Sentimental Education (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (6 page)

 

Claudie Bernard
is a professor of French at New York University. A specialist in nineteenth-century French literature and history of ideas, she is the author of two books,
Le Chouan Romanesque, Balzac, Barbey d
Aurevilly, Hugo
(1986) and
Le Passé recomposé, le roman historique français au dix-neuvième siècle
(1996), and of many articles. She also edited Les
Chouans
by Balzac, and two volumes of critical essays,
Balzac paterfamilias
(2001) and
George Sand, Families and Communities
(2005).

On the 15th of September, 1840,
¹
about six o
clock in the morning, the
Ville de Montereau,
just about to sail, was sending forth great whirlwinds of smoke, in front of the Quai St. Bernard.
²

People came rushing on board in breathless haste. Barrels, ropes, and baskets of linen lying around were in everybody’s way. The sailors would answer no enquiries. People jostled one another. Between the two paddlewheels was piled up a heap of baggage; and the uproar was drowned out by the loud hissing of the steam, which, escaping through iron plates, enveloped everything in a white cloud, while the bell at the prow rang incessantly.

At last, the vessel set out; and the two banks of the river, lined with warehouses, yards, and factories, opened out like two huge ribbons being unrolled.

A young man of eighteen, with long hair, holding a sketchbook under his arm, stood motionless near the helm. Through the haze he surveyed steeples, buildings of which he did not know the names; then, gave a parting glance, to the Île St. Louis, the Cite, Nôtre Dame; and soon, as Paris disappeared from his view, he heaved a deep sigh.

Frédéric Moreau, having just received his Bachelor’s degree, was returning home to Nogent-sur-Seine, where he would have to lead an idle existence for two months, before going back to begin his legal studies. His mother had sent him, with enough to cover his expenses, to Le Havre to see an uncle, in the hopes of his receiving an inheritance.
³
He had returned from that place only yesterday; and to compensate for not having the opportunity of spending a little time in the capital he took the longest possible route to reach his own part of the country.

The hubbub had subsided. The passengers had all taken their places. Some of them stood warming themselves around the machinery, and the chimney spat forth with a slow, rhythmic rattle its plume of black smoke. Little drops of dew trickled over the copper plates; the deck quivered with the vibration from within; and the two paddlewheels, rapidly turning round, lashed the water.

The edges of the river were covered with sand. The vessel swept past rafts of wood which began to oscillate under the rippling of the waves, or a boat without sails in which a man sat fishing. Then the wandering haze cleared off; the sun appeared; the hill which ran along the course of the Seine to the right dropped from view little by little, and another rose up closer on the opposite bank.

The hill was crowned with trees, which surrounded low-built houses, covered with roofs in the Italian style. They had sloping gardens divided by new walls, iron railings, lawns, green-houses, and vases of geraniums, at regular intervals on the terraces with balustrades to lean on. More than one spectator longed, on beholding those attractive residences which looked so peaceful, to be the owner of one of them, and to dwell there till the end of his days with a good billiard-table, a sailboat, and a woman or some other dream. The agreeable novelty of a journey by water made such outpourings natural. Already the practical jokers on board were beginning their gags. Many began to sing. Gaiety prevailed, and glasses were being filled.

Frédéric was thinking about the room which he would live in there, about an idea for a play about subjects for paintings about future love affairs. He found that the happiness that he deserved by virtue of his sensitive soul was slow in coming. He recited some melancholy verses. He walked with rapid steps along the deck. He went on till he reached the end where the bell was; and, in the centre of a group of passengers and sailors, he saw a gentleman whispering sweet nothings to a country-woman, while fingering the gold cross which she wore over her bosom. He was a jovial fellow of forty with frizzy hair. His stocky frame was encased in a jacket of black velvet, two emeralds sparkled in his fine linen shirt, and his wide, white trousers fell over odd-looking red boots of Russian leather set off with blue designs.

Frédéric’s presence did not bother him. He turned round and glanced several times at the young man giving him conspiratorial winks. He next offered cigars to all who were standing around him. But getting tired, no doubt, of their company, he moved away from them and took a seat further up. Frédéric followed him.

The conversation, at first, centered around various kinds of tobacco, then quite naturally it glided into a discussion about women. The gentleman in the red boots gave the young man advice; he expounded theories, told anecdotes, quoted himself as an example, all in a paternal tone, with a shameless wickedness that was amusing.

He was a Republican. He had travelled; knew all about the theatre, restaurants, and newspapers, and knew all the theatrical celebrities, whom he called by their Christian names. Frederic told him confidentially about his projects; and the elder man took an encouraging view of them.

But he stopped talking to take a look at the funnel, then he went mumbling rapidly through a long calculation in order to ascertain “how much each stroke of the piston at so many times per minute would come to,” etc., and having come up with the number, he spoke about the scenery, which he admired immensely. Then he proclaimed his delight at having escaped from business.

Frédéric regarded him with a certain amount of respect, and politely expressed his desire to know his name. The stranger, without a moment’s hesitation, replied:

“Jacques Arnoux, proprietor of
L
Art Industriel,
Boulevard Montmartre.”

A servant with gold-braid on his cap came up and said:

“Would Monsieur please go below? Mademoiselle is crying.”

L
Art Industriel
was a hybrid establishment, wherein the functions of an art-journal and a paintings dealer were combined. Frédéric had seen this title several times in the bookseller’s window in his native part of the country, on big leaflets, on which the name of Jacques Arnoux displayed itself prominently.

The sun’s rays fell perpendicularly, shedding a glittering light on the iron bands around the masts, the plates of the rails, and the surface of the water, which, at the prow, was sliced into two furrows that surged out towards the banks of the meadows. At each winding of the river, the same curtain of pale poplars came into view. The surrounding country at this point had an empty look. In the sky there were little white clouds which remained motionless, and the sense of boredom, which vaguely diffused itself over everything, seemed to retard the progress of the steamboat and to add to the insignificant appearance of the passengers.

Putting aside a few people of high society who were travelling first class, they were artisans or shopmen with their wives and children. As it was customary at that time to wear old clothes when travelling, they nearly all had their heads covered with shabby Greek caps or discoloured hats, thin black coats that had become quite threadbare from constant rubbing against writing-desks, or frock-coats with the casings of their buttons loose from continual service in the shop. Here and there some roll-collar waistcoat afforded a glimpse of a calico shirt stained with coffee. Gilt pins were stuck into tattered cravats. List slippers were held up by stitched straps. Two or three rough-types who held in their hands bamboo canes with leather loops, kept looking askance at their fellow-passengers; and family men opened their eyes wide as they asked questions. People chatted either standing up or squatting over their luggage; some went to sleep in various corners of the vessel; several occupied themselves by eating. The deck was soiled with walnut shells, buttends of cigars, peelings of pears, and the droppings of pork-butchers’ meat, which had been carried wrapped up in paper. Three cabinet-makers in smocks stood in front of the bar; a harp-player in rags was resting with his elbows on his instrument. Now and then could be heard the sound of falling coals in the furnace, a shout, or a laugh; and the captain kept walking on the bridge from one paddlebox to the other without ever stopping.

Frédéric, to get back to his place, pushed forward the gate leading into the part of the vessel reserved for first-class passengers, and in so doing disturbed two sportsmen with their dogs.

What he then saw was like an apparition:

She was seated in the middle of a bench all alone, or, at any rate, he could see no one else, dazzled as he was by her eyes. At the moment when he was passing, she raised her head; his shoulders bowed involuntarily; and, when he had seated himself, some distance away, on the same side, he glanced towards her.

She wore a wide straw hat with pink ribbons which fluttered in the wind behind her. Her black tresses, curving around the edges of her thick eyebrows, swept down very low, and seemed to lovingly caress the oval of her face. Her robe of pale, spotted muslin spread out in numerous folds. She was in the act of embroidering something; and her straight nose, her chin, her entire person was silhouetted against the background of the luminous air and the blue sky.

As she remained in the same position, he took several turns to the right and to the left to hide from her manoeuvres; then he placed himself close to her parasol which lay against the bench, and pretended to be looking at a sloop on the river.

Never before had he seen more lustrous dark skin, a more seductive figure, or more delicately shaped fingers than those through which the sunlight gleamed. He stared with amazement at her work-basket, as if it were something extraordinary. What was her name, her home, her life, her past? He longed to become familiar with the furniture in her room, all the dresses that she had worn, the people whom she visited; and the desire of physical possession yielded to a deeper yearning, a painful curiosity that knew no bounds.