In short, the rules of chivalry are observed, and what more can she want? She will not be deprived of Gustave. Neither does she want her life to have a virtuous and noble purpose etc. She is really quite as much of a capitalist and quite as niggardly as her husband. When the canary years are over, when, that is, Ma Biche can no longer dupe herself about being a canary, when the possibility of a new Gustave becomes an absolute absurdity to even the most fervent and self-satisfied imagination, she suddenly undergoes a rapid and unpleasant metamorphosis. Gone are daintiness, finery, skittishness. For the most part she becomes a bad-tempered housewife and a church mouse, who helps her husband to hoard his pennies.
A sort of cynicism suddenly takes hold of her; lassitude, spite, coarse instincts, pointless life, cynical talk – all suddenly make their appearance. Some even become slatternly. Of course, this is not always the case, there are other more cheering phenomena too, of course; similar social relationships can also be observed elsewhere – of course – but… in France all this is more natural, more genuine, more spontaneous, fuller, it is all more national. Here is the source and embryo of the bourgeois form of society which now reigns throughout the world, in general imitation of the great nation.
Certainly Ma Biche is queen – superficially. It is difficult to imagine the exquisite politeness with which she is surrounded, the importunate attention which is paid to her everywhere in society as well as in the streets. The refinement of it is amazing, but it is sometimes so mawkish that for any honest soul it would be unbearable. The obvious sham of it would cut him to the quick. But Ma Biche is herself a great rogue and… that is all she wants… she will always get her way and will always prefer devious means to the honest and straightforward: the results, she thinks, are more certain and she gets more fun.
And for Ma Biche intrigue and fun is everything; it’s the whole point. But then, look at the way she is dressed, at the way she walks along the streets. Ma Biche is simpering, affected, unnatural through and through, but this is precisely what captivates people, especially those who are blasé or partly depraved and who have lost all taste for fresh and natural beauty.
Ma Biche has a very under-developed personality; she has a bird’s brain and heart, but on the other hand she is dainty, she has the secret of innumerable little tricks and shifts which subjugate you and make you follow her as a piquant novelty. But in fact she is rarely beautiful. There is something evil in her face, even. But it does not matter, the face is mobile and cheerful and possesses to the highest degree the secret of counterfeiting feeling and nature. Maybe what you like about her is not that she achieves the natural by means of the counterfeit, but you are fascinated by the actual process of achievement by counterfeit, the art of it fascinates you.
The Parisian for the most part does not care whether it is true love or a good counterfeit. He perhaps even prefers the counterfeit. A kind of eastern view on women is gaining currency in Paris. The camellia is more and more in fashion. “Take the money and dupe me as well as you can – give me a counterfeit imitation of love, in other words”: that’s what is required of a camellia.
Very little more is required of a wife, at least that is all that’s asked of her, and there is therefore tacit indulgence for Gustave. Besides, the bourgeois knows that in her old age his Biche will enter fully into his interests and show a great deal of zeal in helping him to amass his fortune. She helps him a lot even in her youth. She sometimes carries on the whole trade, lures in the customers and is, in fact, his right hand, his chief clerk. And in the circumstances, he naturally forgives her her Gustave.
In the streets woman enjoys inviolability. No one will offend her and she is always given the right of way. Whereas in Russia any woman who is not quite old cannot make a step in the streets without someone – some soldier or debauchee – peering under her hat and trying to effect an introduction.
However, in spite of the possibility of Gustave, the ordinary, ritual form of relationship between Bribri and his Biche is quite charming and frequently naive. In general almost all foreigners are incomparably more naive than the Russians. This struck me immediately. It is difficult to explain this precisely – it is a thing that must be noted for oneself. Le russe est sceptique et moqueur,* say the French about us, and this is, in fact, so.
We are greater cynics and appreciate our national patrimony less, do not like it even, anyway have not the highest respect for it and do not understand it; we meddle in European affairs and take the whole of humanity as our field without ourselves belonging to any nation, and therefore naturally adopt a much cooler attitude to everything, rather as if we were performing a duty – and we are certainly more detached.
But I am digressing. Bribri is sometimes very naive. When walking round the little fountains, for instance, he will start explaining to his Biche the reason for the fountain’s upward jet; he explains to her the laws of nature, parades to her face his national pride in the beauty of the Bois de Boulogne, floodlighting, the play of the grandes eaux* in Versailles, the triumphs of the Emperor Napoleon and the gloire militaire; he takes delight in her curiosity and pleasure and is himself very pleased.
The most rascally Biche is also fairly tender to her spouse, and her tenderness is real and not counterfeit, in spite of her husband’s horns. I do not pretend of course, to be able to take roofs off houses, like Le Sage’s Devil.* I am only telling of things that have struck me, things I have observed. Ma Biche might say to you: “Mon mari n’a pas encore vu la mer,”* and her voice betrays a sincere and naive sympathy for him. It means that her husband has not yet been to Brest or Boulogne or somewhere to have a look at the sea.
You must know that the bourgeois has certain very naive and very serious needs, which have almost become a general bourgeois habit. For example, apart from the need to make money and the need for eloquence, the bourgeois has two other needs, two most legitimate needs, hallowed by general custom and to which he adopts an extremely serious, well-nigh pathetic attitude.
The first is to see the sea – voir la mer.
The Parisian sometimes lives and works in Paris all his life and does not see the sea. Why should he? All unbeknown to himself he has a strong, a passionate desire for it, puts off the journey from year to year, because he is usually retained by business, grieves, and his wife sincerely shares his grief.
There is, in general, a great deal of sentimentality in all this, and I have great respect for it. At last he succeeds in finding time and money, gets ready and goes off “to see the sea” for a few days. On his return, he tells his impressions in rapturous and florid style to his wife, his relations and his friends, and all his life he treasures with delight the memory of having seen the sea.
The bourgeois’s other legitimate and equally strong need is to se rouler dans l’herbe.* The fact is that as soon as a Parisian leaves town, he loves, and even considers it his duty, to lie on the grass for a bit; he does it with dignity and the feeling that he thereby communes avec la nature,* and is particularly delighted if someone watches him at it. In general, the Parisian out of town considers it his immediate duty to become at once skittish, breezy and even dashing, in fact to appear natural and near la nature.
L’homme de la nature et de la vérité! Could it have been Jean-Jacques who first instilled in the bourgeois this intense respect for la nature? As a matter of fact, the Parisian allows himself to have these two needs – voir la mer and se rouler dans l’herbe – for the most part only after he has gained respect for himself, is proud of himself and regards himself as a human being. Se rouler dans l’herbe can be ten, twenty times sweeter when it takes place on one’s own land, bought for money earned by one’s own toil. Generally speaking, on retirement the bourgeois likes to buy a piece of land somewhere, acquire a house, a garden, his own fence, his own hens, his own cow.
It matters not if it is all on a microscopic scale – the bourgeois is childishly, touchingly delighted: “mon arbre, mon mur,”* he constantly repeats to himself and to all his guests and never thereafter ceases from repeating it to himself throughout his life. That is when it becomes sweeter than ever to se rouler dans l’herbe. To perform this duty, he will always have a lawn in front of his house.
Someone once told me of a bourgeois who could not
