Father Goriot

“When I have given you ocular demonstration of the fact that I can put a bullet through the ace on a card five times running at thirty-five paces,” he said, “that won’t take away your appetite, I suppose?  You look to me to be inclined to be a trifle quarrelsome this morning, and as if you would rush on your death like a blockhead.”

“Do you draw back?” asked Eugene.

“Don’t try to raise my temperature,” answered Vautrin, “it is not cold this morning.  Let us go and sit over there,” he added, pointing to the green-painted garden seats; “no one can overhear us.  I want a little talk with you.  You are not a bad sort of youngster, and I have no quarrel with you.  I like you, take Trump—­(confound it!)—­take Vautrin’s word for it.  What makes me like you?  I will tell you by-and-by.  Meantime, I can tell you that I know you as well as if I had made you myself, as I will prove to you in a minute.  Put down your bags,” he continued, pointing to the round table.

Rastignac deposited his money on the table, and sat down.  He was consumed with curiosity, which the sudden change in the manner of the man before him had excited to the highest pitch.  Here was a strange being who, a moment ago, had talked of killing him, and now posed as his protector.

“You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and what I do now,” Vautrin went on.  “You want to know too much, youngster.  Come! come! keep cool!  You will hear more astonishing things than that.  I have had my misfortunes.  Just hear me out first, and you shall have your turn afterwards.  Here is my past in three words.  Who am I?  Vautrin.  What do I do?  Just what I please.  Let us change the subject.  You want to know my character.  I am good-natured to those who do me a good turn, or to those whose hearts speak to mine.  These last may do anything they like with me; they may bruise my shins, and I shall not tell them to ‘mind what they are about’; but, nom d’une pipe, the devil himself is not an uglier customer than I can be if people annoy me, or if I don’t happen to take to them; and you may just as well know at once that I think no more of killing a man than of that,” and he spat before him as he spoke.  “Only when it is absolutely necessary to do so, I do my best to kill him properly.  I am what you call an artist.  I have read Benvenuto Cellini’s Memoirs, such as you see me; and, what is more, in Italian:  A fine-spirited fellow he was!  From him I learned to follow the example set us by Providence, who strikes us down at random, and to admire the beautiful whenever and wherever it is found.  And, setting other questions aside, is it not a glorious part to play, when you pit yourself against mankind, and the luck is on your side?  I have thought a good deal about the constitution of your present social Dis-order.  A duel is downright childish, my boy! utter nonsense and folly!  When one of two living men must be got out of the way, none but an idiot would leave chance to decide which it is to be; and in a duel it is a toss-up—­heads or tails—­and there you are!  Now I, for instance, can hit the ace in the middle of a card five times running, send one bullet after another through the same hole, and at thirty-five paces, moreover!  With that little accomplishment you might think yourself certain of killing your man, mightn’t you.  Well, I have fired, at twenty paces, and missed, and the rogue who had never handled a pistol in his life—­look here!”—­(he unbuttoned his waistcoat and exposed his chest, covered, like a bear’s back, with a shaggy fell; the student gave a startled shudder)—­“he was a raw lad, but he made his mark on me,” the extraordinary man went on, drawing Rastignac’s fingers over a deep scar on his breast.  But that happened when I myself was a mere boy; I was one-and-twenty then (your age), and I had some beliefs left—­in a woman’s love, and in a pack of rubbish that you will be over head and ears in directly.  You and I were to have fought just now, weren’t we?  You might have killed me.  Suppose that I were put under the earth, where would you be?  You would have to clear out of this, go to Switzerland, draw on papa’s purse —­and he has none too much in it as it is.  I mean to open your eyes to your real position, that is what I am going to do:  but I shall do it from the point of view of a man who, after studying the world very closely, sees that there are but two alternatives—­stupid obedience or revolt.  I obey nobody; is that clear?  Now, do you know how much you will want at the pace you are going?  A million; and promptly, too, or that little head of ours will be swaying to and fro in the drag-nets at Saint-Cloud, while we are gone to find out whether or no there is a Supreme Being.  I will put you in the way of that million.”

He stopped for a moment and looked at Eugene.

“Aha! you do not look so sourly at papa Vautrin now!  At the mention of the million you look like a young girl when somebody has said, ’I will come for you this evening!’ and she betakes herself to her toilette as a cat licks its whiskers over a saucer of milk.  All right.  Come, now, let us go into the question, young man; all between ourselves, you know.  We have a papa and mamma down yonder, a great-aunt, two sisters (aged eighteen and seventeen), two young brothers (one fifteen, and the other ten), that is about the roll-call of the crew.  The aunt brings up the two sisters; the cure comes and teaches the boys Latin.  Boiled chestnuts are oftener on the table than white bread.  Papa makes a suit of clothes last a long while; if mamma has a different dress winter and summer, it is about as much as she has; the sisters manage as best they can.  I know all about it; I have lived in the south.

“That is how things are at home.  They send you twelve hundred francs a year, and the whole property only brings in three thousand francs all told.  We have a cook and a manservant; papa is a baron, and we must keep up appearances.  Then we have our ambitions; we are connected with the Beauseants, and we go afoot through the streets; we want to be rich, and we have not a penny; we eat Mme. Vauquer’s messes, and we like grand dinners in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; we sleep on a truckle-bed, and dream of a mansion!  I do not blame you for wanting these things.  What sort of men do the women run after?  Men of ambition.  Men of ambition have stronger frames, their blood is richer in iron, their hearts are warmer than those of ordinary men.  Women feel that when their power is greatest, they look their best, and that those are their happiest hours; they like power in men, and prefer the strongest even if it is a power that may be their own destruction.  I am going to make an inventory of your desires in order to put the question at issue before you.  Here it is:—­

“We are as hungry as a wolf, and those newly-cut teeth of ours are sharp; what are we to do to keep the pot boiling?  In the first place, we have the Code to browse upon; it is not amusing, and we are none the wiser for it, but that cannot be helped.  So far so good.  We mean to make an advocate of ourselves with a prospect of one day being made President of a Court of Assize, when we shall send poor devils, our betters, to the galleys with a T.F.[] on their shoulders, so that the rich may be convinced that they can sleep in peace.  There is no fun in that; and you are a long while coming to it; for, to begin with, there are two years of nauseous drudgery in Paris, we see all the lollipops that we long for out of our reach.  It is tiresome to want things and never to have them.  If you were a pallid creature of the mollusk order, you would have nothing to fear, but it is different when you have the hot blood of a lion and are ready to get into a score of scrapes every day of your life.  This is the ghastliest form of torture known in this inferno of God’s making, and you will give in to it.  Or suppose that you are a good boy, drink nothing stronger than milk, and bemoan your hard lot; you, with your generous nature, will endure hardships that would drive a dog mad, and make a start, after long waiting, as deputy to some rascal or other in a hole of a place where the Government will fling you a thousand francs a year like the scraps that are thrown to the butcher’s dog.  Bark at thieves, plead the cause of the rich, send men of heart to the guillotine, that is your work!  Many thanks!  If you have no influence, you may rot in your provincial tribunal.  At thirty you will be a Justice with twelve hundred francs a year (if you have not flung off the gown for good before then).  By the time you are forty you may look to marry a miller’s daughter, an heiress with some six thousand livres a year.  Much obliged!  If you have influence, you may possibly be a Public Prosecutor by the time you are thirty; with a salary of a thousand crowns, you could look to marry the mayor’s daughter.  Some petty piece of political trickery, such as mistaking Villele for Manuel in a bulletin (the names rhyme, and that quiets your conscience), and you will probably be a Procureur General by the time you are forty, with a chance of becoming a deputy.  Please to observe, my dear boy, that our conscience will have been a little damaged in the process, and that we shall endure twenty years of drudgery and hidden poverty, and that our sisters are wearing Dian’s livery.  I have the honor to call your attention to another fact:  to wit, that there are but twenty Procureurs Generaux at a time in all France, while there are some twenty thousand of you young men who aspire to that elevated position; that there are some mountebanks among you who would sell their family to screw their fortunes a peg higher.  If this sort of thing sickens you, try another course.  The Baron de Rastignac thinks of becoming an advocate, does he?  There’s a nice prospect for you!  Ten years of drudgery straight away.  You are obliged to live at the rate of a thousand francs a month; you must have a library of law books, live in chambers, go into society, go down on your knees to ask a solicitor for briefs, lick the dust off the floor of the Palais de Justice.  If this kind of business led to anything, I should not say no; but just give me the names of five advocates here in Paris who by the time that they are fifty are making fifty thousand francs a year!  Bah!  I would sooner turn pirate on the high seas than have my soul shrivel up inside me like that.  How will you find the capital?  There is but one way, marry a woman who has money.  There is no fun in it.  Have you a mind to marry?  You hang a stone around your neck; for if you marry for money, what becomes of our exalted notions of honor and so forth?  You might as well fly in the face of social conventions at once.  Is it nothing to crawl like a serpent before your wife, to lick her mother’s feet, to descend to dirty actions that would sicken swine—­faugh!—­never mind if you at least make your fortune.  But you will be as doleful as a dripstone if you marry for money.  It is better to wrestle with men than to wrangle at home with your wife.  You are at the crossway of the roads of life, my boy; choose your way.

[] Travaux forces, forced labour.

“But you have chosen already.  You have gone to see your cousin of Beauseant, and you have had an inkling of luxury; you have been to Mme. de Restaud’s house, and in Father Goriot’s daughter you have seen a glimpse of the Parisienne for the first time.  That day you came back with a word written on your forehead.  I knew it, I could read it—­’Success!’ Yes, success at any price.  ‘Bravo,’ said I to myself, ‘here is the sort of fellow for me.’  You wanted money.  Where was it all to come from?  You have drained your sisters’ little hoard (all brothers sponge more or less on their sisters).  Those fifteen hundred francs of yours (got together, God knows how! in a country where there are more chestnuts than five-franc pieces) will slip away like soldiers after pillage.  And, then, what will you do?  Shall you begin to work?  Work, or what you understand by work at this moment, means, for a man of Poiret’s calibre, an old age in Mamma Vauquer’s lodging-house.  There are fifty thousand young men in your position at this moment, all bent as you are on solving one and the same problem —­how to acquire a fortune rapidly.  You are but a unit in that aggregate.  You can guess, therefore, what efforts you must make, how desperate the struggle is.  There are not fifty thousand good positions for you; you must fight and devour one another like spiders in a pot.  Do you know how a man makes his way here?  By brilliant genius or by skilful corruption.  You must either cut your way through these masses of men like a cannon ball, or steal among them like a plague.  Honesty is nothing to the purpose.  Men bow before the power of genius; they hate it, and try to slander it, because genius does not divide the spoil; but if genius persists, they bow before it.  To sum it all up in a phrase, if they fail to smother genius in the mud, they fall on their knees and worship it.  Corruption is a great power in the world, and talent is scarce.  So corruption is the weapon of superfluous mediocrity; you will be made to feel the point of it everywhere.  You will see women who spend more than ten thousand francs a year on dress, while their husband’s salary (his whole income) is six thousand francs.  You will see officials buying estates on twelve thousand francs a year.  You will see women who sell themselves body and soul to drive in a carriage belonging to the son of a peer of France, who has a right to drive in the middle rank at Longchamp.  You have seen that poor simpleton of a Goriot obliged to meet a bill with his daughter’s name at the back of it, though her husband has fifty thousand francs a year.  I defy you to walk a couple of yards anywhere in Paris without stumbling on some infernal complication.  I’ll bet my head to a head of that salad that you will stir up a hornet’s nest by taking a fancy to the first young, rich, and pretty woman you meet.  They are all dodging the law, all at loggerheads with their husbands.  If I were to begin to tell you all that vanity or necessity (virtue is not often mixed up in it, you may be sure), all that vanity and necessity drive them to do for lovers, finery, housekeeping, or children, I should never come to an end.  So an honest man is the common enemy.

“But do you know what an honest man is?  Here, in Paris, an honest man is the man who keeps his own counsel, and will not divide the plunder.  I am not speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the world without a reward for their toil—­God Almighty’s outcasts, I call them.  Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its stupidity, but poverty is no less their portion.  At this moment, I think I see the long faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical joke on them and stayed away at the Last Judgment.

“Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either be rich to begin with, or make people believe that you are rich.  It is no use playing here except for high stakes; once take to low play, it is all up with you.  If in the scores of professions that are open to you, there are ten men who rise very rapidly, people are sure to call them thieves.  You can draw your own conclusions.  Such is life.  It is no cleaner than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to cook your dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art is in getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of our epoch.  If I take this tone in speaking of the world to you, I have the right to do so; I know it well.  Do you think that I am blaming it?  Far from it; the world has always been as it is now.  Moralists’ strictures will never change it.  Mankind are not perfect, but one age is more or less hypocritical than another, and then simpletons say that its morality is high or low.  I do not think that the rich are any worse than the poor; man is much the same, high or low, or wherever he is.  In a million of these human cattle there may be half a score of bold spirits who rise above the rest, above the laws; I am one of them.  And you, if you are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and hold your head high.  But you must lay your account with envy and slander and mediocrity, and every man’s hand will be against you.  Napoleon met with a Minister of War, Aubry by name, who all but sent him to the colonies.

“Feel your pulse.  Think whether you can get up morning after morning, strengthened in yesterday’s purpose.  In that case I will make you an offer that no one would decline.  Listen attentively.  You see, I have an idea of my own.  My idea is to live a patriarchal life on a vast estate, say a hundred thousand acres, somewhere in the Southern States of America.  I mean to be a planter, to have slaves, to make a few snug millions by selling my cattle, timber, and tobacco; I want to live an absolute monarch, and to do just as I please; to lead such a life as no one here in these squalid dens of lath and plaster ever imagines.  I am a great poet; I do not write my poems, I feel them, and act them.  At this moment I have fifty thousand francs, which might possibly buy forty negroes.  I want two hundred thousand francs, because I want to have two hundred negroes to carry out my notions of the patriarachal life properly.  Negroes, you see, are like a sort of family ready grown, and there are no inquisitive public prosecutors out there to interfere with you.  That investment in ebony ought to mean three or four million francs in ten years’ time.  If I am successful, no one will ask me who I am.  I shall be Mr. Four Millions, an American citizen.  I shall be fifty years old by then, and sound and hearty still; I shall enjoy life after my own fashion.  In two words, if I find you an heiress with a million, will you give me two hundred thousand francs?  Twenty per cent commission, eh?  Is that too much?  Your little wife will be very much in love with you.  Once married, you will show signs of uneasiness and remorse; for a couple of weeks you will be depressed.  Then, some night after sundry grimacings, comes the confession, between two kisses, ’Two hundred thousand francs of debts, my darling!’ This sort of farce is played every day in Paris, and by young men of the highest fashion.  When a young wife has given her heart, she will not refuse her purse.  Perhaps you are thinking that you will lose the money for good?  Not you.  You will make two hundred thousand francs again by some stroke of business.  With your capital and your brains you should be able to accumulate as large a fortune as you could wish. Ergo, in six months you will have made your own fortune, and our old friend Vautrin’s, and made an amiable woman very happy, to say nothing of your people at home, who must blow on their fingers to warm them, in the winter, for lack of firewood.  You need not be surprised at my proposal, nor at the demand I make.  Forty-seven out of every sixty great matches here in Paris are made after just such a bargain as this.  The Chamber of Notaries compels my gentleman to——­”

“What must I do?” said Rastignac, eagerly interrupting Vautrin’s speech.

“Next to nothing,” returned the other, with a slight involuntary movement, the suppressed exultation of the angler when he feels a bite at the end of his line.  “Follow me carefully!  The heart of a girl whose life is wretched and unhappy is a sponge that will thirstily absorb love; a dry sponge that swells at the first drop of sentiment.  If you pay court to a young girl whose existence is a compound of loneliness, despair, and poverty, and who has no suspicion that she will come into a fortune, good Lord! it is quint and quatorze at piquet; it is knowing the numbers of the lottery before-hand; it is speculating in the funds when you have news from a sure source; it is building up a marriage on an indestructible foundation.  The girl may come in for millions, and she will fling them, as if they were so many pebbles, at your feet.  ’Take it, my beloved!  Take it, Alfred, Adolphe, Eugene!’ or whoever it was that showed his sense by sacrificing himself for her.  And as for sacrificing himself, this is how I understand it.  You sell a coat that is getting shabby, so that you can take her to the Cadran bleu, treat her to mushrooms on toast, and then go to the Ambigu-Comique in the evening; you pawn your watch to buy her a shawl.  I need not remind you of the fiddle-faddle sentimentality that goes down so well with all women; you spill a few drops of water on your stationery, for instance; those are the tears you shed while far away from her.  You look to me as if you were perfectly acquainted with the argot of the heart.  Paris, you see, is like a forest in the New World, where you have to deal with a score of varieties of savages—­Illinois and Hurons, who live on the proceed of their social hunting.  You are a hunter of millions; you set your snares; you use lures and nets; there are many ways of hunting.  Some hunt heiresses, others a legacy; some fish for souls, yet others sell their clients, bound hand and foot.  Every one who comes back from the chase with his game-bag well filled meets with a warm welcome in good society.  In justice to this hospitable part of the world, it must be said that you have to do with the most easy and good-natured of great cities.  If the proud aristocracies of the rest of Europe refuse admittance among their ranks to a disreputable millionaire, Paris stretches out a hand to him, goes to his banquets, eats his dinners, and hobnobs with his infamy.”

“But where is such a girl to be found?” asked Eugene.

“Under your eyes; she is yours already.”

“Mlle. Victorine?”

“Precisely.”

“And what was that you said?”

“She is in love with you already, your little Baronne de Rastignac!”

“She has not a penny,” Eugene continued, much mystified.