Mme. Vauquer (nee de Conflans) is an elderly person, who for the past forty years has kept a lodging1-house in the Rue2 NueveSainte-Genevieve, in the district that lies between the Latin Quarter and the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Her house (known in the neighborhood as the Maison Vauquer) receives men and women, old and young, and no word has ever been breathed against her pespectable establishment; but, at the same time, it must be said that as a matter of fact no young woman has been under her roof for thirty years, and that if a young man stays there for any length of time it is a sure sign that his allowance must be of the slenderest. In 1819, however, the time when this drama opens, there was an almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's boarders.
That word drama has been somewhat discredited4 of late; it has been overworked and twisted to strange uses in these days of dolorous5 literature; but it must do service again here, not because this story is dramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears may perhaps be shed intra et extra muros before it is over.
Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open to doubt. The only audience who could appreciate the results of close observation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color, are dwellers7 between the heights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a vale of crumbling8 stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrows which are real and joys too often hollow; but this audience is so accustomed to terrible sensations, that only some unimaginable and well-neigh impossible woe9 could produce any lasting10 impression there. Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of the complication of virtues11 and vices12 that bring them about, that egotism and selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but the impression that they receive is like a luscious13 fruit, soon consumed. Civilization, like the car of Juggernaut, is scarcely stayed perceptibly in its progress by a heart less easy to break than the others that lie in its course; this also is broken, and Civilization continues on her course triumphant14. And you, too, will do the like; you who with this book in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of your armchair, and say to yourself, "Perhaps this may amuse me." You will read the story of Father Goriot's secret woes15, and, dining thereafter with an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your insensibility upon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances. Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a diction nor a romance! ALL IS TRUE,--so true, that every one can discern the elements of the tragedy in his own house, perhaps in his own heart.
The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer's own property. It is still standing16 in the lower end of the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, just where the road slopes so sharply down to the Rue de l'Arbalete, that wheeled traffic seldom passes that way, because it is so stony17 and steep. This position is sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shut in between the dome18 of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace, two conspicuous19 public buildings which give a yellowish tone to the landscape and darken the whole district that lies beneath the shadow of their leadenhued cupolas.
In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is neither mud nor water in the gutters21, grass grows in the chinks of the walls. The most heedless passer-by feels the depressing influences of a place where the sound of wheels creates a sensation; there is a grim look about the houses, a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A Parisian straying into a suburb apparently23 composed of lodging-houses and public institutions would see poverty and dullness, old age lying down to die, and joyous24 youth condemned25 to drudgery26. It is the ugliest quarter of Paris, and, it may be added, the least known. But, before all things, the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture for which the mind cannot be too well prepared by the contemplation of sad hues27 and sober images. Even so, step by step the daylight decreases, and the cicerone's droning voice grows hollower as the traveler descends28 into the Catacombs. The comparison holds good! Who shall say which is more ghastly, the sight of the bleached29 skulls30 or of dried-up human hearts?
The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the road, and looks out upon a little garden, so that you see the side of the house in section, as it were, from the Rue Nueve-SainteGenevieve. Beneath the wall of the house front there lies a channel, a fathom31 wide, paved with cobble-stones, and beside it runs a graveled walk bordered by geraniums and oleanders and pomegranates set in great blue and white glazed32 earthenware33 pots. Access into the graveled walk is afforded by a door, above which the words MAISON VAUQUER may be read, and beneath, in rather smaller letters, "Lodgings35 for both sexes, etc."
During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through a wicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the further end of the graveled walk, a green marble arch was painted once upon a time by a local artist, and in this semblance36 of a shrine37 a statue representing Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered38 and disfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the adjacent hospitals, and might suggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. The half-obliterated inscription39 on the pedestal beneath determines the date of this work of art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasm felt for Voltaire on his return to Paris in 1777:
"Whoe'er thou art, thy master see; He is, or was, or ought to be."
At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The little garden is no wider than the front of the house; it is shut in `etween the wall of the street and the partition wall of the neighboring house. A mantle40 of ivy41 conceals43 the bricks and attracts the eyes of passers-by to an effect which is picturesque44 in Paris, for each of the walls is covered with trellised vines that yield a scanty45 dusty crop of fruit, and furnish besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and her lodgers47; every year the widow trembles for her vintage.
A straight path beneath the walls on either side of the garden leads to a clump48 of lime-trees at the further end of it; LINEtrees, as Mme. Vauquer persists in calling them, in spite of the fact that she was a de Conflans, and regardless of repeated corrections from her lodgers.
The central space between the walls is filled with artichokes and rows of pyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by a border of lettuce49, pot-herbs, and parsley. Under the lime-trees there are a few green-painted garden seats and a wooden table, and hither, during the dog-days, such of the lodgers as are rich enough to indulge in a cup of coffee come to take their pleasure, though it is hot enough to roast eggs even in the shade.
The house itself is three stories high, without counting the attics50 under the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered with the yellowish stucco that gives a mean appearance to almost every house in Paris. There are five windows in each story in the front of the house; all the blinds visible through the small square panes51 are drawn52 up awry53, so that the lines are all at cross purposes. At the side of the house there are but two windows on each floor, and the lowest of all are adorned54 with a heavy iron grating.
Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a space inhabited by a happy family of pigs, poultry55, and rabbits; the wood-shed is situated56 on the further side, and on the wall between the wood-shed and the kitchen window hangs the meat-safe, just above the place where the sink discharges its greasy57 streams. The cook sweeps all the refuse out through a little door into the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, and frequently cleanses58 the yard with copious59 supplies of water, under pain of pestilence60.
The house might have been built on purpose for its present uses. Access is given by a French window to the first room on the ground floor, a sitting-room61 which looks out upon the street through the two barred windows already mentioned. Another door opens out of it into the dining-room, which is separated from the kitchen by the well of the staircase, the steps being constructed partly of wood, partly of tiles, which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing can be more depressing than the sight of that sittingroom. The furniture is covered with horse hair woven in alternate dull and glossy62 stripes. There is a round table in the middle, with a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, by way of ornament63, the inevitable64 white china tea-service, covered with a half-effaced gilt65 network. The floor is sufficiently66 uneven67, the wainscot rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall space is decorated with a varnished68 paper, on which the principal scenes from Telemaque are depicted69, the various classical personages being colored. The subject between the two windows is the banquet given by Calypso to the son of Ulysses, displayed thereon for the admiration70 of the boarders, and has furnished jokes these forty years to the young men who show themselves superior to their position by making fun of the dinners to which poverty condemns71 them. The hearth72 is always so clean and neat that it is evident that a fire is only kindled73 there on great occasions; the stone chimney-piece is adorned by a couple of vases filled with faded artificial flowers imprisoned74 under glass shades, on either side of a bluish marble clock in the very worst taste.
The first room exhales75 an odor for which there is no name in the language, and which should be called the odeur de pension. The damp atmosphere sends a chill through you as you breathe it; it has a stuffy76, musty, and rancid quality; it permeates77 your clothing; after-dinner scents78 seem to be mingled79 in it with smells from the kitchen and scullery and the reek80 of a hospital. It might be possible to describe it if some one should discover a process by which to distil81 from the atmosphere all the nauseating82 elements with which it is charged by the catarrhal exhalations of every individual lodger46, young or old. Yet, in spite of these stale horrors, the sitting-room is as charming and as delicately perfumed as a boudoir, when compared with the adjoining diningroom.
The paneled walls of that apartment were once painted some color, now a matter of conjecture83, for the surface is incrusted with accumulated layers of grimy deposit, which cover it with fantastic outlines. A collection of dim-ribbed glass decanters, metal discs with a satin sheen on them, and piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine ware34 cover the sticky surfaces of the sideboards that line the room. In a corner stands a box aontaining a set of numbered pigeon-holes, in which the lodgers' table napkins, more or less soiled and stained with wine, are kept. Here you see that indestructible furniture never met with elsewhere, which finds its way into lodging-houses much as the wrecks84 of our civilization drift into hospitals for incurables85. You expect in such places as these to find the weather-house whence a Capuchin issues on wet days; you look to find the execrable engravings which spoil your appetite, framed every one in a black varnished frame, with a gilt beading round it; you know the sort of tortoise-shell clock-case, inlaid with brass86; the green stove, the Argand lamps, covered with oil and dust, have met your eyes before. The oilcloth which covers the long table is so greasy that a waggish87 externe will write his name on the surface, using his thumb-nail as a style. The chairs are broken-down invalids88; the wretched little hempen89 mats slip away from under your feet without slipping away for good; and finally, the foot-warmers are miserable90 wrecks, hingeless, charred91, broken away about the holes. It would be impossible to give an idea of the old, rotten, shaky, cranky, worm-eaten, halt, maimed, oneeyed, rickety, and ramshackle condition of the furniture without an exhaustive description, which would delay the progress of the story to an extent that impatient people would not pardon. The red tiles of the floor are full of depressions brought about by scouring92 and periodical renewings of color. In short, there is no illusory grace left to the poverty that reigns93 here; it is dire94, parsimonious95, concentr
ated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not sunk into the mire96, it is only splashed by it, and though not in rags as yet, its clothing is ready to drop to pieces.
This apartment is in all its glory at seven o'clock in the morning, when Mme. Vauquer's cat appears, announcing the near approach of his mistress, and jumps upon the sideboards to sniff98 at the milk in the bowls, each protected by a plate, while he purrs his morning greeting to the world. A moment later the widow shows her face; she is tricked out in a net cap attached to a false front set on awry, and shuffles99 into the room in her slipshod fashion. She is an oldish woman, with a bloated countenance100, and a nose like a parrot's beak101 set in the middle of it; her fat little hands (she is as sleek102 as a church rat) and her shapeless, slouching figure are in keeping with the room that reeks103 of misfortune, where hope is reduced to speculate for the meanest stakes. Mme. Vauquer alone can breathe that tainted104 air without being disheartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a frosty morning in autumn; there are wrinkles about the eyes that vary in their expression from the set smile of a ballet-dancer to the dark, suspicious scowl105 of a discounter of bills; in short, she is at once the embodiment and interpretation106 of her lodginghouse, as surely as her lodging-house implies the existence of its mistress. You can no more imagine the one without the other, than you can think of a jail without a turnkey. The unwholesome corpulence of the little woman is produced by the life she leads, just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted air of a hospital. The very knitted woolen108 petticoat that she wears beneath a skirt made of an old gown, with the wadding protruding109 through the rents in the material, is a sort of epitome110 of the sitting-room, the dining-room, and the little garden; it discovers the cook, it foreshadows the lodgers--the picture of the house is completed by the portrait of its mistress.
Mme. Vauquer at the age of fifty is like all women who "have seen a deal of trouble." She has the glassy eyes and innocent air of a trafficker in flesh and blood, who will wax virtuously111 indignant to obtain a higher price for her services, but who is quite ready to betray a Georges or a Pichegru, if a Georges or a Pichegru were in hiding and still to be betrayed, or for any other expedient112 that may alleviate113 her lot. Still, "she is a good woman at bottom," said the lodgers who believed that the widow was wholly dependent upon the money that they paid her, and sympathized when they heard her cough and groan114 like one of themselves.
What had M. Vauquer been? The lady was never very explicit115 on this head. How had she lost her money? "Through trouble," was her answer. He had treated her badly, had left her nothing but her eyes to cry over his cruelty, the house she lived in, and the privilege of pitying nobody, because, so she was wont116 to say, she herself had been through every possible misfortune.
Sylvie, the stout117 cook, hearing her mistress' shuffling118 footsteps, hastened to serve the lodgers' breakfasts. Beside those who lived in the house, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who came for their meals; but these externes usually only came to dinner, for which they paid thirty francs a month.
At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house contained seven inmates119. The best rooms in the house were on the first story, Mme. Vauquer herself occupying the least important, while the rest were let to a Mme. Couture, the widow of a commissarygeneral in the service of the Republic. With her lived Victorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to whom she filled the place of mother. These two ladies paid eighteen hundred francs a year.
The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively occupied by an old man named Poiret and a man of forty or thereabouts, the wearer of a black wig120 and dyed whiskers, who gave out that he was a retired121 merchant, and was addressed as M. Vautrin. Two of the four rooms on the third floor were also let-one to an elderly spinster, a Mlle. Michonneau, and the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli, Italian paste and starch122, who allowed the others to address him as "Father Goriot." The remaining rooms were allotted123 to various birds of passage, to impecunious124 students, who like "Father Goriot" and Mlle. Michonneau, could only muster125 forty-five francs a month to pay for their board and lodging. Mme. Vauquer had little desire for lodgers of this sort; they ate too much bread, and she only took them in default of better.
At that time one of the rooms was tenanted by a law student, a young man from the neighborhood of Angouleme, one of a large family who pinched and starved themselves to spare twelve hundred francs a year for him. Misfortune had accustomed Eugene de Rastignac, for that was his name, to work. He belonged to the number of young men who know as children that their parents' hopes are centered on them, and deliberately126 prepare themselves for a great career, subordinating their studies from the first to this end, carefully watching the indications of the course of events, calculating the probable turn that affairs will take, that they may be the first to profit by them. But for his observant curiosity, and the skill with which he managed to introduce himself into the salons127 of Paris, this story would not have been colored by the tones of truth which it certainly owes to him, for they are entirely128 due to his penetrating129 sagacity and desire to fathom the mysteries of an appalling130 condition of things, which was concealed131 as carefully by the victim as by those who had brought it to pass.
Above the third story there was a garret where the linen132 was hung to dry, and a couple of attics. Christophe, the man-of-all-work, slept in one, and Sylvie, the stout cook, in the other. Beside the seven inmates thus enumerated133, taking one year with another, some eight law or medical students dined in the house, as well as two or three regular comers who lived in the neighborhood. There were usually eighteen people at dinner, and there was room, if need be, for twenty at Mme. Vauquer's table; at breakfast, however, only the seven lodgers appeared. It was almost like a family party. Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers134, and the conversation usually turned on anything that had happened the evening before; comments on the dress or appearance of the dinner contingent135 were exchanged in friendly confidence.
These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer's spoiled children. Among them she distributed, with astronomical136 precision, the exact proportion of respect and attention due to the varying amounts they paid for their board. One single consideration influenced all these human beings thrown together by chance. The two secondfloor lodgers only paid seventy-two francs a month. Such prices as these are confined to the Faubourg Saint-Marcel and the district between La Bourbe and the Salpetriere; and, as might be expected, poverty, more or less apparent, weighed upon them all, Mme. Couture being the sole exception to the rule.
The dreary137 surroundings were reflected in the costumes of the inmates of the house; all were alike threadbare. The color of the men's coats were problematical; such shoes, in more fashionable quarters, are only to be seen lying in the gutter20; the cuffs138 and collars were worn and frayed139 at the edges; every limp article of clothing looked like the ghost of its former self. The women's dresses were faded, old-fashioned, dyed and re-dyed; they wore gloves that were glazed with hard wear, much-mended lace, dingy140 ruffles141, crumpled142 muslin fichus. So much for their clothing; but, for the most part, their frames were solid enough; their constitutions had weathered the storms of life; their cold, hard faces were worn like coins that have been withdrawn143 from circulation, but there were greedy teeth behind the withered144 lips. Dramas brought to a close or still in progress are foreshadowed by the sight of such actors as these, not the dramas that are played before the footlights and against a background of painted canvas, but dumb dramas of life, frost-bound dramas that sere146 hearts like fire, dramas that do not end with the actors' lives.
Mlle. Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her weak eyes from the daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim22 of brass, an object fit to scare away the Angel of Pity himself. Her shawl, with its scanty, draggled fringe, might have covered a skeleton, so meagre and angular was the form beneath it. Yet she must have been pretty and shapely once. What corrosive147 had destroyed the feminine outlines? Was it trouble, or vice6, or greed? Had she loved too well? Had she been a second-hand148 clothes dealer149, a frequenter of the backstairs of great houses, or had she been merely a courtesan? Was she expiating150 the flaunting151 triumphs of a youth overcrowded with pleasures by an old age in which she was shunned152 by every passer-by? Her vacant gaze sent a chill through you; her shriveled face seemed like a menace. Her voice was like the shrill153, thin note of the grasshopper154 sounding from the thicket155 when winter is at hand. She said that she had nursed an old gentleman, ill of catarrh of the bladder, and left to die by his children, who thought that he had nothing left. His bequest156 to her, a life annuity157 of a thousand francs, was periodically disputed by his heirs, who mingled slander158 with their persecutions. In spite of the ravages160 of conflicting passions, her face retained some traces of its former fairness and fineness of tissue, some vestiges161 of the physical charms of her youth still survived.
M. Poiret was a sort of automaton162. He might be seen any day sailing like a gray shadow along the walks of the Jardin des Plantes, on his head a shabby cap, a cane163 with an old yellow ivory handle in the tips of his thin fingers; the outspread skirts of his threadbare overcoat failed to conceal42 his meagre figure; his breeches hung loosely on his shrunken limbs; the thin, blue-stockinged legs trembled like those of a drunken man; there was a notable breach164 of continuity between the dingy white waistcoat and crumpled shirt frills and the cravat165 twisted about a throat like a turkey gobbler's; altogether, his appearance set people wondering whether this outlandish ghost belonged to the audacious race of the sons of Japhet who flutter about on the Boulevard Italien. What devouring166 kind of toil167 could have so shriveled him? What devouring passions had darkened that bulbous countenance, which would have seemed outrageous168 as a caricature? What had he been? Well, perhaps he had been part of the machinery169 of justice, a clerk in the office to which the executioner sends in his accounts,--so much for providing black veils for parricides, so much for sawdust, so much for pulleys and cord for the knife. Or he might have been a receiver at the door of a public slaughter-house, or a sub-inspector of nuisances. Indeed, the man appeared to have been one of the beasts of burden in our great social mill; one of those Parisian Ratons whom their Bertrands do not even know by sight; a pivot170 in the obscure machinery that disposes of misery171 and things unclean; one of those men, in short, at sight of whom we are prompted to remark that, "After all, we cannot do without them."
Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by moral or physical suffering; but, then, Paris is in truth an ocean that no line can plumb172. You may survey its surface and describe it; but no matter how numerous and painstaking173 the toilers in this sea, there will always be lonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns174 unknown, flowers and pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the divers175 of literature. The Maison Vauquer is one of these curious monstrosities.
Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer's boarders formed a striking contrast to the rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as is often seen in anaemic girls, in Mlle. Victorine Taillefer's face; and her unvarying expression of sadness, like her embarrassed manner and pinched look, was in keeping with the general wretchedness of the establishment in the Rue Nueve-Saint-Genevieve, which forms a background to this picture; but her face was young, there was youthfulness in her voice and elasticity176 in her movements. This young misfortune was not unlike a shrub177, newly planted in an uncongenial soil, where its leaves have already begun to wither145. The outlines of her figure, revealed by her dress of the simplest and cheapest materials, were also youthful. There was the same kind of charm about her too slender form, her faintly colored face and light-brown hair, that modern poets find in mediaeval statuettes; and a sweet expression, a look of Christian178 resignation in the dark gray eyes. She was pretty by force of contrast; if she had been happy, she would have been charming. Happiness is the poetry of woman, as the toilette is her tinsel. If the delightful179 excitement of a ball had made the pale face glow with color; if the delights of a luxurious180 life had brought the color to the wan3 cheeks that were slightly hollowed already; if love had put light into the sad eyes, then Victorine might have ranked among the fairest; but she lacked the two things which create woman a second time--pretty dresses and loveletters.
A book might have been made of her story. Her father was persuaded that he had sufficient reason for declining to acknowledge her, and allowed her a bare six hundred francs a year; he had further taken measures to disinherit his daughter, and had converted all his real estate into personalty, that he might leave it undivided to his son. Victorine's mother had died broken-hearted in Mme. Couture's house; and the latter, who was a near relation, had taken charge of the little orphan181. Unluckily, the widow of the commissary-general to the armies of the Republic had nothing in the world but her jointure and her widow's pension, and some day she might be obliged to leave the helpless, inexperienced girl to the mercy of the world. The good soul, therefore, took Victorine to mass every Sunday, and to confession182 once a fortnight, thinking that, in any case, she would bring up her ward183 to be devout184. She was right; religion offered a solution of the problem of the young girl's future. The poor child loved the father who refused to acknowledge her. Once every year she tried to see him to deliver her mother's message of forgiveness, but every year hitherto she had knocked at that door in vain; her father was inexorable. Her brother, her only means of communication, had not come to see her for four years, and had sent her no assistance; yet she prayed to God to unseal her father's eyes and to soften185 her brother's heart, and no accusations186 mingled with her prayers. Mme. Couture and Mme. Vauquer exhausted187 the vocabulary of abuse, and failed to find words that did justice to the banker's iniquitous188 conduct; but while they heaped execrations on the millionaire, Victorine's words were as gentle as the moan of the wounded dove, and affection found expression even in the cry drawn from her by pain.
Eugene de Rastignac was a thoroughly189 southern type; he had a fair complexion190, blue eyes, black hair. In his figure, manner, and his whole bearing it was easy to see that he had either come of a noble family, or that, from his earliest childhood, he had been gently bred. If he was careful of his wardrobe, only taking last year's clothes into daily wear, still upon occasion he could issue forth191 as a young man of fashion. Ordinarily he wore a shabby coat and waistcoat, the limp black cravat, untidily knotted, that students affect, trousers that matched the rest of his costume, and boots that had been resoled.
Vautrin (the man of forty with the dyed whiskers) marked a transition stage between these two young people and the others. He was the kind of man that calls forth the remark: "He looks a jovial192 sort!" He had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, muscular arms, and strong square-fisted hands; the joints193 of his fingers were covered with tufts of fiery194 red hair. His face was furrowed195 by premature196 wrinkles; there was a certain hardness about it in spite of his bland197 and insinuating198 manner. His bass199 voice was by no means unpleasant, and was in keeping with his boisterous200 laughter. He was always obliging, always in good spirits; if anything went wrong with one of the locks, he would soon unscrew it, take it to pieces, file it, oil and clean and set it in order, and put it back in its place again; "I am an old hand at it," he used to say. Not only so, he knew all about ships, the sea, France, foreign countries, men, business, law, great houses and prisons,--there was nothing that he did not know. If any one complained rather more than usual, he would offer his services at once. He had several times lent money to Mme. Vauquer, or to the boarders; but, somehow, those whom he obliged felt that they would sooner face death than fail to repay him; a certain resolute201 look, sometimes seen on his face, inspired fear of him, for all his appearance of easy good-nature. In the way he spat202 there was an imperturbable203 coolness which seemed to indicate that this was a man who would not stick at a crime to extricate204 himself from a false position. His eyes, like those of a pitiless judge, seemed to go to the very bottom of all questions, to read all natures, all feelings and thoughts. His habit of life was very regular; he usually went out after breakfast, returning in time for dinner, and disappeared for the rest of the evening, letting himself in about midnight with a latch205 key, a privilege that Mme. Vauquer accorded to no other boarder. But then he was on very good terms with the widow; he used to call her "mamma," and put his ar
m round her waist, a piece of flattery perhaps not appreciated to the full! The worthy206 woman might imagine this to be an easy feat207; but, as a matter of fact, no arm but Vautrin's was long enough to encircle her.
It was a characteristic trait of his generously to pay fifteen francs a month for the cup of coffee with a dash of brandy in it, which he took after dinner. Less superficial observers than young men engulfed208 by the whirlpool of Parisian life, or old men, who took no interest in anything that did not directly concern them, would not have stopped short at the vaguely209 unsatisfactory impression that Vautrin made upon them. He knew or guessed the concerns of every one about him; but none of them had been able to penetrate210 his thoughts, or to discover his occupation. He had deliberately made his apparent good-nature, his unfailing readiness to oblige, and his high spirits into a barrier between himself and the rest of them, but not seldom he gave glimpses of appalling depths of character. He seemed to delight in scourging211 the upper classes of society with the lash97 of his tongue, to take pleasure in convicting it of inconsistency, in mocking at law and order with some grim jest worthy of Juvenal, as if some grudge212 against the social system rankled213 in him, as if there were some mystery carefully hidden away in his life.
Mlle. Taillefer felt attracted, perhaps unconsciously, by the strength of the one man, and the good looks of the other; her stolen glances and secret thoughts were divided between them; but neither of them seemed to take any notice of her, although some day a chance might alter her position, and she would be a wealthy heiress. For that matter, there was not a soul in the house who took any trouble to investigate the various chronicles of misfortunes, real or imaginary, related by the rest. Each one regarded the others with indifference214, tempered by suspicion; it was a natural result of their relative positions. Practical assistance not one could give, this they all knew, and they had long since exhausted their stock of condolence over previous discussions of their grievances215. They were in something the same position as an elderly couple who have nothing left to say to each other. The routine of existence kept them in contact, but they were parts of a mechanism216 which wanted oil. There was not one of them but would have passed a blind man begging in the street, not one that felt moved to pity by a tale of misfortune, not one who did not see in death the solution of the allabsorbing problem of misery which left them cold to the most terrible anguish217 in others.
The happiest of these hapless beings was certainly Mme. Vauquer, who reigned218 supreme219 over this hospital supported by voluntary contributions. For her, the little garden, which silence, and cold, and rain, and drought combined to make as dreary as an Asian steppe, was a pleasant shaded nook; the gaunt yellow house, the musty odors of a back shop had charms for her, and for her alone. Those cells belonged to her. She fed those convicts condemned to penal220 servitude for life, and her authority was recognized among them. Where else in Paris would they have found wholesome107 food in sufficient quantity at the prices she charged them, and rooms which they were at liberty to make, if not exactly elegant or comfortable, at any rate clean and healthy? If she had committed some flagrant act of injustice221, the victim would have borne it in silence.
Such a gathering222 contained, as might have been expected, the elements out of which a complete society might be constructed. And, as in a school, as in the world itself, there was among the eighteen men and women who met round the dinner table a poor creature, despised by all the others, condemned to be the butt223 of all their jokes. At the beginning of Eugene de Rastignac's second twelvemonth, this figure suddenly started out into bold relief against the background of human forms and faces among which the law student was yet to live for another two years to come. This laughing-stock was the retired vermicelli-merchant, Father Goriot, upon whose face a painter, like the historian, would have concentrated all the light in his picture.
How had it come about that the boarders regarded him with a halfmalignant contempt? Why did they subject the oldest among their number to a kind of persecution159, in which there was mingled some pity, but no respect for his misfortunes? Had he brought it on himself by some eccentricity224 or absurdity225, which is less easily forgiven or forgotten than more serious defects? The question strikes at the root of many a social injustice. Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict226 suffering on anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility227, or indifference, or sheer helplessness. Do we not, one and all, like to feel our strength even at the expense of some one or of something? The poorest sample of humanity, the street arab, will pull the bell handle at every street door in bitter weather, and scramble228 up to write his name on the unsullied marble of a monument.
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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57
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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cleanses
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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60
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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61
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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62
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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64
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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65
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhales
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的第三人称单数 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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80
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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81
distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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82
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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84
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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incurables
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| 无法治愈，不可救药( incurable的名词复数 ) | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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waggish
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| adj.诙谐的，滑稽的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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hempen
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| adj. 大麻制的, 大麻的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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98
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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104
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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105
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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107
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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108
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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109
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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110
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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111
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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112
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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113
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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114
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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115
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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116
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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118
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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119
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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120
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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121
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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122
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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123
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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125
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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126
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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127
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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128
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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129
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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130
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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131
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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132
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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133
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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135
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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136
astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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137
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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138
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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141
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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142
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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143
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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144
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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145
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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146
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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147
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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148
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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149
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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150
expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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151
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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152
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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154
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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155
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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156
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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157
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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158
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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159
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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160
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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161
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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162
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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163
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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164
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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165
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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166
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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167
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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168
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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169
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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170
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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171
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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172
plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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173
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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174
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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175
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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176
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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177
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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178
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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179
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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180
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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181
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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182
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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183
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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184
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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185
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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186
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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187
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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188
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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189
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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190
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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191
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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192
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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193
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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194
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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195
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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197
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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198
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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199
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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200
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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201
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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202
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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203
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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204
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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205
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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206
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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207
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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208
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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210
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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211
scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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212
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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213
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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215
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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216
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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217
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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218
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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219
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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220
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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221
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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222
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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223
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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224
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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225
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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226
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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227
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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228
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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