HUSBAND AND WIFE.
When it is so plain to lookers-on that people ought to be happy, how
perverse it is of them to be miserable! As the queen had declared,
Gabrielle Marquise de Gange had no ostensible excuse for wretchedness.
The specks on the sun of her good fortune were so tiny as to be
well-nigh invisible. Upon the background of her portrait by Madame le
Brun, that ingenious artist had inscribed in a hand so clear that all
who ran might read, "The fairest woman of her time."
Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Breze, when she appeared at court in the
capacity of maid of honour, took the town by storm. Veteran
lady-killers withdrew gold toothpicks from their gums to vow that so
brilliant a complexion, such melting eyes that changed like the moody
sea, from blue to deepest violet, such a bewitching little nose, and
such deliciously fresh lips, had never been seen before; "and her
figure! and her ankle!! and her arm and shoulder!!!" chimed in the
younger swains whose hearts were already in their hands to be flung
down as a palpitating carpet for her dainty little shoes.
The queen was enchanted with the success of her _protegee_, who was
speedily surrounded by an increasing circle of danglers who minced
with toes turned out, shook back their costly ruffles, and lisped the
most honeyed compliments from morn to dewy eve. She enjoyed her new
position vastly, was blithe as a young bird, and gazed fearlessly on
into a future, which seemed an interminable vista paved with roses.
Nor was she the least spoilt by adulation. She liked flattery, as
every pretty woman does, but looked forward at no very distant period
to the sober, substantial enjoyment of calm domestic happiness. When
it pleased her parents to provide a spouse, she was prepared to take
him to her heart as a dutiful daughter should, and lavish on him all
the treasures of a young and guileless affection.
The king was glad of her success, because she was the child of the
Marechal de Breze, a veteran of the good old school, whose body had
been improved and beautified by honourable scars won in his country's
battles. As for Madame de Breze, people endured her existence. She was
a fool and a chatterbox, and wrinkled to boot, with an extraordinary
capacity for seeing things awry, and sagely commenting on them after
the fashion of a Greek chorus. No one took heed of her, but all liked
and respected the red-visaged old soldier whose rough rind covered a
generous nature, and whose purse-strings were always slack.
For the Marechal de Breze was no mere soldier of fortune with naught
in his valise except a baton. He was rich in moneys safely banked with
Necker at Geneva; possessed estates in smiling Touraine; and,
moreover, was afflicted with the possession of an ancient and dismal
chateau on the Loire, whose waters mirrored a labyrinth of
high-pitched roofs, gaunt turrets, and grim gargoyles.
Of noble birth, entrancingly lovely, and an heiress. Heavens! what a
combination; and at a time, too, as the queen had remarked, when
everyone was out at elbows. It was evident that such a phenomenon must
be snapped up at once; and straightway--helter-skelter up the wide
stairs of the Hotel de Breze rushed a mob of needy suitors--a hungry
pack, yelling in full cry, whose ravenous ardour so scared madame that
she forgot to improve the occasion. They had never loved till now,
they cried in unison. Their quarterings were legion, their rent-rolls
were miles long. The tenants never paid, and the ermine was somewhat
mud-stained, but these were trifling details. They all adored the
divine Gabrielle for herself--her angel form alone; that she should
happen to be an heiress was another detail, and of course rather a
drawback than otherwise.
The marechal laughed till his round red face was blue, for these
disinterested persons oozed with ravening greed. The queen looked
grave. To save her favourite from the maw of vultures was a
responsibility she would not shirk. A spouse must be found for
Gabrielle who might be trusted not to be outrageously bad to her. In
these days a good husband of fitting rank was an extinct animal.
Warily scanning the horizon, Marie Antoinette fixed, as the fitting
swain, on Clovis, Marquis de Gange, and de Breze agreed with her
majesty that Clovis was just the man.
So far as family went, the De Ganges could compete with the noblest.
Acres had dwindled; tenants were recalcitrant; Clovis's income was
little more than nominal, but nowadays poverty was modish in the
highest circles; and, besides, it is well that the husband of a great
heiress should be kept under due control. The cunning old soldier had
settled long ago that the spouse of his daughter should not make ducks
and drakes of her broad pieces, at least without her full consent. He
had arranged in his own mind that he would bind up the money tight,
and place it in her hands, hedged about with safeguards when called to
another world. Till then he would himself dispense his fortune as his
darling should wish and dictate. To this arrangement de Gange was
quite agreeable, knowing that the marechal was no skin-flint who would
need abject suing. The old gentleman, who flattered himself that he
was a judge of character, scanned the young man's features with keen
scrutiny, and on the smooth surface could detect nothing of the
ravenous wolf. The marquis was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow,
dreamy and absent in manner, pedantic in his ways, a trifle too much
enamoured of the crotchets of his day.
In the waning eighteenth century, while ladies were hopelessly
frivolous or else weighed down with pedantry, the gentlemen came for
the most part under three categories. There was the debauched
voluptuary, ruined alike in health, purse, and reputation, whose
honour was perforce upon his sleeve, since there was no room in his
body for aught but selfishness. Then there was a feeble imitator who
was as artistically unsatisfactory as nondescripts always are, for his
fragment of conscience pulled him one way, and his envious admiration
of stupendous wickedness another. He was always on the see-saw between
vice and virtue, barely within touch of either. The third class was
the most interesting, for it was clothed in mystery and draped in
paradox. The dark and uncanny and incomprehensible engrossed the minds
of this set. Revealed religion having been voted out of date by the
encyclopaedists and others, it was necessary to replace the broken idol
with another. It was affirmed that Nature was moved by secret springs,
governed by a world of spirits whom it was possible to coerce and
bring under man's dominion. It was discovered that talismans,
astrology, magic sciences, were not the vulgar impostures denounced by
a jealous priestcraft; that the _genus homo_ was composed of two
distinct organisms, one visible and one invisible, the latter of which
was privileged to roam freely about the universe, paying morning calls
in remote planets, communing with angelic hosts. This was a
fascinating theory for many reasons. The spirits who pulled our
world-strings were good and bad, and alike vulnerable. Clearly, then,
it was the distinct duty of philanthropists to fight and conquer those
who were responsible for human ills. How delightful a sensation to
seize a naughty spirit by the hair and administer a sound drubbing! To
wrestle with the one, for instance, who is responsible for gout, and
return him tweak for tweak! The yoke of the evil ones must be thrown
off, that humanity, comfortably free from pain and sorrow, might sit
down and enjoy millennium.
Hence, the dreamy people who vaguely wished well to their fellows,
joined the train of mystics, laid claim to superior virtue, and
titillated their petty vanity by posing cheaply as philanthropists.
Then think of the refreshing variety which might be introduced into
one's amours! A weariful succession of mundane mistresses is so
palling to a jaded palate. But according to the new creed, as your
earthly tenement was occupied, _faute de mieux_, by commonplace
lovemaking and intrigue, your more fortunate other self was blessed by
an ethereal Affinity. While, in the flesh, you dallied, for want of
something more amusing to do, at the feet of Phryne, your soul was
flirting with a seraph somewhere in rarified space. It is gravely and
seriously related of the visionary Swedenborg that while he resided in
London, his fleshly frame was continually being refreshed. And how?
His ethereal essence was in constant communion with that of a noble
lady in Gutemburg. Their entwined spirits sat on a satin sofa in a
boudoir illumined by wax candles--which candles were punctually
lighted by respectful footmen at the accustomed hour of the
rendezvous.
The high priest of the new creed was Mesmer, a Swabian doctor, who was
conspicuously successful in waging war against the envious elves who
undermine the health. As to his career of victory there was no doubt
whatever, for by hocus-pocus and laying on of hands, he succeeded in
curing a variety of nervous complaints which the enemy said were due
to diseased imagination. It was idle to deny that somehow or other he
did work miracles. Even St. Thomas, arch-doubter, could believe what
he saw and felt. Under Mesmer's influence the sick took up their beds
and walked, the halt flung away their crutches. The streets about his
dwelling were choked with blazoned coaches. The frivolous and the
earnest alike lost their heads. Considering the peculiarities of his
temperament--too timid and too lazy to act, and therefore easily
satisfied with theory--it was in the nature of things that Clovis,
Marquis de Gange, should be Mesmer's most fervent pupil.
At a period when the peccadilloes of high-born aspirants to eligible
maidens were apt to be somewhat deep-dyed, it would have been absurd
to object to a suitor on the frivolous score of mysticism. The most
exacting of wives could hardly be jealous of a passing flirtation with
the crystal ball of Doctor Dee. Nor could she fairly take umbrage at
delicate attentions to a crucible. Clovis and Gabrielle were married
in the royal chapel, the bride being given away by the most amiable
and unsinning of hard-used monarchs, and the world (who ought to know)
said that the future of the happy pair could not be otherwise than
rosy. They were a model couple, for Clovis was serious and reflective
beyond his years, with a graceful turn for music, while the lovely
face of Gabrielle beamed with affectionate pride. She was quiet,
steady, and domestic, quite smothered under a heap of virtues.
Unfortunately, there were spirits at work who should have been
detected at once in their mischievous game if Mesmer had not been
napping, and duly routed by that prophet for the behoof of his dear
pupil. They should have been carefully exorcised by the Master for his
benefit, and sent packing into space to worry some one else; but as
ill-luck would have it, the prophet was no longer present. All the
medicos of the French capital uprose with one accord, like one large
man, and sent the great Mesmer flying. If the new creed was to be
accepted, where would all the doctors be? It was altogether a
pestilent affair. Bread must not be snatched out of the mouths of
doctors by designing quacks. Deputations of furious physicians rushed
to the Tuileries, charging the luckless Swabian with egregious
misdemeanours, and the king, as was his wont, gave way on the wrong
occasion. Mesmer fell a victim to professional jealousy and ignorance,
and was banished from France. He paid clandestine visits to Paris
between 1785 and 1793, and to the end his following was great, but for
all that, like many another illustrious pioneer, he was kicked and
buffeted by ignorance.
The spirits, whom he was too busy in his absence and his anxieties to
exorcise, played havoc in the new _menage_. Clovis, who took very
kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife's beauty and success,
and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to
him than the _chef-d'[oe]uvre_ of a great painter, which we admire as
our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to
the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our
property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with
the eye of the connoisseur, then--since it is always with us--cease to
contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that.
Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon
came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a
respectful distance.
Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration
from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised
and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it
were, "You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and
true, and full of love, and you shall have it all?" It was not within
her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing
for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven
(which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was
no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and
approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She
was--alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed--quite ignorant of
female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her
mother's gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who,
from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly
accused him of indifference. What had she done to deserve it? As she
complained, she cried a little, which was tiresome. Men abhor feminine
whimpering, which always reddens the nose.
She insisted on knowing in what she had offended. Her listening lord
came down from an excursion in some upper sphere, somewhat irritably
disposed by the interruption, and abruptly assured the weeping lady
that she was mistaken. He admired and liked her very much, and would
like her still better if she would abstain from making scenes. He had
never been in love, he tranquilly confessed, and never would be; had
never been in the meshes of any siren. Perhaps his invisible twin-self
was so devoted somewhere to an "Affinity" as to have engrossed the
love-capacity of both.
Such an explanation did not mend matters. An Affinity, forsooth--in
space! More likely one of flesh and blood in hiding round the corner.
It is humiliating to be calmly told that the man to whom one has given
oneself till death brings parting, has never been in love--ay--and
never will be! Stung by a feeling that was half-suspicious jealousy,
half-outraged pride, the young wife said cutting things which had
better been left unspoken. The face of the marquis darkened. "It
depends on yourself," he remarked, coldly, "whether we dwell together
in peace and amity or not. I have already said that I like and admire
you very much. You must be content to take people as you find them,
for it is manifest that no one can give that which he does not
possess."
It is a grievous thing for a domestically inclined and affectionate
woman to be rudely exhorted to feed on her own tissues; to discover
that, as regards herself and the chosen one, affection is all on one
side. With burning tears of mortification, Gabrielle realised that
though Clovis was as cold as a corpse, she loved him. Perchance the
unconscious fear engendered by contact with so unusual and unexpected
a type, gave birth to a surprised fascination. She set him down as a
very clever and extremely learned man, and, had he so willed it, would
have worshipped at his shrine with the unreasoning satisfaction of
those who are not mentally gifted. She would have whispered with arms
about his neck, "Dear Clovis! I am not clever enough to rise to your
level, but I believe all you say because you say it. So kiss me, for I
am yours for all in all, and so delighted to be lovely and an heiress
for your dear darling sake!" But how to coo forth such pretty prattle
to a figure made of wood? How rest content with being coldly liked,
when you are burning to be beloved? Scathing disappointment and
disillusion! The beautiful and pampered Gabrielle, fortune's favoured
child, moped and fretted, and was miserable.
As years went on matters did not improve, for the unseen fingers of
the naughty spirits were tearing the pair asunder. When she would
fain have pouted out her lips to kiss, he stretched a surface of
cheek that was aggressively passive. He was kind according to his
lights--intended to be quite a model husband, but then wives and
husbands differ as to the way that leads to perfection. Since there
could be no sympathy between them, he interfered with her in no wise.
A man often deems that negative condition of freedom the _summum
bonum_; not so an affectionate woman. It is said that _mariages de
convenance_ are in the long run the most satisfactory unions, because
neither party expects anything, and whatever pleasure may casually
arise from friendly intercourse is to the good, whereas love-matches
are built upon the sand, made up of vague yearnings and unpractical
desires. The inevitable discovery is reached with lamentable rapidity
that dolls are stuffed with bran, and that in a sadly imperfect world
"things are not what they seem." But if sympathy is nil--never existed
at all--what flowers of joy can spring from utter barrenness? Clovis
adored music, and could discourse prettily enough on the 'cello.
Alack! Gabrielle had no ear, could not tell Glueck from Lulli; the
droning of the 'cello set her nerves a tingling; and when the
unappreciated player put down the bow to prate of animal magnetism, as
expounded by the immortal Mesmer, his beautiful wife grew peevish. Oh,
foolish Gabrielle! why could you not be affectionately deceitful since
you loved the man. Is the better sex gifted for nothing with peculiar
attributes? Why not have compelled yourself, with pardonable
falsehood, to ask tenderly after the favourite 'cello, have begged to
be told more of Mesmer? You would, doubtless, have had to listen to
much that would have profoundly bored you; but is not sweet woman's
mission self-effacement--the daily swallowing of a large dose of
boredom? Would you not have been well repaid, if you could have taught
your husband by cunning degrees to seek your society instead of
gadding after science; to prefer to all others a seat in your bower,
with the partner who has become necessary to his comfort?
Certain it is that some of us have a dismal knack of turning our least
comely side to those whom we like best. Whilst inwardly longing to
fling herself prone in the mire and embrace his dear, lovely legs, the
marquise grew nervous in her husband's presence; was fatally impelled
somehow to play the somnambule, and close up like a sleeping flower.
And so it came about that as time wore on the husband sought his
wife's society less and less; grew daily more indifferent.
The Marquise de Gange was not one of those who could find distraction
among danglers. Both education and temperament forbade so improper but
modish a proceeding. To her the circle of admirers were wired dolls,
and tiresome puppets, too. Eating her heart in solitude, she might
have been goaded in time to fly the empty world, and seek the
consolation of a cloister. But she was saved from such grim comfort by
the arrival of a pair of cherubs. A boy and a girl were born unto her,
and thanking God for the saving boon, she arose and felt brave again.
Gabrielle's nature, which had been hardening, though she knew it not,
softened. For the sake of the pink mites she could consent to live on
in a world that was no longer empty. By some magical metamorphosis the
ugly cracks that had yawned across the stony plain had been filled up.
The dun hideousness which by its drear monotony made the eyes ache was
masked by blossom and verdure. Crooning over the silver cradle in
which both treasures slumbered (an extravagance of the enchanted
marechal) she built airy palaces of amazing gorgeousness for them to
dwell in. They were to be shielded by triple walls from care and
sorrow. To money all, we are told, is possible. Then fell the palaces
like piles of cards. Had she not herself been shielded? Had not gold
been freely squandered that not one of her rose leaves should be
crumpled? Yet--but for the advent of the cherubs, and despite the
watchful affection of the doting marechal--had she not been very near
fleeing from the tinsel grandeur of a squalid globe to take refuge at
the altar-foot?
The castles insisted on being built, however. Patience and
long-suffering would reap their reward some day. The cherubs would
grow up and weave an indissoluble link with their young fingers which
should draw the estranged parents together and bind them tight at
last. Their mother would fondly teach them to adore their father, to
see none but his best side. They would learn to respect his crotchets.
And at this point she would herself be lost in dreamy reverie. Could
his tenets with regard to the prophet be aught but midsummer madness?
There was no doubt that he cured the sick. What if it were really
possible to rout the wicked demons and produce millennium? To her
practical but limited intelligence the creed was a farrago of folly.
But then, Clovis, who was so clever, believed in it. Was she more
stupid and ignorant even than humility confessed? Then she would rise
suddenly and go about some household business, with the head-shake of
the antlered stag that scatters dewdrops. The new creed was blasphemy,
and she would have naught to do with it. The holy angels would guard
herself and the dear innocents, if angelic suffrages could be secured
by never-ceasing fervent prayer.
Sages do not care for babies, though mothers generally do. Clovis,
when exhorted to that effect, contemplated his offspring once a day as
some curious product from a distant land, gave each cherub a finger to
suck, then retired with unseemly alacrity to his 'cello and his books.
The ramifications of secret societies in the metropolis were spreading
in all directions--societies which deliberated with closed doors to
escape vulgar ribaldry--bands of philanthropists urged by pure
benevolence, in search now of a universal panacea. Humanity was a vast
brotherhood to be united for mutual defence against the machinations
of the devils. Exhorted by Mesmer from a distance, the faithful toiled
quietly on, that the name of their master might be exalted.
So matters progressed in humdrum fashion for several years, and Clovis
was placidly content; but as the procession of the months went by, a
gradual change came over the societies, which, when he became aware of
it, filled the unmilitant soul of the marquis with dread. Bold
philanthropists, at midnight meetings, would sometimes give vent to
new and startling views, affecting not health, but politics. A few
presumed openly to declare that the evil spirits had got into the
ministers, from whom they must be quickly expelled. Considering that
ministries fell and rose just now at brief intervals, it was shocking
to think how many bad spirits must be at work. M. Necker and Turgot,
and brilliantly fertile Calonne, were all occupied by fiends who
entered in and made themselves comfortable, as the hermit-crab invades
the shell of the creature he has devoured. This theorem being
established, it became the duty of the philanthropists to busy
themselves on behalf of their country, which needed special as well as
prompt doctoring. Then uprose speakers whose discourse smacked little
of philanthropy, but savoured rather of iconoclasm. The Marquis de
Gange, noble and wealthy, would make a splendid figure-head for the
budding movement. Ere he could recover breath, or gather the scattered
strands of his scared wits, Clovis found himself on the point of
becoming an important political personage, and at a moment when
prominence and personal peril marched hand in hand abreast. He
prudently took to shunning the places of meeting, which but the other
day had been his favourite resorts, for he had a horror of politics,
and objected to being made a hero; but the agitators declined to let
him escape so easily. They pursued him to his home, strove to convince
him that he was a patriot; by turns threatened and cajoled, till the
dreamer in an agony beheld no safety but in flight. A pretty state of
things! Was not his wife the favourite of the queen; his father-in-law
esteemed by the king? What would the verdict of his class be, were he
to turn round and bite the hands that had caressed him? He would be
ostracised, undone, held up to merited obloquy. He had no ambition to
become another Lafayette, and declined to be convinced by argument. To
avoid being mixed in complications fraught with danger, it would be
prudent to vanish for a time, but whither to retire was the rub. He
wished to stay and yet to go, and bit his nails in indecision.
Concealed anxiety made calm Clovis querulous and snappish, and
Gabrielle was not slow to perceive that he was suffering, though the
cause she could not guess. He had got himself into some mess. Was it
money? If only he would let her share his worries! Her timid overtures
were promptly nipped; terror made him absolutely harsh. Sighing, she
fell back upon herself, as usual, and kissed the cherubs in their bed.
At the time when this story opens, July, 1789, the marquis and his
wife had been married six years. The latter, though easily led by
kindness, could fitfully display sometimes symptoms of independence.
As a loving and self-respecting woman, she had kept with infinite care
her catalogue of troubles from her parents. They, content with
constant assurances that all was well, desired no further information.
Madame de Breze had settled, to her complete satisfaction, that her
son-in-law was a harmless lunatic. When she obliged him with her
views, he looked through her at something beyond. But then, who had
ever appreciated her sagacity? Well, well. Have not some of our
brightest lights been misunderstood while alive, to be tardily
canonized afterwards? As for M. de Breze, he was perfectly satisfied
with Clovis, who, if eccentric and somewhat fish-like, was
delightfully free from vices. If a man is perfect in manners and
deportment, always civil and obliging, surely you may forgive the
small drawbacks which go with the visionary and the bookworm. The
bluff soldier would have had him drink and gamble more, just to show
that he was human and a man, and be less fond of mysterious societies.
But as Clovis had himself remarked, we must take people as we find
them, and be content with mercies vouchsafed. Why! The marquis might
have turned out an incorrigible rake; have squandered large sums
coaxed from his wife on low theatrical hussies. Thank goodness, he
showed no signs of breaking out in that direction; and it was not
until the _soiree intime_ at the palace that it came home to the
doting father that there might be something amiss in the _menage_.
Gabrielle had looked so unaccountably distressed and confused. She was
concealing something--what? Was the placid marquis an ogre in private?
Of course not. As he strolled home the marechal made up his mind to
pump Toinon on the morrow, and, from hints ingeniously extracted from
that astute damsel, severely catechise his daughter.