I have never written prefaces to my novels; I have always considered
what an author says in a preface, what he therein explains beforehand to
the reader, as utterly useless. The reader would be entitled to reply,
as Alceste replies to Orontes: “We shall see.”
Nor have I ever supposed that the public read a novel in order to talk
with its author. It matters little to my readers, I presume, whether I
am young or old, short or tall, whether I write in the morning or at
night; what they want is a work that pleases them, in which there is
enough of truth to enable them to identify themselves with the
characters; and if the author constantly talks of himself and stations
himself between his heroes and his reader, it seems to me that he
destroys the illusion and injures his own work.
My reason for placing a preface at the head of this book has to do with
the title--that title which has caused persons to recoil in dismay who
do not balk at _executioners_, _damned_, _tortured_, _guillotined_, and
other pleasant conceits in which authors indulge without objection. I
propose, not to justify myself, for I do not think myself guilty, but to
reassure some of my readers of the gentler sex, whom my title might
alarm beyond measure.
_Le Cocu!_ What is there so indecent in the word, pray? In the first
place, what does it mean? A married man who is deceived by his wife, a
husband whose wife is unfaithful. Would you like me to give my book such
a title as _The Husband whose Wife was False to Her Vows_? That would
resemble a Pontoise poster. Was it not clearer and simpler to take the
one word which, alone, means all that?
You might have called it the _Predestined_, someone may say. My answer
to that is that that title would have been excellent for those who
understood it, but that very many people would never have guessed that
it meant cuckold; that everybody is not familiar with such conventional
language, and that I write to be understood by everybody.
But, after all, why enter upon such a crusade against a word so often
and so happily employed on the stage? Who does not know that the
immortal Molière called one of his plays _The Imaginary Cuckold_? I have
seen that play acted, and consequently advertised in the streets of
Paris, less than three years ago--at a time, however, when we permitted
ourselves many fewer liberties than at present; and yet I saw no one
draw back with horror or disgust, or indulge in any of these indignant,
nervous outbursts on reading the poster of the Théâtre-Français on which
the announcement of _The Imaginary Cuckold_ was printed. I think,
however, that we should be more strict with respect to what is said on
the stage, than with respect to what is put in a novel; for, if I take
my daughter to the play, and if the characters make unseemly remarks, I
cannot prevent my daughter from hearing them; whereas it is a very easy
matter for me to prevent her reading a novel in which such things are
expressed.
But I repeat, the word cuckold should raise a laugh, and that is all. Is
not that the effect which it produces at the theatre?
“Aye, this is very fine; my children will be gentlemen,
but I shall be a cuckold unless I look to it.”
(_George Dandin_, Act I.)
“Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor;
And if all husbands who live in this town
Would thus receive their wives’ adorers,
The roll of cuckolds would not be so long.”
(_L’École des Femmes_, Act IV.)
“This popinjay, speaking with all respect,
Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will.”
(_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVI.)
You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense,
And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.
(_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVII.)
“His heart was seen to burn,
Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame;
And so at last, striving to be convinced,
I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold.”
(MONTFLEURY, _La Femme Juge et Partie_.)
“What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!
Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!
And, although at last I am too well persuaded,
Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold.”
(Ibid.)
I know that someone will say: “What was all right long ago may not be
right now; other times, other morals.”
I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes,
other hours for meals,--that is all very true; but as to other morals, I
refuse to believe it. We have the same passions, the same failings, the
same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no
better than they; those passions and vices may be concealed under more
polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes
men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress
of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby
will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious,
less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than
those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years
hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not assert, but
which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our
ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so
fastidious--for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the
theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat
broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before
their eyes.
Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style,
why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style,
in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous
scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing?
Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to
past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short
cloaks?
While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair sex, I
cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has
sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.
Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little
free, without being licentious for that reason. _Although sensuality is
dangerous, jests never arouse it._ A work which makes the reader sigh,
which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which
causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose
of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary
to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one’s readers.
Molière did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their
vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.
In _Georgette_, I have sketched the life of a kept woman; she ends in a
way not likely to attract imitators. In _Brother Jacques_, I have
depicted a gambler, and shown to what lengths that horrible passion may
carry us. In the _Barber of Paris_ two men yield to their respective
passions, avarice and libertinage. Both are punished wherein they have
sinned. _Jean_ proves that a worthily placed passion may make us blush
for our manners, for our ignorance, and may arouse our disgust of bad
company and low resorts. In the _Milkmaid of Montfermeil_, I have tried
to prove that money expended in benefactions reaps a better harvest than
that squandered in follies. _André the Savoyard_ is the story of a poor
child of the mountains; by behaving becomingly, by assisting his mother
and brother, by giving all that he owns to his benefactress, he succeeds
in being happy and in conquering a hopeless love. _Sister Anne_ is a
girl seduced and abandoned. Her seducer, confronted by his mistress and
his wife at once, is given a rough lesson. _The Wife, the Husband and
the Lover_ presents only too true a picture of the conduct of many
married people. _The Natural Man and the Civilized Man_ must demonstrate
the advantages of education. If these works have not a moral, it is
probably because I was unable to write them with sufficient skill to
bring it home to my readers.
But I have said enough, yes, too much, of my novels; and all apropos of
this poor _Cocu_! In heaven’s name, mesdames, do not let the title
alarm you. The epigraph of the book must have reassured you to some
slight extent: read on therefore without fear, do not condemn without a
hearing. Perhaps you will find this novel less hilarious than you
imagine; perhaps indeed you will think that I might have, that I should
have presented my hero in quite a different guise. But if this novel,
such as it is, does not please you, forgive me, mesdames; I will try to
do better in another work; for _Le Cocu_, which I offer you to-day, will
not, I trust, be the last that I shall write.