The Red and the Black: A Chronicle of the Nineteenth Century

by Stendhal

  Caution is not what is lacking in the young women who adorned the balls this winter.

  I do not think either that they can be accused of being too scornful of a brilliant fortune, horses, fine lands and everything else that secures an agreeable situation in society. Far from seeing all these advantages as merely boring, they generally covet them with the greatest of constancy, and if their hearts have any passion it is for them.

  Nor is it love which directs the fortune of young men endowed with some talent like Julien; they latch on with an

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  iron grip to a clique, and when the clique makes its fortune, all the good things in society rain down upon them. Woe betide the studious man who doesn't belong to any clique: even the most uncertain of minor successes win be held against him, and high virtue will triumph by robbing him. You see, sir, a novel is a mirror going along a main road. Sometimes it reflects into your eyes the azure of the sky, sometimes the mud of the quagmires on the road. And the man carrying the mirror in the basket on his back gets accused by you of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the mirror! You'd do better to accuse the road where the quagmire is, and better still the inspector of roads who allows the water to stagnate and the quagmire to form.

  Now that it is firmly agreed that Mathilde's character is impossible in our century, which is no less prudent than virtuous, I am less afraid of causing annoyance by continuing to recount the follies of this amiable girl.)

  Throughout the whole of the following day she was on the look-out for opportunities to reassure herself of her triumph over her mad passion. Her great aim was to put Julien off in every way possible; but not a single one of his movements escaped her.

  Julien was too miserable and above all too agitated to see through such a complicated manœuvre on the part of her passion; he was even less able to see all the ways in which it favoured him: he fell victim to it; his misery had never perhaps been so extreme. His actions were so little under the control of his mind that if some embittered philosopher had said to him: 'Make sure you take rapid advantage of it when things are going your way, with the kind of cerebral love you see in Paris, the same style of behaviour can't last more than two days', he would not have understood him. But whatever his state of exaltation, Julien had a sense of honour. His first duty was discretion; he realized this. To seek advice, to describe his torture to anybody at all would have been a blessed relief comparable to that felt by a poor wretch crossing a burning desert who receives a drop of ice-cold water from heaven. He recognized the danger, he felt afraid of responding with a flood

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  of tears to any indiscreet soul who might question him; he locked himself away in his room.

  He saw Mathilde taking a long stroll in the garden; when at last she had left it, he went down there; he went over to a rosebush where she had picked a flower.

  The night was dark, he could give himself up fully to his misery without fear of being seen. It was obvious to him that Mlle de La Mole loved one of those young officers she had just been talking to so gaily. She had loved him but she had discovered how worthless he was.

  And I am indeed worthless! Julien said to himself with total conviction; all in all, I'm a pretty insipid creature--pretty common, pretty boring to others, pretty unbearable to myself. He was utterly disgusted with all his good qualitites, with all the things he enjoyed with enthusiasm; and in this state of topsy-turvy imagination, he was attempting to judge life with his imagination. This error bears the mark of a superior man.

  On several occasions the idea of suicide came to him; it was a seductive image, like a delectable haven; it was the glass of ice-cold water offered to the poor wretch dying of thirst and heat in the desert.

  My death will increase the scorn she feels for me! he exclaimed. What a memory I'll leave behind!

  Once he has sunk into this last abyss of misery, a human being has no resources other than courage. Julien was not inspired enough to say: I must be bold; but as he looked up at Mathilde's bedroom window, he saw through the shutters that she was putting out her fight: he pictured this charming room that he had only seen, alas! once in his life. His imagination did not go any further.

  One o'clock struck; to hear the sound of the bell and to say to himself. I'm going to get the ladder and climb up, was the matter of an instant.

  It was a flash of genius; sound reasons came crowding in. Can I possibly be more unhappy! he said to himself. He ran to the ladder, the gardener had chained it up. Using the hammer of one of his little pistols, which broke in the attempt, Julien, endowed at that instant with superhuman strength, bent one of the links in the chain securing the ladder; he had it at his

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  service in a matter of minutes, and positioned it against Mathilde's window.

  She's going to get angry, to pour scorn on me, but what does it matter? I'll give her a kiss, then go up to my room and kill myself... my lips will touch her cheek before I die!

  He flew up the ladder and knocked at the shutter; after a few seconds Mathilde heard him and tried to open the shutter; the ladder was in the way; Julien hung on to the iron hook used to fix the shutter open and, at the repeated risk of sending himself crashing to the ground, gave the ladder a violent jolt and shifted it slightly. Mathilde was able to open the shutter.

  He threw himself into the room more dead than alive:

  'So it's you, is it, my love!' she said, flinging herself into his arms... ... ... ...

  Who can describe Julien's inordinate happiness? Mathilde's was almost as great.

  She spoke up against herself, she denounced herself to him.

  'Punish me for my appalling pride,' she said to him, hugging him in her arms till he could hardly breathe. 'You're my master, I'm your slave, I must ask your pardon on my knees for having tried to rebel.' She slipped out of his arms to fall at his feet. 'Yes, you're my master,' she said to him, still intoxicated with happiness and love. 'Reign over me for ever, punish your slave severely when she tries to rebel.'

  At another moment she tore herself from his arms, lit the candle, and Julien had the greatest difficulty in the world in preventing her from cutting off all the hair on one side of her head.

  'I want to remind myself', she told him, 'that I'm your servant: if ever any loathsome pride comes along to lead me astray, show me this hair and say:"it's no longer a matter of love, it's nothing to do with the emotion you happen to be feeling at this moment, you have sworn to obey, obey on your honour".'

  But it is wiser to suppress the description of such excesses of folly and bliss.

  Julien's virtue was a match for his happiness: 'I must go down by the ladder,' he said to Mathilde when he saw dawn

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  breaking over the distant chimney-stacks in the east, beyond the gardens. 'The sacrifice I'm imposing on myself is worthy of you, I'm depriving myself of a few hours of the most amazing happiness a human soul can taste; I'm making this sacrifice for your reputation: if you know my heart, you'll understand how much I'm forcing myself. Will your attitude towards me always be the same as it is now? But honour calls, and that's enough. You should know that after our first assignation, not all suspicion fell on thieves. M. de La Mole has set up a watch in the garden. M. de Croisenois is surrounded with spies, it's known what he does every night...'

  At the thought of this, Mathilde laughed riotously. Her mother and one of the women on duty were woken up; they suddenly spoke to her through the door. Julien looked at her; she turned pale as she scolded the chambermaid, and did not deign to answer her mother.

  'But if they take it into their heads to open the window, they'll see the ladder!' Julien said to her.

  He clasped her in his arms once more, flung himself onto the ladder and let himself slide rather than climbing down; in a flash he was on the ground.

  Three seconds later the ladder was under the row of limes, and Mathilde's honour was saved. Coming to his senses, Julien found he was covered in blood and almo
st naked: he had wounded himself as he slid carelessly down.

  The intensity of his happiness had restored all the energy of his character: had twenty men appeared before him, it would just have been one more pleasure to attack them single-handed at that moment. Fortunately his military prowess was not put to the test: he laid the ladder in its usual place; he put back the chain that secured it; he did not forget to remove the indentation left by the ladder in the bed of exotic flowers beneath Mathilde's window.

  As he was running his hand in the dark over the soft earth to make sure that the indentation was completely removed, he felt something drop onto his hands: it was Mathilde's hair from one side that she had cut off and was throwing down to him.

  She was at her window.

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  'This is what your servant sends you,' she said to him quite audibly, 'it's the sign of eternal obedience. I renounce the use of my reason, be my master.'

  Julien in defeat was on the point of going to get the ladder again and climbing back up to her room. In the end reason got the upper hand.

  Getting back into the house from the garden was no easy matter. He managed to force open a cellar door; once inside the house, he was obliged to break into his room as quietly as possible. In his turmoil he had left everything in the little room he had just abandoned so hastily, right down to his key which was in his suit pocket. 'So long', he thought, 'as she thinks to hide all those earthly remains!'

  At length exhaustion got the better of happiness, and as the sun rose he fell into a deep sleep.

  The bell for lunch woke him only with extreme difficulty; he made his appearance in the dining-room. Shortly afterwards Mathilde came in. It was a really happy moment for Julien's pride when he saw the love which shone from the eyes of this beautiful girl, the object of so much homage; but soon his prudence had occasion to be alarmed.

  Using the short time she had had to attend to her hairstyle as an excuse, Mathilde had arranged her hair in such a way as to let Julien see at a glance the full extent of the sacrifice she had made him when she cut it off in the night. If so lovely a face could have been spoiled by anything, Mathilde would have achieved this: the whole of one side of her beautiful ashblond hair was cut off half an inch from her scalp.

  At lunch Mathilde's behaviour wholly matched this first act of imprudence. It was as if she had taken it upon herself to let everyone know of her mad passion for Julien. Fortunately that day M. de La Mole and the marquise were very preoccupied with the imminent award of some Blue Sashes, which did not include M. de Chaulnes. Towards the end of the meal, Mathilde, who was talking to Julien, let slip the term master when addressing him. He blushed to the roots of his hair.

  Whether by chance or deliberately on Mme de La Mole's part, Mathilde was not alone for a single moment that day. In the evening, as they moved from the dining-room to the

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  drawing-room, she nevertheless found a moment to say to Julien:

  'Are you going to think it's an excuse on my part? Mama has just decided that one of her maids will spend the night in my room.'

  That day went by in a flash. Julien was on top of the world. At seven o'clock the next morning he was already settled in the library; he hoped Mlle de La Mole would deign to put in an appearance; he had sent her an interminable letter.

  He only saw her many hours later, at lunch. Her hair was arranged that day with the greatest of care; wondrous artistry had taken charge of concealing the place where the hair had been cut. She looked at Julien once or twice, but her gaze was calm and polite; there was no question of calling him master any more.

  Julien's astonishment hampered his breathing... Mathilde seemed almost to be reproaching herself with everything she had done for him.

  On careful consideration, she had decided that he was a being who, if not altogether common, none the less did not stand out sufficiently from the rest to deserve all the strange acts of folly she had ventured to commit for his sake. All in all, her thoughts were hardly on love: that day she was weary of loving.

  As for Julien, his emotions swung wildly like those of a sixteen-year-old boy. Appalling doubt, astonishment and despair took hold of him in turn throughout that lunch which seemed to him to last an eternity.

  As soon as he could decently get up from table, he rushed rather than ran to the stables, saddled his horse himself and set off at a gallop; he was afraid of disgracing himself by some act of weakness. I must kill my heart with physical exhaustion, he said to himself as he galloped through the woods at Meudon * . What have I done, what have I said to deserve such a fall from favour?

  I mustn't do anything or say anything today, he thought on returning to the house, I must be as dead physically as I am mentally. Julien is no longer alive, it's his corpse that is still twitching.

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  CHAPTER 20

  The Japanese vase

  His heart does not understand to begin with how acute is his unhappiness; he is more disturbed than moved. But as his reason gradually returns, he feels the depth of his misfortune. All the pleasures of life are destroyed for him, he can only feel the sharp prickings of despair tearing him apart. But what is the use of talking of physical pain? What pain felt by the body alone can be compared with this?

  JEAN PAUL *

  DINNER was being announced; Julien only just had time to dress. In the drawing-room he found Mathilde, who was earnestly entreating her brother and M. de Croisenois not to go and spend the evening at Suresnes with the Maréchale de Fervaques.

  No one could have been more charming and more amiable towards them. After dinner Messrs de Luz, de Caylus and several of their friends turned up. It looked as if Mlle de La Mole's resumption of the cult of sisterly affection went hand in hand with that of the strictest propriety. Although the weather was delightful that evening, she insisted on not going out into the garden; she wanted everyone to stay by the couch where Mme de La Mole was settled. The blue sofa was the focus of the group, as in winter.

  Mathilde had taken against the garden, or at any rate it seemed utterly boring to her: it was linked with the memory of Julien.

  Unhappiness dulls the mind. Our hero was inept enough to come over to the little wicker chair which had witnessed such brilliant triumphs in the past. Today no one said a word to him: his presence was as good as unnoticed, or worse. Those of Mlle de La Mole's friends who were stationed near him at the foot of the sofa made a point of turning their backs to him, or at least that was how it struck him.

  It's exactly like falling from favour at Court, he reflected.

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  He determined to spend a short while studying the people who presumed to crush him with their disdain.

  M. de Luz had an uncle with an important post in the king's entourage, on the strength of which this handsome officer slipped the following amusing particular into the beginning of his conversation with every interlocutor who came up to him: his uncle had set off at seven o'clock for Saint-Cloud * and was banking on spending the night there. This detail was brought in with every sign of straightforwardness, but it never failed to appear.

  As he observed M. de Croisenois with the severe eye of misfortune, Julien noticed the excessive influence which this amiable and kindly young man imputed to occult causes--to the point where he was saddened and annoyed if he found an event of any importance being ascribed to a simple, quite natural cause. There's a streak of madness in this, Julien said to himself. His character is strikingly like the Emperor Alexander's, as described to me by Prince Korasov. During his first year in Paris, when he was just out of the seminary, Julien was dazzled by the graceful accomplishments of all these amiable young men: they were so new to him, all he could do was admire them. Their true character was only just beginning to emerge to his gaze.

  I'm playing an unworthy role here, he suddenly thought. It was a matter of getting up from his little wicker chair in a way that would not be too inept. He tried to improvise, but this meant asking something new of an im
agination that was too preoccupied elsewhere. He had to resort to memory, and his was ill-endowed, it must be admitted, with resources of this kind: the poor fellow was still pretty lacking in social graces, and consequently displayed an exemplary ineptitude which everyone noticed when he rose to leave the drawing-room. Wretchedness was only too apparent in his whole manner. For the past three-quarters of an hour he had been playing the part of an unwelcome subordinate from whom no one takes the trouble of concealing what they think of him.

  The critical observations he had just made on his rivals prevented him, however, from taking his misfortune too tragically; he did have, to bolster his pride, the memory of

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  what had happened two days ago. Whatever their advantages over me, he thought as he went out alone into the garden, Mathilde has never been for any of them what she deigned to be for me twice in my life.

  His wisdom stopped there. He had no understanding whatsoever of the character of the strange person whom chance had just made absolute mistress over his entire happiness.

  He contented himself on the following day with killing himself and his horse with exhaustion. That evening he did not attempt to approach the blue sofa again; Mathilde was faithful to it. He noticed that Count Norbert didn't even deign to look at him when he ran across him in the house. He must be doing violence to his instincts, he thought, since he's naturally so polite.

  Sleep for Julien would have been bliss. In spite of physical fatigue, his imagination was progressively invaded by all-toobewitching memories. He did not have the wit to see that by indulging in these long rides on horseback through the woods on the outskirts of Paris, he was only acting upon himself and in no way upon Mathilde's heart or mind, so he was leaving it to chance to settle his fate.