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.