Letters of Two Brides

MME. DE L'ESTORADE TO LOUISE DE CHAULIEU

April.

My angel--or ought I not rather to say my imp of evil?--you have,

without meaning it, grieved me sorely. I would say wounded were we not

one soul. And yet it is possible to wound oneself.

How plain it is that you have never realized the force of the word

indissoluble as applied to the contract binding man and woman! I

have no wish to controvert what has been laid down by philosophers or

legislators--they are quite capable of doing this for themselves--but,

dear one, in making marriage irrevocable and imposing on it a

relentless formula, which admits of no exceptions, they have rendered

each union a thing as distinct as one individual is from another.

Each has its own inner laws which differ from those of others. The laws

regulating married life in the country, for instance, cannot be the

same as those regulating a household in town, where frequent

distractions give variety to life. Or conversely, married life in

Paris, where existence is one perpetual whirl, must demand different

treatment from the more peaceful home in the provinces.

But if place alters the conditions of marriage, much more does

character. The wife of a man born to be a leader need only resign

herself to his guidance; whereas the wife of a fool, conscious of

superior power, is bound to take the reins in her own hand if she

would avert calamity.

You speak of vice; and it is possible that, after all, reason and

reflection produce a result not dissimilar from what we call by that

name. For what does a woman mean by it but perversion of feeling

through calculation? Passion is vicious when it reasons, admirable

only when it springs from the heart and spends itself in sublime

impulses that set at naught all selfish considerations. Sooner or

later, dear one, you too will say, "Yes! dissimulation is the

necessary armor of a woman, if by dissimulation be meant courage to

bear in silence, prudence to foresee the future."

Every married woman learns to her cost the existence of certain social

laws, which, in many respects, conflict with the laws of nature.

Marrying at our age, it would be possible to have a dozen children.

What is this but another name for a dozen crimes, a dozen misfortunes?

It would be handing over to poverty and despair twelve innocent

darlings; whereas two children would mean the happiness of both, a

double blessing, two lives capable of developing in harmony with the

customs and laws of our time. The natural law and the code are in

hostility, and we are the battle ground. Would you give the name of

vice to the prudence of the wife who guards her family from

destruction through its own acts? One calculation or a thousand, what

matter, if the decision no longer rests with the heart?