PURGATORY.
But few marriages are a hell, and fewer still enjoy the highest
beatitudes of heaven; the most stand halfway between the two—that
is, in purgatory. There they live without redemption, which means
without any hope of mounting to heaven; but neither have they any fear
of being hurled down among the fallen angels. After a more or less
lengthy honeymoon they descend gradually to earth, now walking amongst
nettles and thorns, now amongst the flowering beds of the garden, to
remain there till death.
To describe all the forms and accidents of this conjugal purgatory
would be to exhaust the human universe. It is enough for me to present
some scenes taken from life, so that you can judge of the rest from
these examples.
⁂
It is eight o’clock in the morning; he has been awake for some time;
she is sleeping soundly and sweetly.
He had been quiet and silent for more than an hour, reading the paper,
smoking a cigarette, looking at his wife with the fond hope that she
may wake up of herself, but in vain.
Then he coughed several times, used his handkerchief without needing
it, shook the bed, but in vain.
The waiting had become impatience; impatience had changed to a
troublesome, insupportable agitation.
Then he gave her a sweet, light little kiss on her lips. She woke with
a start and stared at him—he who had expected a smile or an answer on
a par with the question.
“How you frightened me! Why did you wake me so suddenly?”
“I thought my kiss would have pleased you, and hoped to wake you
gradually without giving you a shock.”
“But you know—you know very well that for some time past waking me in
that way has hurt me. It gives me palpitation of the heart, and then
I feel ill all day.”
“I have been awake since six o’clock, and have had the patience to
wait two hours for you to wake; you have slept nine hours.”
“And if I wish to sleep ten what have you to say against it? Do you
not remember that I worked like a dog yesterday, that I had to attend
to the house linen, put the drawing room in order, and then went round
to all the shops to find a good flannel for your vests? You ruin my
health, and will give me disease of the heart by your nasty habit of
waking me up so suddenly.”
“And how ought I to wake you? Teach me.”
“If I could teach you to have a little more consideration, if I could
cure you of your egotism, I would willingly do so; you only think of
yourself.”
The tone of the conversation on her part, at first slightly irritated,
had become angry, rancorous, and full of suppressed bitterness.
He felt it, but still hoped for a reconciliation.
He tried to feel her heart.
“Let me see if you really have palpitation of the heart.”
She turned her back on him angrily.
“Let me alone; after having done me harm you now want to joke. I tell
you you will finish by killing me!”
He turned away too, muttering under his breath and thinking sad
thoughts of that chemical combination called marriage.
⁂
“Listen, dear; I should like to dine an hour earlier to-day.”
“And why?”
“Because I eat nothing at breakfast and have a poet’s hunger.”
“I, on the contrary, have none at all. I eat too much.”
“But besides my appetite, I have another reason for wishing to dine
earlier. Do you know, I have promised my oldest and best friend,
Giovanni, to meet him at the station on his way to Rome?”
“Who knows that it is not a lady instead?”
“Come with me to the station and convince yourself.”
“Heaven defend me! I am not jealous.”
“A little! You are jealous six days in the week and seven times every
day. You are always so and always in the wrong.”
“But I tell you I believe you; I was only joking.”
“Very well, then, we will dine at five instead of six.”
“Impossible! Annina has brought home such a tough fowl that it will
require all the cooking in the world to have it ready by seven.”
“But I can do without the fowl!”
“But there is nothing else! Go another time to meet Giovanni—when he
returns from Rome, for instance.”
“He will not be returning by the same route. I know he has to go back
by Civita Vecchia and Genoa.”
“Well, anyhow, we cannot dine at five!”
“Ah! it is enough that I should ask a thing for you to find a thousand
and one difficulties to prevent you doing what I want. It has been so
ever since we were married, and will be to the end.”
“And you will always be that obstinate and infallible man who wishes
to command in housekeeping where the woman ought to be mistress.”
“Go on, go on! Just because one wants dinner at five instead of at six
you have your usual reproaches for me. I know them by heart already.”
“Yet it does not appear so, for you are incorrigible and will have
what you want at any cost, even if your wife’s or children’s health
has to suffer, or even if the sky fall.”
“Yes, yes, you are right; a tough fowl will kill you. For Heaven’s
sake do not let us have such pettiness.”
“But it is you who are petty, thanks for the compliment; if I am petty
you are egotistical, and ought not to have married.”
“And you ought not to have had a husband, you chatterer, you
intolerable scold!”
“Go on. Haven’t you some more gentle, nice adjectives; they are so
well suited to your delicate mouth?”
“Yes, I have a good many left; you are foolish and have no common
sense; you make a rope out of a thread of silk, and in everything you
find a pretext to make scenes and torment me, and scatter gall on all
you touch. Yes, you must be suffering from the liver. Call in the
doctor, you must have the jaundice.”
“It is you who have the jaundice, and to show you that you are the
most petty of the two I will be silent and go.”
“And I will go too, and will dine neither at five nor six, but at
the hotel. At least I shall not hear your ugly and impertinent voice
there, your chatter without sense, and I shall have an hour’s rest
from the infinite sweetnesses you scatter over the time when we are
obliged to be together.”
He is director of some large works. He is early at his desk, for it
is Saturday and he must balance the accounts of the week and pay the
work people. He is in an exceedingly bad temper, for he has discovered
that the cashier is not honest, that his chief superintendent is
ignorant, and that a good many customers have sent in complaints of
the bad quality of the goods despatched from the factory. He has both
arms on the writing table, his head is between his hands, and he looks
mechanically at a row of figures before him without reading them.
She, on the contrary, is in the best of tempers, for she feels well,
and when she was dressing her hair the glass told her how handsome she
was, very handsome; and then her little boy on waking a little before
had sat up in his cradle and, smiling, had said _Mamma_ for the first
time.
She caught him up in delight in his little white night-dress, just
as he was, and ran to her husband’s office, opened the door without
knocking or waiting to know if anyone was there, and rushed in hastily
and happily.
He had hardly time to raise his eyes before she was at the writing
table, and had placed the child on a bundle of papers, and said in an
agitated voice:
“Give papa a kiss.”
Papa loved the little fellow very much and the mother exceedingly; but
at that moment he hated all and everything, even himself. What would
he have given at that moment not to be unkind; what would he have done
not to have had his wife and child there to make him hurt them!
How many fierce, dumb, and invisible struggles are carried on in a
man’s brain within a few seconds.
He said nothing, but put his mouth quickly to the child’s.
“Yes, yes; bravo; give me a kiss and then go away directly, for I am
busy—I have a devil in every hair and a thousand anxieties in my mind
... yes ... yes, so ... good-by, good-by.”
And he almost pushed away mother and child with his two nervous,
angry, almost threatening hands. The poor mother had not expected such
a reception, and could not reconcile herself to it.
“Do you know that Carlino has just said _Mamma_ for the first time,
really, just now when he woke?”
The father was silent and fretted, angry with himself because he could
not and did not know how to call up a single affectionate word to
his lips or a sole caress to his hands; all was dark before him, and
everything so bitter that absinthe would have seemed honey to him.
And to be obliged to be so hard with that touching picture before him!
Oh, why had that woman come at such a moment? Why had he not locked
himself in his office?
The mother could not give in. She drew her lips to his scowling
forehead, but he did not draw down those lips to his; he simply
touched her cheek coldly. That kiss was an insult; he was ice; he was
brutal.
She felt a lump in her throat, which broke into a sob.
“Yes, yes, let us go away. We will not come again to trouble you.”
He got up hurriedly and went to the window, but did not open it. He
put his hands through his hair and exclaimed aloud:
“Bless the women! they never understand anything; they come into the
office, interrupt one’s work, and oblige one to be harsh to those one
loves best. And yet they pretend to be our equals.”
He continued his panegyric on women alone, for mother and child had
disappeared, both crying, the mother mortally offended by the double
blow—the one to the wife’s heart, the other to the mother’s. The child
screamed, frightened at the cruel scene which he appeared to feel, if
he did not understand.
Sobs and cries lasted some time, and were heard through the wall in
the office, making a savage harmony with the bursts of impatience of
the angry director of the factory.
⁂
“Do you know, dear, the Marquis of Bellavista came into our box at the
theatre yesterday evening?”
“What did he want? I did not know he was in Florence.”
“Neither did I.”
“Um!”
“I thought he was still in Naples; but he told me he was staying a day
or two in Florence on his way to the races at Milan, and seeing me in
the box, he came up to shake hands with me.”
“I hope you were rude to him, so that he will not be tempted to come
and see you a second time.”
“Rude, no! but cold. You can ask your mother, who was present at the
time.”
“I can’t believe that you had not seen him before during the day, when
you were out, or perhaps here at home. You tell me now that you have
seen him at the theatre because a hundred others might tell me, and
you wished to forestall them.”
“But this is a gratuitous insult, unjust, cruel! I do not think I have
ever given you reason to doubt my loyalty.”
“I have not the slightest suspicion of any other man who may pay you
attention, but with the marquis it is quite a different thing. Before
you married me he was deeply in love with you, and you with him; and
the affair went a good way, for you were engaged to each other. It
was only your father who broke off the engagement at the last moment
because he heard the worst accounts of the character of his future
son-in-law and of his disreputable conduct. First love always leaves
deep impressions.”
“No, my love, had I really loved the marquis I should not have married
anyone else, nor should I have believed the accusations they cast at
him. I should have waited until I was mistress of myself, and not have
given my hand to another.”
“And how long was the marquis in the box?”
“About an hour.”
“Very good, only an hour! Too short a time for a love appointment, and
too long for a complimentary visit.”
“But I could not send him away.”
“When a woman desires it she can always make a man understand that his
visit is inopportune, inconvenient, and that he must shorten it if
possible.”
“You teach me how I can do so.”
“And then you chatted over your old love, and the cruel rupture of
your separation.”
“We only spoke of music and theatres.”
“We may believe that. But I am going out to see if I can discover
whether the marquis is still in Florence, and how long he intends to
stay. And in the meantime, if he is barefaced enough to call here, I
beg you will not receive him. This I demand and desire.”
“No command is necessary; I know my duty.”
“Not always. A visit of an hour in the box of a woman to whom the man
was once engaged is an offence to her husband.”
She, who was completely innocent, felt herself really offended by
all the suspicions of her husband, and began to beat her foot on the
carpet and to torture a volume of Coppée lying on the table with a
paper knife.
From anger and from opposition to the unmerited offence she had a firm
idea that the Marquis of Bellavista would never have been so jealous,
so foolishly jealous. Libertines know the hearts of women a little
better.
The husband went out of the house without a farewell word to his wife.
He became a spy on the marquis, and followed his steps from café
to café, at the club, amongst friends, dividing his projects, and
tormenting himself in a hundred and one ways, one more absurd than the
other.
“Will you allow me, dear, to make an observation?”
The question is asked by a man still in bed, and is addressed to his
wife, who is near him under the same sheet, and is still sleepy.
“About what?”
“About the French song you sang yesterday at the countess’s.”
“And what have you to say about it?”
“That you pronounced the _u_ very badly, just as if it were _ou_.”
“And have you nothing else to criticise?”
“No. Now do not be angry; if your husband does not tell you of these
things————”
“Bravo, capital, and a thousand thanks; above all, let me congratulate
you on the time you have selected for correcting my errors in French
pronunciation. Instead of wishing me good-morning with a kiss, a
caress, or a loving word the French professor gives me a lesson in
language. Do you give it to me gratuitously, or what do you charge for
it?”
“There you are, up on your high horse in a moment, and for such a
trifle. You are a Tuscan and the _u_ is hard and difficult for those
lips of yours, which distil milk and honey; but another time be
careful. People will say you do not know French.”
“But what French! I ask you if in the excitement of the music, or the
torrent of notes, there is anyone who would notice if one said _u_ or
_ou_. And I do not speak of a vowel only. Who listens to the words?
They can only be distinguished with difficulty.”
“There are those who notice. First of all, the French, who do not like
to hear their language mutilated; then the envious, the spiteful. Now
only see, each time you had to repeat the word _dur_, which you always
pronounced _dour_, the Marchioness Vittoria smiled, and looked at her
sister, who laughed and then pursed her lips to imitate you. Neither
one nor the other was aware that I saw all their pantomime in the
mirror.”
“How can you tell what they were laughing at? I know that I was very
much applauded, and that my voice and method of singing were praised.”
“You certainly sing well, but remember that in good society applause
is bestowed upon all, especially upon handsome women.”
“Yes, but only to those who know how to pronounce the _u_.”
“Shall I tell you all, since you are determined to take offence at the
slightest observation which I make?”
“Yes, tell me.”
“Well, the Duke of St. Etienne whilst they so loudly applauded you
bent forward to his cousin and said: ‘_Oui, elle chanté très-bien,
mais elle a le timbre de la voix un peu dour_.’ And the amiable little
cousin covered her face to hide her Homeric laugh.”
“_Dur_ or _dour_, I must get up an hour earlier, or else you will
drive me mad. My day will be a happy one, and I shall have you to
thank for it. A thousand thanks, you master of French!”
To know the reason of this sudden burst of anger, why from being
slightly keen the conversation became suddenly bitter, and the notes
from sharp became acute, you must understand that the cousin of the
duke was, from position, youth, and beauty, the official rival of the
lady who pronounced _u_ as _ou_.
⁂
They are both seated at the table with their four children, their ages
ranging from five to twelve years. She, the mother, is helping them
all. He is watching the distribution of a delicious custard. From time
to time he frowns, and shakes his head in sign of disapprobation.
And this pantomime continued so long that at last she became aware of
it, and in her turn looked at him crossly and put down the spoon.
“What is the matter? Some new criticism?”
“Yes, but it’s no new subject of complaint. For some time past I have
noticed the thing every day at breakfast, dinner, and supper, and if
I have not given utterance to my dislike, it has been to avoid any
unpleasantness; but to-day it seems as if I were losing patience.”
“Lose it; I will pick it up.”
“You might have a little more consideration, especially when you
usurp the prerogative of a god and distribute good and evil with such
authority.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you always serve the boys first and the girls after,
whilst in all ages and countries ladies are served first.”
She began to laugh heartily.
“But I see no ladies here, only children, who have no sex in my eyes,
for I love them all equally. To-day, and for several days past, I have
helped Cecchino and Pietro first because they are near me. When Maria
was in Cecchino’s place I helped her first. What! ought we to teach
children, in their earliest age of innocence, etiquette and the laws
of society? This seems to me the height of absurdity.”
“As to the absurdity of the idea, that is not the question. It is a
matter of justice. You always prefer the boys.”
“And you the girls, so we are quits.”
“But look round and read your condemnation in the plates of the
children. You not only help the boys first, but you give them more.”
“Of course; they are older!”
“No, no, independently of age you are partial.”
“But when none are the same age?”
“What difference does one or two years make? The difference is in your
injustice, your deplorable partiality.”
“Do me the favour of helping them yourself. It will be one labour the
less for me and for you a pleasant occupation, a splendid opportunity
to administer justice in the family. From this time forth I will help
them no more.”
“Neither will I.”
⁂
For the honour of the two married people who discoursed so learnedly
on distributive justice, it must be remarked that they spoke in
German, a language the children did not know. So that for this time at
least they had no opportunity of learning that heaven is very far from
most families, and that human justice is generally very unjust.
The reader will be grateful to me for not wearying him longer with
other sketches taken from real life revealing the matrimonial
purgatory. Hell is awful, but it has its dramatic emotions and these
offer some compensation for all there is of monstrous, sanguinary,
or horrible. Purgatory instead is very small, mean, and deplorably
vulgar. There are no ocean storms, but bogs which submerge us inch by
inch; no tiger bites, but mosquito stings; no lion’s claws, but the
puncture of the flea; no delirium or crime, but secret sobs and silent
tears; the continual itching of a scab which heals, forms a crust,
and is again broken; an exudation of malignant humours which leak out
drop by drop from the marrow of the bones through the tissues, to the
skin, and there they remain viscid, fetid, and contagious. This is a
true but not very enticing picture of the purgatory of marriage, a
hundred times worse than the purgatory of the Catholic Church, which
after a longer or shorter time leads to heaven. This other only leads
through a long, sorrowful life, to death at the last.