the red inn-第1章

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The　Red　Inn



by　Honore　de　Balzac



Translated　by　Katharine　Prescott　Wormeley







DEDICATION



To　Monsieur　le　Marquis　de　Custine。









THE　RED　INN



In　I　know　not　what　year　a　Parisian　banker；　who　had　very　extensive

commercial　relations　with　Germany；　was　entertaining　at　dinner　one　of

those　friends　whom　men　of　business　often　make　in　the　markets　of　the

world　through　correspondence；　a　man　hitherto　personally　unknown　to

him。　This　friend；　the　head　of　a　rather　important　house　in　Nuremburg；

was　a　stout　worthy　German；　a　man　of　taste　and　erudition；　above　all　a

man　of　pipes；　having　a　fine；　broad；　Nuremburgian　face；　with　a　square

open　forehead　adorned　by　a　few　sparse　locks　of　yellowish　hair。　He　was

the　type　of　the　sons　of　that　pure　and　noble　Germany；　so　fertile　in

honorable　natures；　whose　peaceful　manners　and　morals　have　never　been

lost；　even　after　seven　invasions。



This　stranger　laughed　with　simplicity；　listened　attentively；　and　drank

remarkably　well；　seeming　to　like　champagne　as　much　perhaps　as　he　liked

his　straw…colored　Johannisburger。　His　name　was　Hermann；　which　is　that

of　most　Germans　whom　authors　bring　upon　their　scene。　Like　a　man　who

does　nothing　frivolously；　he　was　sitting　squarely　at　the　banker's

table　and　eating　with　that　Teutonic　appetite　so　celebrated　throughout

Europe；　saying；　in　fact；　a　conscientious　farewell　to　the　cookery　of

the　great　Careme。



To　do　honor　to　his　guest　the　master　of　the　house　had　invited　a　few

intimate　friends；　capitalists　or　merchants；　and　several　agreeable　and

pretty　women；　whose　pleasant　chatter　and　frank　manners　were　in　harmony

with　German　cordiality。　Really；　if　you　could　have　seen；　as　I　saw；　this

joyous　gathering　of　persons　who　had　drawn　in　their　commercial　claws；

and　were　speculating　only　on　the　pleasures　of　life；　you　would　have

found　no　cause　to　hate　usurious　discounts；　or　to　curse　bankruptcies。

Mankind　can't　always　be　doing　evil。　Even　in　the　society　of　pirates　one

might　find　a　few　sweet　hours　during　which　we　could　fancy　their

sinister　craft　a　pleasure…boat　rocking　on　the　deep。



〃Before　we　part；　Monsieur　Hermann　will；　I　trust；　tell　one　more　German

story　to　terrify　us？〃



These　words　were　said　at　dessert　by　a　pale　fair　girl；　who　had　read；　no

doubt；　the　tales　of　Hoffmann　and　the　novels　of　Walter　Scott。　She　was

the　only　daughter　of　the　banker；　a　charming　young　creature　whose

education　was　then　being　finished　at　the　Gymnase；　the　plays　of　which

she　adored。　At　this　moment　the　guests　were　in　that　happy　state　of

laziness　and　silence　which　follows　a　delicious　dinner；　especially　if

we　have　presumed　too　far　on　our　digestive　powers。　Leaning　back　in

their　chairs；　their　wrists　lightly　resting　on　the　edge　of　the　table；

they　were　indolently　playing　with　the　gilded　blades　of　their　dessert…

knives。　When　a　dinner　comes　to　this　declining　moment　some　guests　will

be　seen　to　play　with　a　pear　seed；　others　roll　crumbs　of　bread　between

their　fingers　and　thumbs；　lovers　trace　indistinct　letters　with

fragments　of　fruit；　misers　count　the　stones　on　their　plate　and　arrange

them　as　a　manager　marshals　his　supernumeraries　at　the　back　of　the

stage。　These　are　little　gastronomic　felicities　which　Brillat…Savarin；

otherwise　so　complete　an　author；　overlooked　in　his　book。　The　footmen

had　disappeared。　The　dessert　was　like　a　squadron　after　a　battle：　all

the　dishes　were　disabled；　pillaged；　damaged；　several　were　wandering

around　the　table；　in　spite　of　the　efforts　of　the　mistress　of　the　house

to　keep　them　in　their　places。　Some　of　the　persons　present　were　gazing

at　pictures　of　Swiss　scenery；　symmetrically　hung　upon　the　gray…toned

walls　of　the　dining…room。　Not　a　single　guest　was　bored；　in　fact；　I

never　yet　knew　a　man　who　was　sad　during　his　digestion　of　a　good

dinner。　We　like　at　such　moments　to　remain　in　quietude；　a　species　of

middle　ground　between　the　reverie　of　a　thinker　and　the　comfort　of　the

ruminating　animals；　a　condition　which　we　may　call　the　material

melancholy　of　gastronomy。



So　the　guests　now　turned　spontaneously　to　the　excellent　German；

delighted　to　have　a　tale　to　listen　to；　even　though　it　might　prove　of

no　interest。　During　this　blessed　interregnum　the　voice　of　a　narrator

is　always　delightful　to　our　languid　senses；　it　increases　their

negative　happiness。　I；　a　seeker　after　impressions；　admired　the　faces

about　me；　enlivened　by　smiles；　beaming　in　the　light　of　the　wax

candles；　and　somewhat　flushed　by　our　late　good　cheer；　their　diverse

expressions　producing　piquant　effects　seen　among　the　porcelain

baskets；　the　fruits；　the　glasses；　and　the　candelabra。



All　of　a　sudden　my　imagination　was　caught　by　the　aspect　of　a　guest　who

sat　directly　in　front　of　me。　He　was　a　man　of　medium　height；　rather　fat

and　smiling；　having　the　air　and　manner　of　a　stock…broker；　and

apparently　endowed　with　a　very　ordinary　mind。　Hitherto　I　had　scarcely

noticed　him；　but　now　his　face；　possibly　darkened　by　a　change　in　the

lights；　seemed　to　me　to　have　altered　its　character；　it　had　certainly

grown　ghastly；　violet　tones　were　spreading　over　it；　you　might　have

thought　it　the　cadaverous　head　of　a　dying　man。　Motionless　as　the

personages　painted　on　a　diorama；　his　stupefied　eyes　were　fixed　on　the

sparkling　facets　of　a　cut…glass　stopper；　but　certainly　without

observing　them；　he　seemed　to　be　engulfed　in　some　weird　contemplation

of　the　future　or　the　past。　When　I　had　long　examined　that　puzzling　face

I　began　to　reflect　about　it。　〃Is　he　ill？〃　I　said　to　myself。　〃Has　he

drunk　too　much　wine？　Is　he　ruined　by　a　drop　in　the　Funds？　Is　he

thinking　how　to　cheat　his　creditors？〃



〃Look！〃　I　said　to　my　neighbor；　pointing　out　to　her　the　face　of　the

unknown　man；　〃is　that　an　embryo　bankrupt？〃



〃Oh；　no！〃　she　answered；　〃he　would　be　much　gayer。〃　Then；　nodding　her

head　gracefully；　she　added；　〃If　that　man　ever　ruins　himself　I'll　tell

it　in　Pekin！　He　possesses　a　million　in　real　estate。　That's　a　former

purveyor　to　the　imperial　armies；　a　good　sort　of　man；　and　rather

original。　He　married　a　second　time　by　way　of　speculation；　but　for　all

that　he　makes　his　wife　extremely　happy。　He　has　a　pretty　daughter；　whom

he　refused　for　many　years　to　recognize；　but　the　death　of　his　son；

unfortunately　killed　in　a　duel；　has　compelled　him　to　take　her　home；

for　he　could　not　otherwise　have　children。　The　poor　girl　has　suddenly

become　one　of　the　richest　heiresses　in　Paris。　The　death　of　his　son

threw　the　poor　man　into　an　agony　of　grief；　which　sometimes　reappears

on　the　surface。〃



At　that　instant　the　purveyor　raised　his　eyes　and　rested　them　upon　me；

that　glance　made　me　quiver；　so　full　was　it　of　gloomy　thought。　But

suddenly　his　face　grew　lively；　he　picked　up　the　cut…glass　stopper　and

put　it；　with　a　mechanical　movement；　into　a　decanter　full　of　water　that

was　near　his　plate；　and　then　he　turned　to　Monsieur　Hermann　and　smiled。

After　all；　that　man；　now　beatified　by　gastronomical　enjoyments；　hadn't

probably　two　ideas　in　his　brain；　and　was　thinking　of　nothing。

Consequently　I　felt　rather　ashamed　of　wasting　my　powers　of　divination

〃in　anima　vili；〃of　a　doltish　financier。



While　I　was　thus　making；　at　a　dead　loss；　these　phrenological

observations；　the　worthy　German　had　lined　his　nose　with　a　good　pinch

of　snuff　and　was　now　beginning　his　tale。　It　would　be　difficult　to

reproduce　it　in　his　own　language；　with　his　frequent　interruptions　and

wordy　digressions。　Therefore；　I　now　write　it　down　in　my　own　way；

leaving　out　the　faults　of　the　Nuremburger；　and　taking　only　what　his

tale　may　have　had　of　interest　and　poesy　with　the　coolness　of　writers

who　forget　to　put　on　the　title　pages　of　their　books：　〃Translated　from

the　German。〃







THOUGHT　AND　ACT



Toward　the　end　of　Venemiaire；　year　VII。；　a　republican　period　which　in

the　present　day　corresponds　to　October　20；　1799；　two　young　men；

leaving　Bonn　in　the　early　morning；　had　reached　by　nightfall　the

environs　of　Andernach；　a　small　town　standing　on　the　left　bank　of　the

Rhine　a　few　leagues　from　Cob