Feminine Men
How often we hear people say, “That man is charming, but he is a woman, a regular girl.” They are alluding to the feminine men, the bane of our country.
For all we men in France are feminine, that is, fickle, fanciful, innocently treacherous, without consistency in our convictions or our will, violent and weak, as women are.
But the most irritating of the species is assuredly the Parisian and the boulevardier, in whom the appearance of intelligence is more marked, and who combines in himself all the attractions and all the faults of charming harlots to an exaggerated degree in virtue of his masculine temperament.
Our Chamber of Deputies is full of feminine men. They form the greater number of the amiable opportunists whom one might call “The Charmers.” It is they who control by soft words and deceitful promises, who know how to shake hands in such a manner as to win hearts, how to say “My dear friend” in a certain tactful way to the people they know the least, to change their minds without suspecting it, to be carried away by each new idea, to be sincere in their weathercock convictions, to let themselves be deceived as they deceive others, to forget the next morning what they affirmed the day before.
The newspapers are full of male prostitutes. That is probably where one finds them most, but it is also where they are most needed. Certain papers, like the Journal des Débats and the Gazette de France, are exceptions.
Assuredly, every good journalist must be something of a prostitute—that is, at the command of the public, supple in following unconsciously the shades of public opinion, wavering and varying, sceptical and credulous, wicked and devout, a braggart and a true man, enthusiastic and ironical, and always convinced while believing in nothing.
Foreigners, our antitypes, as Mme. Abel called them, the stubborn English and the heavy Germans, regard us with a certain amazement mingled with contempt, and will continue so to regard us till the end of time. They consider us frivolous. It is not that, we are feminine. And that is why people love us in spite of our faults, why they come back to us despite the evil spoken of us; these are lovers’ quarrels! …
The effeminate man, as one meets him in this world, is so charming that he captivates you after five minutes’ chat. His smile seems made for you; you cannot believe that his voice does not assume specially tender intonations on your account. When he leaves you it seems as if you had known him for twenty years. One is quite ready to lend him money if he asks for it. He has enchanted you, like a woman.
If he does not act quite straight with you, you cannot bear any malice, he is so nice when you next meet him. If he asks your pardon you long to ask pardon of him. Does he tell lies? You cannot believe it. Does he put you off indefinitely with promises that he does not keep? You lay as much store by his promises as though he had moved heaven and earth to render you a service.
When he admires anything he goes into such raptures that he convinces you. He once adored Victor Hugo, whom he now treats as a back number. He pretends that he fought for Zola, whom he has abandoned for Barbey d’Aurevilly. And when he admires, he permits no qualifications, he would slap your face for a word. But when he becomes scornful, his contempt is unbounded and allows of no protest.
In short, he understands nothing.
Listen to two girls talking.
“Then you are angry with Julia?” “I should say so. I slapped her face.” “What had she done?” “She told Pauline that I was broke thirteen months out of twelve, and Pauline told Gontran—you understand.” “You were living together in the Rue Clanzel?” “We lived together four years in the Rue Bréda; we quarrelled about a pair of stockings that she said I had worn—it wasn’t true—silk stockings that she had bought at Mother Martin’s. Then I gave her a pounding and she left me at once. I met her six months ago and she asked me to come and live with her, as she has rented a flat that is twice too large.”
One goes on one’s way and hears no more. But on the following Sunday as one is on the way to Saint Germain two young women get into the same railway carriage. One recognizes one of them at once, it is Julia’s enemy. The other is—Julia!
And there are endearments, caresses, plans. “Tell me, Julia—listen, Julia,” etc.
The man of the species has his friendships of this kind. For three months he cannot bear to leave his old Jack, his dear Jack. There is no one but Jack in the world. He is the only one who has any intelligence, any sense, any talent. He alone is somebody in Paris. One meets them everywhere together, they dine together, walk about in company, and every evening see each other home, walking back and forth without being able to part.
Three months later, if Jack is mentioned:
“There is a cad, a bounder, a scoundrel for you. I know him well, you may be sure. And he is not even honest, and ill-bred,” etc., etc.
Three months later, and they are living together.
But one morning one hears that they have fought a duel, then embraced each other, amid tears, on the duelling ground.
For the rest, they are the dearest friends in the world, furious with each other half the year, abusing and loving each other by turns, squeezing each other’s hands till they almost crush the bones, and ready to run each other through the body for a misunderstanding.
For the relations of these feminine men are uncertain. Their temper is governed by fits and starts, their enthusiasms unexpected, their affection subject to sudden revulsions, their excitement is liable to eclipse. One day they love you, the next day they will hardly look at you, for they have, in fact, a harlot’s nature, a harlot’s charm, a harlot’s temperament, and all their sentiments are like the affections of harlots.
They treat their friends as kept women treat their pet dogs.
Their friends are like the little doggie which they hug, feed with sugar, and allow to sleep on the pillow, but which they would throw out of a window in a moment of impatience; which they swing round, holding it by the tail, squeeze in their arms till they almost strangle it, and plunge, without any reason, in a pail of cold water.
Then, what a strange thing it is when a feminine man falls in love with a real harlot! He beats her, she scratches him, they execrate each other, cannot bear the sight of each other and yet cannot part, linked together by no one knows what mysterious bonds of the heart. She deceives him, he knows it, sobs and forgives her. He sleeps in the bed which another man is paying for, and firmly believes his conduct is irreproachable. He despises and adores her without seeing that she would be justified in despising him. They are both atrociously unhappy and yet cannot separate. They cast invectives, reproaches and abominable accusations at each other from morning till night, and when they have reached the climax and are vibrating with rage and hatred, they fall into each other’s arms and kiss each other ardently, their souls and bodies of strumpets united.
The feminine man is brave and a coward at the same time. He has, more than another, the exalted sentiment of honour, but is lacking in the sense of simple honesty, and, circumstances favouring him, he would defalcate and commit infamies which do not trouble his conscience, for he obeys without questioning the oscillations of his ideas, which are always impulsive.
To him it seems permissible and almost right to cheat a shopkeeper. He considers it honourable not to pay his debts, unless they are gambling debts—that is, somewhat shady. He dupes people whenever the laws of society admit of his doing so. When he is short of money he borrows in all ways, not always being scrupulous as to tricking the lenders, but he would, with sincere indignation, run his sword through anyone who would even suspect him of lacking in delicacy.