“Père Goriot” a summary of Balzac’s novel

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The novel "Père Goriot" by Balzac was written in 1835. The work describes the boundless, all-consuming paternal love for children, which ultimately becomes the cause of the hero's difficult life and his untimely death.

We recommend reading online a summary of “Père Goriot” on our website. A retelling of the book will be useful for a reading diary and preparation for a literature lesson.

The material was prepared jointly with a teacher of the highest category, Ilyina Galina Sergeevna.

Experience as a teacher of Russian language and literature - 36 years.

Father Goriot - Honore de Balzac

To the great and famous Geoffroy de Saint-Hilaire[1] as a sign of admiration for his work and genius.

De Balzac

The elderly widow Vauquer, known as the Dee Conflans, has been running a family boarding house in Paris for about forty years on the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, which is between the Latin Quarter[2] and the Faubourg Saint-Marceau.[3] The boarding house called “House of Vauquer” open to everyone - young and old, women and men, and yet the morals in this venerable establishment have never been criticized. But, to tell the truth, there had been no young women there in the last thirty years, and if a young man settled, it meant that he received very little to live on from his relatives. However, in 1819, at the time of the beginning of this drama, a poor young girl found herself here. No matter how much confidence in the word “drama” has been undermined by its perverse, inappropriate and wasteful use in the mournful literature of our days, here this word is inevitable: even if our story is not dramatic in the real sense of the word, but perhaps some of the readers, having finished reading will shed tears over it intra and extra muros.[4]Will it be understandable outside of Paris? This may be doubted. The details of all these scenes, where there are so many different observations and local color, will find a worthy assessment only between the hills of Montmartre and the hills of Montrouge, [5] only in the famous valley with crappy buildings that are on the verge of collapsing, and drainage ditches black with mud ; in a valley where only suffering is true, and joys are often false, where life is seething so terribly that only an extraordinary event can leave any lasting impression here. And yet, sometimes here you will encounter grief, to which the interweaving of vices and virtues gives greatness and solemnity: in its face, selfishness and selfishness recede, giving way to pity; but this feeling passes as quickly as the feeling from a juicy fruit swallowed hastily. The chariot of civilization in its movement is similar to the chariot with the idol Juggernaut: [6] having run over the human heart, which is not as pliable as that of other people, it stumbles slightly, but at that very moment it already crushes it and proudly continues its path. You too will do something like this: taking this book with a well-groomed hand, you will sit deeper in a soft armchair and say: “Perhaps this will entertain me?” the author, reproaching him for exaggeration and condemning him for poetic inventions. So know this: this drama is not fiction or a novel. All is true, [7] - it is true to such an extent that everyone will find its beginnings in their life, and perhaps in their heart.

The house, occupied as a family boarding house, belongs to Mrs. Voke. It stands at the bottom of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, where the terrain, descending towards Arbaletnaya Rue, forms such a steep and inconvenient slope that horse-drawn carts rarely pass here. This circumstance contributes to the silence in the streets hidden in the space between the Val-de-Grâce[8] and the Pantheon,[9] where these two majestic buildings change the light phenomena of the atmosphere, penetrating it with the yellow tones of their walls and darkening everything around with the harsh coloring of the huge domes. Here the pavements are dry, there is no mud or water in the ditches, grass grows along the walls; The most carefree person, getting here, becomes sad, like all the local passers-by; The roar of the carriage here is a whole event, the houses are gloomy, the blank walls smell like a prison. A Parisian who accidentally comes here will see nothing but family boarding houses or educational institutions, poverty and boredom, dying old age and a cheerful, but forced to work youth. There is no quarter in Paris more terrible and, it should be noted, less famous.

The Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, like a bronze frame for a picture, is most worthy of serving as a frame for this narrative, which requires as many dark colors and serious thoughts as possible so that the reader is imbued with the proper mood in advance, like a traveler descending into the catacombs where With each step the daylight fades more and more, the melodious voice of the guide is heard more and more muffled. True comparison! Who decided what was more terrible: to look at callous hearts or at empty skulls?

The main facade of the guesthouse opens onto the garden, forming a right angle with the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, from where only the side wall of the house is visible. Between the garden and the house, in front of its facade, there is a shallow ditch lined with rubble, the width of a toise, [10] and along it there is a sandy path bordered by geraniums, as well as pomegranates and oleanders in large vases of white and blue earthenware. A gate leads to the path from the street; There is a sign nailed above it that says: “HOUSE OF WOKE”, and below: Family boarding house for both sexes and so on. During the day, through a lattice gate with a ringing bell, you can see opposite the street, at the end of the ditch, a wall where a local painter painted an arch of green marble, and in its niche depicted a statue of Cupid. Looking now at this Cupid, covered with varnish that has already begun to peel off, symbol hunters will perhaps see in the statue a symbol of that Parisian love, the consequences of which are being treated next door. The time when this decoration arose is indicated by a half-erased inscription under the base of the Amur, which testifies to the enthusiastic reception given to Voltaire upon his return to Paris in 1778:

Main characters

Goriot is an elderly man who sacrificed everything for the happiness of his daughters.
Eugene de Rastignac is a 22-year-old student, ambitious, purposeful, dreaming of a beautiful life.
Anastasi de Resto is the eldest daughter of Father Goriot, who married the count, a socialite.
Delphine de Nucingen is the youngest daughter of Father Goriot, who married a wealthy German banker and later became Eugene’s mistress.

Summary

The “elderly widow of Vauquer” had been running a family boarding house called “House of Vauquer” for forty years. The boarding house was “open to everyone - young people and old people, women and men, and yet the morals in this venerable institution never gave rise to criticism.” At the end of November 1819 there were seven permanent residents living here. On the second floor, where the best rooms were located, Madame Couture lived with her pupil, young Victorine Taillefer. On the third floor lived the retired official Poiret and the former merchant Vautrin. The fourth floor was shared by the old maid Mademoiselle Michnot, the student Eugene de Rastignac and the former pasta manufacturer, Father Goriot. Eighteen people gathered for dinner, but “these seven boarders were Madame Vauquer’s favorites.”

All the residents unanimously despised the 69-year-old Father Goriot. For them, it was “an outcast creature, a scapegoat, on whom ridicule rained down.” Once upon a time, the pasta maker was a respectable gentleman who had money. So, in 1813, he occupied the best room on the second floor in the Vauquet House. The widowed housewife saw him as a profitable match. However, Father Goriot did not intend to marry Madame Vauquer, and she hated him with all her heart. Over time, the pasta maker moved to the third floor, where cheaper rooms were rented, and stopped heating in the winter. He was sometimes visited by two elegantly dressed young ladies, whom he passed off as his daughters. The residents had no doubt that these were the mistresses on whom Father Goriot spent all his money. The hero became so poor that he was forced to move to the cheapest, fourth floor, and wear cast-offs.

Meanwhile, the young Eugene de Rastignac intended to penetrate high society and “enjoy the ostentatious delights of Paris.” He turned to a wealthy relative, cousin Viscountess de Beauseant, for help, and received an invitation to a ball. The young man met the brilliant Countess Anastasi de Resto, about whom he told his fellow boarders. He was surprised to learn that old Goriot knew the countess and even paid her overdue bills to the moneylender Gobsek.

The first attempt to establish a close acquaintance with the Countess ended in failure. The poor student “withstood the contemptuous glances of the servants,” who knew that he was poor and did not have his own crew. The hostess made it clear to the young man that she preferred to be left alone with Count Maxime de Tray, her rich and handsome lover. “Rastignac was imbued with wild hatred” for the arrogant handsome man and promised himself to surpass him in everything.

From Viscountess de Beauseant, Eugene learned the deepest secret of Countess de Resto - she was the “noodle maker’s daughter,” nee Goriot. As it turned out, the old man really had two beautiful daughters, and he was “crazy about them, although both of them almost abandoned him.” Goriot gave a generous dowry, all his savings, hoping that from now on he would have “two houses where he will always find love and affection.” However, his daughters did not appreciate his kindness and sacrifice and stopped communicating with him. The second daughter, Delphine, was married to the banker de Nucingen.

The Viscountess advised Eugene to take advantage of the sisters' rivalry and become Delphine's lover. Then he will certainly enjoy success with the ladies of high society, and “in Paris, success is everything, it is the key to power.” At the boarding house, Rastignac informed everyone that from now on Father Goriot was under his protection. The young man wrote a letter to his parents with a request to urgently send him the money he needed to buy a fashionable wardrobe.

Meanwhile, Vautrin suggested that Eugene turn his attention to Victorine Taillefer, whom her father, a wealthy banker, did not want to know. It was enough to eliminate her brother for Victorina to become the sole heir to a million-dollar fortune. Vautrin was ready to take on the solution to this problem, asking for two hundred thousand francs - a modest amount compared to the girl’s huge inheritance. However, the student was afraid of Vautrin and refused this deal.

Old Goriot helped the student in every possible way to get closer to Delphine: he hated both sons-in-law and believed that they were to blame for all the troubles of his girls. Unexpectedly, Eugene fell in love with Delphine, and she reciprocated his feelings. She told the young man that her husband had pocketed her entire dowry and she was not able to “dispose of a single sou.” Delphine was even glad that she was loved sincerely, despite the fact that she was poor. Having learned about his daughter’s financial problems, old Goriot wanted to ensure that “her fortune was deposited in the bank.”

Vautrin never tired of reminding the student about Quiz’s millions. He soon found himself in the crosshairs of the police, who suspected him of being an escaped convict nicknamed “Deceive Death.” To expose him, one piece of evidence was needed - a brand on his shoulder. For a substantial fee, Poiret and Michono agreed to take on this case.

Eugene learned from Vautrin that he had cleverly organized a duel with Taillefer’s son, which would actually be the murder of the rich man’s heir. On the same day, Father Goriot informed the young man that he had found him and Delphine a cozy apartment and provided her with a tolerable existence. These two news brought Eugene into a state of stupor - he “experienced everything as if in a nightmare.” The young man wanted to warn the Taillefers about the impending disaster, but the prudent Vautrin gave him wine and sleeping pills. Meanwhile, Michonot and Poiret got Vautrin drunk, stripped him and made sure that he had a convict's mark on his shoulder.

Soon Mama Voke lost all her guests. Vautrin was arrested by the police. Angered by the betrayal of Michono and Poiret, other residents demanded that they leave the boarding house immediately. On the same day, the death of young Taillefer became known, and the father summoned Victorine and her companion to him.

Old Goriot sold his rent to pay for a cozy nest for Delphine and Eugene. Soon unpleasant news surfaced: Nucingen “invested his entire wife’s dowry in newly founded enterprises” and could not return even part of the money to her. Anastasi also found herself in a difficult situation: she pawned the family jewels to protect her lover from debt prison, and her husband found out about this. The sisters began to shower each other with insults, and old Goriot, who witnessed this ugly scene, fell as if knocked down - he was struck by a blow.

Eugene informed Father Goriot’s sons-in-law about his death “to pay funeral expenses,” but none of them responded. The forgotten old man was buried by poor students. Looking at Paris from a high hill, Eugene promised himself to succeed in this life at any cost.

Text of the book "Père Goriot"

Honore de Balzac

Father Goriot

To the great and famous Geoffroy de Saint-Hilaire[1] as a sign of admiration for his work and genius.
De Balzac

The elderly widow Vauquer, maiden de Conflans, has been running a family boarding house in Paris on the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, between the Latin Quarter and the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, for about forty years. The boarding house, called "House of Vauquet", is open to everyone - young people and old people, women and men, and yet the morals in this venerable establishment have never caused any criticism. But, to tell the truth, there had been no young women there in the last thirty years, and if a young man settled, it meant that he received very little to live on from his relatives. However, in 1819, at the time of the beginning of this drama, a poor young girl found herself here. No matter how much confidence in the word “drama” has been undermined by its perverse, inappropriate and wasteful use in the mournful literature of our days, here this word is inevitable: even if our story is not dramatic in the real sense of the word, but perhaps some of the readers, having finished reading, will shed a tear over it intra muros et extra

[3].
Will it be understandable outside of Paris? This may be doubted. The details of all these scenes, where there are so many different observations and local color, will find a worthy assessment only between the hills of Montmartre and the hillocks of Montrouge, only in the famous valley with crappy buildings that are on the verge of collapsing, and drainage ditches black with mud; in a valley where only suffering is true, and joys are often false, where life is seething so terribly that only an extraordinary event can leave any lasting impression here. And yet, sometimes here you will encounter grief, to which the interweaving of vices and virtues gives greatness and solemnity: in its face, selfishness and selfishness recede, giving way to pity; but this feeling passes as quickly as the feeling from a juicy fruit swallowed hastily. The chariot of civilization in its movement is similar to the chariot with the idol Juggernaut[5]: having run over the human heart, which is not as pliable as that of other people, it stumbles slightly, but at the same moment it already crushes it and proudly continues its path. You too will do something like this: taking this book with a sleek hand, sit deeper in a soft armchair and say: “Perhaps this will entertain me?” - and then, having read about Goriot’s secret paternal hardships, you will eat with appetite, but you will attribute your insensitivity to the author’s expense, reproaching him for exaggeration and condemning him for poetic inventions. So know this: this drama is not fiction or a novel. All is true
[6], - it is true to such an extent that everyone will find its beginnings in their life, and perhaps in their heart.

The house, occupied as a family boarding house, belongs to Mrs. Voke. It stands at the bottom of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, where the terrain, descending towards Arbaletnaya Rue, forms such a steep and inconvenient slope that horse-drawn carts rarely pass here. This circumstance contributes to the silence in the streets hidden in the space between Val-de-Grâce[7] and the Pantheon, where these two majestic buildings change the light phenomena of the atmosphere, penetrating it with the yellow tones of their walls and darkening everything around with the harsh coloring of the huge domes. Here the pavements are dry, there is no mud or water in the ditches, grass grows along the walls; The most carefree person, getting here, becomes sad, like all the local passers-by; The roar of the carriage here is a whole event, the houses are gloomy, the blank walls smell like a prison. A Parisian who accidentally comes here will see nothing but family boarding houses or educational institutions, poverty and boredom, dying old age and a cheerful, but forced to work youth. There is no quarter in Paris more terrible and, it should be noted, less famous.

The Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, like a bronze frame for a picture, is most worthy of serving as a frame for this narrative, which requires as many dark colors and serious thoughts as possible so that the reader is imbued with the proper mood in advance, like a traveler descending into the catacombs where With each step the daylight fades more and more, the melodious voice of the guide is heard more and more muffled. True comparison! Who will decide what is more terrible: to look at callous hearts or at empty skulls?

During the day, through a lattice gate with a ringing bell, you can see opposite the street, at the end of the ditch, a wall where a local painter painted an arch of green marble, and in its niche depicted a statue of Cupid. Looking now at this Cupid, covered with varnish that has already begun to peel off, symbol hunters will perhaps see in the statue a symbol of that Parisian love, the consequences of which are being treated next door. The time when this decoration arose is indicated by a half-erased inscription under the base of the Amur, which testifies to the enthusiastic reception given to Voltaire upon his return to Paris in 1778:

Whoever you are, O man, He is your mentor, and forever.[9]

By nightfall, the entrance is closed not with a lattice door, but with a solid one.

The garden, the width of the entire facade, is squeezed between the fence on the street side and the wall of the neighboring house, which, however, is hidden by a continuous curtain of ivy, so picturesque for Paris that it attracts the eyes of passers-by. All the walls surrounding the garden are covered with fruit trellises and grapes, and every year their dusty and stunted fruits become a subject of concern for Madame Vauquer and conversations with the residents. Narrow paths are laid along the walls leading under a bush of linden trees, or linden trees,

how Madame Vauquer, although born de Conflans, stubbornly pronounces this word, despite the grammatical instructions of her parasites. Between the side paths there is a rectangular curtain with artichokes, planted with sorrel, parsley and lettuce, and in its corners there are pyramidally trimmed fruit trees. Under the canopy of linden trees, a round table painted green is dug into the ground, and benches are placed around it. At the height of summer, when it is so hot that you can hatch chickens without the help of a hen, those guests who are rich enough to afford this luxury drink coffee here.

The house has four floors with an attic, built of limestone and painted in that yellow color that gives a vulgar appearance to almost all the houses of Paris. On each floor there are five windows with small frames and blinds, but none of the blinds rises level with the others, and they all hang at random. On the side façade there are only two windows per floor, while the lower windows have bars made of iron bars. Behind the house there is a yard about twenty feet wide, where pigs, rabbits and chickens live in good harmony; At the back of the yard there is a woodshed. Between the shed and the kitchen window hangs a box for storing provisions, and underneath there is a drain for kitchen slops. From the courtyard to the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève there is a small door through which the cook throws all the household refuse, sparing no water to clean up this dump, in order to avoid a fine for spreading the infection.

The lower floor itself seems to be intended for a family boarding house. The first room, with windows facing the street and a glass entrance door, is a living room. The living room communicates with the dining room, which is separated from the kitchen by a staircase, the wooden steps of which are laid out in squares, covered with paint and waxed. It is difficult to imagine anything more depressing than this living room, where there are chairs and armchairs upholstered in shiny and matte striped hair fabric. The middle of the living room is occupied by a round table with a board of black and speckled marble, decorated with a white porcelain coffee service with a worn gold border, the kind you find everywhere now. The floor is laid out somehow, the walls are covered with panels up to shoulder level, and above are covered with glossy wallpaper depicting the main scenes from Telemakos[10], where the characters of ancient antiquity are presented in colors. In the space between the lattice windows, the boarders see a picture of a feast thrown in honor of the son of Odysseus by the nymph Calypso. For forty years now this picture has been a target for the ridicule of young parasites who imagine that by mocking the dinner to which poverty condemns them, they become above their fate. The fireplace, judging by the constant cleanliness of the hearth, is lit only on the most solemn days, and for beauty there is a remarkably tasteless clock made of bluish marble and on its sides, under glass covers, two vases with dilapidated bouquets of artificial flowers.

This first room has a special smell; it does not have a corresponding name in our language, but it should be called the smell of a boarding house.

It feels musty, moldy, rotten; it causes a shudder, hits something brainy in the nose, saturates the clothes, gives off to the dining room where they finished dinner, the fetid kitchen, footman, coachman. It may be possible to describe it when they find a way to isolate all its nauseating components - the special, painful odors emanating from each young or old parasite. And so, despite all this vulgar horror, if you compare the living room with the adjacent dining room, then the first will seem elegant and fragrant, like a boudoir.

The dining room, covered to the brim with wood, was once painted in some color, but the paint is no longer visible and serves only as a primer on which dirt has layered, painting it with a bizarre pattern. Along the walls there are sticky sideboards containing chipped and cloudy decanters, tin trays with a streaky pattern, stacks of thick porcelain plates with blue borders - Tournai products. In one corner there is a box with numbered compartments to store, for each parasite separately, wine-stained or simply dirty napkins. Here you will also find furniture expelled from everywhere, but indestructible and placed here, just as the waste of civilization is placed in hospitals for the incurable. Here you will see a barometer with a capuchin coming out when the rain has already begun; disgusting engravings that make you lose your appetite - all in varnished wooden frames, black with gilded spoons; wall clock trimmed with horn and copper inlay; green tiled stove; quenchets[11] of Argan, where dust mixed with oil; a long table covered with oilcloth so dirty that the merry parasite writes his name on it simply with his finger, in the absence of a stylus; mangled chairs, miserable straw mats - in eternal use and without wear; then crappy hot water bottles with torn holes, charred handles and broken hinges. It is difficult to convey how dilapidated, rotten, cracked, unstable, worn out, crooked, crooked, crippled, barely alive this whole situation is - a lengthy description would be needed, but this would delay the development of our story, which, perhaps, busy people will not forgive us for. The red floor has chips from touch-up paint and polishing. In short, here is a kingdom of poverty, where there is no hint of poetry, shabby, stingy, condensed poverty. Although it is not yet completely covered in dirt, it is covered with spots; although it is still without holes and without rags, it will soon turn into decay.

This room is in full splendor about seven o'clock in the morning, when, preceding his mistress, Madame Vauquer's cat comes there, jumps up on the sideboards and, purring his morning song, sniffs the cups of milk covered with plates. Soon the hostess herself appears, dressed in a tulle cap, from which a strand of false, sloppily pinned hair has come out; the widow walks, shuffling her worn-out shoes. On her fat, shabby face, her nose sticks out like a parrot’s beak; chubby arms, a body fattened like a church rat, an overly voluminous, swaying chest - everything is in harmony with the hall, where grief oozes from everywhere, where greed lurks and where Madame Vauquer inhales the warm stinking air without nausea. Cold as the first autumn frosts, her face, surrounded by wrinkles, expresses all the transitions from the forced smile of a dancer to the ominous frown of a moneylender - in a word, her personality predetermines the character of the boarding house, just as the boarding house determines her personality. There is no hard labor without an overseer - one cannot be imagined without the other. The pale plumpness of this lady is as much a product of her entire life as typhus is a consequence of the infectious air of hospitals. A woolen knitted skirt, emerging from under an outer skirt made from an old dress, with cotton wool sticking out through the holes, reproduces in a compressed form the living room, dining room and garden, speaks of the properties of the kitchen and makes it possible to predict the composition of the parasites. The appearance of the hostess completes the picture. At the age of about fifty, the widow Vauquer is like all women who have seen the world.

She has a glassy gaze, the sinless look of a bawd, ready to suddenly boil over in order to take more, and in general, to ease her fate, she will do anything: she will betray both Pichegru and Georges[12], if Georges and Pichegru could be betrayed again. The parasites say that, in essence, she is not a bad woman, and, hearing how she groans and whines no less than themselves, they imagine that she has no money. Who was Mr. Vauquer? She never talked about the dead man. How did he lose his fortune? He was unlucky, was her answer. He treated her badly, leaving her only tears, and this house to exist, and the right not to sympathize with anyone's misfortune, since, according to her, she suffered everything that is humanly possible.

Hearing the mincing steps of her mistress, the cook, fat Sylvia, hurries to prepare breakfast for the freeloading tenants. Freeloaders from outside, as a rule, subscribed only to lunch, which cost thirty francs a month. At the time this story began, there were seven boarders. The second floor consisted of two rooms, the best in the whole house. In one smaller one, Vauquer herself lived, in the other - Madame Couture, the widow of the quartermaster commissar from the time of the Republic. Living with her was a very young girl, Victorine Taillefer, for whom Madame Couture acted as a mother. The annual fee for the maintenance of both reached one thousand eight hundred francs a year. Of the two rooms on the third floor, one was rented by an old man named Poiret, the other by a man of about forty, in a black wig and with dyed sideburns, who called himself a former merchant and was called M. Vautrin. The fourth floor consisted of four rooms, two of which were occupied by permanent residents: one was the old maid Mademoiselle Michonot, the other was a former manufacturer of vermicelli, wheat starch and pasta, who allowed everyone to call himself Father Goriot. The remaining two rooms were intended for migratory birds, those poor students who, like Mademoiselle Michonot and Père Goriot, could not spend more than forty-five francs on board and apartment. But Madame Vauquer did not value them very much and took them only for lack of anything better: they ate too much bread.

At that time, one of the rooms was occupied by a young man who had come to Paris from Angoulême to study law, and his large family had to doom themselves to severe hardships in order to send him twelve hundred francs a year to live on. Eugene de Rastignac, as he was called, belonged to those young people who, accustomed to work by necessity, from youth begin to understand how many hopes are placed on them by their relatives, and prepare for themselves a brilliant career, carefully weighing all the benefits of acquiring knowledge and adapting their education to the future development of the social system in order to be among the first to reap its benefits. Without Rastignac's inquisitive observations and without his ability to penetrate into Parisian salons, the story would have lost those true tones that it owes, of course, to Rastignac - his perspicacious mind and his desire to unravel the secrets of one terrifying fate, no matter how hard both the perpetrators of it tried to hide them and her victim.

Above the fourth floor there was an attic for drying clothes and two attics where a servant named Christophe and the fat Sylvia, the cook, slept.

In addition to the seven residents, Madame Vauquer's meals included - depending on the year, but no less than eight - students, lawyers or doctors, and two or three regulars from the same quarter; they all subscribed only for lunch. At lunchtime, eighteen people gathered in the dining room, but twenty could have been seated; but in the mornings only seven residents appeared in it, and breakfast had the character of a family meal. Everyone came in night shoes, openly exchanged comments about the clothes or appearance of parasites from the outside, about the events of the previous evening, talking casually and in a friendly manner. All these seven boarders were the favorites of Madame Vauquer, who, with the precision of an astronomer, measured out her care and attention to them depending on the boarding fee. One standard was applied to all these creatures, who came together by chance. The two tenants on the third floor paid only seventy-two francs a month. Such cheapness, possible only in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, between Salpêtrière and Bourbes, [13] where the payment for the maintenance of Madame Couture was an exception, suggests that the local boarders bore the burden of more or less obvious misfortunes. That is why the depressing appearance of the entire atmosphere of the house was matched by the clothes of its regulars, who had reached the same decline. The men are wearing frock coats of some mysterious color, shoes the kind that are thrown behind the gates in rich neighborhoods, shabby underwear - in a word, just appearance

clothes. The women are wearing out-of-fashion dresses, dyed and faded again, old, darned lace, shiny gloves, yellowed collars and scarves with holes on their shoulders. But if such was the clothing, then almost everyone’s body turned out to be tightly built, their health withstood the onslaught of everyday storms, and their face was cold, hard, half-worn, like a coin withdrawn from circulation. The withered mouths were armed with carnassial teeth. In the fate of these people, dramas were felt, already completed or in action: not those that are played out in the light of the footlights, in painted canvases, but dramas, full of life and silent, frozen and passionately exciting the heart, dramas that have no end.

The old maid Michono wore over her weak eyes a dirty visor of green taffeta with copper wire, capable of scaring away the very guardian angel. The shawl with its skinny, weeping fringe seemed to envelop one skeleton, so angular were the shapes hidden underneath it. One must think that she was once beautiful and slender. What kind of acid eroded the feminine features of this creature? Is it vice, grief or stinginess? Did she abuse the pleasures of love or was she just a courtesan? Did she not atone for the triumphs of daring youth, to which a stream of pleasure flowed, with old age, which frightened all passers-by? Now her empty gaze was making her feel cold, her unpleasant face was ominous. The thin voice sounded like the chirping of a grasshopper in the bushes before the onset of winter. According to her, she was caring for some old man who suffered from catarrh of the bladder and was abandoned by his children, who decided that he had no money. The old man left her a life annuity of a thousand francs, but from time to time the heirs disputed this will, raising all sorts of slander against Michonot. Her face, worn out by storms of passion, had not yet completely lost its former whiteness and thinness of skin, which suggested that her body retained some remnants of beauty.

Monsieur Poiret resembled some kind of machine gun. Here he is wandering like a gray shadow along the alley of the Botanical Garden: on his head is an old crumpled cap, his hand can barely hold a cane with a yellowed ivory knob, the faded tails of his frock coat dangle, not covering either his short trousers, which seem to be worn on two sticks, or his blue stockings on thin, shaking legs like a drunkard's, and a dirty white vest sticks out from above and a crusty jabot made of cheap muslin puffs up, separating from the twisted tie on the turkey's neck; Many who met him involuntarily asked the question: did this Chinese shadow belong to the daring breed of the sons of Japheth[14], fluttering along the Italian Boulevard[15]? What kind of work made him crooked like that? From what passion did his knobby face, which would seem incredible even in a caricature, darken? Who was he before? Perhaps he served in the Ministry of Justice, in that department where all the executioners send bills for their expenses, bills for the supply of black bedspreads for parricides, for sawdust for baskets under the guillotine, for string for its knife. He could also be a tax collector at the slaughterhouse gates or an assistant sanitary superintendent. In a word, this man, apparently, belonged to the pack donkeys in our great social mill, to the Parisian Ratons, who did not even know their Bertrands[16], was some kind of core around which misfortunes and human filth revolved - in short, one of those about whom we say: “What to do, we need people like that!” These faces, pale from moral or physical suffering, are unknown to elegant Paris. But Paris is a real ocean. Throw a lot into it, and yet you will not be able to measure its depth. Are you going to review and describe it? Observe and describe - try as much as you like: no matter how numerous and inquisitive its explorers may be, there will always be an area in this ocean where no one has ever penetrated, an unknown cave, pearls, flowers, monsters, something unheard of, missed by the divers of literature. The “House of Voke” also belongs to this kind of monster.

Here two figures presented a striking contrast with the entire group of other boarders and parasites from the outside. Victorine Taillefer, however, was distinguished by an unhealthy whiteness, similar to the pallor of anemic girls; True, her inherent sadness and shyness, her pitiful, frail appearance suited the general suffering mood - the main tone of the whole picture, but her face was not old-looking, liveliness was evident in her movements and voice. This young wretch resembled a yellowed bush that had recently been transplanted into unsuitable soil. The yellowness of her face, her reddish-blond hair, and her excessively thin waist revealed the charm that modern poets see in medieval figurines. His black-gray eyes expressed meekness and Christian humility. Under a simple cheap dress, girlish forms were indicated. In comparison with others, one could call her pretty, and with a happy lot she would become delightful: the poetry of a woman is in her well-being, as in the toilet - her beauty. If only the fun of the ball would cast a pinkish glow on this pale face; if only the joy of an elegant life would round and redden slightly sunken cheeks; If only love animated these sad eyes, Victorina could easily compete in beauty with any, even the most beautiful, girl. She missed what regenerates a woman - rags and love letters. Her story could be the plot of an entire book.

Victorine's father found some reason not to recognize her as his daughter, refused to take her in and did not give her more than six hundred francs a year, and he turned all his property into such valuables as he could transfer entirely to his son. When Victorina's mother, having arrived before her death to visit her distant relative, the widow Couture, died of grief, Madame Couture began to take care of the orphan as if she were her own child. Unfortunately, the widow of the quartermaster commissar of the times of the Republic had absolutely nothing except a pension and a widow's allowance, and the poor, inexperienced, unprovided girl could someday be left without it to the mercy of fate. Every Sunday the good woman took Victorina to mass, every two weeks to confession, in order to educate her in piety in case of life’s adversities. And Madame Couture was quite right. Religious feelings opened up some kind of future for this rejected daughter, who loved her father and went to him every year, trying to convey forgiveness from her mother, but every year she came across an inexorably closed door in her father’s house. Her brother, the only possible mediator between her and her father, during all four years never came to see her and did not help her in any way. She prayed to God to open her father’s eyes, to soften her brother’s heart and, without judging them, she prayed for both. To describe their barbaric behavior, Madame Couture and Madame Vauquer could not find words in the swearing vocabulary. While they cursed the dishonest millionaire, Victorine uttered gentle words, similar to the cooing of a wounded dove, where even the groan sounds like love.

Eugene de Rastignac had a typical southerner's face: white skin, black hair, blue eyes. His manners, address, and habitual bearing reflected the scion of an aristocratic family, in which raising a child was reduced to instilling from an early age the ancient rules of good manners. Although Eugene had to take care of his dress and wear last year’s clothes on ordinary days, he could still sometimes leave the house dressed as befits a young dandy. And every day he wore an old frock coat, a bad vest, a cheap black tie, somehow tied and wrinkled, trousers in the same spirit and boots that had served for the second century, requiring only the expense of soles.

The mediating link between the two described individuals and the other residents was a man of forty with dyed sideburns - Mr. Vautrin. He belonged to those people about whom people say: “What a good fellow!” He had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, bulging muscles, fleshy, square hands, brightly marked on the phalanges of his fingers with thick tufts of fiery red hair. On his face, furrowed with early wrinkles, features of hard-heartedness appeared, which was contradicted by his friendly and courteous manner. The high bass, not devoid of pleasantness, fully corresponded to his rough gaiety. Vautrin was helpful and loved to laugh. If any lock turned out to be out of order, he immediately took it apart, repaired it, sharpened it, lubricated it and put it back together again, saying: “It’s a familiar thing.” However, he was familiar with everything: France, the sea, ships, foreign countries, transactions, people, events, laws, hotels and prisons. As soon as someone really complained about their fate, he immediately offered his services; more than once he lent money to Voke himself and to some boarders; but his debtors would rather die than not repay the debt - he inspired so much fear, despite his good-natured appearance, full of determination, with some special, deep look. His manner of spitting alone spoke of such imperturbable composure that, in a critical case, he probably would not have stopped at committing a crime. His gaze, like a stern judge, seemed to penetrate into the very depths of every question, every feeling, every conscience. His way of life was this: after breakfast he would leave, return for dinner, then disappear for the whole evening and come home around midnight, using, thanks to Madame Vauquer’s trust, a spare key. Only Vautrin achieved such mercy. He, however, was on the best terms with the widow, called her mother and hugged her waist - flattery she did not understand! The widow quite sincerely imagined that hugging her would be a simple matter, and yet only Vautrin had arms long enough to grasp such a heavy block. A characteristic feature: he, without stint, spent fifteen francs a month on a Gloria[17] and drank it with sweets. People not so superficial as these young people, caught up in the whirlwind of Parisian life, or these old people, indifferent to everything that did not directly concern them, would probably be made to think about the dual impression that Vautrin made. He knew or guessed about the affairs of everyone around him, and yet no one could comprehend either his occupation or his way of thinking. Putting ostentatious good nature, constant courtesy and a cheerful disposition as a barrier between others and himself, he at times made one feel the terrible strength of his character. He often burst into satire worthy of Juvenal, where he seemed to take pleasure in ridiculing laws, castigating high society, exposing internal inconsistency, and this made it possible to think that in his own soul there lived an evil resentment against the social order and in the depths of his life a great deal was carefully hidden. secret.

Mademoiselle Taillefer shared her furtive glances and secret thoughts between this forty-year-old man and the young student, out of attraction, perhaps unconscious, to the strength of one and the beauty of the other, but, apparently, neither one nor the other thought about her, although a simple game of chance could change Victorina’s position today or tomorrow and turn her into a rich bride. However, among all these individuals, no one took the trouble to check how much truth and how much fiction was contained in the misfortunes that any of them referred to. Everyone was indifferent to each other with a mixture of mistrust caused by their own position each individually. Everyone was aware of their powerlessness to alleviate the sorrows that oppressed them and, having exchanged stories about them, exhausted the cup of compassion. Like old spouses, they no longer had anything to talk about. Thus, their relationship was reduced only to external communication, to the movement of unoiled wheels. Any of them will pass by a blind beggar on the street without turning around, listen without emotion to a story about someone’s misfortune, and in the death of their neighbor they will see only a solution to the problem of poverty, which gave rise to their indifference to the most terrible agony. Among such devastated souls, the happiest of all was the widow Vauquer, who reigned in this private hospice house. The small garden, deserted in the cold, in the heat and in the slush, which then became deserted, like a steppe, seemed to her alone to be a cheerful grove. For her alone, this yellow gloomy house, smelling like a counter of cheap paint, had a charm. These cameras belonged to her. She fed these convicts, sentenced to eternal hard labor, and kept them in respectful obedience. Where else in Paris would these unfortunates find, at such a price, nourishing food and shelter, which it was their will to make, if not elegant or comfortable, then at least clean and not harmful to health? If Madame Vauquer allows herself a blatant injustice, the victim will bear it without a murmur.

In such a combination of people, all the components of human society should manifest themselves, and they did manifest themselves in a small form. As in schools, as in various circles, and here, among eighteen parasites, there turned out to be a wretched, outcast creature, a scapegoat, on whom ridicule rained down. At the beginning of the second year, it was this figure who came to the very forefront of Eugene Rastignac's mind out of everyone with whom he was destined to live for at least two years. The former noodle maker, Father Goriot, became such a laughing stock, and yet both the painter and the narrator would have focused all the lighting in their picture on his face. Where did this almost malicious neglect come from, this contemptuous persecution that befell the oldest tenant, this disrespect for the misfortune of others? Didn’t he himself give the reason, were there any oddities or funny habits in him that are more difficult for people to forgive than vices? All these issues are closely related to many social injustices. Perhaps it is human nature to test the patience of those who endure everything out of simple humility, or out of indifference, or out of weakness. Don't we love to show off our strength on anyone and anything? Even such a frail creature as a street boy, when it is frosty, rings all the entrance doorbells or climbs onto a monument that has not yet been soiled and writes his name on it.