The most jesuitical Jesuit of Jesuits is yet a thousand times less
jesuitical than the least jesuitical woman,--so you may judge what
Jesuits women are! They are so jesuitical that the cunningest Jesuit
himself could never guess to what extent of jesuitism a woman may go,
for there are a thousand ways of being jesuitical, and a woman is such
an adroit Jesuit, that she has the knack of being a Jesuit without
having a jesuitical look. You can rarely, though you can sometimes,
prove to a Jesuit that he is one: but try once to demonstrate to a woman
that she acts or talks like a Jesuit. She would be cut to pieces rather
than confess herself one.
She, a Jesuit! The very soul of honor and loyalty! She a Jesuit! What
do you mean by “Jesuit?” She does not know what a Jesuit is: what is
a Jesuit? She has never seen or heard of a Jesuit! It’s you who are
a Jesuit! And she proves with jesuitical demonstration that you are a
subtle Jesuit.
Here is one of the thousand examples of a woman’s jesuitism, and this
example constitutes the most terrible of the petty troubles of married
life; it is perhaps the most serious.
Induced by a desire the thousandth time expressed by Caroline, who
complained that she had to go on foot or that she could not buy a new
hat, a new parasol, a new dress, or any other article of dress, often
enough:
That she could not dress her baby as a sailor, as a lancer, as an
artilleryman of the National Guard, as a Highlander with naked legs and
a cap and feather, in a jacket, in a roundabout, in a velvet sack,
in boots, in trousers: that she could not buy him toys enough, nor
mechanical moving mice and Noah’s Arks enough:
That she could not return Madame Deschars or Madame de Fischtaminel
their civilities, a ball, a party, a dinner: nor take a private box at
the theatre, thus avoiding the necessity of sitting cheek by jowl with
men who are either too polite or not enough so, and of calling a cab at
the close of the performance; apropos of which she thus discourses:
“You think it cheaper, but you are mistaken: men are all the same! I
soil my shoes, I spoil my hat, my shawl gets wet and my silk stockings
get muddy. You economize twenty francs by not having a carriage,--no
not twenty, sixteen, for your pay four for the cab--and you lose fifty
francs’ worth of dress, besides being wounded in your pride on seeing
a faded bonnet on my head: you don’t see why it’s faded, but it’s those
horrid cabs. I say nothing of the annoyance of being tumbled and jostled
by a crowd of men, for it seems you don’t care for that!”
That she could not buy a piano instead of hiring one, nor keep up with
the fashions; (there are some women, she says, who have all the new
styles, but just think what they give in return! She would rather throw
herself out of the window than imitate them! She loves you too much.
Here she sheds tears. She does not understand such women). That she
could not ride in the Champs Elysees, stretched out in her own carriage,
like Madame de Fischtaminel. (There’s a woman who understands life: and
who has a well-taught, well-disciplined and very contented husband: his
wife would go through fire and water for him!)
Finally, beaten in a thousand conjugal scenes, beaten by the most
logical arguments (the late logicians Tripier and Merlin were nothing to
her, as the preceding chapter has sufficiently shown you), beaten by the
most tender caresses, by tears, by your own words turned against you,
for under circumstances like these, a woman lies in wait in her house
like a jaguar in the jungle; she does not appear to listen to you, or to
heed you; but if a single word, a wish, a gesture, escapes you, she arms
herself with it, she whets it to an edge, she brings it to bear upon you
a hundred times over; beaten by such graceful tricks as “If you will do
so and so, I will do this and that;” for women, in these cases, become
greater bargainers than the Jews and Greeks (those, I mean, who sell
perfumes and little girls), than the Arabs (those, I mean, who sell
little boys and horses), greater higglers than the Swiss and the
Genevese, than bankers, and, what is worse than all, than the Genoese!
Finally, beaten in a manner which may be called beaten, you determine
to risk a certain portion of your capital in a business undertaking. One
evening, at twilight, seated side by side, or some morning on awakening,
while Caroline, half asleep, a pink bud in her white linen, her face
smiling in her lace, is beside you, you say to her, “You want this, you
say, or you want that: you told me this or you told me that:” in short,
you hastily enumerate the numberless fancies by which she has over and
over again broken your heart, for there is nothing more dreadful than to
be unable to satisfy the desires of a beloved wife, and you close with
these words:
“Well, my dear, an opportunity offers of quintupling a hundred thousand
francs, and I have decided to make the venture.”
She is wide awake now, she sits up in bed, and gives you a kiss, ah!
this time, a real good one!
“You are a dear boy!” is her first word.
We will not mention her last, for it is an enormous and unpronounceable
onomatope.
“Now,” she says, “tell me all about it.”
You try to explain the nature of the affair. But in the first place,
women do not understand business, and in the next they do not wish to
seem to understand it. Your dear, delighted Caroline says you were wrong
to take her desires, her groans, her sighs for new dresses, in earnest.
She is afraid of your venture, she is frightened at the directors, the
shares, and above all at the running expenses, and doesn’t exactly see
where the dividend comes in.
Axiom.--Women are always afraid of things that have to be divided.
In short, Caroline suspects a trap: but she is delighted to know that
she can have her carriage, her box, the numerous styles of dress for
her baby, and the rest. While dissuading you from engaging in the
speculation, she is visibly glad to see you investing your money in it.
FIRST PERIOD.--“Oh, I am the happiest woman on the face of the earth!
Adolphe has just gone into the most splendid venture. I am going to have
a carriage, oh! ever so much handsomer than Madame de Fischtaminel’s;
hers is out of fashion. Mine will have curtains with fringes. My horses
will be mouse-colored, hers are bay,--they are as common as coppers.”
“What is this venture, madame?”
“Oh, it’s splendid--the stock is going up; he explained it to me before
he went into it, for Adolphe never does anything without consulting me.”
“You are very fortunate.”
“Marriage would be intolerable without entire confidence, and Adolphe
tells me everything.”
Thus, Adolphe, you are the best husband in Paris, you are adorable, you
are a man of genius, you are all heart, an angel. You are petted to an
uncomfortable degree. You bless the marriage tie. Caroline extols men,
calling them “kings of creation,” women were made for them, man is
naturally generous, and matrimony is a delightful institution.
For three, sometimes six, months, Caroline executes the most brilliant
concertos and solos upon this delicious theme: “I shall be rich! I shall
have a thousand a month for my dress: I am going to keep my carriage!”
If your son is alluded to, it is merely to ask about the school to which
he shall be sent.
SECOND PERIOD.--“Well, dear, how is your business getting on?--What
has become of it?--How about that speculation which was to give me a
carriage, and other things?--It is high time that affair should come to
something.--It is a good while cooking.--When _will_ it begin to pay? Is
the stock going up?--There’s nobody like you for hitting upon ventures
that never amount to anything.”
One day she says to you, “Is there really an affair?”
If you mention it eight or ten months after, she returns:
“Ah! Then there really _is_ an affair!”
This woman, whom you thought dull, begins to show signs of extraordinary
wit, when her object is to make fun of you. During this period, Caroline
maintains a compromising silence when people speak of you, or else she
speaks disparagingly of men in general: “Men are not what they seem:
to find them out you must try them.” “Marriage has its good and its bad
points.” “Men never can finish anything.”
THIRD PERIOD.--_Catastrophe_.--This magnificent affair which was to
yield five hundred per cent, in which the most cautious, the best
informed persons took part--peers, deputies, bankers--all of them
Knights of the Legion of Honor--this venture has been obliged to
liquidate! The most sanguine expect to get ten per cent of their capital
back. You are discouraged.
Caroline has often said to you, “Adolphe, what is the matter? Adolphe,
there is something wrong.”
Finally, you acquaint Caroline with the fatal result: she begins by
consoling you.
“One hundred thousand francs lost! We shall have to practice the
strictest economy,” you imprudently add.
The jesuitism of woman bursts out at this word “economy.” It sets fire
to the magazine.
“Ah! that’s what comes of speculating! How is it that _you, ordinarily
so prudent_, could go and risk a hundred thousand francs! _You know I
was against it from the beginning!_ BUT YOU WOULD NOT LISTEN TO ME!”
Upon this, the discussion grows bitter.
You are good for nothing--you have no business capacity; women alone
take clear views of things. You have risked your children’s bread,
though she tried to dissuade you from it.--You cannot say it was for
her. Thank God, she has nothing to reproach herself with. A hundred
times a month she alludes to your disaster: “If my husband had not
thrown away his money in such and such a scheme, I could have had this
and that.” “The next time you want to go into an affair, perhaps you’ll
consult me!” Adolphe is accused and convicted of having foolishly lost
one hundred thousand francs, without an object in view, like a dolt, and
without having consulted his wife. Caroline advises her friends not to
marry. She complains of the incapacity of men who squander the fortunes
of their wives. Caroline is vindictive, she makes herself generally
disagreeable. Pity Adolphe! Lament, ye husbands! O bachelors, rejoice
and be exceeding glad!