Madame Firmiani

by Honore de Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION
To my dear Alexandre de Berny.

His old friend,
De Balzac.

MADAME FIRMIANI
Many tales, either rich in situations or made dramatic by some of the

innumerable tricks of chance, carry with them their own particular
setting, which can be rendered artistically or simply by those who

narrate them, without their subjects losing any, even the least of
their charms. But there are some incidents in human experience to

which the heart alone is able to give life; there are certain details
--shall we call them anatomical?--the delicate touches of which cannot

be made to reappear unless by an equallydelicate rendering of
thought; there are portraits which require the infusion of a soul, and

mean nothing unless the subtlest expression of the speaking
countenance is given; furthermore, there are things which we know not

how to say or do without the aid of secret harmonies which a day, an
hour, a fortunateconjunction of celestial signs, or an inward moral

tendency may produce.
Such mysterious revelations are imperatively needed in order to tell

this simple history, in which we seek to interest those souls that are
naturally grave and reflective and find their sustenance in tender

emotions. If the writer, like the surgeon beside his dying friend, is
filled with a species of reverence for the subject he is handling,

should not the reader share in that inexplicable feeling? Is it so
difficult to put ourselves in unison with the vague and nervous

sadness which casts its gray tints all about us, and is, in fact, a
semi-illness, the gentle sufferings of which are often pleasing? If

the reader is of those who sometimes think upon the dear ones they
have lost, if he is alone, if the day is waning or the night has come,

let him read on; otherwise, he should lay aside this book at once. If
he has never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he will not

understand these pages, which to some will seem redolent of musk, to
others as colorless and virtuous as those of Florian. In short, the

reader must have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the silent
pangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear yet far-off Shade,--

memories which bring regret for all that earth has swallowed up, with
smiles for vanished joys.

And now, believe that the writer would not, for the wealth of England,
steal from poesy a single lie with which to embellish this narrative.

The following is a true history, on which you may safely spend the
treasures of your sensibility--if you have any.

In these days the French language has as many idioms and represents as
many idiosyncracies as there are varieties of men in the great family

of France. It is extremely curious and amusing to listen to the
different interpretations or versions of the same thing or the same

event by the various species which compose the genus Parisian,--
"Parisian" is here used merely to generalize our remark.

Therefore, if you should say to an individual of the species
Practical, "Do you know Madame Firmiani?" he would present that lady

to your mind by the following inventory: "Fine house in the rue du
Bac, salons handsomely furnished, good pictures, one hundred thousand

francs a year, husband formerly receiver-general of the department of
Montenotte." So saying, the Practical man, rotund and fat and usually

dressed in black, will project his lower lip and wrap it over the
upper, nodding his head as if to add: "Solid people, those; nothing to

be said against them." Ask no further; Practical men settle
everybody's status by figures, incomes, or solid acres,--a phrase of

their lexicon.
Turn to the right, and put the same question to that other man, who

belongs to the species Lounger. "Madame Firmiani?" he says; "yes, yes,
I know her well; I go to her parties; receives Wednesdays; highly

creditable house."--Madame Firmiani is metamorphosed into a house! but
the house is not a pile of stones architecturally superposed, of

course not, the word presents in Lounger's language an indescribable
idiom.--Here the Lounger, a spare man with an agreeable smile, a sayer

of pretty nothings with more acquired cleverness than native wit,
stoops to your ear and adds, with a shrewd glance: "I have never seen

Monsieur Firmiani. His social position is that of looking after
property in Italy. Madame Firmiani is a Frenchwoman, and spends her

money like a Parisian. She has excellent tea. It is one of the few
houses where you can amuse yourself; the refreshments are exquisite.

It is very difficult to get admitted; therefore, of course, one meets
only the best society in her salons." Here the Lounger takes a pinch

of snuff; he inhales it slowly and seems to say: "I go there, but
don't expect me to present YOU."

Evidently the Lounger considers that Madame Firmiani keeps a sort of
inn, without a sign.

"Why do you want to know Madame Firmiani? Her parties are as dull as
the Court itself. What is the good of possessing a mind unless to

avoid such salons, where stupid talk and foolish little ballads are
the order of the day." You have questioned a being classed Egotist, a

species who would like to keep the universe under lock and key, and
let nothing be done without their permission. They are unhappy if

others are happy; they forgive nothing but vices, downfalls,
frailties, and like none but proteges. Aristocrats by inclination,

they make themselves democrats out of spite, preferring to consort
with inferiors as equals.

"Oh, Madame Firmiani, my dear fellow! she is one of those adorable
women who serve as Nature's excuse for all the ugly ones she creates.

Madame Firmiani is enchanting, and so kind! I wish I were in power and
possessed millions that I might--" (here a whisper). "Shall I present

you?" The speaker is a youth of the Student species, known for his
boldness among men and his timidity in a boudoir.

"Madame Firmiani?" cries another, twirling his cane. "I'll tell you
what I think of her; she is a woman between thirty and thirty-five;

faded complexion, handsome eyes, flat figure, contralto voice worn
out, much dressed, rather rouged, charming manners; in short, my dear

fellow, the remains of a pretty woman who is still worth the trouble
of a passion." This remark is from the species Fop, who has just

breakfasted, doesn't weigh his words, and is about to mount his horse.
At that particular moment Fops are pitiless.

"Magnificent collection of pictures in her house; go and see them by
all means," answers another. "Nothing finer." You have questioned one

of the species Connoisseur. He leaves you to go to Perignon's or
Tripet's. To him, Madame Firmiani is a collection of painted canvases.

A Woman: "Madame Firmiani? I don't wish you to visit her>" This remark
is rich in meanings. Madame Firmiani! dangerous woman! a siren!

dresses well, has taste; gives other women sleepless nights. Your
informant belongs to the genus Spiteful.

An Attache to an embassy: "Madame Firmiani? Isn't she from Antwerp? I
saw her ten years ago in Rome; she was very handsome then."

Individuals of the species Attache have a mania for talking in the
style of Talleyrand. Their wit is often so refined that the point is

imperceptible; they are like billiard-players who avoid hitting the
ball with consummatedexterity. These individuals are usually

taciturn, and when they talk it is only about Spain, Vienna, Italy, or
Petersburg. Names of countries act like springs in their mind; press

them, and the ringing of their changes begins.
"That Madame Firmiani sees a great deal of the faubourg Saint-Germain,

doesn't she?" This from a person who desires to belong to the class
Distinguished. She gives the "de" to everybody,--to Monsieur Dupin

senior, to Monsieur Lafayette; she flings it right and left and
humiliates many. This woman spends her life in striving to know and do

"the right thing"; but, for her sins, she lives in a the Marais, and
her husband is a lawyer,--a lawyer before the Royal courts, however.

"Madame Firmiani, monsieur? I do not know her." This man belongs to