women. One must have his study; the other
her boudoir (or pouting-place), a significant
word; two bedrooms, so that at any moment
they may ignore, avoid, and exclude each
other, if needs be. It is as much as the
dining-room and drawing-room can do, to
bring them together for a moment; but
visitors and guests distract their attention;
they are dispensed from the trouble of
speaking to and almost of looking at each
other. It would be a prudent precaution on
the part of the married couple to put bolts
and bars on their respective chamber-doors,
so as to hold out a siege against each other.
What occasion is there to re-enact the law of
divorce? Such a marriage as this comes to
the same thing; such a suite of apartments is
quite sufficient.

When people really love, how can they
help envying the lodging of my neighbour,
the carpenter, which consists of one single
chamber? And so while he is planing, his
wife, who gets up fine linen, sings as she
irons it all day long. Sometimes I forget
myself so far as to listen to her pretty voice,
which is powerful and vibrating, fresh and
pure. Sometimes she sings too loud and
puts me out a little; but I say to myself all
the same, "Let her sing. Sing away, poor
little chaffinch!"

"That's all very fine for a carpenter. But
my labours are of so high an order and with
so grave an object, that—. I am a thinker.
The slightest disturbance interrupts my
profound meditations."

Too profound, Monsieur; often hollow.
Your works, those of the present day, are for
the most part sterile; they are spiritual, I
grant, but they have so little life, they are so
dry, and so rarely human! The author
every instant loses sight of the world of heart
and common sense. A really human work,
a strong and living thought which has a body,
is not easily interrupted. Its powerful
whirlpool draws in, assimilates, and
appropriates everything which might have
disturbed it. How much more easily, if what
is called the disturbance is precisely the
bottom of your heart, your love and your
beloved wife! All that is only one, and
makes but one. Is it she who will interrupt
the work, or the work her? Neither
one nor the other. With the subject which
appears the very furthest removed, she is
still mixed up by the warmth of love
which, through her means, will pervade its
substance.

The Dutch pictures are admirable; they
continually exhibit a charming confusion of
study and household matters, wherein the
one is ennobled, the other excited, fecundated.
Rembrandt's philosopher, at the Louvre, is a
microscopic image of study harmonising with
family affairs. In a pale sunset, an old man
close to a window whereon is spread a great
book, has ceased to read, and is meditating,
nursing his thoughts. His eyes are shut,
apparently, and yet he sees everything around
him. He sees the good servant-girl stirring
the fire. He sees his lady (who is not very
clearly distinguishable) coming down the
winding staircase. These pleasing images
mingle, you may guess, with his pleasant
thoughts. Behind him, a closed cellar-door
probably conceals a sample of generous wine
with which he warms his blood now and then.
You have before you a complete individual
who has made, and who is digesting, the
vintage of life. If the great book on the
window-sill is the Bible, it is clear which
portion of it the good man will prefer. His
disposition is to listen to Tobias, Ruth, and
the patriarchs. He will not lose his way in
vain and sterile questions, and will not puzzle
his brains, as others have done, in determining
the sex of the angels. The same man, in
a convent or a cell, would have written
profitless commentaries, and would have found
no end, in wandering mazes lost. Here it is
just the contrary. And why? His household,
his family, his natural affection,
ceaselessly bring him back to the realities
of life.

A charming thing to watch, which you
may often observe with your studious friends,
is the infinite delicacy of the young wife, who
in a restricted space, comes and goes, and
moves round the working student, without
in the least disturbing him. Any other person
would have put him out, but "she," he
says, "she is nobody." In fact she is
himself, his second and his better soul. She
holds her breath, and steps on the tips of her
toes. She lightly skims along the floor. She
has such a respect for work. In this you.
can admire what a gentle and quick-sighted
creature is woman; above all, affectionate,
feeling a constant want of the beloved object.
If he allows her, she will remain in a corner
sewing or embroidering. If not, a thousand
occasions, a thousand requirements will urge
her to come into the room. "What is he
doing now? How far has he got? Perhaps
he is working too hard? He will make
himself ill." All that flashes through her
mind. And how happy he is to feel that she
is there. He pretends not to see her. He
remains bent over his work, as if absorbed in
it. But his heart gains the mastery, and he
exclaims: "My darling, my charming rose,
constrain not your steps. Your movements
are a harmony, your voice a melody which
enchants my ear. Your presence sheds its
influence on my work; it will be adorned
with your grace and glow with the flame of
my palpitating heart. Without beholding
you, I guessed you were here by the light
which overspread my spirit."