The Marriage Contract

Proand CON

Monsieur de Manerville, the father, was a worthy Norman gentleman, well known to the Marechael de Richelieu, who married him to one of the richest heiresses of Bordeaux in the days when the old duke reigned in Guienne as governor.  The Norman then sold the estate he owned in Bessin, and became a Gascon, allured by the beauty of the chateau de Lanstrac, a delightful residence owned by his wife.  During the last days of the reign of Louis XV., he bought the post of major of the Gate Guards, and lived till 1813, having by great good luck escaped the dangers of the Revolution in the following manner.

Toward the close of the year, 1790, he went to Martinque, where his wife had interests, leaving the management of his property in Gascogne to an honest man, a notary’s clerk, named Mathias, who was inclined to —­or at any rate did—­give into the new ideas.  On his return the Comte de Manerville found his possessions intact and well-managed.  This sound result was the fruit produced by grafting the Gascon on the Norman.

Madame de Manerville died in 1810.  Having learned the importance of worldly goods through the dissipations of his youth, and, giving them, like many another old man, a higher place than they really hold in life, Monsieur de Manerville became increasingly economical, miserly, and sordid.  Without reflecting that the avarice of parents prepares the way for the prodigalities of children, he allowed almost nothing to his son, although that son was an only child.

Paul de Manerville, coming home from the college of Vendome in 1810, lived under close paternal discipline for three years.  The tyranny by which the old man of seventy oppressed his heir influenced, necessarily, a heart and a character which were not yet formed.  Paul, the son, without lacking the physical courage which is vital in the air of Gascony, dared not struggle against his father, and consequently lost that faculty of resistance which begets moral courage.  His thwarted feelings were driven to the depths of his heart, where they remained without expression; later, when he felt them to be out of harmony with the maxims of the world, he could only think rightly and act mistakenly.  He was capable of fighting for a mere word or look, yet he trembled at the thought of dismissing a servant,—­his timidity showing itself in those contests only which required a persistent will.  Capable of doing great things to fly from persecution, he would never have prevented it by systematic opposition, nor have faced it with the steady employment of force of will.  Timid in thought, bold in actions, he long preserved that inward simplicity which makes a man the dupe and the voluntary victim of things against which certain souls hesitate to revolt, preferring to endure them rather than complain.  He was, in point of fact, imprisoned by his father’s old mansion, for he had not enough money to consort with young men; he envied their pleasures while unable to share them.

The old gentleman took him every evening, in an old carriage drawn by ill-harnessed old horses, attended by ill-dressed old servants, to royalist houses, where he met a society composed of the relics of the parliamentary nobility and the martial nobility.  These two nobilities coalescing after the Revolution, had now transformed themselves into a landed aristocracy.  Crushed by the vast and swelling fortunes of the maritime cities, this Faubourg Saint-Germain of Bordeaux responded by lofty disdain to the sumptuous displays of commerce, government administrations, and the military.  Too young to understand social distinctions and the necessities underlying the apparent assumption which they create, Paul was bored to death among these ancients, unaware that the connections of his youth would eventually secure to him that aristocratic pre-eminence which Frenchmen will forever desire.

He found some slight compensations for the dulness of these evenings in certain manual exercises which always delight young men, and which his father enjoined upon him.  The old gentleman considered that to know the art of fencing and the use of arms, to ride well on horseback, to play tennis, to acquire good manners,—­in short, to possess all the frivolous accomplishments of the old nobility,—­made a young man of the present day a finished gentleman.  Accordingly, Paul took a fencing-lesson every morning, went to the riding-school, and practised in a pistol-gallery.  The rest of his time was spent in reading novels, for his father would never have allowed the more abstruse studies now considered necessary to finish an education.

So monotonous a life would soon have killed the poor youth if the death of the old man had not delivered him from this tyranny at the moment when it was becoming intolerable.  Paul found himself in possession of considerable capital, accumulated by his father’s avarice, together with landed estates in the best possible condition.  But he now held Bordeaux in horror; neither did he like Lanstrac, where his father had taken him to spend the summers, employing his whole time from morning till night in hunting.

As soon as the estate was fairly settled, the young heir, eager for enjoyment, bought consols with his capital, left the management of the landed property to old Mathias, his father’s notary, and spent the next six years away from Bordeaux.  At first he was attached to the French embassy at Naples; after that he was secretary of legation at Madrid, and then in London,—­making in this way the tour of Europe.

After seeing the world and life, after losing several illusions, after dissipating all the loose capital which his father had amassed, there came a time when, in order to continue his way of life, Paul was forced to draw upon the territorial revenues which his notary was laying by.  At this critical moment, seized by one of the so-called virtuous impulses, he determined to leave Paris, return to Bordeaux, regulate his affairs, lead the life of a country gentleman at Lanstrac, improve his property, marry, and become, in the end, a deputy.

Paul was a count; nobility was once more of matrimonial value; he could, and he ought to make a good marriage.  While many women desire a title, many others like to marry a man to whom a knowledge of life is familiar.  Now Paul had acquired, in exchange for the sum of seven hundred thousand francs squandered in six years, that possession, which cannot be bought and is practically of more value than gold and silver; a knowledge which exacts long study, probation, examinations, friends, enemies, acquaintances, certain manners, elegance of form and demeanor, a graceful and euphonious name,—­a knowledge, moreover, which means many love-affairs, duels, bets lost on a race-course, disillusions, deceptions, annoyances, toils, and a vast variety of undigested pleasures.  In short, he had become what is called elegant.  But in spite of his mad extravagance he had never made himself a mere fashionable man.  In the burlesque army of men of the world, the man of fashion holds the place of a marshal of France, the man of elegance is the equivalent of a lieutenant-general.  Paul enjoyed his lesser reputation, of elegance, and knew well how to sustain it.  His servants were well-dressed, his equipages were cited, his suppers had a certain vogue; in short, his bachelor establishment was counted among the seven or eight whose splendor equalled that of the finest houses in Paris.

But—­he had not caused the wretchedness of any woman; he gambled without losing; his luck was not notorious; he was far too upright to deceive or mislead any one, no matter who, even a wanton; never did he leave his billets-doux lying about, and he possessed no coffer or desk for love-letters which his friends were at liberty to read while he tied his cravat or trimmed his beard.  Moreover, not willing to dip into his Guienne property, he had not that bold extravagance which leads to great strokes and calls attention at any cost to the proceedings of a young man.  Neither did he borrow money, but he had the folly to lend to friends, who then deserted him and spoke of him no more either for good or evil.  He seemed to have regulated his dissipations methodically.  The secret of his character lay in his father’s tyranny, which had made him, as it were, a social mongrel.

So, one morning, he said to a friend named de Marsay, who afterwards became celebrated:—­

“My dear fellow, life has a meaning.”

“You must be twenty-seven years of age before you can find it out,” replied de Marsay, laughing.

“Well, I am twenty-seven; and precisely because I am twenty-seven I mean to live the life of a country gentleman at Lanstrac.  I’ll transport my belongings to Bordeaux into my father’s old mansion, and I’ll spend three months of the year in Paris in this house, which I shall keep.”

“Will you marry?”

“I will marry.”

“I’m your friend, as you know, my old Paul,” said de Marsay, after a moment’s silence, “and I say to you:  settle down into a worthy father and husband and you’ll be ridiculous for the rest of your days.  If you could be happy and ridiculous, the thing might be thought of; but you will not be happy.  You haven’t a strong enough wrist to drive a household.  I’ll do you justice and say you are a perfect horseman; no one knows as well as you how to pick up or thrown down the reins, and make a horse prance, and sit firm to the saddle.  But, my dear fellow, marriage is another thing.  I see you now, led along at a slapping pace by Madame la Comtesse de Manerville, going whither you would not, oftener at a gallop than a trot, and presently unhorsed!—­yes, unhorsed into a ditch and your legs broken.  Listen to me.  You still have some forty-odd thousand francs a year from your property in the Gironde.  Good.  Take your horses and servants and furnish your house in Bordeaux; you can be king of Bordeaux, you can promulgate there the edicts that we put forth in Paris; you can be the correspondent of our stupidities.  Very good.  Play the rake in the provinces; better still, commit follies; follies may win you celebrity.  But—­don’t marry.  Who marries now-a-days?  Only merchants, for the sake of their capital, or to be two to drag the cart; only peasants who want to produce children to work for them; only brokers and notaries who want a wife’s ‘dot’ to pay for their practice; only miserable kings who are forced to continue their miserable dynasties.  But we are exempt from the pack, and you want to shoulder it!  And why do you want to marry?  You ought to give your best friend your reasons.  In the first place, if you marry an heiress as rich as yourself, eighty thousand francs a year for two is not the same thing as forty thousand francs a year for one, because the two are soon three or four when the children come.  You haven’t surely any love for that silly race of Manerville which would only hamper you?  Are you ignorant of what a father and mother have to be?  Marriage, my old Paul, is the silliest of all the social immolations; our children alone profit by it, and don’t know its price until their horses are nibbling the flowers on our grave.  Do you regret your father, that old tyrant who made your first years wretched?  How can you be sure that your children will love you?  The very care you take of their education, your precautions for their happiness, your necessary sternness will lessen their affection.  Children love a weak or a prodigal father, whom they will despise in after years.  You’ll live betwixt fear and contempt.  No man is a good head of a family merely because he wants to be.  Look round on all our friends and name to me one whom you would like to have for a son.  We have known a good many who dishonor their names.  Children, my dear Paul, are the most difficult kind of merchandise to take care of.  Yours, you think, will be angels; well, so be it!  Have you ever sounded the gulf which lies between the lives of a bachelor and a married man?  Listen.  As a bachelor you can say to yourself:  ’I shall never exhibit more than a certain amount of the ridiculous; the public will think of me what I choose it to think.’  Married, you’ll drop into the infinitude of the ridiculous!  Bachelor, you can make your own happiness; you enjoy some to-day, you do without it to-morrow; married, you must take it as it comes; and the day you want it you will have to go without it.  Marry, and you’ll grow a blockhead; you’ll calculate dowries; you’ll talk morality, public and religious; you’ll think young men immoral and dangerous; in short, you’ll become a social academician.  It’s pitiable!  The old bachelor whose property the heirs are waiting for, who fights to his last breath with his nurse for a spoonful of drink, is blest in comparison with a married man.  I’m not speaking of all that will happen to annoy, bore, irritate, coerce, oppose, tyrannize, narcotize, paralyze, and idiotize a man in marriage, in that struggle of two beings always in one another’s presence, bound forever, who have coupled each other under the strange impression that they were suited.  No, to tell you those things would be merely a repetition of Boileau, and we know him by heart.  Still, I’ll forgive your absurd idea if you will promise me to marry “en grand seigneur”; to entail your property; to have two legitimate children, to give your wife a house and household absolutely distinct from yours; to meet her only in society, and never to return from a journey without sending her a courier to announce it.  Two hundred thousand francs a year will suffice for such a life and your antecedents will enable you to marry some rich English woman hungry for a title.  That’s an aristocratic life which seems to me thoroughly French; the only life in which we can retain the respect and friendship of a woman; the only life which distinguishes a man from the present crowd,—­in short, the only life for which a young man should even think of resigning his bachelor blessings.  Thus established, the Comte de Manerville may advise his epoch, place himself above the world, and be nothing less than a minister or an ambassador.  Ridicule can never touch him; he has gained the social advantages of marriage while keeping all the privileges of a bachelor.”

“But, my good friend, I am not de Marsay; I am plainly, as you yourself do me the honor to say, Paul de Manerville, worthy father and husband, deputy of the Centre, possibly peer of France,—­a destiny extremely commonplace; but I am modest and I resign myself.”

“Yes, but your wife,” said the pitiless de Marsay, “will she resign herself?”

“My wife, my dear fellow, will do as I wish.”

“Ah! my poor friend, is that where you are?  Adieu, Paul.  Henceforth, I refuse to respect you.  One word more, however, for I cannot agree coldly to your abdication.  Look and see in what the strength of our position lies.  A bachelor with only six thousand francs a year remaining to him has at least his reputation for elegance and the memory of success.  Well, even that fantastic shadow has enormous value in it.  Life still offers many chances to the unmarried man.  Yes, he can aim at anything.  But marriage, Paul, is the social ’Thus far shalt thou go and no farther.’  Once married you can never be anything but what you then are—­unless your wife should deign to care for you.”

“But,” said Paul, “you are crushing me down with exceptional theories.  I am tired of living for others; of having horses merely to exhibit them; of doing all things for the sake of what may be said of them; of wasting my substance to keep fools from crying out:  ’Dear, dear!  Paul is still driving the same carriage.  What has he done with his fortune?  Does he squander it?  Does he gamble at the Bourse?  No, he’s a millionaire.  Madame such a one is mad about him.  He sent to England for a harness which is certainly the handsomest in all Paris.  The four-horse equipages of Messieurs de Marsay and de Manerville were much noticed at Longchamps; the harness was perfect’—­in short, the thousand silly things with which a crowd of idiots lead us by the nose.  Believe me, my dear Henri, I admire your power, but I don’t envy it.  You know how to judge of life; you think and act as a statesman; you are able to place yourself above all ordinary laws, received ideas, adopted conventions, and acknowledged prejudices; in short, you can grasp the profits of a situation in which I should find nothing but ill-luck.  Your cool, systematic, possibly true deductions are, to the eyes of the masses, shockingly immoral.  I belong to the masses.  I must play my game of life according to the rules of the society in which I am forced to live.  While putting yourself above all human things on peaks of ice, you still have feelings; but as for me, I should freeze to death.  The life of that great majority, to which I belong in my commonplace way, is made up of emotions of which I now have need.  Often a man coquets with a dozen women and obtains none.  Then, whatever be his strength, his cleverness, his knowledge of the world, he undergoes convulsions, in which he is crushed as between two gates.  For my part, I like the peaceful chances and changes of life; I want that wholesome existence in which we find a woman always at our side.”

“A trifle indecorous, your marriage!” exclaimed de Marsay.

Paul was not to be put out of countenance, and continued:  “Laugh if you like; I shall feel myself a happy man when my valet enters my room in the morning and says:  ‘Madame is awaiting monsieur for breakfast’; happier still at night, when I return to find a heart—­”

“Altogether indecorous, my dear Paul.  You are not yet moral enough to marry.”

“—­a heart in which to confide my interests and my secrets.  I wish to live in such close union with a woman that our affection shall not depend upon a yes or a no, or be open to the disillusions of love.  In short, I have the necessary courage to become, as you say, a worthy husband and father.  I feel myself fitted for family joys; I wish to put myself under the conditions prescribed by society; I desire to have a wife and children.”

“You remind me of a hive of honey-bees!  But go your way, you’ll be a dupe all your life.  Ha, ha! you wish to marry to have a wife!  In other words, you wish to solve satisfactorily to your own profit the most difficult problem invented by those bourgeois morals which were created by the French Revolution; and, what is more, you mean to begin your attempt by a life of retirement.  Do you think your wife won’t crave the life you say you despise?  Will she be disgusted with it, as you are?  If you won’t accept the noble conjugality just formulated for your benefit by your friend de Marsay, listen, at any rate, to his final advice.  Remain a bachelor for the next thirteen years; amuse yourself like a lost soul; then, at forty, on your first attack of gout, marry a widow of thirty-six.  Then you may possibly be happy.  If you now take a young girl to wife, you’ll die a madman.”

“Ah ca! tell me why!” cried Paul, somewhat piqued.

“My dear fellow,” replied de Marsay, “Boileau’s satire against women is a tissue of poetical commonplaces.  Why shouldn’t women have defects?  Why condemn them for having the most obvious thing in human nature?  To my mind, the problem of marriage is not at all at the point where Boileau puts it.  Do you suppose that marriage is the same thing as love, and that being a man suffices to make a wife love you?  Have you gathered nothing in your boudoir experience but pleasant memories?  I tell you that everything in our bachelor life leads to fatal errors in the married man unless he is a profound observer of the human heart.  In the happy days of his youth a man, by the caprice of our customs, is always lucky; he triumphs over women who are all ready to be triumphed over and who obey their own desires.  One thing after another—­the obstacles created by the laws, the sentiments and natural defences of women—­all engender a mutuality of sensations which deceives superficial persons as to their future relations in marriage, where obstacles no longer exist, where the wife submits to love instead of permitting it, and frequently repulses pleasure instead of desiring it.  Then, the whole aspect of a man’s life changes.  The bachelor, who is free and without a care, need never fear repulsion; in marriage, repulsion is almost certain and irreparable.  It may be possible for a lover to make a woman reverse an unfavorable decision, but such a change, my dear Paul, is the Waterloo of husbands.  Like Napoleon, the husband is thenceforth condemned to victories which, in spite of their number, do not prevent the first defeat from crushing him.  The woman, so flattered by the perseverance, so delighted with the ardor of a lover, calls the same things brutality in a husband.  You, who talk of marrying, and who will marry, have you ever meditated on the Civil Code?  I myself have never muddied my feet in that hovel of commentators, that garret of gossip, called the Law-school.  I have never so much as opened the Code; but I see its application on the vitals of society.  The Code, my dear Paul, makes woman a ward; it considers her a child, a minor.  Now how must we govern children?  By fear.  In that one word, Paul, is the curb of the beast.  Now, feel your own pulse!  Have you the strength to play the tyrant,—­you, so gentle, so kind a friend, so confiding; you, at whom I have laughed, but whom I love, and love enough to reveal to you my science?  For this is science.  Yes, it proceeds from a science which the Germans are already calling Anthropology.  Ah! if I had not already solved the mystery of life by pleasure, if I had not a profound antipathy for those who think instead of act, if I did not despise the ninnies who are silly enough to believe in the truth of a book, when the sands of the African deserts are made of the ashes of I know not how many unknown and pulverized Londons, Romes, Venices, and Parises, I would write a book on modern marriages made under the influence of the Christian system, and I’d stick a lantern on that heap of sharp stones among which lie the votaries of the social ‘multiplicamini.’  But the question is, Does humanity require even an hour of my time?  And besides, isn’t the more reasonable use of ink that of snaring hearts by writing love-letters?—­Well, shall you bring the Comtesse de Manerville here, and let us see her?”

“Perhaps,” said Paul.

“We shall still be friends,” said de Marsay.

“If—­” replied Paul.

“Don’t be uneasy; we will treat you politely, as Maison-Rouge treated the English at Fontenoy.”