by Stendhal
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CHAPTER 28
Manon Lescaut
Now once he was thoroughly convinced of the foolishness and asinine stupidity of the prior, he usually managed fairly well by calling white black and black white.
LICHTEMBERG *
THE Russian instructions laid down categorically that one was never to contradict out loud the person one was writing to. One was not, on any pretext whatsoever, to forsake a stance of the most ecstatic admiration; the letters always worked from this assumption.
One evening at the Opera, in Mme de Fervaques's box, Julien was praising to the skies the ballet based on Manon Lescaut. * His only reason for talking in this way was that he found the work of no interest.
The maréchale said that this ballet was much inferior to the Abbé Prévost's novel.
Goodness! thought Julien both astonished and amused, a lady of such high virtue praising a novel! Mme de Fervaques openly professed, two or three times a week, the most utter scorn for writers who by means of these insipid works try to corrupt a young generation that is, alas! only too prone to be led astray by the senses.
'In this immoral and dangerous genre', the maréchale went on, ' Manon Lescaut, so I'm told, ranks high on the list. The weaknesses and the well-deserved anguish of a most criminal character are depicted there, so I'm told, with a truthfulness which has some depth in it; which didn't stop your Bonaparte from declaring on St Helena that it's a novel written for lackeys.'
These words restored all Julien's mental energy. Someone has tried to discredit me in the maréchale's eyes; they've told her about my enthusiasm for Napoleon. She's sufficiently put out at this fact to yield to the temptation of letting me know how she feels. This discovery kept him amused all evening and
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made him amusing. As he took leave of the maréchale in the foyer of the Opera: 'Remember, sir,' she said to him, 'that devotion to Bonaparte is incompatible with devotion to me; the most that is allowed is to accept him as a necessity imposed by Providence. Anyway, the man's soul was too rigid to appreciate artistic masterpieces.'
Devotion to me! Julien repeated to himself; that means nothing, or means everything. Here you have mysteries of language that are quite beyond our poor provincials. And he thought a lot about Mme de Rênal as he copied out an inordinately long letter intended for the maréchale.
'Why is it', she asked him the next day with a look of indifference that he found contrived and unconvincing, 'that you talked to me about ' London' and ' Richmond' in a letter you wrote yesterday, so it seems, on returning from the Opera?'
Julien was very embarrassed; he had done his copying line by line, without thinking about what he was writing, and had apparently forgotten to replace the words ' London' and ' Richmond' from the original with ' Paris' and ' Saint-Cloud'. He made two or three attempts at a sentence in reply, but was unable to finish any of them; he felt on the verge of breaking into helpless laughter. At length, as he fumbled for words, he hit upon this idea: 'Exalted by discussion of the most sublime, the most weighty concerns of the human soul, my own may have had a moment's distraction while writing to you.'
The impression I'm creating is such, he said to himself, that I'd do well to spare myself its irksome repercussions for the remainder of the evening. He left the Hôtel de Fervaques at the double. Later on that evening, when he looked over the original of the letter he had copied out the previous day, he soon came to the ill-fated place where the young Russian spoke of London and Richmond. Julien was most astonished to find this letter almost tender.
It was the contrast between the apparent frivolity of his conversation and the sublime, almost apocalyptic profundity of his letters that had caused him to be singled out. The length of his sentences was especially pleasing to the maréchale; this isn't the jerky style made fashionable by Voltaire, that immoral
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man! Although our hero did everything in the world to banish any kind of common sense from his conversation, it still had an antimonarchist and ungodly flavour which did not escape Mme de Fervaques. Surrounded by eminently moral figures, who frequently, however, did not have so much as a single idea per evening, this lady was deeply struck by anything resembling novelty; but at the same time she thought it incumbent upon her to take offence. She called this failing bearing the mark of worldly frivolity ...
But salons like this are only worth a visit when one has something to solicit. The full boredom of the uneventful life that Julien was leading is no doubt shared by the reader. These are the lowlands of our journey.
During all the time taken up in Julien's life by the Fervaques episode, Mlle de la Mole found it necessary to take herself firmly in hand in order not to think about him. She was in the throes of violent inner conflicts; sometimes she flattered herself that she despised this most dreary young man; but in spite of herself his conversation enthralled her. What astonished her above all was his perfect falseness; he didn't utter a single word to the maréchale that wasn't a lie, or at least an appalling travesty of his way of thinking, which Mathilde was so perfectly familiar with on virtually every topic. This Machiavellian streak impressed her. What profundity! she said to herself; what a contrast with the bombastic idiots or the common rogues like M. Tanbeau who talk in this style!
Nevertheless, some days were quite dreadful for Julien. It was in fulfilment of the most painful of duties that he made his daily appearance in the maréchale's salon. His efforts to play a part succeeded in draining him of all emotional strength. Often, at night, as he crossed the vast courtyard of the Hôtel de Fervaques, it was only through sheer character and reasoning power that he just managed to keep himself from sinking into despair.
I overcame despair in the seminary, he told himself: and yet what a dreadful prospect I had in front of me at the time! I either succeeded or failed in making my fortune, but in either case I saw myself condemned to spend the whole of my life in the intimate company of the most despicable and revolting
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creatures on earth. The following spring, a mere eleven months later, I was perhaps the happiest young man in my age-group.
But as often as not all this fine reasoning was ineffectual against the horrors of reality. Every day he saw Mathilde at lunch and dinner. From the numerous letters dictated to him by M. de La Mole, he knew she was on the point of marrying M. de Croisenois. This amiable young man was already making an appearance twice a day at the Hôtel de La Mole: the jealous eye of a jilted lover did not miss a single one of his movements.
When he thought he had noticed Mlle de La Mole treating her suitor well, Julien could not help looking lovingly at his pistols when he returned to his room.
Ah! how much wiser I would be, he said to himself, to remove my name from my linen and go off to some solitary forest twenty leagues from Paris and end this execrable life! As a stranger in the region, my death would stay hidden for a fortnight, and who would spare a thought for me after a fortnight!
This line of reasoning was very sensible. But the next day, a glimpse of Mathilde's arm visible between the sleeve of her dress and her glove was enough to plunge our young philosopher into memories of a cruel sort, which none the less maintained his attachment to life. All right! he said to himself at that point, I'll follow this Russian policy to the bitter end. How will it all finish?
As regards the maréchale, once I've copied out these fiftythree letters, I shall certainly not write any others.
As regards Mathilde, six weeks of painful play-acting like this will either make no difference to her anger, or will win me a moment's reconciliation. God Almighty! I'd die of happiness! And he was unable to finish his train of thought.
When, after a long spell of dreaming, he managed to pick up the thread of his argument, he said to himself. So then, I'd win a day's happiness, after which she would revert to her cruel ways, founded, alas! on my meagre capacity to please her, and I'd have no resources left, I'd be ruined, destroyed for ever...
Wha
t guarantee can she offer me with a character like hers? Alas! my unworthiness is the key to everything. My manners will be wanting in elegance, my way of talking will be heavy and monotonous. God Almighty! Why am I me?
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CHAPTER 29
Boredom
To sacrifice oneself to one's passion, fair enough; but to passions one does not feel! O wretched nineteenth century!
GIRODET *
HAVING at first read Julien's long letters without any pleasure, Mme de Fervaques was beginning to be preoccupied by them, but one thing distressed her: What a shame M. Sorel isn't a proper priest! One could admit him to some sort of intimacy; but with that cross, and the almost bourgeois suit he wears, one lays oneself open to cruel questions, and what is one to reply? She did not finish her train of thought: some malicious woman from my circle of friends may assume and even spread the rumour that he's a little cousin of subordinate rank, a relative of my father's, some merchant decorated by the National Guard.
Up until the time she had set eyes on Julien, Mme de Fervaques's greatest pleasure had been to write the word maréchale beside her name. Thereafter, the unhealthy, hypersensitive vanity of a social climber fought against a nascent attraction.
It would be so easy for me, said the maréchale to herself, to make him a vicar-general in some diocese near Paris! But plain M. Sorel, and what's more, petty secretary to M. de La Mole! it's most distressing.
For the first time, this creature who was fearful of everything was moved by an interest alien to her pretensions to rank and social superiority. Her old porter noticed that when he brought her a letter from the handsome young man who looked so sad, he was sure to see the maréchale lose the abstracted and displeased look she was always careful to adopt at the appearance of any of her servants.
Being bored with a way of life that was always seeking to make an impression on an audience, without any genuine heartfelt enjoyment of this kind of success, had become so
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intolerable to the lady since having Julien in her thoughts, that for the chambermaids not to be ill-treated for a whole day on end, it was sufficient if, in the course of the previous evening, she had spent an hour with this unusual young man. His growing influence survived some anonymous letters, very well written ones too. It was to no avail that little Tanbeau furnished Messrs de Luz, de Croisenois, and de Caylus with two or three cunning items of slander which these gentlemen took pleasure in spreading, without really taking a view on the truth of the accusations. The maréchale, whose mind was not constituted to resist these vulgar practices, confided her doubts in Mathilde, and was always consoled.
One day, having asked three times whether there were any letters, Mme de Fervaques made up her mind abruptly to reply to Julien. It was a victory for boredom. At the second letter, the maréchale was almost stopped in her tracks by the impropriety of writing such a vulgar address in her own hand: To Monsieur Sorel, c/o Monsieur le Marquis de la Mole.
'Will you please', she said curtly to Julien that evening, 'bring me some envelopes with your address written on them.'
Here I am set up as a manservant-cum-lover, Julien thought, and as he bowed he took pleasure in putting on a face like Arsène, the marquis's old valet de chambre.
That same evening he brought some envelopes, and the next day, very early in the morning, he received a third letter: he read five or six lines at the beginning, and two or three towards the end. It was four pages of tiny, close-written script.
Gradually, the lady adopted the sweet habit of writing almost every day. Julien answered with faithful copies of the Russian letters, and such is the advantage of a bombastic style that Mme de Fervaques was not in the least astonished at the lack of connection between the answers and her letters.
Just imagine how it would have irked her pride if little Tanbeau, who had taken it upon himself to spy on Julien's movements, had been able to inform her that all these unopened letters were flung at random into Julien's drawer.
One morning, the porter was on his way to the library with a letter to him from the maréchale; Mathilde ran into the man, saw the letter and the address on it in Julien's hand. She went
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into the library as the porter was coming out: the letter was still on the edge of the table; Julien, who was very busy writing, had not put it in his drawer.
'This is something I will not put up with,' Mathilde exclaimed, seizing the letter; 'you're forgetting all about me, and I'm your bride. Your conduct is appalling, sir.'
At these words, her pride, astonished at the dreadful impropriety of what she had done, choked her; she burst into tears, and soon seemed to Julien to be quite unable to breathe.
Surprised and disconcerted, Julien did not perceive clearly what this scene betokened in the way of wondrous good fortune for him. He helped Mathilde to sit down; she almost let herself go in his arms.
The first instant when he noticed this movement was one of intense joy. The second was a thought for Korasov: I may lose everything by a single word.
His arms stiffened, so painful was the effort imposed by strategy. I mustn't even allow myself to clasp to my heart this lovely, yielding body, or she'll despise and ill-treat me. What an appalling character!
And as he cursed Mathilde's character, he loved her infinitely more for it; he seemed to be holding a queen in his arms.
Julien's impassive coldness increased the pangs of pride which wounded Mlle de La Mole to the quick. She did not have anything like the necessary composure to try to guess from his eyes what his feelings were for her at that moment. She could not bring herself to look at him; she was in fear and trembling of being greeted with an expression of scorn.
Sitting motionless on the sofa in the library, with her head turned away from Julien, she was racked with the most acute anguish that pride and love can inflict on a human soul. What an atrocious step she had just taken!
It was my peculiar fate, wretched woman that I am! to see my most improper advances rebuffed! And rebuffed by whom? added her grief-crazed pride. Rebuffed by a servant of my father's.
'I won't put up with this,' she said out loud.
And, rising to her feet in fury, she opened the drawer of
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Julien's table which stood a couple of feet from her. She remained frozen to the spot in horror when she saw nine or ten unopened letters identical in every respect to the one which the porter had just brought up. In all the addresses she recognized Julien's handwriting, more or less disguised.
'So,' she exclaimed, quite beside herself, 'not only are you on close terms with her, but you despise her, what's more. You, a nobody, despising Mme la Maréchale de Fervaques!
'Ah! forgive me, darling,' she added, flinging herself down and clasping his knees, 'despise me if you want, but please love me, I can't go on living deprived of your love.' And she fell down in a dead faint.
Here she is then, this proud creature, lying at my feet! said Julien to himself.
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CHAPTER 30
A box at the Opera Bouffe
As the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest Don Juan, C. I, st. 73
IN the midst of all these great upheavals, Julien was more astonished than happy. Mathilde's insults showed him how wise the Russian strategy was. Speak little, act little, this is my only means of salvation.
He lifted Mathilde up, and without saying a word laid her on the sofa again. Gradually she was overcome with tears.
To hide her embarrassment, she picked up Mme de Fervaques's letters; slowly she unsealed them. She started visibly when she recognized the maréchale's writing. She turned over the pages of the letters without reading them: most of them covered six sheets.
'Answer me this, at least,' Mathilde said at length in the most pleading of tones, but without daring to look at Julien. 'You're well aware that I have my pride; it's the misfortune of my position and even of my character, I'll admit; so Mme de Fervaques has stolen your heart from me
... Has she made all the sacrifices for you that this ill-fated love misled me into making?'
A dismal silence was Julien's only answer. What right has she, he was thinking, to ask me to commit an indiscretion unworthy of a gentleman?
Mathilde tried to read the letters; her tear-filled eyes made it impossible.
For a month now she had been unhappy, but so proud a character was nowhere near admitting her feelings to herself. Chance alone had brought on this outburst. For a moment jealousy and love had triumphed over pride. She was seated on the sofa, very close to him too. He saw her hair and her alabaster neck; for a second he forgot what he owed to himself;
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he slipped his arm round her waist and almost clasped her to his chest.
She turned her head slowly towards him: he was astonished at the intense anguish in her eyes, to the point where their usual look was unrecognizable.
Julien felt his strength abandoning him, so mortally painful was the act of courage he demanded of himself.
Those eyes will soon express nothing but the coldest disdain, Julien said to himself, if I allow myself to give in to the happiness of loving her. And yet, in a faint voice, with phrases she scarcely had the strength to finish, she was at that very moment expressing yet again to him her heartfelt regret at actions dictated, she supposed, by too much pride.
'I have my pride too,' Julien said to her in a barely audible voice, and his features betrayed that he was on the verge of physical collapse.
Mathilde turned eagerly towards him. To hear his voice caused her happiness such as she had almost ceased to hope for. At that moment, she only remembered her haughtiness to curse it, she would have liked to find unusual, scarcely credible forms of behaviour to prove to him the extent of her adoration for him and her hatred of herself.