The two young men went into the room where the old man lay dying. Eugène was appalled at the change in his face, now pale, contorted and deeply debilitated.
‘Papa?’ he said, leaning over the straw bed.
Goriot lifted his distant eyes towards Eugène and looked at him attentively without recognizing him. The sight was too much for the student to bear and his eyes welled up with tears.
‘Bianchon, surely the windows should have curtains.’
‘No. Atmospheric conditions no longer affect him. If only he did feel hot or cold, that would be encouraging. However, we do need a fire to make infusions and to prepare various treatments. I’ll have some faggots sent up to you; that will do until we manage to get some wood. Yesterday and last night I burned all the tan-turf that you and the old man had. It was so damp in here, there was water running down the walls. I’ve only just managed to dry the room. Christophe has swept it out; it really is a midden. I had to burn juniper to mask the smell.’
‘Dear God!’ said Rastignac, ‘and to think he has daughters!’
‘Here, if he asks for something to drink, give him this,’ said the house doctor, showing Rastignac a big white pot. ‘If he sounds like he’s in pain, and his stomach is hot and hard, call Christophe to help you to administer … you know what. If he starts to seem over-excited, if he talks a lot, if he has a touch of dementia, leave him be. That wouldn’t be a bad sign. But send Christophe to Cochin hospital. Either our doctor, my colleague or myself will come and apply moxas.214 This morning, when you were asleep, we had a long consultation with one of Doctor Gall’s trainees, a senior doctor from the Hôtel-Dieu, and our doctor. These gentlemen thought they recognized a couple of unusual symptoms and we’re going to follow the progress of the illness, which should cast light on some important scientific issues. One of these gentlemen maintains that the pressure of the serum, should it affect one organ more than another, might lead to the development of strange phenomena. So if he does speak, listen to him carefully in order to establish what category of ideas his speech belongs to: whether the impressions of memory, of perception, of judgement; whether he’s concerned with material things, or feelings; whether he’s calculating, whether he’s going back over the past: in all, stay alert and give us a precise report. It’s possible that the congestion may occur suddenly, that he’ll die in the imbecile state he’s in at the moment. These kinds of illnesses are always so unpredictable! Should the bomb explode here,’ said Bianchon, pointing at the back of the sick man’s head, ‘we’ve seen some strange effects: the brain recovers a few of its faculties and death comes more slowly. The serosities divert away from the brain and follow paths whose directions may only be revealed by an autopsy. At the Incurables, there’s an old man who has lost his wits; in his case, the fluid has travelled down his spinal column; he’s in terrible pain, but he’s still alive.’
‘Did they enjoy themselves?’ said old man Goriot, recognizing Eugène.
‘Oh! All he can think about is his daughters,’ said Bianchon. ‘Last night he must have said to me: “They’re dancing! She has her gown!” more than a hundred times. He cried out their names. The way he called for them brought tears to my eyes, I swear to you! “Delphine! My little Delphine!” “Nasie!” Believe me,’ said the medical student, ‘it was all I could do not to break down and weep.’
‘Delphine,’ said the old man, ‘she’s here, isn’t she? I knew it was her.’ And his eyes rolled wildly as he tried to recover enough energy to look at the walls and the door.
‘I’ll go down and tell Sylvie to prepare the mustard plasters,’ cried Bianchon; ‘this is a good time.’
Rastignac stayed alone with the old man, sitting at the foot of the bed, his eyes riveted to the dreadful, painful sight of that face.
‘Madame de Beauséant is leaving, this man is dying,’ he said. ‘A noble soul can’t abide this world for long. How, indeed, could a lofty sensibility ever be reconciled with this petty, shallow and mean-spirited society of ours?’
Visions of the ball he had just attended surfaced in his memory, contrasting with the pitiful sight of the death-bed scene before him. Bianchon suddenly reappeared.
‘Listen, Eugène. I’ve just seen our senior doctor and ran all the way back. If he shows signs of lucidity, if he talks, lie him on a long poultice so he’s wrapped in mustard from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, and send for us.’
‘Dear, kind, Bianchon,’ said Eugène.
‘Oh! It’s all in the interests of science,’ replied the medical student, with the enthusiasm of a neophyte.
‘I see,’ said Eugène; ‘so I’m the only one looking after the old man out of affection.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me this morning,’ replied Bianchon, unruffled by the remark. ‘Practising doctors only see the disease; I still see the patient, dear fellow.’
He went out and Eugène was left alone with the old man, fearing a crisis, which soon began to manifest itself.
‘Ah! It’s you, dear child,’ said old Goriot, recognizing Eugène.
‘Are you feeling any better?’ asked the student, taking hold of his hand.
‘Yes, my head felt like it was gripped in a vice, but it’s easing a little now. Have you seen my daughters? They’ll be here soon, they’ll come rushing over as soon as they know I’m ill; they looked after me so well when we lived in the Rue de la Jussienne! Dear me! I wish my room were clean and fit to receive them. That young man has burnt all my tan-turf.’
‘I can hear Christophe,’ said Eugène; ‘he’s bringing you up some wood sent by that same young man.’
‘That’s all very well! But how will I pay for the wood? I don’t have a sou, child. I’ve given everything away, everything. I’m reduced to charity. But the lamé gown was beautiful, wasn’t it? (Ah! My head!) Thank you, Christophe. God will reward you, boy; I myself have nothing left.’
‘I’ll see you and Sylvie right,’ Eugène whispered in the boy’s ear.
‘My daughters did say they were coming, didn’t they, Christophe? I’ll give you a hundred sous to go to them again. Tell them I’m not feeling well, that I want to kiss them, see them one last time before I die. Tell them that, but don’t go frightening them.’
Rastignac motioned to Christophe to leave.
‘They’ll come,’ the old man went on. ‘I know them. Sweet, kind-hearted Delphine: if I die, how sad I’ll make her! Nasie too. I don’t want to die, not if it makes them cry. Dying, dear Eugène, means never seeing them ever again. I’ll feel so empty there, wherever it is we end up afterwards. For a father, hell is being without his children, and that’s a lesson I’ve been learning since the day they got married. Our house in the Rue de la Jussienne was my paradise. Although who knows, if I do go to heaven, perhaps I’ll be able to come back to earth in spirit and be with them. I’ve heard talk about that sort of thing. But is there any truth in it? I can see them now, just as they were at home in the Rue de la Jussienne. They’d come down in the morning and say, “Bonjour, Papa.” I’d sit them on my lap, I’d tease and tickle them a thousand times. They’d give me the sweetest cuddles. We took our déjeuner together every morning, and dinner; that’s how it was – I was a father, my children were my delight. When they lived in the Rue de la Jussienne, they never questioned anything, they knew nothing of the world, they loved me dearly. Dear God! why didn’t they stay small for ever? (Oh! My head, that stabbing pain.) Aah! aah! Forgive me, Daughters! I’m in such agony and this must be real pain, for you’ve hardened me against mere heart-ache. Dear God! if I could only hold their hands in mine, I’d stop feeling the pain. Do you think they’re coming? Christophe is such a dolt! I should have gone myself. He will find them, won’t he? Why, you were at the ball yesterday. Tell me, how were they? They didn’t know I was ill, did they? They wouldn’t have been out dancing, poor little mites! Oh! I can’t afford to be ill any more. They still need me too much. Their fortunes are hanging in the balance. And to think they’re a
t the mercy of those husbands of theirs! Heal me, cure me! (Oh! My head, the pain! Aah! aah! aah!) I must get better, because they need money, you see, and I know where it can be made. I’m going to go and make starch-powder in Odessa. I’m ahead of the game, I’ll make millions. (Oh! The pain, I can’t bear it.)’
Goriot fell silent for a moment, seeming to put his every last effort into summoning up enough strength to endure the pain.
‘If they were here, I wouldn’t be complaining,’ he said, ‘so why complain?’
He fell into a fitful sleep which lasted for some time.
Christophe came back. Rastignac, believing old Goriot to be asleep, let the boy report back on his errand without lowering his voice.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I went to see Madame la Comtesse first, but was unable to speak to her; she was with her husband, discussing some great matter. When I insisted, Monsieur de Restaud himself came out and said, in these very words: “So Monsieur Goriot is dying: well, that’s the best thing he can do. I need Madame de Restaud here to finish some important business; she’ll leave when it’s complete.” He looked angry, he did, the gentleman. I was just going out, when Madame came into the ante-room through a door I hadn’t noticed, and said: “Christophe, tell my father I’m tied up with my husband, I can’t leave now; it’s a matter of life and death for my children; but I’ll come as soon as it’s over.” As for Madame la Baronne, now that’s another story! It was out of the question to see her, never mind speak to her. “Ah!’ said her maid, ‘Madame came home from the ball at a quarter past five, she’s asleep; if I wake her before midday, she’ll scold me. I’ll tell her that her father’s condition is worse when she rings for me. Bad news can always keep for later.” No matter how much I begged! So that was that. I asked to speak to Monsieur le Baron, but he was out.’
‘Neither of his daughters will come!’ cried Rastignac. ‘I’ll write to them both now.’
‘Neither of them,’ replied the old man, sitting bolt upright. ‘They have business to attend to, they’re asleep, they won’t come. I knew it. You have to be dying to find out what your children are really like. Ah, my friend, don’t marry, don’t have children! You give them life, they give you death. You bring them into the world, they hound you out of it. No, they won’t come! I’ve known that for ten years. I said as much to myself from time to time but couldn’t bring myself to believe it.’
A tear welled up on each red rim of his eyes without falling.
‘Ah! If I were rich, if I’d kept hold of my wealth instead of giving it to them, they’d be here now, falling over each other to kiss my cheeks! I’d be living in a grand house, I’d have fine rooms, servants, a fire, all to myself; and my daughters, their husbands, their children, would all be here, in tears. All of that would be mine. Instead, nothing. Money buys everything, even daughters.215 Oh! my money, where has it all gone? If I still had a fortune to leave them, they’d be dancing attendance on me, they’d be looking after me; I’d hear them, I’d see them. Ah! my dear child, my only child, destitute and abandoned as I am, I’d rather have it this way! At least when a poor man is loved, he knows he really is loved. No, let me be rich; at least I’d see them. Although, who knows? They both have hearts of stone. I gave them too much love, they kept none back for me. A father must always have means, he should keep a child on a tight rein, like a skittish horse. And I worshipped them. The wretched pair! This crowns their behaviour towards me for all of ten years. If you knew what a fuss they made of me when they were newly wed! (Aah! The pain, it’s torture!) As I’d just gifted them both eight hundred thousand francs or thereabouts, neither they, nor their husbands, could very well behave ungraciously towards me. I was welcomed with “Darling Father, this”, “Dear Father, that”. A place was always laid for me at their tables. In those days I dined with their husbands, who treated me with the greatest respect. They thought I was still a man of means. Why? Simply because I’d kept quiet about my affairs. A man who gives his daughters eight hundred thousand francs is a man to be cultivated. And so they made a fuss of me, but it was only for my money. Fashionable society has its ugly side and I saw it soon enough! They’d take me to the theatre in their carriages and I’d stay at their parties for as long as I wished. In all, they said they were my daughters and acknowledged me as their father. But I still had my wits about me and I didn’t miss a trick. They only ever thought of themselves and it broke my heart. I saw perfectly well that it was all for show; but there was no way to put things right. I felt no more at ease in their homes than I do at that dinner table downstairs. I was always saying the wrong thing. So whenever some man of fashion murmured in my son-in-law’s ear: “Who on earth is that man over there?” – “He’s their father, the one who made a fortune, he’s a rich man” – “A-ha! Is that so!” they said and looked at me with all the respect that bundles of banknotes command. Maybe I did cramp their style at times, but I paid
dearly for my faults! Besides, is anyone perfect? (My head feels as if it’s been split open!) At present I’m racked with the agonies a man must endure when he’s dying, dear Monsieur Eugène; well, that’s nothing compared to the pain I felt the first time Anastasie gave me a look that told me I’d just said something stupid and mortified her; it made my heart bleed. Maybe I was poorly educated, but what I did know for certain was that I’d be a thorn in her side for the rest of my days. The next day I called on Delphine, hoping to console myself, and went and made some silly blunder that made her lose her temper with me. I thought I was losing my mind. For that whole week I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t dare go and see them, fearing I’d be rebuffed. And that’s how I found myself banished from my daughters’ houses. O God! You who know how much misery, how much suffering, I’ve endured; you who have witnessed each twist of the knife in my heart, how these past years have aged me, changed me, drained me, greyed me: why make me suffer today? I’ve already atoned for the sin of loving them too much. They themselves have taken revenge on my fondness, they tortured me, they were my executioners. Ah, how foolish a father is! I loved them so much, I kept going back for more, just as a gambler returns to the game. Only my vice was my daughters; they were my mistresses, in a manner of speaking, they were everything to me! Whenever they needed the slightest thing, some piece of finery or other, their maids would come and tell me and I’d give it to them, in return for a warm welcome! But they still couldn’t resist teaching me a few little lessons on how I ought to behave in polite society. Oh! they didn’t wait long. I soon became an embarrassment to them. That’s what comes of giving your children a proper education. At my age I couldn’t very well go to school. (Lord, the pain, terrible pain! Doctor! Doctor! If you split my head open, it wouldn’t hurt as much as this.) Anastasie! Delphine! My daughters, my own daughters, I must see them. Let them be brought here by force, by the police! Justice is on my side, everything’s on my side, the laws of nature, the civil code. I won’t stand for it. If fathers are to be trampled underfoot, the country216 will go to the dogs. No doubt about it. Everything, society, the whole world, hinges on fatherhood; and if children no longer love their fathers, everything will fall apart. Oh! to see them, to hear them, no matter what they say, simply to hear their voices, especially Delphine’s, that would ease my pain. But tell them, when they come, not to look at me so coldly. Oh! Monsieur Eugène, my dear friend, you don’t know what it’s like when the gold in a look suddenly turns to lead. Ever since the day their eyes stopped shining on me, I’ve been living in winter, in this room; I’ve had nothing but sorrows to gnaw on and I’ve gnawed them to the bone! I’ve existed only to be humiliated, insulted. I love them so much that I swallowed every indignity, the cost of the few shameful, shabby little pleasures they sold me. A father having to hide so he can see his daughters! I gave them my life and today they won’t give me an hour of their time! I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, I’m burning, and they won’t come and help me bear the pain of my passing, because I am dying, I can tell. Why, don’t they know what it m
eans to walk over their father’s dead body? There’s a God in heaven: he’ll avenge us fathers, against our wishes. Oh! they must come! Come, my darling girls, come and kiss me once more, one last kiss, a viaticum217 for your father, who’ll pray to God for you, who’ll tell him you’ve been good daughters, who’ll plead for you! You are innocent, after all. They’re innocent, my friend! Be sure to make that clear to everyone, so they’re not given any trouble on my account. It’s my own fault entirely: I taught them to walk all over me. I enjoyed it, didn’t I? It concerns no one else, neither human justice, nor divine justice. God would be wrong to punish them because of me. I didn’t know how to behave, I was stupid, I surrendered my rights. I’d have stooped to anything for them! What do you expect! The finest nature, the best of souls, would have been corrupted by such facility in a father. I’m a wretch; it’s right I should be punished. I alone have caused my daughters’ excesses, I spoiled them. Today they want pleasure, as they used to want sweets. When they were small, I always indulged their every fancy. At fifteen, they had their own carriages! They never encountered the slightest resistance. I alone am guilty, although guilty because of love. Their voices stripped my heart of its defences. They’re on their way, I can hear them. Oh! they will come, yes. A child is required by law to come and see her father die, the law is on my side. Why, all it will cost them is the fare. I’ll pay for it. Write and say I have millions to leave them! I swear it’s true. I’ll go and make Italian pasta in Odessa. I know how to do it. There are millions to be made from this scheme of mine. No one has thought of it yet. There’s no risk of it spoiling in transit like wheat or flour. Eh, eh, and what about starch? There’s millions in that too! You won’t be lying, tell them millions and even if they only come out of greed, I’d rather be deceived; I’d see them, at least. I want my daughters! I made them! They’re mine!’ he said sitting up, turning towards Eugène a face with threat written all over it, framed by wispy white hair.
Old Man Goriot (Penguin Classics) Page 30
