Father Goriot

“MY DEAR CHILD,—­I am sending you the money that you asked for.  Make a good use of it.  Even to save your life I could not raise so large a sum a second time without your father’s knowledge, and there would be trouble about it.  We should be obliged to mortgage the land.  It is impossible to judge of the merits of schemes of which I am ignorant; but what sort of schemes can they be, that you should fear to tell me about them?  Volumes of explanation would not have been needed; we mothers can understand at a word, and that word would have spared me the anguish of uncertainty.  I do not know how to hide the painful impression that your letter has made upon me, my dear son.  What can you have felt when you were moved to send this chill of dread through my heart?  It must have been very painful to you to write the letter that gave me so much pain as I read it.  To what courses are you committed?  You are going to appear to be something that you are not, and your whole life and success depends upon this?  You are about to see a society into which you cannot enter without rushing into expense that you cannot afford, without losing precious time that is needed for your studies.  Ah! my dear Eugene, believe your mother, crooked ways cannot lead to great ends.  Patience and endurance are the two qualities most needed in your position.  I am not scolding you; I do not want any tinge of bitterness to spoil our offering.  I am only talking like a mother whose trust in you is as great as her foresight for you.  You know the steps that you must take, and I, for my part, know the purity of heart, and how good your intentions are; so I can say to you without a doubt, ’Go forward, beloved!’ If I tremble, it is because I am a mother, but my prayers and blessings will be with you at every step.  Be very careful, dear boy.  You must have a man’s prudence, for it lies with you to shape the destinies of five others who are dear to you, and must look to you.  Yes, our fortunes depend upon you, and your success is ours.  We all pray to God to be with you in all that you do.  Your aunt Marcillac has been most generous beyond words in this matter; she saw at once how it was, even down to your gloves.  ‘But I have a weakness for the eldest!’ she said gaily.  You must love your aunt very much, dear Eugene.  I shall wait till you have succeeded before telling you all that she has done for you, or her money would burn your fingers.  You, who are young, do not know what it is to part with something that is a piece of your past!  But what would we not sacrifice for your sakes?  Your aunt says that I am to send you a kiss on the forehead from her, and that kiss is to bring you luck again and again, she says.  She would have written you herself, the dear kind-hearted woman, but she is troubled with the gout in her fingers just now.  Your father is very well.  The vintage of 1819 has turned out better than we expected.  Good-bye, dear boy; I will say nothing about your sisters, because Laure is writing to you, and I must let her have the pleasure of giving you all the home news.  Heaven send that you may succeed!  Oh! yes, dear Eugene, you must succeed.  I have come, through you, to a knowledge of a pain so sharp that I do not think I could endure it a second time.  I have come to know what it is to be poor, and to long for money for my children’s sake.  There, good-bye!  Do not leave us for long without news of you; and here, at the last, take a kiss from your mother.”

By the time Eugene had finished the letter he was in tears.  He thought of Father Goriot crushing his silver keepsake into a shapeless mass before he sold it to meet his daughter’s bill of exchange.

“Your mother has broken up her jewels for you,” he said to himself; “your aunt shed tears over those relics of hers before she sold them for your sake.  What right have you to heap execrations on Anastasie?  You have followed her example; you have selfishly sacrificed others to your own future, and she sacrifices her father to her lover; and of you two, which is the worse?”

He was ready to renounce his attempts; he could not bear to take that money.  The fires of remorse burned in his heart, and gave him intolerable pain, the generous secret remorse which men seldom take into account when they sit in judgment upon their fellow-men; but perhaps the angels in heaven, beholding it, pardon the criminal whom our justice condemns.  Rastignac opened his sister’s letter; its simplicity and kindness revived his heart.

“Your letter came just at the right time, dear brother.  Agathe and I had thought of so many different ways of spending our money, that we did not know what to buy with it; and now you have come in, and, like the servant who upset all the watches that belonged to the King of Spain, you have restored harmony; for, really and truly, we did not know which of all the things we wanted we wanted most, and we were always quarreling about it, never thinking, dear Eugene, of a way of spending our money which would satisfy us completely.  Agathe jumped for you.  Indeed, we have been like two mad things all day, ‘to such a prodigious degree’ (as aunt would say), that mother said, with her severe expression, ’Whatever can be the matter with you, mesdemoiselles?’ I think if we had been scolded a little, we should have been still better pleased.  A woman ought to be very glad to suffer for one she loves!  I, however, in my inmost soul, was doleful and cross in the midst of all my joy.  I shall make a bad wife, I am afraid, I am too fond of spending.  I had bought two sashes and a nice little stiletto for piercing eyelet-holes in my stays, trifles that I really did not want, so that I have less than that slow-coach Agathe, who is so economical, and hoards her money like a magpie.  She had two hundred francs!  And I have only one hundred and fifty!  I am nicely punished; I could throw my sash down the well; it will be painful to me to wear it now.  Poor dear, I have robbed you.  And Agathe was so nice about it.  She said, ’Let us send the three hundred and fifty francs in our two names!’ But I could not help telling you everything just as it happened.

“Do you know how we managed to keep your commandments?  We took our glittering hoard, we went out for a walk, and when once fairly on the highway we ran all the way to Ruffec, where we handed over the coin, without more ado, to M. Grimbert of the Messageries Royales.  We came back again like swallows on the wing.  ’Don’t you think that happiness has made us lighter?’ Agathe said.  We said all sorts of things, which I shall not tell you, Monsieur le Parisien, because they were all about you.  Oh, we love you dearly, dear brother; it was all summed up in those few words.  As for keeping the secret, little masqueraders like us are capable of anything (according to our aunt), even of holding our tongues.  Our mother has been on a mysterious journey to Angouleme, and the aunt went with her, not without solemn councils, from which we were shut out, and M. le Baron likewise.  They are silent as to the weighty political considerations that prompted their mission, and conjectures are rife in the State of Rastignac.  The Infantas are embroidering a muslin robe with open-work sprigs for her Majesty the Queen; the work progresses in the most profound secrecy.  There be but two more breadths to finish.  A decree has gone forth that no wall shall be built on the side of Verteuil, but that a hedge shall be planted instead thereof.  Our subjects may sustain some disappointment of fruit and espaliers, but strangers will enjoy a fair prospect.  Should the heir-presumptive lack pocket-handkerchiefs, be it known unto him that the dowager Lady of Marcillac, exploring the recesses of her drawers and boxes (known respectively as Pompeii and Herculaneum), having brought to light a fair piece of cambric whereof she wotted not, the Princesses Agathe and Laure place at their brother’s disposal their thread, their needles, and hands somewhat of the reddest.  The two young Princes, Don Henri and Don Gabriel, retain their fatal habits of stuffing themselves with grape-jelly, of teasing their sisters, of taking their pleasure by going a-bird-nesting, and of cutting switches for themselves from the osier-beds, maugre the laws of the realm.  Moreover, they list not to learn naught, wherefore the Papal Nuncio (called of the commonalty, M. le Cure) threateneth them with excommunication, since that they neglect the sacred canons of grammatical construction for the construction of other canon, deadly engines made of the stems of elder.

“Farewell, dear brother, never did letter carry so many wishes for your success, so much love fully satisfied.  You will have a great deal to tell us when you come home!  You will tell me everything, won’t you?  I am the oldest.  From something the aunt let fall, we think you must have had some success.

 “Something was said of a lady, but nothing more was said . . .

“Of course not, in our family!  Oh, by-the-by, Eugene, would you rather that we made that piece of cambric into shirts for you instead of pocket-handkerchiefs?  If you want some really nice shirts at once, we ought to lose no time in beginning upon them; and if the fashion is different now in Paris, send us one for a pattern; we want more particularly to know about the cuffs.  Good- bye!  Good-bye!  Take my kiss on the left side of your forehead, on the temple that belongs to me, and to no one else in the world.  I am leaving the other side of the sheet for Agathe, who has solemnly promised not to read a word that I have written; but, all the same, I mean to sit by her side while she writes, so as to be quite sure that she keeps her word.—­Your loving sister,

“LAURE DE RASTIGNAC.”

“Yes!” said Eugene to himself.  “Yes!  Success at all costs now!  Riches could not repay such devotion as this.  I wish I could give them every sort of happiness!  Fifteen hundred and fifty francs,” he went on after a pause.  “Every shot must go to the mark!  Laure is right.  Trust a woman!  I have only calico shirts.  Where some one else’s welfare is concerned, a young girl becomes as ingenious as a thief.  Guileless where she herself is in question, and full of foresight for me,—­she is like a heavenly angel forgiving the strange incomprehensible sins of earth.”

The world lay before him.  His tailor had been summoned and sounded, and had finally surrendered.  When Rastignac met M. de Trailles, he had seen at once how great a part the tailor plays in a young man’s career; a tailor is either a deadly enemy or a staunch friend, with an invoice for a bond of friendship; between these two extremes there is, alack! no middle term.  In this representative of his craft Eugene discovered a man who understood that his was a sort of paternal function for young men at their entrance into life, who regarded himself as a stepping-stone between a young man’s present and future.  And Rastignac in gratitude made the man’s fortune by an epigram of a kind in which he excelled at a later period of his life.

“I have twice known a pair of trousers turned out by him make a match of twenty thousand livres a year!”

Fifteen hundred francs, and as many suits of clothes as he chose to order!  At that moment the poor child of the South felt no more doubts of any kind.  The young man went down to breakfast with the indefinable air which the consciousness of the possession of money gives to youth.  No sooner are the coins slipped into a student’s pocket than his wealth, in imagination at least, is piled into a fantastic column, which affords him a moral support.  He begins to hold up his head as he walks; he is conscious that he has a means of bringing his powers to bear on a given point; he looks you straight in the face; his gestures are quick and decided; only yesterday he was diffident and shy, any one might have pushed him aside; to-morrow, he will take the wall of a prime minister.  A miracle has been wrought in him.  Nothing is beyond the reach of his ambition, and his ambition soars at random; he is light-hearted, generous, and enthusiastic; in short, the fledgling bird has discovered that he has wings.  A poor student snatches at every chance pleasure much as a dog runs all sorts of risks to steal a bone, cracking it and sucking the marrow as he flies from pursuit; but a young man who can rattle a few runaway gold coins in his pocket can take his pleasure deliberately, can taste the whole of the sweets of secure possession; he soars far above earth; he has forgotten what the word poverty means; all Paris is his.  Those are days when the whole world shines radiant with light, when everything glows and sparkles before the eyes of youth, days that bring joyous energy that is never brought into harness, days of debts and of painful fears that go hand in hand with every delight.  Those who do not know the left bank of the Seine between the Rue Saint-Jacques and the Rue des Saints-Peres know nothing of life.

“Ah! if the women of Paris but knew,” said Rastignac, as he devoured Mme. Vauquer’s stewed pears (at five for a penny), “they would come here in search of a lover.”

Just then a porter from the Messageries Royales appeared at the door of the room; they had previously heard the bell ring as the wicket opened to admit him.  The man asked for M. Eugene de Rastignac, holding out two bags for him to take, and a form of receipt for his signature.  Vautrin’s keen glance cut Eugene like a lash.

“Now you will be able to pay for those fencing lessons and go to the shooting gallery,” he said.

“Your ship has come in,” said Mme. Vauquer, eyeing the bags.

Mlle. Michonneau did not dare to look at the money, for fear her eyes should betray her cupidity.

“You have a kind mother,” said Mme. Couture.

“You have a kind mother, sir,” echoed Poiret.

“Yes, mamma has been drained dry,” said Vautrin, “and now you can have your fling, go into society, and fish for heiresses, and dance with countesses who have peach blossom in their hair.  But take my advice, young man, and don’t neglect your pistol practice.”

Vautrin struck an attitude, as if he were facing an antagonist.  Rastignac, meaning to give the porter a tip, felt in his pockets and found nothing.  Vautrin flung down a franc piece on the table.

“Your credit is good,” he remarked, eyeing the student, and Rastignac was forced to thank him, though, since the sharp encounter of wits at dinner that day, after Eugene came in from calling on Mme. de Beauseant, he had made up his mind that Vautrin was insufferable.  For a week, in fact, they had both kept silence in each other’s presence, and watched each other.  The student tried in vain to account to himself for this attitude.

An idea, of course, gains in force by the energy with which it is expressed; it strikes where the brain sends it, by a law as mathematically exact as the law that determines the course of a shell from a mortar.  The amount of impression it makes is not to be determined so exactly.  Sometimes, in an impressible nature, the idea works havoc, but there are, no less, natures so robustly protected, that this sort of projectile falls flat and harmless on skulls of triple brass, as cannon-shot against solid masonry; then there are flaccid and spongy-fibred natures into which ideas from without sink like spent bullets into the earthworks of a redoubt.  Rastignac’s head was something of the powder-magazine order; the least shock sufficed to bring about an explosion.  He was too quick, too young, not to be readily accessible to ideas; and open to that subtle influence of thought and feeling in others which causes so many strange phenomena that make an impression upon us of which we are all unconscious at the time.  Nothing escaped his mental vision; he was lynx-eyed; in him the mental powers of perception, which seem like duplicates of the senses, had the mysterious power of swift projection that astonishes us in intellects of a high order—­slingers who are quick to detect the weak spot in any armor.

In the past month Eugene’s good qualities and defects had rapidly developed with his character.  Intercourse with the world and the endeavor to satisfy his growing desires had brought out his defects.  But Rastignac came from the South side of the Loire, and had the good qualities of his countrymen.  He had the impetuous courage of the South, that rushes to the attack of a difficulty, as well as the southern impatience of delay or suspense.  These traits are held to be defects in the North; they made the fortune of Murat, but they likewise cut short his career.  The moral would appear to be that when the dash and boldness of the South side of the Loire meets, in a southern temperament, with the guile of the North, the character is complete, and such a man will gain (and keep) the crown of Sweden.

Rastignac, therefore, could not stand the fire from Vautrin’s batteries for long without discovering whether this was a friend or a foe.  He felt as if this strange being was reading his inmost soul, and dissecting his feelings, while Vautrin himself was so close and secretive that he seemed to have something of the profound and unmoved serenity of a sphinx, seeing and hearing all things and saying nothing.  Eugene, conscious of that money in his pocket, grew rebellious.

“Be so good as to wait a moment,” he said to Vautrin, as the latter rose, after slowly emptying his coffee-cup, sip by sip.

“What for?” inquired the older man, as he put on his large-brimmed hat and took up the sword-cane that he was wont to twirl like a man who will face three or four footpads without flinching.

“I will repay you in a minute,” returned Eugene.  He unsealed one of the bags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and forty francs, and pushed them towards Mme. Vauquer.  “Short reckonings make good friends” he added, turning to the widow; “that clears our accounts till the end of the year.  Can you give me change for a five-franc piece?”

“Good friends make short reckonings,” echoed Poiret, with a glance at Vautrin.

“Here is your franc,” said Rastignac, holding out the coin to the sphinx in the black wig.

“Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a trifle,” exclaimed this latter, with a searching glance that seemed to read the young man’s inmost thoughts; there was a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin’s face such as Eugene had seen scores of times already; every time he saw it, it exasperated him almost beyond endurance.

“Well . . . so I am,” he answered.  He held both the bags in his hand, and had risen to go up to his room.

Vautrin made as if he were going out through the sitting-room, and the student turned to go through the second door that opened into the square lobby at the foot of the staircase.

“Do you know, Monsieur le Marquis de Rastignacorama, that what you were saying just now was not exactly polite?” Vautrin remarked, as he rattled his sword-cane across the panels of the sitting-room door, and came up to the student.

Rastignac looked coolly at Vautrin, drew him to the foot of the staircase, and shut the dining-room door.  They were standing in the little square lobby between the kitchen and the dining-room; the place was lighted by an iron-barred fanlight above a door that gave access into the garden.  Sylvie came out of her kitchen, and Eugene chose that moment to say: 

“Monsieur Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is not Rastignacorama.”

“They will fight,” said Mlle. Michonneau, in an indifferent tone.

“Fight!” echoed Poiret.

“Not they,” replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins.

“But there they are under the lime-trees,” cried Mlle. Victorine, who had risen so that she might see out into the garden.  “Poor young man! he was in the right, after all.”

“We must go upstairs, my pet,” said Mme. Couture; “it is no business of ours.”

At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progress barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook.

“What ever can have happened?” she said.  “M.  Vautrin said to M. Eugene, ‘Let us have an explanation!’ then he took him by the arm, and there they are, out among the artichokes.”

Vautrin came in while she was speaking.  “Mamma Vauquer,” he said smiling, “don’t frighten yourself at all.  I am only going to try my pistols under the lime-trees.”

“Oh! monsieur,” cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, “why do you want to kill M. Eugene?”

Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine.

“Oh! this is something fresh!” he exclaimed in a bantering tone, that brought the color into the poor girl’s face.  “That young fellow yonder is very nice, isn’t he?” he went on.  “You have given me a notion, my pretty child; I will make you both happy.”

Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and drew the girl away, as she said in her ear: 

“Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over you this morning.”

“I don’t want any shots fired in my garden,” said Mme. Vauquer.  “You will frighten the neighborhood and bring the police up here all in a moment.”

“Come, keep cool, Mamma Vauquer,” answered Vautrin.  “There, there; it’s all right; we will go to the shooting-gallery.”

He went back to Rastignac, laying his hand familiarly on the young man’s arm.