe that for them there is but one woman in the world
must be in favor of vengeance, and then there is but one form of it--
that of Othello.
"Mine was different."
The words produced in each of us the imperceptible movement which
newspaper writers represent in Parliamentary reports by the words:
/great sensation/.
"Cured of my cold, and of my pure, absolute, divine love, I flung
myself into an adventure, of which the heroine was charming, and of a
style of beauty utterly opposed to that of my deceiving angel. I took
care not to quarrel with this clever woman, who was so good an
actress, for I doubt whether true love can give such gracious delights
as those lavished by such a dexterous fraud. Such refined hypocrisy is
as good as virtue.--I am not speaking to you Englishwomen, my lady,"
said the Minister, suavely, addressing Lady Barimore, Lord Dudley's
daughter. "I tried to be the same lover.
"I wished to have some of my hair worked up for my new angel, and I
went to a skilled artist who at that time dwelt in the Rue Boucher.
The man had a monopoly of capillary keepsakes, and I mention his
address for the benefit of those who have not much hair; he has plenty
of every kind and every color. After I had explained my order, he
showed me his work. I then saw achievements of patience surpassing
those which the story books ascribe to fairies, or which are executed
by prisoners. He brought me up to date as to the caprices and fashions
governing the use of hair. 'For the last year,' said he, 'there has
been a rage for marking linen with hair; happily I had a fine
collection of hair and skilled needlewomen,'--on hearing this a
suspicion flashed upon me; I took out my handkerchief and said, 'So
this was done in your shop, with false hair?'--He looked at the
handkerchief, and said, 'Ay! that lady was very particular, she
insisted on verifying the tint of the hair. My wife herself marked
those handkerchiefs. You have there, sir, one of the finest pieces of
work we have ever executed.' Before this last ray of light I might
have believed something--might have taken a woman's word. I left the
shop still having faith in pleasure, but where love was concerned I
was as atheistical as a mathematician.