Pierquin Pardon me, but as you have offered no collateral, I would wish — I do wish to speak with Godeau.
Mercadet You shall not speak with him, sir. I cannot permit you to doubt my word.
Verdelin
This is superb.
Mercadet M. Minard, go to Godeau — Tell him that I have obtained an option on three hundred thousand francs’ worth of stock, and ask him to send me — (with emphasis) — thirty thousand francs for use as a margin. A man in his position always has such a sum about him. (In a low voice) Do not fail to bring me the thirty thousand.
Minard
Yes, sir. (Goes out, through the right.)
Mercadet (haughtily)
Will that satisfy you, M. Pierquin?
Pierquin Certainly, certainly. (To Verdelin) It will be all right when he comes back.
Verdelin (rising from his seat)
And you expect that he will bring thirty thousand francs?
Mercadet I have a perfect right to be offended by your insulting doubt; but I am still your debtor —
Verdelin Bosh! You have enough in Godeau’s pocket-book wherewith to liquidate; besides, to-morrow the Basse-Indre will rise above par. It will go up, up, till you don’t know how far it will go. Your letter worked wonders, and we were obliged to publish on the Exchange the results of our explorations by boring. The mines will become as valuable as those of Mons — and — your fortune is made — when I thought I was going to make mine.
Mercadet I now understand your rage. (To Pierquin) And this is the origin of all the doubtful rumors.
Verdelin
Rumors which can only vanish before the appearance of Godeau’s cash.
SCENE TWELFTH
The same persons, Violette and Goulard.
Goulard
Ah! my friend!
Violette (following him)
My dear Mercadet!
Goulard
What a man this Godeau is!
Mercadet (aside)
Fine!
Violette
What high sense of honor he has!
Mercadet (aside)
That’s pretty good!
Goulard
What magnanimity!
Mercadet (aside)
Prodigious!
Verdelin
Have you seen him?
Violette
Of course, I have!
Pierquin
Have you spoken to him?
Goulard
Just as I speak to you. And I have been paid.
All
Paid!
Mercadet
Paid? How — how have you been paid?
Goulard
In full. Fifty thousand in drafts.
Mercadet (aside)
That I can understand.
Goulard
And eight thousand francs net, in notes.
Mercadet
In bank-notes?
Goulard
Bank-notes.
Mercadet (aside) It is past my understanding. Ah! Eight thousand! Minard might have given them, so that now he’ll bring me only twenty-two thousand.
Violette And I — I, who would have been willing to make some reduction — I have been paid in full!
Mercadet
All! (in a low voice to him) I suppose in drafts?
Violette
In first-class drafts to the amount of eighteen thousand francs.
Mercadet (aside)
What a fellow this De la Brive is!
Violette
And the balance, the other twelve thousand —
Verdelin
Yes — the balance?
Violette
In cash. Here it is. (He shows the bank-notes.)
Mercadet (aside)
Minard won’t bring me more than ten.
Goulard (taking a seat at the table)
And this very moment he is paying in the same way all your creditors.
Mercadet
In the same way?
Violette (taking a seat at the table)
Yes, in drafts, in specie, and in bank-notes.
Mercadet (forgetting himself)
Lord, have mercy upon me! (Aside) Minard will bring me nothing at all.
Verdelin
What is the matter with you?
Mercadet
Me! Nothing — I —
SCENE THIRTEENTH
The same persons and Minard, followed by creditors.
Minard
I have done your errand.
Mercadet (trembling)
And you — have brought me — a few — bank-notes?
Minard A few bank-notes? Of course. M. Godeau wouldn’t let me even mention the thirty thousand francs.
(Goulard and Violette rise. Minard stands before the table, surrounded by creditors.)
Mercadet
I can quite understand that.
Minard “You mean,” he said, “a hundred thousand crowns; here are a hundred thousand crowns, with my compliments!” (He pulls out a large roll of bank-notes, which he places on the table.)
Mercadet (rushing to the table)
What the devil! (Looking at the notes) What is all this about?
Minard
The three hundred thousand francs.
Pierquin
My three hundred thousand francs!
Verdelin
The truth for once!
Mercadet (astounded)
Three hundred thousand francs! I see them! I touch them! I grasp them!
Three hundred thousand — where did you get them?
Minard
I told you he gave them to me.
Mercadet (with vehemence)
He! — He — ! Who is he?
Minard
Did not I say, M. Godeau?
Mercadet
What Godeau? Which Godeau?
Minard
Why the Godeau who has come back from the Indies.
Mercadet
From the Indies?
Violette
And who is paying all your debts.
Mercadet
What is this? I never expected to strike a Godeau of this kind.
Pierquin
He has gone crazy!
(All the other creditors gather at the back of the stage. Verdelin approaches them, and speaks in a low voice.)
Verdelin (returning to Mercadet)
It’s true enough! All are paid in full!
Mercadet Paid? Every one of them? (Goes from one to the other and looks at the bank-notes and the drafts they have.) Yes, all settled with — settled in full! Ah! I see blue, red, violet! A rainbow seems to surround me.
SCENE FOURTEENTH
The same persons, Mme. Mercadet, Julie (entering at one side) and De la Brive (entering at the other side).
Mme. Mercadet
My friend, M. Godeau, feels himself strong enough to see you all.
Mercadet Come, daughter, wife, Adolphe, and my other friends, gather round me, look at me. I know you would not deceive me.
Julie
What is the matter, father?
Mercadet
Tell me (seeing De la Brive come in) Michonnin, tell me frankly —
De la Brive Luckily for me, sir, I followed the advice of madame — otherwise you would have had two Godeaus at a time, for heaven has brought back to you the genuine man.
Mercadet
You mean to say then — that he has really returned!
Verdelin
Do you mean to say that you didn’t know it after all?
Mercadet (recovering himself, standing before the table and touching the notes) I — of course I did. Oh, fortune, all hail to thee, queen of monarchs, archduchess of loans, princess of stocks and mother of credit! All hail! Thou long sought for, and now for the thousandth time come home to us from the Indies! Oh! I’ve always said that Godeau had a mind of tireless energy and an honest heart! (Going up to his wife and daughter) Kiss me!
Mme. Mercadet (in tears)
Mercadet (supporting her)
And you, what courage you have shown in adversity!
Mme. Mercadet
But I am overcome by the happiness of seeing you saved — wealthy!
Mercadet But honest! And yet I must tell you my wife, my children — I could not have held out much longer — I was about to succumb — my mind always on the rack — always on the defensive — a giant might have yielded. There were moments when I longed to flee away — Oh! For some place of repose! Henceforth let us live in the country.
Mme. Mercadet
But you will soon grow weary of it.
Mercadet No, for I shall be a witness in their happiness. (Pointing to Minard and Julie.) And after all this financial traffic I shall devote myself to agriculture; the study of agriculture will never prove tedious. (To the creditors) Gentlemen, we will continue to be good friends, but will have no more business transactions. (To De la Brive) M. de la Brive, let me pay back to you your forty-eight thousand francs.
De la Brive
Ah! sir —
Mercadet
And I will lend you ten thousand more.
De la Brive
Ten thousand francs? But I don’t know when I shall be able —
Mercadet
You need have no scruples; take them — for I have a scheme —
De la Brive
I accept them.
Mercadet Ah! It is one of my dreams. Gentlemen (to the creditors who are standing in a row) I am a — creditor!
Mme. Mercadet (pointing to the door)
My dear, he is waiting for us.
Mercadet
Yes, let us go in. I have so many times drawn your attention to
Godeau, that I certainly have the right to see him. Let us go in and
see Godeau!
Final curtain.
RESOURCES
The famous daguerreotype of Balzac by Louis-Auguste Bisson, 1842
The Criticism
HONORÉ DE BALZAC by Henry James
The following essay was taken from James’ book of literary criticism French Novelists and Poets, published in 1878. From an early age James was fluent in French and he read widely in the country’s writings. The essays in this collection reveal a deep familiarity with the techniques and themes of Balzac and many other French novelists.
The great novelist Henry James
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
THE French in general do their duty by their great men; they render them a liberal tribute of criticism, commentary, annotation, biographical analysis. They do not, indeed, make them the subject of “memoirs” in the English sense; there are few French examples of that class of literature to which Boswell’s “Johnson” and Lockhart’s “Scott” belong. But there usually clusters about the image of a conspicuous writer an infinite number of travaux, as the French say, of every degree of importance. Many of these are very solid and serious; their authors are generally to be charged with attaching too absolute a value to their heroes. The departed genius is patiently weighed and measured; his works are minutely analysed; the various episodes of his life are made the object of exhaustive research; his letters are published, and his whole personality, physical, moral, intellectual, passes solemnly into literature. He is always in order as a “subject”; it is admitted that the last word can never be said about him. From this usual fate of eminent Frenchmen, one of the greatest has been strikingly exempted. Honoré de Balzac is weighted neither with the honours nor with the taxes of an accumulated commentary. The critic who proposes to study him, and who looks for extrinsic assistance in his task, perceives such aid to be very meagre. Balzac has been discussed with first- rate ability only by one writer. M. Taine’s essay, incomplete as it is, may be said at any rate to be essentially worthy of its subject. Sainte-Beuve wrote upon Balzac two or three times, but always with striking and inexplicable inadequacy. There is a long article on the author of the “Comédie Humaine” by Théophile Gautier, which is admirably picturesque but not at all critical. M. Edmond Schérer, a writer upon whom an ample fold of Sainte-Beuve’s mantle has fallen, lately published a few pages which are suggestive, but in which he affirms that Balzac is neither an artist, a master, nor a writer. The great novelist’s countrymen, in a word, have taken him less seriously than was to be expected. If we desire biographical details we are reduced to consulting the very flimsy gossip of M. Léon Gozlan. Balzac has indeed what is called his légende, but it has been chiefly in the keeping of the mere tattlers of literature. The critic is forced to look for the man almost exclusively in his works; and it must be confessed that in the case of a writer so voluminous as Balzac such a field is ample. We should rather rejoice than regret that there are not more pages to turn. Balzac’s complete works occupy twenty-three huge octavo volumes in the stately but inconvenient “edition definitive,” lately published. There is a prospect of his letters being given to the world in a complementary volume.
I.
HONORÉ DE BALZAC was born at Tours in 1799; he died at Paris in 1850. Most first-rate men at fifty- one have still a good deal of work in them, and there is no reason to believe that, enormous as had been the demands he made upon it, Balzac’s productive force was fully spent. His prefaces are filled with confident promises to publish novels that never appeared. Nevertheless it is impossible altogether to regret that Balzac died with work still in him. He had written enough; he had written too much. His novels, in spite of their extraordinary closeness of tissue, all betray the want of leisure in the author. It is true that shortly before his death he had encountered a change of fortune; he had married a rich woman and he was in a position to drive his pen no faster than his fancy prompted. It is interesting to wonder whether Balzac at leisure — Balzac with that great money-question which was at once the supreme inspiration and the aesthetic alloy of his life, placed on a relatively ideal basis — would have done anything essentially finer than “Les Parents Pauvres” or “Le Père Goriot.” We can hardly help doubting it. M. Taine, looking as usual for formulas and labels, says that the most complete description of Balzac is that he was a man of business — a man of business in debt. The formula here is on the whole satisfactory; it expresses not only what he was by circumstances, but what he was by inclination. We cannot say how much Balzac liked being in debt, but we are very sure he liked, for itself, the process of manufacture and sale, and that even when all his debts had been paid he would have continued to keep his shop.
Before he was thirty years old he had published, under a variety of pseudonyms, some twenty long novels, veritable Grub Street productions, written in sordid Paris attics, in poverty, in perfect obscurity. Several of these “œuvres de jeunesse” have lately been republished, but the best of them are unreadable. No writer ever served a harder apprenticeship to his art, or lingered more hopelessly at the base of the ladder of fame. This early incompetence seems at first an anomaly, but it is only partially an anomaly. That so vigorous a genius should have learned his trade so largely by experiment and so little by divination; that in order to discover what he could do he should have had to make specific trial of each of the things he could not do — this is something which needs explanation. The explanation is found, it seems to us, simply in the folly of his attempting, at that age, to produce such novels as he aspired to produce. It was not that he could not use his wings; it was simply that his wings had not grown. The wings of great poets generally sprout very early; the wings of great artists in prose, great explorers of the sources of prose, begin to spread themselves only after the man is tolerably formed. Good observers, we believe, will confess to a general mistrust of novels written before thirty. Byron, Shelley, Keats, Lamartine, Yictor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, were hardly in their twenties before they struck their fully resonant notes. Walter Scott, Thackeray, George Eliot, Madame Sand, waited till they were at least turned thirty, and then without prelude, or with brief prelude, produced a novel that was a masterpiece. If it was well for the
m to wait, it would have been infinitely better for Balzac. Balzac was to be pre-eminently a social novelist; his strength was to lie in representing the innumerable actual facts of the French civilization of his day — things only to be learned by patient experience. Balzac’s inspiration, his stock, his fonds, was outside of him, in the complex French world of the nineteenth century. If, instead of committing to paper impossible imaginary tales, he could have stood for a while in some other relation to the society about him than that of a scribbler, it would have been a very great gain. The great general defect of his manner, as we shall see, is the absence of fresh air, of the trace of disinterested observation; he had from his earliest years, to carry out our metaphor, an eye to the shop. In every great artist who possesses taste there is a little — a very little — of the amateur; but in Balzac there is absolutely nothing of the amateur, and nothing is less to be depended upon than Balzac’s taste. But he was forced to write; his family wished to make a lawyer of him, and he preferred to be a romancer. He mastered enough law to be able to incorporate the mysteries of legal procedure in the “Comédie Humaine,” and then embarked upon the most prolific literary career, perhaps, that the world has seen. His family cut down his supplies and tried to starve him out; but he held firm, and in 1830 made his first step into success. Meanwhile he had engaged in several commercial ventures, each one of which failed, leaving him a ponderous legacy of debt. To the end of his life he was haunted with undischarged obligations and was constantly trying new speculations and investments. It is true, we believe, that he amused himself with representing this pecuniary incubus as far more mysteriously and heroically huge than it was. His incessant labour brought him a remuneration which at this day and in this country would be considered contemptible. M. Gozlan affirms that his annual income, in his successful years, rarely exceeded 12,000 francs. This appears incredible until we find the editor of the “Revue de Paris” crying out against his demand of 3,000 francs for the MS. of “Eugénie Grandet.” There is something pitiful in the contrast between this meagre personal budget and his lifelong visions of wealth and of the ways of amassing wealth, his jovial, sensual, colossal enjoyment of luxury, and the great monetary architecture as it were of the “Comedie Humaine.” Money is the most general element of Balzac’s novels; other things come and go, but money is always there. His great ambition and his great pretension as a social chronicler was to be complete, and he was more complete in this direction than in any other. He rarely introduces a person without telling us in detail how his property is invested, and the fluctuations of his rentes impartially divide the writer’s attention with the emotions of his heart.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 1437