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!