The Two Brothers

H >> Honore de Balzac >> The Two Brothers


The two widows clubbed their revenues, and so were in possession of a
joint income of twelve thousand francs a year. This seems a very
simple and natural proceeding. But nothing in life is more deserving
of attention than the things that are called natural; we are on our
guard against the unnatural and extraordinary. For this reason, you
will find men of experience--lawyers, judges, doctors, and priests
--attaching immense importance to simple matters; and they are often
thought over-scrupulous. But the serpent amid flowers is one of the
finest myths that antiquity has bequeathed for the guidance of our
lives. How often we hear fools, trying to excuse themselves in their
own eyes or in the eyes of others, exclaiming, "It was all so natural
that any one would have been taken in."

In 1809, Madame Descoings, who never told her age, was sixty-five. In
her heyday she had been popularly called a beauty, and was now one of
those rare women whom time respects. She owed to her excellent
constitution the privilege of preserving her good looks, which,
however, would not bear close examination. She was of medium height,
plump, and fresh, with fine shoulders and a rather rosy complexion.
Her blond hair, bordering on chestnut, showed, in spite of her
husband's catastrophe, not a tinge of gray. She loved good cheer, and
liked to concoct nice little made dishes; yet, fond as she was of
eating, she also adored the theatre and cherished a vice which she
wrapped in impenetrable mystery--she bought into lotteries. Can that
be the abyss of which mythology warns us under the fable of the
Danaides and their cask? Madame Descoings, like other women who are
lucky enough to keep young for many years, spend rather too much upon
her dress; but aside from these trifling defects she was the
pleasantest of women to live with. Of every one's opinion, never
opposing anybody, her kindly and communicative gayety gave pleasure to
all. She had, moreover, a Parisian quality which charmed the retired
clerks and elderly merchants of her circle,--she could take and give a
jest. If she did not marry a third time it was no doubt the fault of
the times. During the wars of the Empire, marrying men found rich and
handsome girls too easily to trouble themselves about women of sixty.

Madame Descoings, always anxious to cheer Madame Bridau, often took
the latter to the theatre, or to drive; prepared excellent little
dinners for her delectation, and even tried to marry her to her own
son by her first husband, Bixiou. Alas! to do this, she was forced to
reveal a terrible secret, carefully kept by her, by her late husband,
and by her notary. The young and beautiful Madame Descoings, who
passed for thirty-six years old, had a son who was thirty-five, named
Bixiou, already a widower, a major in the Twenty-Fourth Infantry, who
subsequently perished at Lutzen, leaving behind him an only son.
Madame Descoings, who only saw her grandson secretly, gave out that he
was the son of the first wife of her first husband. The revelation was
partly a prudential act; for this grandson was being educated with
Madame Bridau's sons at the Imperial Lyceum, where he had a
half-scholarship. The lad, who was clever and shrewd at school, soon
after made himself a great reputation as draughtsman and designer, and
also as a wit.

Agathe, who lived only for her children, declined to re-marry, as much
from good sense as from fidelity to her husband. But it is easier for
a woman to be a good wife than to be a good mother. A widow has two
tasks before her, whose duties clash: she is a mother, and yet she
must exercise parental authority. Few women are firm enough to
understand and practise this double duty. Thus it happened that
Agathe, notwithstanding her many virtues, was the innocent cause of
great unhappiness. In the first place, through her lack of
intelligence and the blind confidence to which such noble natures are
prone, Agathe fell a victim to Madame Descoings, who brought a
terrible misfortune on the family. That worthy soul was nursing up a
combination of three numbers called a "trey" in a lottery, and
lotteries give no credit to their customers. As manager of the joint
household, she was able to pay up her stakes with the money intended
for their current expenses, and she went deeper and deeper into debt,
with the hope of ultimately enriching her grandson Bixiou, her dear
Agathe, and the little Bridaus. When the debts amounted to ten
thousand francs, she increased her stakes, trusting that her favorite
trey, which had not turned up in nine years, would come at last, and
fill to overflowing the abysmal deficit.

From that moment the debt rolled up rapidly. When it reached twenty
thousand francs, Madame Descoings lost her head, still failing to win
the trey. She tried to mortgage her own property to pay her niece, but
Roguin, who was her notary, showed her the impossibility of carrying
out that honorable intention. The late Doctor Rouget had laid hold of
the property of the brother-in-law after the grocer's execution, and
had, as it were, disinherited Madame Descoings by securing to her a
life-interest on the property of his own son, Jean-Jacques Rouget. No
money-lender would think of advancing twenty thousand francs to a
woman sixty-six years of age, on an annuity of about four thousand, at
a period when ten per cent could easily be got for an investment. So
one morning Madame Descoings fell at the feet of her niece, and with
sobs confessed the state of things. Madame Bridau did not reproach
her; she sent away the footman and cook, sold all but the bare
necessities of her furniture, sold also three-fourths of her
government funds, paid off the debts, and bade farewell to her
_appartement_.



CHAPTER II

One of the worst corners in all Paris is undoubtedly that part of the
rue Mazarin which lies between the rue Guenegard and its junction with
the rue de Seine, behind the palace of the Institute. The high gray
walls of the college and of the library which Cardinal Mazarin
presented to the city of Paris, and which the French Academy was in
after days to inhabit, cast chill shadows over this angle of the
street, where the sun seldom shines, and the north wind blows. The
poor ruined widow came to live on the third floor of a house standing
at this damp, dark, cold corner. Opposite, rose the Institute
buildings, in which were the dens of ferocious animals known to the
bourgeoisie under the name of artists,--under that of tyro, or rapin,
in the studios. Into these dens they enter rapins, but they may come
forth prix de Rome. The transformation does not take place without
extraordinary uproar and disturbance at the time of year when the
examinations are going on, and the competitors are shut up in their
cells. To win a prize, they were obliged, within a given time, to
make, if a sculptor, a clay model; if a painter, a picture such as may
be seen at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts; if a musician, a cantata; if an
architect, the plans for a public building. At the time when we are
penning the words, this menagerie has already been removed from these
cold and cheerless buildings, and taken to the elegant Palais des
Beaux-Arts, which stands near by.

From the windows of Madame Bridau's new abode, a glance could
penetrate the depths of those melancholy barred cages. To the north,
the view was shut in by the dome of the Institute; looking up the
street, the only distraction to the eye was a file of hackney-coaches,
which stood at the upper end of the rue Mazarin. After a while, the
widow put boxes of earth in front of her windows, and cultivated those
aerial gardens that police regulations forbid, though their vegetable
products purify the atmosphere. The house, which backed up against
another fronting on the rue de Seine, was necessarily shallow, and the
staircase wound round upon itself. The third floor was the last. Three
windows to three rooms, namely, a dining-room, a small salon, and a
chamber on one side of the landing; on the other, a little kitchen,
and two single rooms; above, an immense garret without partitions.
Madame Bridau chose this lodging for three reasons: economy, for it
cost only four hundred francs a year, so that she took a lease of it
for nine years; proximity to her sons' school, the Imperial Lyceum
being at a short distance; thirdly, because it was in the quarter to
which she was used.

The inside of the _appartement_ was in keeping with the general look of
the house. The dining-room, hung with a yellow paper covered with
little green flowers, and floored with tiles that were not glazed,
contained nothing that was not strictly necessary,--namely, a table,
two sideboards, and six chairs, brought from the other _appartement_.
The salon was adorned with an Aubusson carpet given to Bridau when the
ministry of the interior was refurnished. To the furniture of this
room the widow added one of those commonplace mahogany sofas with the
Egyptian heads that Jacob Desmalter manufactured by the gross in 1806,
covering them with a silken green stuff bearing a design of white
geometric circles. Above this piece of furniture hung a portrait of
Bridau, done in pastel by the hand of an amateur, which at once
attracted the eye. Though art might have something to say against it,
no one could fail to recognize the firmness of the noble and obscure
citizen upon that brow. The serenity of the eyes, gentle, yet proud,
was well given; the sagacious mind, to which the prudent lips bore
testimony, the frank smile, the atmosphere of the man of whom the
Emperor had said, "Justum et tenacem," had all been caught, if not
with talent, at least with fidelity. Studying that face, an observer
could see that the man had done his duty. His countenance bore signs
of the incorruptibility which we attribute to several men who served
the Republic. On the opposite wall, over a card-table, flashed a
picture of the Emperor in brilliant colors, done by Vernet; Napoleon
was riding rapidly, attended by his escort.

Agathe had bestowed upon herself two large birdcages; one filled with
canaries, the other with Java sparrows. She had given herself up to
this juvenile fancy since the loss of her husband, irreparable to her,
as, in fact, it was to many others. By the end of three months, her
widowed chamber had become what it was destined to remain until the
appointed day when she left it forever,--a litter of confusion which
words are powerless to describe. Cats were domiciled on the sofa. The
canaries, occasionally let loose, left their commas on the furniture.
The poor dear woman scattered little heaps of millet and bits of
chickweed about the room, and put tidbits for the cats in broken
saucers. Garments lay everywhere. The room breathed of the provinces
and of constancy. Everything that once belonged to Bridau was
scrupulously preserved. Even the implements in his desk received the
care which the widow of a paladin might have bestowed upon her
husband's armor. One slight detail here will serve to bring the tender
devotion of this woman before the reader's mind. She had wrapped up a
pen and sealed the package, on which she wrote these words, "Last pen
used by my dear husband." The cup from which he drank his last draught
was on the fireplace; caps and false hair were tossed, at a later
period, over the glass globes which covered these precious relics.
After Bridau's death not a trace of coquetry, not even a woman's
ordinary care of her person, was left in the young widow of
thirty-five. Parted from the only man she had ever known, esteemed, and
loved, from one who had never caused her the slightest unhappiness,
she was no longer conscious of her womanhood; all things were as
nothing to her; she no longer even thought of her dress. Nothing was
ever more simply done or more complete than this laying down of
conjugal happiness and personal charm. Some human beings obtain
through love the power of transferring their self--their I--to the
being of another; and when death takes that other, no life of their
own is possible for them.

Agathe, who now lived only for her children, was infinitely sad at the
thought of the privations this financial ruin would bring upon them.
From the time of her removal to the rue Mazarin a shade of melancholy
came upon her face, which made it very touching. She hoped a little in
the Emperor; but the Emperor at that time could do no more than he was
already doing; he was giving three hundred francs a year to each child
from his privy purse, besides the scholarships.

As for the brilliant Descoings, she occupied an _appartement_ on the
second floor similar to that of her niece above her. She had made
Madame Bridau an assignment of three thousand francs out of her
annuity. Roguin, the notary, attended to this in Madame Bridau's
interest; but it would take seven years of such slow repayment to make
good the loss. The Descoings, thus reduced to an income of twelve
hundred francs, lived with her niece in a small way. These excellent
but timid creatures employed a woman-of-all-work for the morning hours
only. Madame Descoings, who liked to cook, prepared the dinner. In the
evenings a few old friends, persons employed at the ministry who owed
their places to Bridau, came for a game of cards with the two widows.
Madame Descoings still cherished her trey, which she declared was
obstinate about turning up. She expected, by one grand stroke, to
repay the enforced loan she had made upon her niece. She was fonder of
the little Bridaus than she was of her grandson Bixiou,--partly from a
sense of the wrong she had done them, partly because she felt the
kindness of her niece, who, under her worst deprivations, never
uttered a word of reproach. So Philippe and Joseph were cossetted, and
the old gambler in the Imperial Lottery of France (like others who
have a vice or a weakness to atone for) cooked them nice little
dinners with plenty of sweets. Later on, Philippe and Joseph could
extract from her pocket, with the utmost facility, small sums of
money, which the younger used for pencils, paper, charcoal and prints,
the elder to buy tennis-shoes, marbles, twine, and pocket-knives.
Madame Descoings's passion forced her to be content with fifty francs
a month for her domestic expenses, so as to gamble with the rest.

On the other hand, Madame Bridau, motherly love, kept her expenses
down to the same sum. By way of penance for her former over-confidence,
she heroically cut off her own little enjoyments. As with
other timid souls of limited intelligence, one shock to her feelings
rousing her distrust led her to exaggerate a defect in her character
until it assumed the consistency of a virtue. The Emperor, she said to
herself, might forget them; he might die in battle; her pension, at
any rate, ceased with her life. She shuddered at the risk her children
ran of being left alone in the world without means. Quite incapable of
understanding Roguin when he explained to her that in seven years
Madame Descoings's assignment would replace the money she had sold out
of the Funds, she persisted in trusting neither the notary nor her
aunt, nor even the government; she believed in nothing but herself and
the privations she was practising. By laying aside three thousand
francs every year from her pension, she would have thirty thousand
francs at the end of ten years; which would give fifteen hundred a
year to her children. At thirty-six, she might expect to live twenty
years longer; and if she kept to the same system of economy she might
leave to each child enough for the bare necessaries of life.

Thus the two widows passed from hollow opulence to voluntary poverty,
--one under the pressure of a vice, the other through the promptings
of the purest virtue. None of these petty details are useless in
teaching the lesson which ought to be learned from this present
history, drawn as it is from the most commonplace interests of life,
but whose bearings are, it may be, only the more widespread. The view
from the windows into the student dens; the tumult of the rapins
below; the necessity of looking up at the sky to escape the miserable
sights of the damp angle of the street; the presence of that portrait,
full of soul and grandeur despite the workmanship of an amateur
painter; the sight of the rich colors, now old and harmonious, in that
calm and placid home; the preference of the mother for her eldest
child; her opposition to the tastes of the younger; in short, the
whole body of facts and circumstances which make the preamble of this
history are perhaps the generating causes to which we owe Joseph
Bridau, one of the greatest painters of the modern French school of
art.

Philippe, the elder of the two sons, was strikingly like his mother.
Though a blond lad, with blue eyes, he had the daring look which is
readily taken for intrepidity and courage. Old Claparon, who entered
the ministry of the interior at the same time as Bridau, and was one
of the faithful friends who played whist every night with the two
widows, used to say of Philippe two or three times a month, giving him
a tap on the cheek, "Here's a young rascal who'll stand to his guns!"
The boy, thus stimulated, naturally and out of bravado, assumed a
resolute manner. That turn once given to his character, he became very
adroit at all bodily exercises; his fights at the Lyceum taught him
the endurance and contempt for pain which lays the foundation of
military valor. He also acquired, very naturally, a distaste for
study; public education being unable to solve the difficult problem of
developing "pari passu" the body and the mind.

Agathe believed that the purely physical resemblance which Philippe
bore to her carried with it a moral likeness; and she confidently
expected him to show at a future day her own delicacy of feeling,
heightened by the vigor of manhood. Philippe was fifteen years old
when his mother moved into the melancholy _appartement_ in the rue
Mazarin; and the winning ways of a lad of that age went far to confirm
the maternal beliefs. Joseph, three years younger, was like his
father, but only on the defective side. In the first place, his thick
black hair was always in disorder, no matter what pains were taken
with it; while Philippe's, notwithstanding his vivacity, was
invariably neat. Then, by some mysterious fatality, Joseph could not
keep his clothes clean; dress him in new clothes, and he immediately
made them look like old ones. The elder, on the other hand, took care
of his things out of mere vanity. Unconsciously, the mother acquired a
habit of scolding Joseph and holding up his brother as an example to
him. Agathe did not treat the two children alike; when she went to
fetch them from school, the thought in her mind as to Joseph always
was, "What sort of state shall I find him in?" These trifles drove her
heart into the gulf of maternal preference.

No one among the very ordinary persons who made the society of the two
widows--neither old Du Bruel nor old Claparon, nor Desroches the
father, nor even the Abbe Loraux, Agathe's confessor--noticed Joseph's
faculty for observation. Absorbed in the line of his own tastes, the
future colorist paid no attention to anything that concerned himself.
During his childhood this disposition was so like torpor that his
father grew uneasy about him. The remarkable size of the head and the
width of the brow roused a fear that the child might be liable to
water on the brain. His distressful face, whose originality was
thought ugliness by those who had no eye for the moral value of a
countenance, wore rather a sullen expression during his childhood. The
features, which developed later in life, were pinched, and the close
attention the child paid to what went on about him still further
contracted them. Philippe flattered his mother's vanity, but Joseph
won no compliments. Philippe sparkled with the clever sayings and
lively answers that lead parents to believe their boys will turn out
remarkable men; Joseph was taciturn, and a dreamer. The mother hoped
great things of Philippe, and expected nothing of Joseph.

Joseph's predilection for art was developed by a very commonplace
incident. During the Easter holidays of 1812, as he was coming home
from a walk in the Tuileries with his brother and Madame Descoings, he
saw a pupil drawing a caricature of some professor on the wall of the
Institute, and stopped short with admiration at the charcoal sketch,
which was full of satire. The next day the child stood at the window
watching the pupils as they entered the building by the door on the
rue Mazarin; then he ran downstairs and slipped furtively into the
long courtyard of the Institute, full of statues, busts, half-finished
marbles, plasters, and baked clays; at all of which he gazed
feverishly, for his instinct was awakened, and his vocation stirred
within him. He entered a room on the ground-floor, the door of which
was half open; and there he saw a dozen young men drawing from a
statue, who at once began to make fun of him.

"Hi! little one," cried the first to see him, taking the crumbs of his
bread and scattering them at the child.

"Whose child is he?"

"Goodness, how ugly!"

For a quarter of an hour Joseph stood still and bore the brunt of much
teasing in the atelier of the great sculptor, Chaudet. But after
laughing at him for a time, the pupils were struck with his
persistency and with the expression of his face. They asked him what
he wanted. Joseph answered that he wished to know how to draw;
thereupon they all encouraged him. Won by such friendliness, the child
told them he was Madame Bridau's son.

"Oh! if you are Madame Bridau's son," they cried, from all parts of
the room, "you will certainly be a great man. Long live the son of
Madame Bridau! Is your mother pretty? If you are a sample of her, she
must be stylish!"

"Ha! you want to be an artist?" said the eldest pupil, coming up to
Joseph, "but don't you know that that requires pluck; you'll have to
bear all sorts of trials,--yes, trials,--enough to break your legs and
arms and soul and body. All the fellows you see here have gone through
regular ordeals. That one, for instance, he went seven days without
eating! Let me see, now, if you can be an artist."

He took one of the child's arms and stretched it straight up in the
air; then he placed the other arm as if Joseph were in the act of
delivering a blow with his fist.

"Now that's what we call the telegraph trial," said the pupil. "If you
can stand like that, without lowering or changing the position of your
arms for a quarter of an hour, then you'll have proved yourself a
plucky one."

"Courage, little one, courage!" cried all the rest. "You must suffer
if you want to be an artist."

Joseph, with the good faith of his thirteen years, stood motionless
for five minutes, all the pupils gazing solemnly at him.

"There! you are moving," cried one.

"Steady, steady, confound you!" cried another.

"The Emperor Napoleon stood a whole month as you see him there," said
a third, pointing to the fine statue by Chaudet, which was in the
room.

That statue, which represents the Emperor standing with the Imperial
sceptre in his hand, was torn down in 1814 from the column it
surmounted so well.

At the end of ten minutes the sweat stood in drops on Joseph's
forehead. At that moment a bald-headed little man, pale and sickly in
appearance, entered the atelier, where respectful silence reigned at
once.

"What you are about, you urchins?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the
youthful martyr.

"That is a good little fellow, who is posing," said the tall pupil who
had placed Joseph.

"Are you not ashamed to torture a poor child in that way?" said
Chaudet, lowering Joseph's arms. "How long have you been standing
there?" he asked the boy, giving him a friendly little pat on the
cheek.

"A quarter of an hour."

"What brought you here?"

"I want to be an artist."

"Where do you belong? where do you come from?"

"From mamma's house."

"Oh! mamma!" cried the pupils.

"Silence at the easels!" cried Chaudet. "Who is your mamma?"

"She is Madame Bridau. My papa, who is dead, was a friend of the
Emperor; and if you will teach me to draw, the Emperor will pay all
you ask for it."

"His father was head of a department at the ministry of the Interior,"
exclaimed Chaudet, struck by a recollection. "So you want to be an
artist, at your age?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, come here just as much as you like; we'll amuse you. Give him a
board, and paper, and chalks, and let him alone. You are to know, you
young scamps, that his father did me a service. Here, Corde-a-puits,
go and get some cakes and sugar-plums," he said to the pupil who had
tortured Joseph, giving him some small change. "We'll see if you are
to be artist by the way you gobble up the dainties," added the
sculptor, chucking Joseph under the chin.

Then he went round examining the pupils' works, followed by the child,
who looked and listened, and tried to understand him. The sweets were
brought, Chaudet, himself, the child, and the whole studio all had
their teeth in them; and Joseph was petted quite as much as he had
been teased. The whole scene, in which the rough play and real heart
of artists were revealed, and which the boy instinctively understood,
made a great impression on his mind. The apparition of the sculptor,
--for whom the Emperor's protection opened a way to future glory,
closed soon after by his premature death,--was like a vision to little
Joseph. The child said nothing to his mother about this adventure, but
he spent two hours every Sunday and every Thursday in Chaudet's
atelier. From that time forth, Madame Descoings, who humored the
fancies of the two cherubim, kept Joseph supplied with pencils and red
chalks, prints and drawing-paper. At school, the future colorist
sketched his masters, drew his comrades, charcoaled the dormitories,
and showed surprising assiduity in the drawing-class. Lemire, the
drawing-master, struck not only with the lad's inclination but also
with his actual progress, came to tell Madame Bridau of her son's
faculty. Agathe, like a true provincial, who knows as little of art as
she knows much of housekeeping, was terrified. When Lemire left her,
she burst into tears.