If he be not subdued by his wife, he is by his own heart. The next day the son leaves his college for the _Christian college_, or the school for the little seminary. The daughter is led triumphantly by her mother to the excellent boarding-school close by, where the good abbe confesses and directs. In less than a year the boarding-school is found to be not quite good enough, being still too worldly; the little girl is then given over to the nuns, whose superior our abbe happens to be, in some convent of his, that is, under his protection and his lock and key.

Good-humoured parent, lie easy and sleep sound. Your daughter is in good hands: you shall be contradicted till your death. Your daughter is really a girl of good sense; and on every subject, having been carefully armed against you, will take, whatever you may say, the opposite side of the question.

What is very singular, the father, generally, is aware that they are bringing up his child against him. Man, you surprise me! what do you expect then? "Oh! she will forget it; time, marriage, and the world will wear away all that." Yes, for a time, but only to re-appear; at the first disappointment in the world it will all return. As soon as she grows somewhat in years, she will return to the habits of the child; the master she now has will be her master then, whether for your contradiction, in your old age, good man, or for the despair and daily d.a.m.nation of her father and husband. Then will you taste the fruit of this education.

Education! a mere trifle, a weak power, no doubt, which the father may, without danger, allow his enemies to take possession of!

To possess the mind, with all the advantage of the first possessor! To write in this book of blank paper whatever they will! and to write what will last for ever! For, remember well, it will be in vain for you to write upon it hereafter; what has once been indited, cannot be erased.

It is the mystery of her young memory to be as weak in receiving impressions as it is strong in keeping them. The early tracing that seemed to be effaced at twenty re-appears at forty or sixty. It is the last and the clearest, perhaps, that old age will retain.

What! will not reading, and the press, the great overruling power of our own days, give a stronger education than the former one? Do not rely on this. The influence of the press partly annuls itself; it has a thousand voices to speak, and a thousand others to answer and destroy what it has said. Education does not make so much noise; it does not talk; it reigns. Look, in that little cla.s.s, without witness, control, or contradiction, a man is speaking; he is master, an absolute master, invested with the most ample power to punish and chastise. His voice, not his hand, has the power of a rod; the little, trembling, and believing creature, who has just left her mother's ap.r.o.n, receives his weighty words, which enter the soft tablet of her memory, and stick into it, like so many nails of iron.

This is true in speaking of the school, but how much more so as regards the church! especially in the case of the daughter, who is more docile and timid, and certainly retains more faithfully her early impressions.

What she heard the first time in that grand church, under those resounding roofs, and the words, p.r.o.nounced with a solemn voice by that man in black, which then frightened her so, being addressed to _herself_;--ah! be not afraid of her ever forgetting them. But even if she could forget them, she would be reminded of them every week: woman is all her life at school, finding in the confessional her school-bench, her schoolmaster, the only man she fears, and the only one, as we have said, who, in the present state of our manners, can threaten a woman.

What an advantage has he in being able to take her quite young, in the convent where they have placed her, to be the first to take in hand her young soul, and to be the first to exercise upon her the earliest severity, and also the earliest indulgence which is so akin to affectionate tenderness,[3] to be the father and friend of a child taken so soon from her mother's arms. The confidant of her first thoughts will long be a.s.sociated with her private reveries. He has had an especial and singular privilege which the husband may envy: what?--why, the virginity of the soul and the first-fruits of the will.

This is the man of whom, young bachelors, you must ask the girl in marriage, before you speak to her parents. Do not deceive yourselves, or you will lose all chance. You shake your heads, proud children of the age; you think you can never be induced to humble yourselves so far. All I hope then is, that you may be able to live single, and wed philosophy; otherwise, I can see you, even now, in spite of all your fine speeches, gliding stealthily, sneaking by twilight into the church, and kneeling down before the priest. There they were lying in wait for you, and there they catch you. You had not foreseen it. Now you are a lover, poor young man, and will do whatever they wish.

I only wish that this girl, bought so dearly, may be really yours. But what with that mother and that priest, the same influence, though diminished for a moment, will soon resume its strength. You will have a wife, minus heart and soul, and you will understand, when it is too late, that he who now gives her away knows well how to keep her.[4]

[1] This circ.u.mspection would bear carrying a little farther, if we are to judge of it by the public adventures of the Abbes C. and N., who, by-the-by, will not prosper the less on this account, as two others, of high rank, and known to everybody, have already shown.

[2] M. Louandre gives the figure six hundred and twenty-two thousand girls, in his conscientious statistics.--_Revue des Deux-Mondes_, 1844.

[3] What is direction generally?--1st, _Love before love_; it cultivates in the little girl that power which is now awakening, and it cultivates it so well, that on leaving the convent, her parents see the necessity of a speedy marriage to support her, for she is in danger of falling:--2ndly, _Love after love_. An aged female is, in a layman's estimation, an _old_ woman: but according to the priest's, she is a _woman_: the priest begins where the world ends.

[4] Let us add to this chapter a fact, which (being compared with what we have said about ecclesiastical discipline) inclines us to think that the clergy do not lose sight of the girls who are brought up in the convents under their direction. A friend of mine, whose high position and character render his testimony very important, lately told me that, having placed a young relation of his in a convent, he had heard from the nuns _that they sent to Rome_ the names of the pupils who distinguished themselves the most. The _centralization_ of such private information, about the daughters of the leading families of the Catholic world, must indeed facilitate many combinations, and be of especial service to Ultramontane politics. The Jesu, if it were so, would be a vast marriage office.

CHAPTER II.

WOMAN.--THE HUSBAND DOES NOT CONSOCIATE WITH HIS WIFE.--HE SELDOM KNOWS HOW TO INITIATE HER INTO HIS THOUGHTS.--WHAT MUTUAL INITIATION WOULD BE.--THE WIFE CONSOLES HERSELF WITH HER SON.--HE IS TAKEN FROM HER.--HER LONELINESS AND ENNUI.--A PIOUS YOUNG MAN.--THE SPIRITUAL AND THE WORLDLY MAN.--WHICH OF THE TWO IS NOW THE MORTIFIED MAN.

Marriage gives the husband a single and momentary opportunity to become in reality the master of his wife, to withdraw her from the influence of another, and make her his own for ever. Does he profit by it? Very rarely. He ought, in the very beginning, when he has much influence over her, to let her partic.i.p.ate in the activity of his mind, his business, and ideas, initiate her in his projects, and create an activity in her by means of his own.

To wish and think as he does, both acting with him and suffering with him--this is marriage. The worst that may happen is not that she may suffer, but that she may languish and pine away, living apart, and like a widow. How can we wonder, then, if her affection for him be lessened? Ah! if, in the beginning, he made her his own, by making her share his ambition, troubles, and uneasiness:--if they had watched whole nights together, and been troubled with the same thoughts, he would have retained her affections. Attachment may be strengthened by grief itself; and mutual sufferings may maintain mutual love.

Frenchwomen are superior to those of England or Germany, and, indeed, to any other women, in being able not only to a.s.sist man, but to become his companion, his friend, his partner, his _alter ego_. None but the commercial cla.s.ses, generally speaking, are wise enough to profit by this. See, in the shop-keeping quarters, in the dark storehouses of the _Rue des Lombards_, or the Rue de la Verrerie, the young wife, often born of rich parents, who, nevertheless, remains there, in that little glazed counting-house, keeping the books, registering whatever is brought in or taken out, and directing the clerks and porters. With such a partner the house will prosper. The household is improved by it. The husband and wife, separated by their occupations during the day, are the better pleased to unite together in common thought.

Without being able to partic.i.p.ate so directly in the husband's activity, the wife might also, in other professions, be able to a.s.sociate with him in his business, or, at least, in his ideas. What makes this difficult (I have not attempted to disguise it) is the spirit of specialty which goes on increasing in our different professions, as well as in our sciences, and driving us into minute details; whereas woman, being less persevering, and, moreover, less called upon to apply herself with precision, is confined to a knowledge of generalities. The man who will seriously initiate a woman into his own life, can do it safely and completely, if she love him, but he would require to possess both patience and kindness. They have come together, as it were, from the two opposite poles, and prepared by a totally different education. Since it is so, how can you expect that your young wife, intelligent as she is, should understand you at once?

If she do not understand you, it is, too frequently, your own fault: this almost always proceeds from the abstract, dry, and scholastic forms which you have imbibed from your education. She, remaining in the sphere of common sense and sentiment, understands nothing of your formulas, and seldom, very seldom, indeed, do you know how to translate them into plain language. This requires address, will, and feeling.

You would want, sir, let me tell you, both more sense and more love.

At the first word she does not understand, the husband loses his patience. "She is incapable, she is too frivolous." He leaves her, and all is over. But that day he loses much. If he had persevered, he would gradually have led her along with him; she would have lived his life, and their marriage would have been real. Ah! what a companion he has lost! how sure a confidant! and how zealous an ally! In this person, who, when left to herself, seems to him too trifling, he would have found, in moments of difficulty, a ray of inspiration, and often useful advice.

I am here entering upon a large subject, where I should wish to stop.

But I cannot. One word more: the man of modern times, a victim of the division of work, and often condemned to a narrow speciality, in which he loses the sentiment of general life, and becomes a morbid sort of a being, would require to have with him a young and serene mind, more nicely balanced, and less given to specialty than his own, that might lead him from the confined notions of trade, and restore him to the charms of a well-regulated mind. In this age of eager opposition, when the day is taken up with active business, and we return home worn out with toil or disappointment, it is necessary to have a wife at the domestic fire-side to refresh the burning brain of the husband. This workman (what are we all but workmen, each in his own particular line?), this blacksmith, panting with thirst, after beating the iron, would receive from her the living fountain of the beautiful and good, of G.o.d and nature; he would drink for a moment of eternal streams.

Then he would _forget_, take courage, and breathe freely again. Having been relieved by her, he would in his turn a.s.sist her with his powerful hand, lead her into his own world, his own life, his way of progress and new ideas--the way of the future!

Unfortunately this is not the way of the world. I have sought everywhere, but in vain, for this fine exchange of thought, which alone realizes marriage. They certainly try for a moment, in the beginning, to communicate together, but they are soon discouraged: the husband grows dumb, his heart, dried up with the arid influence of interest and business, can no longer find words. At first she is astonished and uneasy: she questions him. But questions annoy him; and she no longer dares to speak to him. Let him be easy; the time is coming when his wife, sitting thoughtful by the fire-side, absent in her turn, and framing her imaginary plans, will leave him in quiet possession of his taciturnity.

First of all, she has a son. It is to him, if he be left to her, that she will devote herself entirely. Should she go out, she gives him her hand, and soon her arm; he is now like a young brother, "a little husband." How tall he has grown already! how quickly time pa.s.ses; and it is a pity he grows so; for now comes the separation, his Latin and his tears. Must he not become a learned man? Must he not enter, as soon as possible, into the world of violence and opposition, where he will acquire the bad pa.s.sions which are cultivated so carefully in us, pride, ambition, hatred, and envy? The mother would like to wait longer: "What is the hurry? he is so young, and those schools are so strict! He will learn much better at home, if they will let him remain with her; she will engage masters and superintend his studies herself; she will discontinue going to b.a.l.l.s."--"Impossible, madam, impossible!

you would make a milksop of him." The fact is, the father, though he likes his son very much, finds, that in a well-regulated house this movement and constant noise and bustle are intolerable. He is unable to support anything of the sort: fatigued, disgusted, and ill-humoured, he wants silence and repose.

Wise husbands, who make so little of the resistance of a mother, do you not perceive that it is also by an instinct of virtue that this woman wishes to keep her son the pure and irreproachable witness, before whom she would always have remained holy? If you knew how useful the presence of the child is to the house, you yourself would desire to keep him. As long as that child remained there, the house was blessed.

In his presence how difficult it is to loosen the family tie! What completes marriage and the family? The child, the object of their hopes. Who maintains the family? The child they possess. He is the aim and the end, the mediator--I had almost said the whole.

We cannot repeat it too often, for nothing is more true--woman is alone. She is alone if she has a husband; she is also alone even with a son. Once at school, she sees him only by favour, and often at long intervals. When he leaves school, other prisons await the youth, and other exiles.

A brilliant evening party is given: enter those well-lighted rooms; you see the women sitting in long rows, well-dressed, and entirely alone.

Go, about four o'clock, to the Champs-Elysees, and there you will see again the same women, sad and spiritless, on their way to the Bois de Boulogne, each in her own carriage, and alone. These are in a calash, those at the far end of a shop; but all are equally alone.

There is nothing in the life of women, who have the misfortune to have nothing to do, that may not be explained by one single word--loneliness, _ennui_. _Ennui_, which is supposed to be a languishing and negative disposition of the mind, is, for a nervous woman, a positive evil impossible to support. It grasps its prey, and gnaws it to the core: whoever suspends the torment for a moment is considered a saviour.

_Ennui_ makes them receive female friends, whom they know to be inquisitive, envious, slandering enemies. _Ennui_ makes them endure novels in newspapers, which are suddenly cut short, at the moment of the greatest interest. _Ennui_ carries them to concerts, where they find a mixture of every kind of music, and where the diversity of styles is fatigue for the ear. Ennui drags them to a sermon, which thousands listen to, but which not one of them could bear to read.

Nay, even the sickening half-worldly and half-devout productions, with which the neo-Catholics inundate the Faubourg Saint German, will find readers among these poor women, the martyrs of _ennui_. Such delicate and sickly forms can support a nauseous dose of musk and incense; which would turn the stomach of any one in health.

One of these young authors explains, in a novel, all the advantage there is in beginning gallantry by gallant devotion. The proceeding is not new. All I wish is, that those who borrowed it from Tartuffe would not give it to us, without its fair portion of wit and humour.

But they have no great need of it. Women listen to their disguised declarations and ambiguous endearments, as a matter of conscience to earn their salvation. The woman, who, with the most sober friend, would be offended at the very first word of friendship, suffers patiently this double-meaning language of the young Levite. The intelligent woman of experience and the world, who has read and seen much, shuts her eyes to the mischief. If he has but little talent, if he is heavy and uninteresting, yet his intentions are so good! Father [Transcriber's note: Rather?] such a one answers for him; he is an excellent young man.

The fact is, that while he pretends devotion, he speaks of love; this is his merit. Even though it be spoken of in a weak and insipid manner, it is still a merit with her who is no longer young. The husband, however distinguished he may be, has the fault of being a _positive_ man, entirely taken up, as they say, with worldly interests.

It is very true he is working for the interest of his family; he provides for the future welfare of his children; he consumes his life to support the luxury in which his wife lives, and beyond his fortune.

Perhaps this husband would be justified in saying that all this, however material may be the result, is also for him a moral interest, _an interest of the heart_. Perhaps he might add, that in being engaged with worldly interests in our a.s.semblies and tribunals, besides a thousand other different positions for the profit of others, we may show ourselves to be more _disinterested_, and consequently more spiritualised, than all those _brokers of spirituality_ who turn the Church into an exchange.

Let us here point out a contrast which is not sufficiently noticed.

In the middle ages the _priest_ was the spiritual and _mortified man_.

By the studies to which he alone devoted himself, by nocturnal prayers and vigils, by the excess of fasting, and by monastic flagellations, he mortified his body. But in these days very little remains of all that; the Church has softened down everything. The priests live as others do: if many pa.s.s a mean and pitiful life, it is, at least, generally unattended with risk. We see it, moreover, in the freedom of mind with which they engage the leisure of women with interminable conversations.

Who is the mortified man in the present day, in this time of hard work, eager efforts, and fiery opposition? It is the layman, the worldly man. This man of the world, full of cares, works all day and all night, either for his family, or for the State. Being often engaged in details of business or studies, too th.o.r.n.y to interest his wife and children, he cannot communicate to them what fills his own mind. Even at the hour of rest he speaks little, being always pursuing his idea.

Success in business and invention in science are only obtained at a high price--the price that Newton mentions, _by ever thinking of it_.

Solitary among his kindred, he runs the risk, making their glory, or their fortune, to become a stranger to them.

The Churchman, on the contrary, who, in these days, to judge of him by what he publishes, studies little, and invents nothing, and who no longer wages against himself that war of mortifications imposed by the middle ages, coolly and quietly pursue two very different occupations at the same time. By his a.s.siduity and fawning words, he gains over the family of the man of business, at the very moment he hurls down upon him from the pulpit the thunders of his eloquence.

CHAPTER III.

THE MOTHER.--ALONE, FOR A LONG TIME, SHE CAN BRING UP HER CHILD.--INTELLECTUAL NOURISHMENT.--GESTATION, INCUBATION, AND EDUCATION.--THE CHILD GUARANTEES THE MOTHER.--THE MOTHER GUARANTEES THE CHILD.--SHE PROTECTS ITS NATURAL ORIGINALITY.--PUBLIC EDUCATION MUST LIMIT THIS ORIGINALITY.--EVEN THE FATHER LIMITS IT.--THE MOTHER DEFENDS IT.--MATERNAL WEAKNESS.--THE MOTHER WOULD MAKE HER SON A HERO.--THE HEROIC DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MATERNAL LOVE.