Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) (14 page)

Next appeared Monsieur Astolphe de Saintot, President of the Agricultural Society, a man of florid complexion, tall and stout, trailing after his wife, who in figure was very like a withered fern. They called her Lili, short for Elisa. This name, suggestive of something childlike in the person who bore it, squared ill with the character and manners of Madame de Saintot, who was solemn, extremely pious, crotchety and cantankerous at the card-table. Astolphe was reckoned to be a first-class scholar. Though he was an absolute ignoramus, he had contributed articles on sugar and brandy to a Dictionary of Agriculture, every detail of them pilfered from all the newspapers and out-of-date works dealing with these two products. Everyone in the
département
believed he was writing a treatise on modern methods of tilling. Although he remained
shut up in his study every morning, he had not written so much as a couple of pages during the last twelve years. If anyone came to see him, they found him scrabbling among his papers, looking for a mislaid note or sharpening his quill; but he squandered the time he spent in his study, lingering over his newspaper, carving corks with his penknife, tracing fantastic doodles on his blotting-pad, skimming through his Cicero in the hope of lighting on a sentence or passage which might have some bearing on events of the day. Then, that evening, he would try to lead the conversation on to a subject which allowed him to say: ‘There’s a page in Cicero which could well be taken for a comment on what is happening today.’ Thereupon he would recite the passage to the great astonishment of his listeners, who would repeat to one another: ‘Really Astolphe is a mine of knowledge,’ This interesting fact circulated through the whole town and gave support to its flattering beliefs about Monsieur de Saintot.

After this couple came Monsieur de Bartas, named Adrien, a baritone who had enormous pretensions as a musician. Self-conceit had seated him astride the diatonic scale: he had begun by admiring his own singing, then he had taken to talking music and in the end talked about nothing else. The art of music had become a kind of monomania with him; he only came to life when talking about it, and was in pain for the whole evening until he was asked to sing. Once he had boomed his way through one of his songs, he really began to live; he gave himself airs, stood on tip-toe when compliments came his way and made a show of modesty; nonetheless he passed from one group to another in quest of praise; then, when the last word had been said, he came back to music by starting a discussion about the difficulty of his song or by heaping praise upon the composer.

Monsieur Alexandre de Brebian, the hero of sepia, who made his friends’ rooms hideous with his preposterous drawings and disfigured all the albums in the
département,
came in with Monsieur de Bartas. Each man had the other one’s wife on his arm. Current scandal had it that this exchange of
partners went the whole way. Both of the women, Lolotte (Madame Charlotte de Brebian) and Fifine (Madame Joséphine de Bartas), gave all their thoughts to wrappings and trimmings and the matching of unrelated colours; they were consumed with the desire to be taken for Parisians but gave no care to their homes which were in a lamentable condition. If these two wives, squeezed like dolls in home-made dresses too sparingly cut, afforded an outrageous exhibition of incompatible colour-schemes, their husbands, as devotees of the arts, allowed themselves a provincial slovenliness which made odd spectacles of them. Their crumpled coats gave them the appearance of extras brought on to the stage of a low-class theatre to play the part of high-society wedding guests.

Among the people who sallied forth into the salon, one of the most eccentric figures was that of Monsieur le Comte de Senonches, known to his social peers as Jacques: a great huntsman, haughty, spare, sunburnt, as amiable as a wild boar, as mistrustful as a Venetian, as jealous as a Turk. Yet he was on excellent terms with Monsieur du Hautoy, otherwise known as Francis, the friend of the family.

Madame de Senonches (Zéphirine) was tall and handsome, but some inflammation of the liver had already spoilt her complexion and given her the reputation of being a demanding woman. Her slim figure and delicate proportions provided an excuse for langourous airs which savoured of affectation but betokened the unfailingly satisfied passion and whims of a person who is loved.

Francis was a man of some distinction who had given up his consulship at Valencia and his hopes of a diplomatic career in order to come and live near Zéphirine de Senonches, also called Zizine. The ex-consul looked after the Senonches
ménage,
took over the education of the children, taught them foreign languages, and managed the estate of Monsieur and Madame de Senonches with entire devotedness. The nobility, the administrative officials and the bourgeoisie of Angoulême had long been commenting on the perfect unity of this household in three persons; but, as time went by, the mystery of this conjugal trinity appeared so rare and touching that
Monsieur du Hautoy would have seemed prodigiously immoral if he had shown any sign of getting married. Besides this, they were beginning to find something mysterious and disquieting in Madame de Senonches’s excessive attachment to her god-daughter, Mademoiselle de la Haye, who acted as her lady’s companion; and despite certain apparently insuperable chronological objections, they discovered striking resemblances between Françoise de la Haye and Francis du Hautoy. When Jacques went out hunting in the neighbourhood, everyone asked him for news about Francis, and he gave his unofficial major-domo precedence over his wife by reporting all his minor indispositions. Such blindness in a jealous person seemed so peculiar that his best friends enjoyed drawing him out and revealed this peculiarity to people unaware of it so that they too could enjoy the joke. Monsieur du Hautoy was a mincing dandy, and the little attentions he paid to his person had made him finicky and childish. He worried about his cough, his sleep, his digestion and his food. Zéphirine had encouraged her factotum to pose as a man of delicate health; she coddled him, muffled him up; she crammed him with titbits like a marquise’s lap-dog; she prescribed or forbade him this or that sort of food; she embroidered waistcoats, cravat-ends and handkerchiefs for him; in the end she got him so much into the habit of wearing decorative trifles that she transformed him into a sort of Japanese idol. Moreover there was not even a shadow of misunderstanding between them: Zizine’s glance turned to Francis on each and every occasion, and Francis seemed to take his ideas from Zizine’s eyes. They were unanimous in blame or approval, and appeared to consult each other even before wishing anyone good-day.

The richest landowner in the district, a man envied by all, Monsieur le Marquis de Pimentel and his lady, whose joint income amounted to forty thousand francs a year, who always spent the winter in Paris, now arrived from the country in their barouche with their neighbours Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne de Rastignac, accompanied by the Baron’s aunt and their two daughters, charming young persons,
well-bred, impoverished, but attired in that simplicity of dress which so much enhances natural beauty. These persons, who were beyond doubt the
élite
of the company, were received in chilly silence with a deference fraught with jealousy, especially when everyone saw the courtly welcome which Madame de Bargeton extended to them. Both these families belonged to the minority of provincials who hold aloof from gossip, do not mix with any clique, live in quiet seclusion and preserve an imposing dignity. Monsieur de Pimentel and Monsieur de Rastignac were addressed by their titles; no relation of familiarity existed between their womenfolk and those of the smart set in Angoulême – they were too close to the Court nobility to take any part in the inanities of provincial life.

Last of all came the Prefect and the General, accompanied by Monsieur de Séverac, the country gentleman who that morning had brought his memoir on silk-worm culture to David’s office. He was, no doubt, the mayor of some canton or other, for which he possessed no other qualification than his rich estates; but his appearance and attire showed that he was completely out of his element in society, was ill at ease in the clothes he wore, was at a loss to know what to do with his hands, walked round and round any person he was talking to, stood up and sat down again when replying to any remark made to him, and looked as if he were ready to perform some menial task. He was obsequious, apprehensive and solemn by turns; he was in a hurry to laugh at any joke, listened with fawning attention, and sometimes put on an air of slyness when he thought anyone was making fun of him. Several times that evening, with his memoir lying heavy on his mind, Monsieur de Séverac tried to talk about silk-worms; but he was unlucky enough to light on Monsieur de Bartas who brought the subject back to music, and Monsieur de Saintot who quoted Cicero to him. Halfway through the evening the poor mayor managed to hit it off with a widow and her daughter, Madame and Mademoiselle du Broussard, who were by no means the two least diverting figures in this assembly. One word will explain their position: they were as
poor as they were well-born. Their effort to appear well-dressed was indicative of concealed poverty. Very maladroitly and on all occasions Madame du Brossard sang the praises of her large and lanky daughter, a girl of seventeen who was supposed to be very good at the piano. She was at pains to show that any marriageable man and her daughter shared the same tastes, and once, on one and the same evening, in her anxiety to find a husband for her dear Camille, she had claimed that Camille loved both a wandering life in garrison towns and the settled existence led by gentlemen-farmers. They both had the prim and bitter-sweet dignity of persons whom everyone takes a delight in pitying, in whom people are interested out of egoism and who well know how empty are the soothing phrases with which society is pleased to greet the unfortunate. Monsieur de Séverac was fifty-nine and a childless widower; and so mother and daughter hung on his words with reverent admiration as he regaled them with all the details of his silkworm-breeding activities.

‘My daughter has always loved animals,’ said the mother. ‘And so, since the silk which these little creatures spin interests us women, I will ask your leave to bring my Camille to Séverac for you to show her how silk is collected. Camille is so intelligent that she will grasp everything you tell her straight away. In fact, one day she was even able to understand the inverse ratio of the square of distances!’ It was on this glorious note that the conversation between Monsieur de Séverac and Madame du Brossard came to an end, after Lucien’s recital.

A few
habitués
drifted unceremoniously into the room; also two or three youths of good social standing, decked out in all their finery, but shy, tongue-tied, happy to have been invited on this impressive literary occasion. The boldest of them had a long chat with Mademoiselle de la Haye. All the women solemnly sat round in a circle with the men standing behind them. This gathering of odd people, with their strange assortment of dress and make-up, filled Lucien with awe, and his heart beat fast at finding himself the centre of attention. Bold as he was, he could hardly face this first ordeal without
flinching, despite the encouragements of his patroness, who received the illustrious
élite
of the province with all the social graces of her repertoire. His initial embarrassment was prolonged by a circumstance easy to foresee, but one which was bound to perturb a young man still unfamiliar with the tactics of society. Lucien, who was all eyes and ears, heard himself styled ‘Monsieur de Rubempré’ by Louise, Monsieur de Bargeton, the Bishop and a few of the hostess’s intimates, and ‘Monsieur Chardon’ by the greater part of this redoubtable gathering. Intimidated by the enquiring glances which curious people directed at him, he could read by the movement of their lips that they were articulating his bourgeois patronymic, and could guess in advance the judgements they were passing on him with that provincial candour which only too often verges on rudeness. These continual and unexpected pinpricks made him still more unsure of himself. He waited impatiently for the moment when he could begin his reading and take up a posture which would put an end to his torment of mind; but Jacques was telling Madame de Pimentel about his latest day in the hunting-field; Adrien was holding forth about Rossini, the new musical celebrity, to Mademoiselle Laure de Rastignac; Astolphe, who had learnt off by heart the newspaper description of a new kind of plough, was reeling it off to the Baron. The unhappy poet was unaware that with the exception of Madame de Bargeton poetry was a closed book to the minds of everyone present. They were all totally lacking in sensibility and had flocked together in a state of self-delusion about the kind of entertainment that awaited them. There are certain words which will always draw an audience like the trumpets, cymbals and big drum of mountebanks. The words beauty, glory, poetry have a magic appeal for the coarsest spirits.

When the company was complete, when the talking came to an end – not without many warnings given to the chatterers by Monsieur de Bargeton, whom his wife sent round like a church beadle smiting his wand on the flagstones – Lucien took his stance at the round table, with Madame de Bargeton by his side, in a state of violent mental turmoil. With quavering
voice he announced that, so as not to disappoint the expectations of his audience, he was going to read the recently discovered masterpieces of a great but unknown poet. Although André Chénier’s poems had been published in 1819, no one in Angoulême had heard of him as yet. Everybody interpreted this announcement as an expedient adopted by Madame de Bargeton in order to safeguard the poet’s self-esteem and put the audience at its ease. Lucien started by reading
The Love-sick Youth,
which was received with flattering murmurs; then
The Blind Poet,
which was too long for these mediocre minds. While reading, Lucien was a prey to the excruciating suffering which can only be understood by artists or by those whose enthusiasm and high intelligence raise them to a similar level. If poetry, when read or when recited, is to be understood, devout attention must be paid to it. There must be a close bond between reader and listener, for without this the electric communication of feeling is impossible. If this cohesion between souls is lacking, the poet then feels like an angel trying to sing a celestial hymn amid the jeering laughter of demons. Now men of intelligence, in the sphere in which their faculties are developed, have the circumspective vision of a snail, the keen scent of a hound and the fine ear of a mole: they see, smell and hear everything around them. A musician or a poet as quickly senses admiration or incomprehension as a plant withers or freshens in a favourable or unfavourable atmosphere. Thanks to this acoustic sensibility, the whisperings of the men who had only come there as escorts to their wives and were talking of their own concerns resounded in Lucien’s ears; he also noticed the reflex action of wide yawns and the consequent exposure of teeth which seemed to be mocking at him. And when like the dove from the ark he looked for a favourable spot on which his eye could rest, he encountered only the impatient gaze of people who had obviously been hoping that this gathering would have provided them an opportunity for exchanging views on matters of mutual interest. With the exception of Laure de Rastignac, two or three young people, and the Bishop, the whole assembly was bored. Indeed, connoisseurs of poetry try to allow the seed
which the author’s verse has sown to germinate in their soul; but this icy audience, far from absorbing the spirit of the poetry, did not even listen to the words. And so Lucien felt such profound discouragement that his shirt became damp with cold perspiration. He turned to look at Louise, and a fiery glance from her gave him enough courage to finish the reading; but his poet’s heart was bleeding from a thousand wounds.