1834
Publication of La Recherche de l’absolu and the first ‘Scènes de la vie parisienne’.
1834–5
Publication of Le Père Goriot.
1835
Publication of collected Études philosophiques (1835–40). Meets Madame Hanska in Vienna, the last time for eight years.
1836
Publication of Le Lys dans la vallée and other works. Starts a journal, La Chronique de Paris, which ends in failure.
1837
Journey to Italy. Publication of La Vieille Fille, the first part of Illusions perdues, and César Birotteau.
1838
Publication of La Femme supérieure (Les Employés) and La Torpille, which becomes the first part of Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes.
1839
Becomes president of the Société des Gens de Lettres. Publication of six more works, including Le Cabinet des antiques and Béatrix.
1840
Publication of more works, including Pierrette.
1841
Makes an agreement with his publisher, Furne, and booksellers for the publication of the Comédie humaine. Publication of more works, including Le Curé de village.
1842
Publication of the Comédie humaine, with its important introduction, in seventeen volumes (1842–8); one posthumous volume is published in 1855. Publication of other works, including Mémoires de deux jeunes mariées, Ursule Mirouet, and La Rabouilleuse.
1843
More publications, including La Muse du département, and the completion in three parts of Illusions perdues. Visits Madame Hanska (widowed since 1841) at St Petersburg.
1844
Publication of Modeste Mignon, of the beginning of Les Paysans, of the second part of Béatrix, and of the second part of Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes.
1845
Travels in Europe with Madame Hanska and her daughter and future son-in-law.
1846
Stays in Rome and travels in Switzerland and Germany with Madame Hanska. A witness at the marriage of her daughter. Birth to Madame Hanska of a still-born child, who was to have been called Victor-Honoré. Publication of La Cousine Bette and of the third part of Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes.
1847
Madame Hanska stays in Paris from February till May. Publication of Le Cousin Pons and of the last part of Splendeurs et misères des courtisanes.
1848
Revolution in France resulting in the abdication of Louis-Philippe and the establishment of the Second Republic. Balzac goes to the Ukraine to stay with Madame Hanska and remains there till the spring of 1850.
1849
His health deteriorates seriously.
1850
Marriage of Balzac and Madame Hanska on 14 March. He returns with her to Paris on 20 May and dies on 18 August.
1869–76
Definitive edition of the Œuvres complètes in twenty-four volumes, published by Michel Lévy and then by Calmann-Lévy.
THE WILD ASS’S SKIN
(Sterne, Tristram Shandy, ch. CCCXXII)*
TO MONSIEUR SAVARY*
Member of the Académie des sciences
THE TALISMAN*
Towards the end of last October,* a young man entered the Palais Royal* just as, in accordance with the law that protects an addiction which is by its very nature subject to tax, the gambling-parlours were opening. Without too much hesitation, he climbed the stairs to room number 36.
‘Monsieur, your hat please,’ called out a dry, grumpy voice and a sallow little old man, crouching in the shadows behind a barrier, rose to his feet abruptly, revealing a face of disreputable cast.
When you enter a gaming house, the law first deprives you of your hat. Is this some parable from Providence or the Gospels? Or is it not rather the making of a devilish pact with you which demands some token? Might it perhaps be to oblige you to show respect towards those about to take your money? Or is it the police, skulking everywhere in the sewers of society and wanting to know the name of your hatmaker, or your own should you have written it on the lining? Or, finally, might it be to measure your cranium and compile some useful statistics about the capacity of a gambler’s brain? On this subject the authorities are entirely silent. But of this you may be sure: as soon as you take one step towards the green baize, your hat no more belongs to you than you do yourself. You are gambling, you, your fortune, your hat, your walking-stick, and your coat. When you emerge from this den, by returning this item to you, the Spirit of Gaming will demonstrate, in frighteningly epigrammatic style, that you do still have something left. But if your hat is a new one, you will learn to your cost that you would have done better to wear one suited to gambling.
The surprise shown by the young man on receiving a numbered chit for his hat, whose brim was, fortunately, a little scuffed, was sufficient proof of a soul still innocent; so the little old man, who had no doubt from his young days wallowed in the turbulent pleasures of the life of gambling, looked at him dully, quite without warmth, with eyes in which a thinking person might have discerned the misery of hospitals, the wanderings of the destitute, the court appearances of droves of the oppressed, hard labour in perpetuity, and transportations to Guazacoalco.* This man, whose white and elongated face was apparently nourished by nothing but D’Arcet’s gelatinous soups,* was the pale image of the addiction in its plainest terms. In his lined face you saw the signs of past torments, for he surely gambled away his meagre earnings the day he got them. Like an old nag grown indifferent to the lashes of the whip, nothing startled him any more. The muffled moans of the gamblers who came out ruined, their silent imprecations, their grim expressions never touched him. He was the very incarnation of Gaming. If the young man had allowed his gaze to linger on this sorry Cerberus* perhaps he would have said: ‘There is nothing left in that heart except a game of cards!’
But he did not heed this advice incarnate, seated there no doubt by a Providence that has placed disgust at the door of every den of vice. Resolutely he entered the hall where the clinking of gold exercised a dazzling fascination upon senses in the throes of craving. This young man was in all likelihood driven thither by that most logical of all the eloquent sayings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the sad meaning of which is, I believe, the following: ‘Yes, I can understand that a man might go to the gambling-table—when he sees that all that lies between himself and death is his last crown.’*
In the evenings the gambling-houses have only a vulgar poetry about them, but one whose effect is assured, like that of a gory melodrama. The rooms are crammed with spectators and gamblers, destitute old men shuffling around to keep warm, the fraught faces of those whose orgies begin with wine and finish inevitably in the Seine. Passions may abound but there are so many actors that the demon of gambling cannot be stared at full in the face. The evening is a real ensemble performance: everyone in the troupe raises his voice and every instrument modulates its tune. There you may see many respectable people who come to seek entertainment and pay for it, as they might for the pleasure of going to the theatre or restaurant, or as they might visit some garret to buy, for very little, three months of stinging remorse. But can you comprehend the madness and the frenzy there must be in the soul of a man who waits impatiently for a gambling-den to open? Between the morning and the evening gambler there exists all the difference between the nonchalant husband and the lover fainting beneath the window of his mistress. Only in the morning do passion that makes the heart tremble and naked need in all its utter horror manifest themselves. At that moment you may marvel at the true gambler who has not eaten, slept, lived, thought, so harshly has he been flagellated by the whip of the martingale, so sorely has he suffered from the itch to make his throw in trente et quarante.* At that accursed hour you will see eyes whose calmness is terrifying, faces which hold you spellbound, stares which seem to turn the cards over and devour them.
So gambling-dens are only sublime at the hour when they open for business.
Spain has its bullfights and Rome its gladiators, but Paris is proud of its Palais Royal, whose frenetic roulettes afford spectators the pleasure of watching blood flow freely without the risk of them slithering around in it. Cast a furtive glance at this arena! Go in! … How bare it is! To head-height the walls are covered with greasy paper and display not one single image which might lift the spirits. Not even a hook to make it easier to commit suicide. The wood floor is the worse for wear and filthy. An oblong table occupies the centre of the room. The simplicity of the rush chairs densely packed around this baize cloth, worn out by the gold coins, shows a curious indifference to luxury on the part of these men who come there to perish in the search for fortune and luxury.
This all-too-human paradox will be found wherever the soul reacts powerfully upon itself. The lover wishes to clothe his mistress in silk, cover her with soft stuffs from the East, yet more often than not he possesses her upon a pallet of straw. The man of ambition dreams of being at the summit of power and yet remains mired in servitude. The shopkeeper vegetates at the back of his damp, insanitary shop, while he builds a magnificent house, which his son will inherit at too early an age, and will be evicted from because of fraternal litigation. And finally, is there anything more unpleasant than a ‘house of pleasure’? What an odd thing that is! Man, always in conflict with himself, betraying future hopes with present woes, and present woes with a future that will not belong to him, leaves his mark of inconsistency and weakness on all his actions. Nothing is as complete as misfortune in this life.
As the young man entered the gaming room, some were already gambling. Three bald-headed old men were sitting casually around the baize; their plaster-cast faces, as impassive as the faces of diplomats, revealed an inner indifference, in hearts that had long ceased to pound, even when they risked losing the entirety of their wives’ worldly goods. A young Italian with black hair and an olive complexion was leaning calmly on the end of the table, and seemed to be listening to those secret and fateful presentiments that cry to the player: ‘Yes—no!’ Dreams of gold and fiery thoughts filled that southern head. Seven or eight onlookers stood around awaiting the scenes which fate was preparing for their entertainment, the actors’ expressions, the movement of the money and the croupier’s rake. These idlers were there, silent, unmoving, vigilant, like people at the Place de Grève* when the executioner chops off someone’s head.
A tall, gaunt man in a threadbare suit was holding a register in one hand and in the other a pin to mark off each sequence of the Red and the Black. He was one of your modern Tantaluses* who live on the margins of all the pleasures of the age, one of your misers without any treasure, who play for imaginary wealth; a rational sort of madman consoling himself for his ills by cherishing a figment, one who handled depravity and danger, as young priests do the Eucharist when they rehearse their practice masses. Across from the banker, one or two of these shrewd speculators, experts on the ups and downs of the game, like former convicts who no longer fear the galleys, had come to chance three throws of the dice and carry off their likely instant winnings, which was what they lived off. Two elderly employees walked around casually, arms folded, looking out of the windows into the gardens from time to time, as if showing their dull faces like a shop-sign to whoever might walk by.
The banker and the croupier had just thrown their pale and deadly glances at the punters and were letting out their high-pitched cry of ‘Faites vos jeux!’ when the young man opened the door. The silence became somehow more pronounced, and heads turned curiously in the direction of the newcomer. It was unbelievable! They all, from the dull old men, the stony-faced employees, and the spectators to the fanatical Italian, felt something indescribably terrible when they saw the stranger. Surely a man must be in a parlous state to excite pity, extremely weak to inspire sympathy, or very evil-looking to make a soul tremble in a den like this, where pain must hold its tongue, poverty remain cheerful, and despair retain its self-respect. Well, all of these feelings were present in the new sensation that stirred in those stony hearts when the young man entered the room. But did not even the executioners shed a tear over the young maidens whose blonde heads had to be cut off at the bidding of the Revolution?
At first glance the gamblers read upon the novice’s face some dreadful mystery, his young features were touched by a nebulous grace, the look in his eyes spoke of fruitless effort and a thousand vain hopes! The bleak impassivity of suicide bestowed a dull, sickly pallor on that brow, a bitter smile etched small lines in the corners of his mouth, and his face expressed a resignation that was painful to behold.
A spark of hidden genius glowed in the depths of those eyes, misty perhaps with the fatigues of pleasure. Was it debauchery that had left its sordid imprint on that noble face, once so pure, so passionate, and now so tainted? Doctors would no doubt have attributed the yellow rings round his eyes and the roses in his cheeks to lesions in his heart or chest, whereas poets would have thought they recognized in them the signs of the ravages of learning, the traces of nights spent by the light of the student’s lamp. But a passion more deadly than sickness, a sickness more pitiless than study and genius had affected that young head, had made those sturdy muscles contract, and wrung that heart that had as yet been scarcely touched by orgies, study, or sickness. Just as when a famous criminal arrives in gaol the convicts greet him with respect, so all these human demons, expert in torture, acknowledged untold pain, plumbed that deep wound with their eyes, and recognized one of their princes by the dignity of his quiet irony, the elegant poverty of his clothes.
The young man certainly had a stylish tailcoat, but the meeting-place of waistcoat and tie was too carefully maintained for anyone to suppose he wore an undershirt. His hands, pretty as a woman’s, were of doubtful cleanliness; he had not worn gloves for two days! If the banker and the employees themselves shuddered, it was because some vestiges of an innocent magic still bloomed in that slender, elegant figure, in the fine, naturally curly fair hair. His face was still that of a twenty-five-year-old and vice seemed only to be present by accident. The vitality of youth struggled against the ravages of helpless licentiousness. Darkness and light, the forces of death and life were fighting it out, producing at one and the same time grace and horror. The young man looked like an angel without his halo, like one who had lost his way. So all these emeritus professors of vice and infamy, like toothless old hags, overcome with pity at the sight of a lovely girl offering herself up to corruption, were ready to cry out to the novice: ‘Go away!’ But he walked straight up to the table, stood there, casually tossed the gold coin he had in his hand down onto the cloth, and it rolled onto a Black; then, like all brave souls who abhor hair-splitting uncertainties he threw a glance that was at once turbulent and calm in the direction of the banker.
Interest in this throw was so intense that the old men made none of their own; but the Italian, with a fanatical passion, had a sudden inspiration and bet his pile of gold against the unknown player’s. The banker forgot to utter the words which over time had become changed into a raucous and unintelligible cry:
‘Faites le jeu!—Le Jeu est fait!—Rien ne va plus.’*
The banker spread out the cards and, though indifferent to the losses or winnings of those who went in for these sordid pleasures, seemed to be wishing the newcomer good luck. All onlookers were eager to watch a tragedy unfold in the destiny of that gold coin, guessing it was the final act of a noble life; their eyes glinted as they rested on the fateful little cards; but in spite of the attention they brought to bear, first on the young man and then the cards, they failed to perceive any sign of emotion in that impassive, resigned face.
‘Rouge, pair, passe,’* came the formal announcement from the banker. Red wins.’
A kind of dull rattle came from the Italian’s throat when he saw the folded notes falling one after another, as the banker threw them to him. As for the young man, he was only fully conscious of his ruin at the moment when the dealer’s rake reached out to gather i
n his last napoleon.* The ivory made the coin clink as, at lightning speed, it went to join the pile of gold lying in front of the bank. The stranger, white-lipped, gently closed his eyes; but before long he opened them again, his mouth resumed its coral red, and, affecting the expression of an Englishman for whom life holds no more mysteries, he disappeared, disdaining to ask for consolation with one of those heart-rending looks that desperate gamblers habitually direct at the onlookers. How many events crowd into the space of a second, and how many things hang on the throw of a dice!
‘That must have been his last shot,’ said the dealer with a smile, after a moment’s silence, during which he held that gold coin between thumb and forefinger, to show it to those around him.
‘He is a young fool who’ll throw himself in the river,’ answered an habitué, looking at the players around him, all of whom knew one another.
‘Huh!’ cried the attendant, taking a pinch of snuff.
‘If only we had done the same as this young gentleman,’ said one of the old men to his colleagues, pointing to the Italian.
All eyes were on the fortunate player, whose hands were trembling as he counted out the banknotes.
He said: ‘I heard a loud voice in my ear telling me: “The Game will triumph over that young man’s despair.”’
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