Old Man Goriot

by Balzac, Honore de

  Eugène, finding himself in old Goriot’s room for the first time, was unable to stop himself starting with astonishment when he saw the squalor in which the father lived, having just been admiring the daughter’s finery. The window had no curtains; the paper on the walls was peeling off and curling up due to damp in several places, exposing bare plaster yellowed by smoke. The old man lay on a shabby bed covered by only a threadbare blanket and a patchwork counterpane made of scraps of material salvaged from Madame Vauquer’s old dresses. The tiled floor was damp and coated with dust. Opposite the window was one of those old pot-bellied rosewood chests of drawers, with brass handles twisted into the form of climbing stems decorated with leaves or flowers; an old washstand topped with a wooden slab bearing a water jug and basin and the implements a man needs to trim his beard himself. In one corner were his boots; at the head of the bed was a bedside table with neither door nor marble top; to the side of the hearth, which showed not the slightest trace of a fire, was the square walnut-wood table upon whose crossbar Goriot had twisted his silver-gilt dish. A scuffed writing desk, which the old man used to stand his hat on, a grimy armchair stuffed with straw and two chairs completed this miserable collection of furniture. Suspended from the bed canopy, itself hanging from the ceiling by a thread, was a worn strip of red and white checked fabric. The garret of the poorest of errand boys was surely not as meanly furnished as the lodgings Madame Vauquer had allocated old man Goriot. The sight of this room made you shiver, it broke your heart, it resembled the most squalid cell in a prison. Fortunately, Goriot didn’t notice the expression that flashed across Eugène’s face as he set his candle down on the bedside table. Goriot turned over to lie on his side, keeping the covers pulled right up under his chin.

  ‘Now, who do you prefer: Madame de Restaud or Madame de Nucingen?’

  ‘I prefer Madame Delphine,’ replied the student, ‘because she loves you more.’

  When he heard these warmly spoken words, the old man reached out an arm from under the covers and shook Eugène’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ replied the old man, moved. ‘What did she say about me?’

  The student repeated what the baronne had said, with some embellishment, and the old man listened as if he were receiving God’s word.

  ‘Sweet child! Yes, she loves me. But don’t believe what she said about Anastasie. The two sisters are rivals, you see; it’s just further proof of their affection. Madame de Restaud loves me just as dearly. I know. A father is with his children as God is with us all: he reaches right to the bottom of our hearts and judges our intentions. They are both as loving as each other. Oh! If I’d only had kind sons-in-law, I’d have been so happy. Although perhaps earthly happiness can never be complete. If I’d lived in the same house as them, just hearing their voices, knowing they were there, seeing them come and go as they did when I had them at home with me: that would have made my heart leap with joy. Were they beautifully dressed?’

  ‘They were, yes,’ said Eugène. ‘But Monsieur Goriot, with daughters as well provided for as yours, why are you living in such a hovel?’

  ‘Dear me,’ he said, with seeming unconcern, ‘what difference would a little more comfort make to me? I’m hardly fit to explain these things to you; I can barely string two words together. It’s all in here,’ he added, striking his heart. ‘My two daughters are my whole life. If they’re enjoying themselves, if they’re happy, finely dressed, if they have carpets to walk on, what does it matter where I lay my head and what clothes I wear? I’m never cold if they are warm and never bored if they’re amused. I only suffer when they do. When you’re a father, when, as you listen to your children babble, you say to yourself, “This came from me!” when you sense how those little creatures connect with every drop of your blood, and they’re the finest flower that ever sprang from it, indeed they are! then you feel their skin is one with yours, you’re moved by every step they take. Their voices answer mine wherever I go. One sad look from them makes my blood run cold. One day you’ll understand the way their joy makes us far happier than our own. I can’t explain it: something moves you inside and fills you with bliss. In short, I’m living three lives! Let me tell you something strange. When I became a father, I understood God. He is whole and present everywhere because all creation came from him. So it is with me and my daughters, Monsieur. Only I love my daughters more than God loves the world, because the world isn’t as beautiful as God and my daughters are more beautiful than I. They are so near and dear to my heart that I sensed you’d see them tonight. Lord! A man who would make my little Delphine as happy as a woman is when she’s truly loved: why, I’d polish his boots, I’d be his errand boy! I heard from her chambermaid what a bad lot that nasty little Monsieur de Marsay is. I’ve often felt the urge to break his neck. Not to love a jewel of a woman, with the voice of a nightingale and perfectly made! What on earth made her go and marry that great lump of an Alsatian? What they both need are loving, handsome young men. Well, well, they followed their fancy.’

  Old man Goriot was sublime. Eugène had never before seen him lit up with the flames of fatherly love. The power of feelings to draw out what a man has in his soul is remarkable. However coarse a beast he is, as soon as he expresses strong and genuine affection, he gives off a vital fluid which changes his features, animates his gestures and colours his voice. Often, driven by passion, even the dullest creature manages to achieve the highest eloquence in his ideas, even in his language, and will seem to move in a bright sphere. At this precise moment, the old man’s voice, his gestures, had all the contagious emotion of a great actor. But then, are not our noble feelings the poetries of the will?

  ‘In that case,’ said Eugène, ‘perhaps it won’t displease you to learn that she’s about to break with de Marsay. That coxcomb has transferred his affections from her to Princesse Galathionne. As for me, I fell in love with Madame Delphine this evening.’

  ‘Did you now!’ said old man Goriot.

  ‘Yes. She appeared to enjoy my company. We spoke of love for an hour and I’m to call on her the day after tomorrow, Saturday.’

  ‘Oh! How much I would love you, dear Monsieur, if she took a liking to you. You’re a good man, you wouldn’t make her life a misery. If you betrayed her, I’d slit your throat, for a start. A woman doesn’t love twice, see? Dear me! I’m talking nonsense, Monsieur Eugène. It’s too cold in here for you. Dear me! So what did she tell you, what message did she give you for me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Eugène thought to himself. Aloud, he replied, ‘She asked me to send you a kiss from your loving daughter.’

  ‘Farewell, neighbour, sleep well, sweet dreams; mine are blessed by those words. May God grant your every wish! You have been a guardian angel to me this evening; you have brought me the very air my daughter breathed.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Eugène to himself as he went to bed; ‘it’s enough to melt a heart of marble. His daughter no more had a thought for him than she did for the Grand Turk.’

  This conversation led old man Goriot to view his neighbour as an unhoped-for confidant, a friend. The only connection that could lead the old fellow to feel affection for another man had been established between them. One and one always makes two, when it comes to love. Old Goriot imagined he could be nearer to his daughter Delphine, he thought he would be able to visit her more often, if Eugène were to become close to the baronne. We might add that he had confided in Eugène a source of his grief. Madame de Nucingen, whose happiness he wished for a thousand times a day, had never known the sweet delights of love. Eugène was certainly, as he put it, one of the kindest young men he’d ever seen, and he had a hunch that he would give her all the pleasure of which she had been deprived. And so the friendship that the old fellow had begun to feel towards his neighbour – without which the end of this story would probably never have been known – continued to grow.

  The next morning at déjeuner, the intent look which old Goriot gave Eugène as he sat down next to him, the few
words he spoke to him and the change in his face, which usually resembled a plaster mask, were a source of surprise to the boarders. This was Vautrin’s first encounter with the student since their discussion and he stared at him as if trying to see into his soul. Remembering Vautrin’s scheme, Eugène, who, before falling asleep that night, had surveyed the vast field of action opening up before him, was inevitably thinking about Mademoiselle Taillefer’s dowry and couldn’t help looking at Victorine in the way even the most virtuous young man will look at a rich heiress. Their eyes met by chance. The poor girl didn’t fail to notice how handsome Eugène looked in his new outfit. The glance they exchanged was meaningful enough to convince Rastignac that he had become the object of those confused desires that seize all young women and which they pin on the first attractive man who comes along. A voice cried out to him: ‘Eight hundred thousand francs!’ But he briskly threw himself back into his memories of the previous evening, thinking that his illusory passion for Madame de Nucingen would be an antidote to his involuntarily wicked thoughts.

  ‘Last night at the Italiens they performed Rossini’s Barber of Seville. I’ve never heard such delightful music,’ he said. ‘How wonderful to have a box at the Italiens!’

  Old man Goriot snapped up these passing remarks as a dog hangs on his master’s every move.

  ‘You’re like pigs in clover, you men,’ said Madame Vauquer; ‘you do just as you please.’

  ‘How did you come back?’ asked Vautrin.

  ‘On foot,’ replied Eugène.

  ‘Personally,’ the tempter went on, ‘I wouldn’t settle for half-pleasures; I’d want to go there in my carriage, in my box, and be brought home in comfort. “All or nothing!” That’s my motto.’

  ‘And a good one it is too,’ replied Madame Vauquer.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be calling on Madame de Nucingen,’ murmured Eugène to old Goriot. ‘I’m sure she’ll receive you with open arms; she’ll want to ask you a thousand little things about me. I’ve heard that she’d do anything in the world to be received at the house of my cousin, Madame la Vicomtesse de Beauséant. Be sure to tell her that fulfilling her wish is foremost in my mind, such is my love for her.’

  Rastignac left for the Ecole de Droit142 soon afterwards, wanting to spend as little time as possible in that hateful house. He wandered around aimlessly for most of the day, his mind full of the feverish thoughts familiar to young men tormented by overly great expectations. Vautrin’s arguments had just started him thinking about life in society, when he bumped into his friend Bianchon in the Jardin du Luxembourg.143

  ‘Where did you get such a long face?’ asked the medical student, taking his arm as they strolled in front of the palace.

  ‘I’m plagued with terrible temptations.’

  ‘What kind? You can cure temptations, you know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By giving in to them.’

  ‘You may laugh, knowing nothing of my situation. Have you read Rousseau?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember the passage where he asks the reader what he would do if he could get rich by killing a mandarin in China solely by force of will,144 without budging from Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Hah! I’m on my thirty-third mandarin.’

  ‘I’m not joking. Look, if it were proved to you that the thing is possible and all you have to do is nod your head, would you do it?’

  ‘Is he very old, the mandarin? Hmm. Young or old, paralytic or the picture of health, why … Darn it! No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re a good chap, Bianchon. But if you loved a woman so much it was turning your heart inside-out, and if she needed money, a lot of money, for her gowns, for her carriage, for everything that took her fancy – what then?’

  ‘What, you make me lose my mind, then you want me to use it?’

  ‘Listen, Bianchon, I’m going mad, cure me. I have two sisters, beautiful, innocent angels, and I want them to be happy. Where can I find two hundred thousand francs for their dowries in the space of five years? You see, sometimes in life you have to play for high stakes instead of frittering away your luck on winning pennies.’

  ‘Why, you’re asking the question that hangs over everyone when they start out in life, only you want to cut the Gordian knot.145 My dear friend, none but Alexander can behave like that, anyone else ends up in gaol. As for me, I’ll be content to carve out a modest living for myself in the provinces, simply by stepping into my father’s shoes. A man can satisfy his inclinations just as fully within the smallest circle as he can within a vast circumference. Napoleon didn’t eat two dinners a night and had no more mistresses than a medical student boarding with the Capuchin friars. Our happiness, dear friend, will always fit between the soles of our feet and the crown of our head; and whether it costs us a million a year or a hundred louis, we all, inside, have the same intrinsic perception of it. My verdict is that the Chinaman should live.’

  ‘Thank you! You’ve made me feel much better, Bianchon. We’ll always be friends.’

  ‘By the way,’ continued the medical student, ‘as I was coming out of Cuvier’s lecture146 at the Jardin des Plantes, I noticed Michonneau and Poiret on a bench in conversation with a man I saw during the riots last year near the Chamber of Deputies, who, if you ask me, is a man of the police disguised as an honest bourgeois of private means. Keep your eye on those two: I’ll tell you why. Well, goodbye, I must go and answer the four o’clock roll-call.’

  When Eugène arrived back at the boarding house, he found Goriot waiting for him.

  ‘Here,’ said the old man, ‘you have a letter from Delphine. Such pretty handwriting!’

  Eugène opened the letter and read it.

  ‘Monsieur, my father tells me you like Italian music. I’d be delighted if you’d do me the pleasure of accepting a seat in my box. As La Fodor and Pellegrini are to sing on Saturday, I’m sure you won’t turn me down. Monsieur de Nucingen joins me in inviting you to come and dine with us informally. If you accept, you’ll be doing him a favour by relieving him of the conjugal chore of accompanying me. Don’t send an answer – come, and accept my compliments.

  D. de N.’

  ‘Let me see it,’ said the old man to Eugène once he’d finished reading the letter. ‘You will go, won’t you?’ he added, smelling the paper. ‘What a sweet scent! You can tell her fingers have touched this!’

  ‘A woman doesn’t throw herself at a man like that,’ the student said to himself. ‘She wants to use me to get de Marsay back. Only pique would make her do such a thing.’

  ‘So,’ said old man Goriot, ‘what’s on your mind?’

  Eugène knew nothing of the delirium of vanity affecting certain women at that time and was unaware that a banker’s wife was capable of any sacrifice that would open a door for her to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It was a time when fashionable opinion had begun to rate the women belonging to the Faubourg Saint-Germain set – known as the Ladies of the Petit Château147 – above all others. Madame de Beauséant, her friend the Duchesse de Langeais, and the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse ranked highest of all. Only Rastignac was oblivious to the burning ambition among the women of the Chaussée d’Antin to be admitted to this upper circle, where the constellations of their sex shone brightest. But his wariness served him well: it made him cool-headed and gave him the ambiguous power of imposing terms rather than accepting them.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go,’ he replied.

  And so curiosity led him to Madame de Nucingen’s door, whereas if she’d spurned him perhaps he’d have been drawn there by passion. Still, he waited for the next day and the time of his departure with some impatience. A young man’s first affair may afford him as many delights as his first love. Being confident of success spawns a thousand pleasures that men never admit to and which gives certain women all their charm. Desire may be born as much of the ease of a conquest as of its difficulty. Indeed, all human passions are sparked off or fuelled by one or othe
r of these two causes, which divide the empire of love between them. Perhaps this rift is a consequence of the greater question of temperament which, whatever anyone says, governs society. While the melancholic require the stimulation of coquetry, perhaps the choleric or sanguine lose interest when they encounter prolonged resistance. To put it another way, the elegy is as phlegmatic as the dithyramb is choleric.148 As he dressed, Eugène savoured all the little delights a young man never dares speak of for fear of being mocked, but which tickle his self-esteem. He arranged his hair, imagining a pretty woman’s gaze lingering on his black curls. He struck as many childish poses in the mirror as a young woman dressing for a ball. He eyed his slim waist with satisfaction as he smoothed the creases out of his coat.

  ‘Well, there are certainly worse-looking men!’ he said to himself. Then he went downstairs just as the regular boarders were sitting down to dinner and took in good spirit the chorus of foolish banter his elegant grooming provoked. A trait peculiar to boarding houses is the astonishment caused by smart dress. No one can wear anything new without everyone else having their say.

  ‘Kt, kt, kt, kt,’ said Bianchon, clicking his tongue against his palate, as if to spur on a horse.

  ‘Every inch the gentleman!’ said Madame Vauquer.

  ‘Monsieur is off a-courting?’ remarked Mademoiselle Michonneau.

  ‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’ crowed the painter.

  ‘My compliments to your lady wife,’ said the museum clerk.

  ‘Monsieur has a wife?’ asked Poiret.

  ‘A wife with compartments, seaworthy, perfect finish guaranteed, priced from 25 to 40 francs, check-patterned in the latest style, washable, beautifully cut, half-yarn, half-cotton, half-wool, cures toothache and other illnesses approved by the Royal Academy of Medicine! Also excellent for children! Better still for headaches, overeating, and other diseases of the oesophagus, eyes and ears,’ cried Vautrin with the comic, unstoppable patter of a fairground quack. ‘How much did this marvel cost me, I hear you ask, Gentlemen? Two sous? No. Nothing at all. A left-over from an order supplied to the Grand Mogul and which every sovereign in Europe, including the Grrrrrrrrand old Duke of Baden, has asked to see! Roll up, straight ahead there! Pay at the desk. And – music! Brooom, la la, trill! La, la, boom, boom! Oi! You on the clarinet, you’re flat,’ he continued in a hoarse voice. ‘Watch it or I’ll skin your knuckles.’