Le Cocu (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XVIII)

by Paul de Kock

CONTENTS

[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV.]

PREFACE
BECAUSE OF THE TITLE

I have never written prefaces to my novels; I have always considered what an author says in a preface, what he therein explains beforehand to the reader, as utterly useless. The reader would be entitled to reply, as Alceste replies to Orontes: “We shall see.”

Nor have I ever supposed that the public read a novel in order to talk with its author. It matters little to my readers, I presume, whether I am young or old, short or tall, whether I write in the morning or at night; what they want is a work that pleases them, in which there is enough of truth to enable them to identify themselves with the characters; and if the author constantly talks of himself and stations himself between his heroes and his reader, it seems to me that he destroys the illusion and injures his own work.

My reason for placing a preface at the head of this book has to do with the title—that title which has caused persons to recoil in dismay who do not balk at executioners, damned, tortured, guillotined, and other pleasant conceits in which authors indulge without objection. I propose, not to justify myself, for I do not think myself guilty, but to reassure some of my readers of the gentler sex, whom my title might alarm beyond measure.

Le Cocu! What is there so indecent in the word, pray? In the first place, what does it mean? A married man who is deceived by his wife, a husband whose wife is unfaithful. Would you like me to give my book such a title as The Husband whose Wife was False to Her Vows? That would resemble a Pontoise poster. Was it not clearer and simpler to take the one word which, alone, means all that?

You might have called it the Predestined, someone may say. My answer to that is that that title would have been excellent for those who understood it, but that very many people would never have guessed that it meant cuckold; that everybody is not familiar with such conventional language, and that I write to be understood by everybody.

But, after all, why enter upon such a crusade against a word so often and so happily employed on the stage? Who does not know that the immortal Molière called one of his plays The Imaginary Cuckold? I have seen that play acted, and consequently advertised in the streets of Paris, less than three years ago—at a time, however, when we permitted ourselves many fewer liberties than at present; and yet I saw no one draw back with horror or disgust, or indulge in any of these indignant, nervous outbursts on reading the poster of the Théâtre-Français on which the announcement of The Imaginary Cuckold was printed. I think, however, that we should be more strict with respect to what is said on the stage, than with respect to what is put in a novel; for, if I take my daughter to the play, and if the characters make unseemly remarks, I cannot prevent my daughter from hearing them; whereas it is a very easy matter for me to prevent her reading a novel in which such things are expressed.

But I repeat, the word cuckold should raise a laugh, and that is all. Is not that the effect which it produces at the theatre?

“Aye, this is very fine; my children will be gentlemen,
but I shall be a cuckold unless I look to it.”
(George Dandin, Act I.)

“Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor;
And if all husbands who live in this town
Would thus receive their wives’ adorers,
The roll of cuckolds would not be so long.”
(L’École des Femmes, Act IV.)

“This popinjay, speaking with all respect,
Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will.”
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVI.)

You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense,
And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVII.)

“His heart was seen to burn,
Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame;
And so at last, striving to be convinced,
I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold.”
(MONTFLEURY, La Femme Juge et Partie.)

“What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!
Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!
And, although at last I am too well persuaded,
Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold.”
(Ibid.)

I know that someone will say: “What was all right long ago may not be right now; other times, other morals.”

I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes, other hours for meals,—that is all very true; but as to other morals, I refuse to believe it. We have the same passions, the same failings, the same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no better than they; those passions and vices may be concealed under more polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious, less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not assert, but which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so fastidious—for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before their eyes.

Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style, why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style, in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing? Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short cloaks?

While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair sex, I cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.

Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little free, without being licentious for that reason. Although sensuality is dangerous, jests never arouse it. A work which makes the reader sigh, which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one’s readers. Molière did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.

In Georgette, I have sketched the life of a kept woman; she ends in a way not likely to attract imitators. In Brother Jacques, I have depicted a gambler, and shown to what lengths that horrible passion may carry us. In the Barber of Paris two men yield to their respective passions, avarice and libertinage. Both are punished wherein they have sinned. Jean proves that a worthily placed passion may make us blush for our manners, for our ignorance, and may arouse our disgust of bad company and low resorts. In the Milkmaid of Montfermeil, I have tried to prove that money expended in benefactions reaps a better harvest than that squandered in follies. André the Savoyard is the story of a poor child of the mountains; by behaving becomingly, by assisting his mother and brother, by giving all that he owns to his benefactress, he succeeds in being happy and in conquering a hopeless love. Sister Anne is a girl seduced and abandoned. Her seducer, confronted by his mistress and his wife at once, is given a rough lesson. The Wife, the Husband and the Lover presents only too true a picture of the conduct of many married people. The Natural Man and the Civilized Man must demonstrate the advantages of education. If these works have not a moral, it is probably because I was unable to write them with sufficient skill to bring it home to my readers.

But I have said enough, yes, too much, of my novels; and all apropos of this poor Cocu! In heaven’s name, mesdames, do not let the title alarm you. The epigraph of the book must have reassured you to some slight extent: read on therefore without fear, do not condemn without a hearing. Perhaps you will find this novel less hilarious than you imagine; perhaps indeed you will think that I might have, that I should have presented my hero in quite a different guise. But if this novel, such as it is, does not please you, forgive me, mesdames; I will try to do better in another work; for Le Cocu, which I offer you to-day, will not, I trust, be the last that I shall write.

CH. PAUL DE KOCK.