holding in her left hand a green cord, which was tied to the collar of
an English terrier, and with her right arm linked with that of a man
in knee-breeches and silk stockings, whose hat had its brim
whimsically turned up, while snow-white tufts of hair like pigeon
plumes rose at its sides. A slender queue, thin as a quill, tossed
about on the back of his sallow neck, which was thick, as far as it
could be seen above the turned down collar of a threadbare coat. This
couple assumed the stately tread of an ambassador; and the husband,
who was at least seventy, stopped complaisantly every time the terrier
began to gambol. I hastened to pass this living impersonation of my
Meditation, and was surprised to the last degree to recognize the
Marquis de T-----, friend of the Comte de Noce, who had owed me for a
long time the end of the interrupted story which I related in the
_Theory of the Bed_. [See Meditation XVII.]
"I have the honor to present to you the Marquise de T-----," he said
to me.
I made a low bow to a lady whose face was pale and wrinkled; her
forehead was surmounted by a toupee, whose flattened ringlets, ranged
around it, deceived no one, but only emphasized, instead of
concealing, the wrinkles by which it was deeply furrowed. The lady was
slightly roughed, and had the appearance of an old country actress.
"I do not see, sir, what you can say against a marriage such as ours,"
said the old man to me.
"The laws of Rome forefend!" I cried, laughing.
The marchioness gave me a look filled with inquietude as well as
disapprobation, which seemed to say, "Is it possible that at my age I
have become but a concubine?"
We sat down upon a bench, in the gloomy clump of trees planted at the
corner of the high terrace which commands La Place Louis XV, on the
side of the Garde-Meuble. Autumn had already begun to strip the trees
of their foliage, and was scattering before our eyes the yellow leaves
of his garland; but the sun nevertheless filled the air with grateful
warmth.
"Well, is your work finished?" asked the old man, in the unctuous
tones peculiar to men of the ancient aristocracy.
And with these words he gave a sardonic smile, as if for commentary.
"Very nearly, sir," I replied. "I have come to the philosophic
situation, which you appear to have reached, but I confess that I--"
"You are searching for ideas?" he added--finishing for me a sentence,
which I confess I did not know how to end.
"Well," he continued, "you may boldly assume, that on arriving at the
winter of his life, a man--a man who thinks, I mean--ends by denying
that love has any existence, in the wild form with which our illusions
invested it!"
"What! would you deny the existence of love on the day after that of
marriage?"
"In the first place, the day after would be the very reason; but my
marriage was a commercial speculation," replied he, stooping to speak
into my ear. "I have thereby purchased the care, the attention, the
services which I need; and I am certain to obtain all the
consideration my age demands; for I have willed all my property to my
nephew, and as my wife will be rich only during my life, you can
imagine how--"
I turned on the old marquis a look so piercing that he wrung my hand
and said: "You seem to have a good heart, for nothing is certain in
this life--"
"Well, you may be sure that I have arranged a pleasant surprise for
her in my will," he replied, gayly.
"Come here, Joseph," cried the marchioness, approaching a servant who
carried an overcoat lined with silk. "The marquis is probably feeling
the cold."
The old marquis put on his overcoat, buttoned it up, and taking my
arm, led me to the sunny side of the terrace.
"In your work," he continued, "you have doubtless spoken of the love
of a young man. Well, if you wish to act up to the scope which you
give to your work--in the word ec--elec--"
"Eclectic," I said, smiling, seeing he could not remember this
philosophic term.
"I know the word well!" he replied. "If then you wish to keep your vow
of eclecticism, you should be willing to express certain virile ideas
on the subject of love which I will communicate to you, and I will not
grudge you the benefit of them, if benefit there be; I wish to
bequeath my property to you, but this will be all that you will get of
it."
"There is no money fortune which is worth as much as a fortune of
ideas if they be valuable ideas! I shall, therefore, listen to you
with a grateful mind."
"There is no such thing as love," pursued the old man, fixing his gaze
upon me. "It is not even a sentiment, it is an unhappy necessity,
which is midway between the needs of the body and those of the soul.
But siding for a moment with your youthful thoughts, let us try to
reason upon this social malady. I suppose that you can only conceive
of love as either a need or a sentiment."
I made a sign of assent.
"Considered as a need," said the old man, "love makes itself felt last
of all our needs, and is the first to cease. We are inclined to love
in our twentieth year, to speak in round numbers, and we cease to do
so at fifty. During these thirty years, how often would the need be
felt, if it were not for the provocation of city manners, and the
modern custom of living in the presence of not one woman, but of women
in general? What is our debt to the perpetuation of the race? It
probably consists in producing as many children as we have breasts--so
that if one dies the other may live. If these two children were always
faithfully produced, what would become of nations? Thirty millions of
people would constitute a population too great for France, for the
soil is not sufficient to guarantee more than ten millions against
misery and hunger. Remember that China is reduced to the expedient of
throwing its children into the water, according to the accounts of
travelers. Now this production of two children is really the whole of
marriage. The superfluous pleasures of marriage are not only
profligate, but involve an immense loss to the man, as I will now
demonstrate. Compare then with this poverty of result, and shortness
of duration, the daily and perpetual urgency of other needs of our
existence. Nature reminds us every hour of our real needs; and, on the
other hand, refuses absolutely to grant the excess which our
imagination sometimes craves in love. It is, therefore, the last of
our needs, and the only one which may be forgotten without causing any
disturbance in the economy of the body. Love is a social luxury like
lace and diamonds. But if we analyze it as a sentiment, we find two
distinct elements in it; namely, pleasure and passion. Now analyze
pleasure. Human affections rest upon two foundations, attraction and
repulsion. Attraction is a universal feeling for those things which
flatter our instinct of self-preservation; repulsion is the exercise
of the same instinct when it tells us that something is near which
threatens it with injury. Everything which profoundly moves our
organization gives us a deeper sense of our existence; such a thing is
pleasure. It is contracted of desire, of effort, and the joy of
possessing something or other. Pleasure is a unique element in life,
and our passions are nothing but modifications, more or less keen, of
pleasure; moreover, familiarity with one pleasure almost always
precludes the enjoyment of all others. Now, love is the least keen and
the least durable of our pleasures. In what would you say the pleasure
of love consists? Does it lie in the beauty of the beloved? In one
evening you may obtain for money the loveliest odalisques; but at the
end of a month you will in this way have burnt out all your sentiment
for all time. Would you love a women because she is well dressed,
elegant, rich, keeps a carriage, has commercial credit? Do not call
this love, for it is vanity, avarice, egotism. Do you love her because
she is intellectual? You are in that case merely obeying the dictates
of literary sentiment."
"But," I said, "love only reveals its pleasures to those who mingle in
one their thoughts, their fortunes, their sentiments, their souls,
their lives--"
"Oh dear, dear!" cried the old man, in a jeering tone. "Can you show
me five men in any nation who have sacrificed anything for a woman? I
do not say their life, for that is a slight thing,--the price of a
human life under Napoleon was never more than twenty thousand francs;
and there are in France to-day two hundred and fifty thousand brave
men who would give theirs for two inches of red ribbon; while seven
men have sacrificed for a woman ten millions on which they might have
slept in solitude for a whole night. Dubreuil and Phmeja are still
rarer than is the love of Dupris and Bolingbroke. These sentiments
proceed from an unknown cause. But you have brought me thus to
consider love as a passion. Yes, indeed, it is the last of them all
and the most contemptible. It promises everything, and fulfils
nothing. It comes, like love, as a need, the last, and dies away the
first. Ah, talk to me of revenge, hatred, avarice, of gaming, of
ambition, of fanaticism. These passions have something virile in them;
these sentiments are imperishable; they make sacrifices every day,
such as love only makes by fits and starts. But," he went on, "suppose
you abjure love. At first there will be no disquietudes, no anxieties,
no worry, none of those little vexations that waste human life. A man
lives happy and tranquil; in his social relations he becomes
infinitely more powerful and influential. This divorce from the thing
called love is the primary secret of power in all men who control
large bodies of men; but this is a mere trifle. Ah! if you knew with
what magic influence a man is endowed, what wealth of intellectual
force, what longevity in physical strength he enjoys, when detaching
himself from every species of human passion he spends all his energy
to the profit of his soul! If you could enjoy for two minutes the
riches which God dispenses to the enlightened men who consider love as
merely a passing need which it is sufficient to satisfy for six months
in their twentieth year; to the men who, scorning the luxurious and
surfeiting beefsteaks of Normandy, feed on the roots which God has
given in abundance, and take their repose on a bed of withered leaves,
like the recluses of the Thebaid!--ah! you would not keep on three
seconds the wool of fifteen merinos which covers you; you would fling
away your childish switch, and go to live in the heaven of heavens!
There you would find the love you sought in vain amid the swine of
earth; there you would hear a concert of somewhat different melody
from that of M. Rossini, voices more faultless than that of Malibran.
But I am speaking as a blind man might, and repeating hearsays. If I
had not visited Germany about the year 1791, I should know nothing of
all this. Yes!--man has a vocation for the infinite. There dwells
within him an instinct that calls him to God. God is all, gives all,
brings oblivion on all, and thought is the thread which he has given
us as a clue to communication with himself!"
He suddenly stopped, and fixed his eyes upon the heavens.
"The poor fellow has lost his wits!" I thought to myself.
"Sir," I said to him, "it would be pushing my devotion to eclectic
philosophy too far to insert your ideas in my book; they would destroy
it. Everything in it is based on love, platonic and sensual. God
forbid that I should end my book by such social blasphemies! I would
rather try to return by some pantagruelian subtlety to my herd of
celibates and honest women, with many an attempt to discover some
social utility in their passions and follies. Oh! if conjugal peace
leads us to arguments so disillusionizing and so gloomy as these, I
know a great many husbands who would prefer war to peace."
"At any rate, young man," the old marquis cried, "I shall never have
to reproach myself with refusing to give true directions to a traveler
who had lost his way."
"Adieu, thou old carcase!" I said to myself; "adieu, thou walking
marriage! Adieu, thou stick of a burnt-out fire-work! Adieu, thou
machine! Although I have given thee from time to time some glimpses of
people dear to me, old family portraits,--back with you to the picture
dealer's shop, to Madame de T-----, and all the rest of them; take
your place round the bier with undertaker's mutes, for all I care!"
MEDITATION XXX.
CONCLUSION.
A recluse, who was credited with the gift of second sight, having
commanded the children of Israel to follow him to a mountain top in
order to hear the revelation of certain mysteries, saw that he was
accompanied by a crowd which took up so much room on the road that,
prophet as he was, his _amour-propre_ was vastly tickled.
But as the mountain was a considerable distance off, it happened that
at the first halt, an artisan remembered that he had to deliver a new
pair of slippers to a duke and peer, a publican fell to thinking how
he had some specie to negotiate, and off they went.
A little further on two lovers lingered under the olive trees and
forgot the discourse of the prophet; for they thought that the
promised land was the spot where they stood, and the divine word was
heard when they talked to one another.
The fat people, loaded with punches a la Sancho, had been wiping their
foreheads with their handkerchiefs, for the last quarter of an hour,
and began to grow thirsty, and therefore halted beside a clear spring.
Certain retired soldiers complained of the corns which tortured them,
and spoke of Austerlitz, and of their tight boots.
At the second halt, certain men of the world whispered together:
"But this prophet is a fool."
"Have you ever heard him?"
"I? I came from sheer curiosity."
"And I because I saw the fellow had a large following." (The last man
who spoke was a fashionable.)
"He is a mere charlatan."
The prophet kept marching on. But when he reached the plateau, from
which a wide horizon spread before him, he turned back, and saw no one
but a poor Israelite, to whom he might have said as the Prince de
Ligne to the wretched little bandy-legged drummer boy, whom he found
on the spot where he expected to see a whole garrison awaiting him:
"Well, my readers, it seems that you have dwindled down to one."
Thou man of God who has followed me so far--I hope that a short
recapitulation will not terrify thee, and I have traveled on under the
impression that thou, like me, hast kept saying to thyself, "Where the
deuce are we going?"
Well, well, this is the place and the time to ask you, respected
reader, what your opinion is with regard to the renewal of the tobacco
monopoly, and what you think of the exorbitant taxes on wines, on the
right to carry firearms, on gaming, on lotteries, on playing cards, on
brandy, on soap, cotton, silks, etc.
"I think that since all these duties make up one-third of the public
revenues, we should be seriously embarrassed if--"
So that, my excellent model husband, if no one got drunk, or gambled,
or smoked, or hunted, in a word if we had neither vices, passions, nor
maladies in France, the State would be within an ace of bankruptcy;
for it seems that the capital of our national income consists of
popular corruptions, as our commerce is kept alive by national luxury.
If you cared to look a little closer into the matter you would see
that all taxes are based upon some moral malady. As a matter of fact,
if we continue this philosophical scrutiny it will appear that the
gendarmes would want horses and leather breeches, if every one kept
the peace, and if there were neither foes nor idle people in the
world. Therefore impose virtue on mankind! Well, I consider that there
are more parallels than people think between my honest woman and the
budget, and I will undertake to prove this by a short essay on
statistics, if you will permit me to finish my book on the same lines
as those on which I have begun it. Will you grant that a lover must
put on more clean shirts than are worn by either a husband, or a
celibate unattached? This to me seems beyond doubt. The difference
between a husband and a lover is seen even in the appearance of their
toilette. The one is careless, he is unshaved, and the other never
appears excepting in full dress. Sterne has pleasantly remarked that
the account book of the laundress was the most authentic record he
knew, as to the life of Tristram Shandy; and that it was easy to guess
from the number of shirts he wore what passages of his book had cost
him most. Well, with regard to lovers the account book of their
laundresses is the most faithful historic record as well as the most
impartial account of their various amours. And really a prodigious
quantity of tippets, cravats, dresses, which are absolutely necessary
to coquetry, is consumed in the course of an amour. A wonderful
prestige is gained by white stockings, the lustre of a collar, or a
shirt-waist, the artistically arranged folds of a man's shirt, or the
taste of his necktie or his collar. This will explain the passages in
which I said of the honest woman [Meditation II], "She spends her life
in having her dresses starched." I have sought information on this
point from a lady in order to learn accurately at what sum was to be
estimated the tax thus imposed by love, and after fixing it at one
hundred francs per annum for a woman, I recollect what she said with
great good humor: "It depends on the character of the man, for some
are so much more particular than others." Nevertheless, after a very
profound discussion, in which I settled upon the sum for the
celibates, and she for her sex, it was agreed that, one thing with
another, since the two lovers belong to the social sphere which this
work concerns, they ought to spend between them, in the matter
referred to, one hundred and fifty francs more than in time of peace.
By a like treaty, friendly in character and long discussed, we
arranged that there should be a collective difference of four hundred
francs between the expenditure for all parts of the dress on a war
footing, and for that on a peace footing. This provision was
considered very paltry by all the powers, masculine or feminine, whom
we consulted. The light thrown upon these delicate matters by the
contributions of certain persons suggested to us the idea of gathering
together certain savants at a dinner party, and taking their wise
counsels for our guidance in these important investigations. The
gathering took place. It was with glass in hand and after listening to
many brilliant speeches that I received for the following chapters on
the budget of love, a sort of legislative sanction. The sum of one
hundred francs was allowed for porters and carriages. Fifty crowns
seemed very reasonable for the little patties that people eat on a
walk, for bouquets of violets and theatre tickets. The sum of two
hundred francs was considered necessary for the extra expense of
dainties and dinners at restaurants. It was during this discussion
that a young cavalryman, who had been made almost tipsy by the
champagne, was called to order for comparing lovers to distilling
machines. But the chapter that gave occasion for the most violent
discussion, and the consideration of which was adjourned for several
weeks, when a report was made, was that concerning presents. At the
last session, the refined Madame de D----- was the first speaker; and
in a graceful address, which testified to the nobility of her
sentiments, she set out to demonstrate that most of the time the gifts
of love had no intrinsic value. The author replied that all lovers had
their portraits taken. A lady objected that a portrait was invested
capital, and care should always be taken to recover it for a second
investment. But suddenly a gentleman of Provence rose to deliver a
philippic against women. He spoke of the greediness which most women
in love exhibited for furs, satins, silks, jewels and furniture; but a
lady interrupted him by asking if Madame d'O-----y, his intimate
friend, had not already paid his debts twice over.
"You are mistaken, madame," said the Provencal, "it was her husband."
"The speaker is called to order," cried the president, "and condemned
to dine the whole party, for having used the word _husband_."
The Provencal was completely refuted by a lady who undertook to prove
that women show much more self-sacrifice in love than men; that lovers
cost very dear, and that the honest woman may consider herself very
fortunate if she gets off with spending on them two thousand francs
for a single year. The discussion was in danger of degenerating into
an exchange of personalities, when a division was called for. The
conclusions of the committee were adopted by vote. The conclusions
were, in substance, that the amount for presents between lovers during
the year should be reckoned at five hundred francs, but that in this
computation should be included: (1) the expense of expeditions into
the country; (2) the pharmaceutical expenses, occasioned by the colds
caught from walking in the damp pathways of parks, and in leaving the
theatre, which expenses are veritable presents; (3) the carrying of
letters, and law expenses; (4) journeys, and expenses whose items are
forgotten, without counting the follies committed by the spenders;
inasmuch as, according to the investigations of the committee, it had
been proved that most of a man's extravagant expenditure profited the
opera girls, rather than the married women. The conclusion arrived at
from this pecuniary calculation was that, in one way or another, a
passion costs nearly fifteen hundred francs a year, which were
required to meet the expense borne more unequally by lovers, but which
would not have occurred, but for their attachment. There was also a
sort of unanimity in the opinion of the council that this was the
lowest annual figure which would cover the cost of a passion. Now, my
dear sir, since we have proved, by the statistics of our conjugal
calculations [See Meditations I, II, and III.] and proved
irrefragably, that there exists a floating total of at least fifteen
hundred thousand unlawful passions, it follows:
That the criminal conversations of a third among the French population
contribute a sum of nearly three thousand millions to that vast
circulation of money, the true blood of society, of which the budget
is the heart;
That the honest woman not only gives life to the children of the
peerage, but also to its financial funds;
That manufacturers owe their prosperity to this _systolic_ movement;
That the honest woman is a being essentially _budgetative_, and active
as a consumer;
That the least decline in public love would involve incalculable
miseries to the treasury, and to men of invested fortunes;
That a husband has at least a third of his fortune invested in the
inconstancy of his wife, etc.
I am well aware that you are going to open your mouth and talk to me
about manners, politics, good and evil. But, my dear victim of the
Minotaur, is not happiness the object which all societies should set
before them? Is it not this axiom that makes these wretched kings give
themselves so much trouble about their people? Well, the honest woman
has not, like them, thrones, gendarmes and tribunals; she has only a
bed to offer; but if our four hundred thousand women can, by this
ingenious machine, make a million celibates happy, do not they attain
in a mysterious manner, and without making any fuss, the end aimed at
by a government, namely, the end of giving the largest possible amount
of happiness to the mass of mankind?
"Yes, but the annoyances, the children, the troubles--"