If society ever be wholly corrupted, it will be by the idea that it is
already so. Some cynics believe in virtue, sincerity, and happiness,
only as traditions of the past, and by ridicule seek to propagate the
notion. This vain and pedantic philosophy would turn all hearts to
stone, and arm every man with suspicion against all others, declaiming
against the romance of life, as empty sentimentalism; against the
belief in goodness, as youth's sanguine folly; and the hope of pure
happiness, as a fanciful dream, created by a young imagination, to be
dissipated by the teaching of a few years' struggle with the world.
If this be wisdom, I am no philosopher, and I never wish to be one;
for sooner would I float upon the giddy current of fancy, to fall
among quicksands at last, than travel through a dull and dreary world,
without confidence in my companions. That we may be happy, that we
may find sincere friends, that we may meet the good, and enjoy the
beautiful on earth, is a creed that will find believers in all hearts
unsoured by their own asceticism. Virtue will sanctify every fireside
where we invite her to dwell, and if the clouds of misfortune darken
and deform the whole period of our existence, it is a darkness that
emanates from ourselves, and a deformity created by us to our own
unhappiness.
Yet this is not relating the little story which is the object of my
observations. The axiom which I wish to lay down, to maintain, and to
prove correct, is, that married life may be with most people, should
be with all, and is with many, a state of happiness. The reader
may smile at my boldness, but the history of the personages I shall
introduce to walk their hour on this my little stage, will justify my
adopting the maxim.
M. Pierre Lavalles, owner of a vineyard, near a certain village
in the south of France, wooed and wedded Mdlle. Julie Gouchard.
Exactly where they dwelt, and all the precise circumstances of their
position, I do not mean to indicate, and if I might offer a hint to
my contemporaries, it would be a gentle suggestion that they occupy
too much time, paper, and language in geographical and genealogical
details, very wearisome, because very unnecessary. Monsieur Pierre
Lavalles then lived in a pretty house, near a certain village in a
vine-growing district of the south of France, and when he took his
young wife home, he showed her great stores of excellent things,
calculated well for the comfortable subsistence of a youthful and
worthy couple. Flowers and blossoming trees shed odor near the lattice
windows, verdure soft and green was spread over the garden, and the
mantling vine "laid forth the purple grape," over a rich and sunny
plantation near at hand. The house was small, but neat, and well
furnished in the style of the province, and Monsieur and Madame Pierre
Lavalles lived very happily in plenty and content.
Here I leave them, and introduce the reader to Monsieur Antoine
Perron, notary in the neighboring village.
Let me linger over a notice of this individual. He was a good man, and
what is more curious an honest lawyer. Indeed, in spite of my happy
theory, I may say that such a good man, and such a good lawyer you
could seldom meet. All the village knew him; he mixed up in every
one's quarrels; not, as is usually the case, to make confusion worse
confounded by a double-tongued hypocrisy, but to produce conciliation;
he mingled in every one's affairs, not to pick up profit for himself,
but to prevent the villagers from running into losses and imprudent
speculations; he talked much, yet, it was not slander, but advice; he
thought more, yet it was not over mischief, but on schemes of good;
he was known to everybody, yet none that knew him respected him the
less on that account. He was a little, spare, merry-looking man, that
sought to appear grave when he was most inclined to merriment, and
if he considered himself a perfect genius in his plans for effecting
good, his vanity may be pardoned, because of the food it fed on.
M. Antoine Perron considered himself very ingenious, and if he had a
fault, it was his love of originality. He never liked to perform any
action in a common way, and never chuckled so gaily to himself, as
when he had achieved some charitable end by some extraordinary means.
It was seven months after the marriage of M. Pierre Lavalles, M.
Antoine Perron sat in his little parlor, and gazed with a glad eye
upon the cheerful fire, for the short winter was just terminating.
Leaning forward in his chair, he shaded his face with his hands, and
steadily perused the figures among the coals with a most pleasant
countenance. The room was small, neat, and comfortable, for the notary
prospered, in his humble way and seeking only comfort found it, and
was content.
Suddenly a violent knocking at the door aroused him from his reverie,
and he heard his old servant rushing to open it. In a moment, two
persons were ushered into the room, and the notary leaped to his
feet in astonishment at the extraordinary scene before him. Had a
thunderbolt cloven the roof, and passed through his hearth to its
grave in the center of the globe, or had the trees that nodded their
naked branches without the window commenced a dance upon the snowy
ground, he had not been more surprised.
Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, and Madame Pierre Lavalles stood just inside
the doorway. Never had Monsieur Perron seen them before, as he saw
them now. Like turtle-doves, with smiling eyes, and affectionate
caress, they had lived in happy harmony during the seven months of
their married life, and motherly dames, when they gave their daughters
away, bade them prosper and be pleasant in their union, as they had
been joyous in their love, pleasant and joyous, as neighbor Lavalles
and his wife.
Now, Pierre stood red and angry, with his right arm extended,
gesticulating toward his wife. Julie stood red and angry, with her
left arm extended, gesticulating toward her husband. Eyes, that had
only radiated smiles, flashed with fierce passion, as the turtle doves
remained near the door, each endeavoring to anticipate the other in
some address to the worthy notary. He, aghast and perplexed, waited
for the _denouement_.
"Madame," said Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, "allow me to speak."
"Monsieur," said Madame Pierre Lavalles. "I insist--"
"But, Madame, it is my--"
"But, Monsieur, I say I will."
"And yet I will."
"But no--"
"Madame, I shall."
"Then be careful what you do; M. Perron, M. Lavalles is mad."
Then the lady, having thus emphatically declared herself, resigned the
right of speech to her husband, who began to jerk out in disconnected
phrases a statement of his case. Seven days ago he had annoyed his
wife by some incautious word; she had annoyed him by an incautious
answer; he had made matters worse by an aggravating retort; and she
had widened the breach by a bitter reply. This little squall was
succeeded by a cool calm, and that by a sullen silence, until some
sudden friction kindled a new flame, and finally, after successive
storms and lulls, there burst forth a furious conflagration, and
in the violent collision of their anger, the seven-months' married
pair vowed to separate, and with that resolve had visited M. Perron.
Reconciliation they declared was beyond possibility, and they
requested the notary at once to draw up the documents that should
consign them to different homes, to subsist on a divided patrimony,
in loveless and unhappy marriage. Each told a tale in turn, and the
manner of relation added fuel to the anger of the other. The man and
the woman seemed to have leaped out of their nature in the accession
of their passion. Pity that a quarrel should ever dilate thus, from a
cloud the size of a man's hand to a thunder-storm that covers heaven
with its black and dismal canopy.
Neither would listen to reason. The duty of the notary was to prepare
the process by which they were to be separated.
"Monsieur," he said, "I will arrange the affair for you; but you are
acquainted with the laws of France in this respect!"
"I know nothing of the law," replied M. Pierre Lavalles.
"Madame," said the notary, "your wish shall be complied with. But you
know what the law says on this head?"
"I never read a law book," sharply ejaculated Madame Pierre Lavalles.
"Then," resumed the notary, "the case is this. You must return to
your house, and I will proceed to settle the proceedings with the
Judicatory Court at Paris. They are very strict. You must furnish me
with all the documents relative to property."
"I have them here," put in the husband, by way of parenthesis.
"And the whole affair including correspondence, preparations of
instruments, &c., will be settled in less than three months."
"Three months?"
"Three months. Yes, in less than three months."
"Then I will live with a friend at the village, until it is finished,"
said Madame Lavalles, in a decided, peremptory tone, usual with ladies
when they are a little ashamed of themselves, or any one else.
"Oh, very well, Madame,--oh, very well."
"Not at all well, Madame; not at all well, Monsieur," said the notary,
with a solid, immovable voice. "You must live as usual. If you doubt
my knowledge of the law, you will, by reading through these seven
books, find that this fact is specified."
But the irritated couple were not disposed to undertake the
somniferous task, and shortly left the house, as they had come,
walking the same way, but at a distance of a yard or so one from
another.
Two months and twenty-seven days had passed, when the notary issued
from his house, and proceeded toward the house where Monsieur and
Madame Lavalles dwelt. Since the fatal night I have described, he
had not encountered them, and he now, with a bland face and confident
head, approached the dwelling.
It was a pretty place. Passing through the sunny vineyards where the
spring was just calling out the leaves, and the young shoots in their
tints of tender green were sprouting in the warmth of a pleasant day;
the notary entered a garden. Here the flowers, in infant bloom, had
prepared the earth for the coming season, for summer in her gay attire
was tripping from the south, and as she passed, nature wove garlands
to adorn her head, and wreathe about her arms. Early blossoms lent
sweetness to the breath of the idle winds that loitered in this
delightful spot, and the fair young primrose was sown over the
parterres, with other flowers of spring, the most delicate and softly
fragrant, that come out to live their hour in modesty and safety,
while the earth affords them room, and before the bright and gaudy
bloom of a riper season eclipses their beauty, bidding them, blushing,
close their petals.
Early roses twined on either side the porch, and as the notary
entered, nothing struck him more than the neat and cheerful appearance
of the place. A demoiselle ushered him into a little parlor, where
Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, and Madame Julie Lavalles, had just sat down
to partake breakfast.
A small table was drawn up close to the open window, and vernal
breezes found welcome in the chamber. A snowy cloth hung down to the
well-polished floor, and tall white cups were placed upon it to rival
it in purity and grace. Cakes of bread, such bread as is only had in
France, with delicious butter, and rich brown foaming coffee frothed
with cream, were spread before them, and a basket of fresh spring
flowers, sparkling with dew and beautifully odorous, scented the whole
chamber with a delicate perfume.
The husband and wife sat side by side, with pleasant looks, and so
engaged in light and amiable conversation, that they hardly noticed
the entrance of the notary. The storm had vanished and left no trace.
Flushes of anger, flashes of spite, quick breathings, and disordered
looks--all these had passed, and now smiles, and eyes lit only with
kindness, and bosoms beating with calm content, and looks all full of
love, were alone to be observed.
When M. Antoine Perron entered, they started; at length, and then
recollecting his mission, blushed crimson, looked one at another, and
then at the ground, awaiting his address.
"Monsieur, and Madame," said the notary, "according to your desires
I come with all the documents necessary for your separation, and the
division of your property. They only want your signature, and we will
call in your servant to be witness."
"Stay," exclaimed Madame Julie, laughing at her husband, "Pierre,
explain to M. Perron."
"Ah, Monsieur Perron," said Monsieur Antoine Lavalles, "we had
forgotten that, and hoped you had also. Say not a word of it to any
one."
"No, not a word," said Madame Julie. "We never quarreled but once
since we married, and we never mean to quarrel again."
"Not unless you provoke it," said Monsieur Lavalles, audaciously. "But
M. Perron, you will take breakfast with us?"
"You're a wicked wretch," said Madame Julie, tapping him on the cheek.
"After breakfast, M. Perron, we will sign the papers."
"After breakfast," said M. Pierre Lavalles, "we will burn them."
"We shall see," said the notary. "Sign them or burn them. Madame Julie
Lavalles, your coffee is charming."
* * * * *
After seven months' harmony, do not let seven days' quarrel destroy
the happiness of home. Do not follow the directions of a person in a
passion. Allow him to cool and consider his purpose.
* * * * *
[FROM DICKENS'S HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]