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    The Red and the Black

    The Red and the Black

    3.4 20

    by Stendhal


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      ISBN-13: 9789897784309
    • Publisher: Pandora's Box
    • Publication date: 12/01/2017
    • Sold by: De Marque
    • Format: eBook
    • Sales rank: 54,550
    • File size: 752 KB

    Henri Marie Beyle, known through his writing as Stendhal, was born in Grenoble in 1783 and educated there at the École Centrale. A cousin offered him a post in the Ministry of War, and from 1800 he followed Napoleon’s campaigns in Italy, Germany, Russia and Austria. In between wars, he spent his time in Paris drawing rooms and theatres.

    After the fall of Napoleon, he retired to Italy, adopted his pseudonym and started to write books on Italian painting, Haydn and Mozart, and travels in Italy. In 1821 the Austrian police expelled him from the country, and on returning to Paris he finished his book De l’amour. This was followed by Racine et Shakespeare, a defense of Romantic literature. Le Rouge et le noir was his second novel, and he also produced or began three others, including La Chartreuse de Parme and Lucien Leuwen. None of his published works was received with any great understanding during his lifetime.

    Beyle was appointed Consul at Civitavecchia after the 1830 revolution, but his health deteriorated and six years later he was back in Paris and beginning a Life of Napoleon. In 1841 he was once again recalled for reasons of illness, and in the following year suffered a fatal stroke. Various autobiographical works, Journal, Souvenirs de l’egotisme and La Vie de Henri Brulard, were published later, as his fame grew.

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    Chapter one

    A Small Town

    Put thousands together
    Less bad,
    But the cage less gay.
    —Hobbes


    The little town of Verrières might be one of the prettiest in all Franche-Comté. Its white houses with their sharp-pointed roofs of red tile stretch down a hillside, every faint ripple in the long slope marked by thick clusters of chestnut trees. A few hundred feet below the ruins of the ancient fortress, built by the Spanish, runs the River Doubs.

    To the north, Verrières is sheltered by a great mountain, part of the Jura range. The first frosts of October cover these jagged peaks with snow. A stream that rushes down from the mountains, crossing through Verrières and then pouring itself into the Doubs, powers a good many sawmills—an immensely simple industry that provides a modest living for most of the inhabitants, more peasant than bourgeois. But the sawmills are not what brought prosperity to the little town. It was the production of printed calico cloth, known as “Mulhouse,” which ever since the fall of Napoleon has created widespread comfort and led to the refinishing of virtually every house in Verrières. Just inside the town, there is a stunning roar from a machine of frightful appearance. Twenty ponderous hammers, falling over and over with a crash that makes the ground tremble, are lifted by a wheel that the stream keeps in motion. Every one of these hammers, each and every day, turns out I don’t know how many thousands of nails. And it’s pretty, smooth-cheeked young girls who offer pieces of iron to these enormous hammers, which quickly transform them into nails. This operation, visibly harsh and violent, is one of the things that most astonishes a first-time traveler, poking his way into the mountains separating France and Switzerland. And if the traveler, entering Verrières, asks who owns this noble nail-making factory, deafening everyone who walks along the main street, he’ll be told, in the drawling accent of the region, “Ah—it belongs to His Honor the Mayor.”

    If the traveler spends just a moment or two on Verrières’s grand thoroughfare, which ascends along the bank of the Doubs right up to the top of the hill, the odds are a hundred to one he’ll see a tall man with an air both businesslike and important.

    As soon as he appears, every hat is respectfully raised. His hair is grizzled, he’s dressed in gray. He wears the insignia of several knightly orders; his forehead is lofty, his nose aquiline, and taking him all in all there’s a certain orderliness about him. At first sight, one even feels that he blends the dignity of mayoral status with the sort of charm still often to be found in a man of forty-five or fifty. But it does not take long for a Parisian traveler to be struck, most unfavorably, by clear signs of self-satisfaction and conceit, topped off by who knows what limitations, what lack of originality. Finally, one is aware that his talents are confined to making sure he is paid exactly what he is owed, while paying what he himself owes only at the last possible moment.

    This then is Monsieur de Rênal, mayor of Verrières. Crossing the street with solemn steps, he goes into City Hall and disappears from the traveler’s sight. But if the traveler keeps on walking, no more than another hundred paces up the hill he will see a distinguished-looking house and, if he looks through an adjoining wrought-iron gate, a very fine garden. Beyond that, he will see a horizon shaped by Burgundian hills, which seems to have been put there expressly for the purpose of pleasing the eye. This view will help the traveler forget the foul smell of petty financial transactions, which had begun to asphyxiate him.

    He is informed that this house belongs to Monsieur de Rênal. The mayor of Verrières owes this fine, just-completed dwelling, built of cut stone, to the profits earned by his noble nail factory. His family, it is explained, is Spanish, ancient, and (as the story is told) settled in the region long before Louis XIV conquered it.

    Ever since 1815, his status as an industrialist has embarrassed him. It was 1815 that made him mayor of Verrières. The terrace walls around the different parts of this magnificent garden, holding in place each of the different levels descending almost to the Doubs, are yet another reward for Monsieur de Rênal’s iron-trade business acumen.

    Nowhere in France can you hope to find the picturesque gardens surrounding Germany’s manufacturing towns—Leipzig, Frankfurt, Nuremberg, etc. In Franche-Comté, the more walls you put up, the more your property bristles with rocks heaped one on top of another, the more claim you have on your neighbors’ respect. Monsieur de Rênal’s gardens, packed with walls, are even more admired because he bought—for just about their weight in gold—the bits and pieces of land on which they lie. For example, the sawmill located so strangely right on the bank of the Doubs, which caught your eye as you entered Verrières, and on which you noticed the name sorel, written in gigantic letters on a board protruding over the roof, until six years ago had stood exactly where, at this very moment, they are building the wall for the fourth terrace of Monsieur de Rênal’s garden.

    For all his haughty pride, Monsieur de Rênal had been obliged to make a good many overtures to old Sorel, a tough, stubborn peasant; he had to count out a stack of handsome gold coins before the old man agreed to move his business elsewhere. As for the public stream that had powered the sawmill, Monsieur de Rênal relied on the influence he enjoyed in Paris to have it diverted. This official favor had come to him after the elections of 182-.

    To get one acre, he had given Sorel four, situated five hundred paces farther down the bank of the Doubs. And even though the new location was far more advantageous for his trade in pine boards, Père Sorel (as they call him, now that he’s a rich man) knew how to play on his neighbor’s pressing impatience, and his land-owning mania, squeezing out a sale price of six thousand francs.

    To be sure, the transaction was criticized by wiser heads in the area. Once, about four o’clock on a Sunday, coming home from church, dressed in his mayoral robes, Monsieur de Rênal saw in the distance old Sorel, surrounded by his three sons, watching him and smiling. That smile proved fatally illuminating to the mayor: he realized, from then on, that he could have bought the land for less.

    To earn a public reputation in Verrières, the essential thing—while of course building a great many walls—is not to adopt some design carried across the Jura gorges by Italian stonemasons, in their springtime pilgrimages to Paris. Any such innovation would earn the imprudent builder the unshakable taint of rebel; he would be forever after ruined in the eyes of the wise, moderate folk who parcel out reputation in Franche-Comté.

    In truth, these wise fellows wield an incredibly wearisome despotism, and it is precisely this wretched word that makes small towns unlivable for those who have been successful in that great republic we call Paris. The tyranny of opinion—and such opinion!—is every bit as idiotic in the small towns of France as it is in the United States of America.

    Reading Group Guide

    INTRODUCTION

    In The Red and the Black, Stendhal paints a sweeping portrait of early nineteenth-century France—its social classes, professions, politics, and manners—in Paris and the provinces. The novel's characters represent virtually every level of intelligence and sensibility, in a plot involving passion, intrigue, satire, and last-minute reversals. Changing scene and focus so often that it has frequently been called "cinematic," the novel is held together by Julien Sorel, whose life provides its structure. Julien leaves his provincial home to become a tutor, strives to raise himself professionally and socially, becomes embroiled in a series of romantic escapades, and finally faces a capital trial. Until Stendhal chose the enigmatic phrase Le rouge et le noir as the title just before the book's publication, he called the novel Julien. Although Julien is indisputably the novel's central character, whether we should see him as a hero is an open question. At the end of the novel, Stendhal places us in the same position as the jury at Julien's trial, in effect asking us to evaluate Julien and compare our verdict with the court's.

    Unlike omniscient narrators in the novels of George Eliot or Anthony Trollope, Stendhal's is a playful, often ironic presence rather than a reliable touchstone. The narrator of The Red and the Black declares his "intention is to flatter no one" (p. 58), a statement in keeping with the novel's epigraph "Truth, the bitter truth." However, "truth" proves far from straightforward. The epigraph is attributed to Georges Jacques Danton, the proponent of the French Revolution who was later guillotined, but Danton may never have said it. Many of the epigraphs that open each chapter are either very loose renditions of quotations or outright fabrications. Further, the narrator's moods and opinions prove almost as changeable as those of the characters, who frequently argue with themselves and change their minds two or three times within a chapter. Thus the narrator, after one of the first interviews between Julien and Mme. de Rênal, the married provincial woman who is Julien's first love, breaks in to say, "I confess that the weakness displayed by Julien in this soliloquy gives me a poor opinion of him" (p. 151). Yet in the novel's second half, when Julien muses over his affair with Mathilde de La Mole, the narrator remarks, "It was an inherent flaw in his character to be extremely sensitive to his own failings" (p. 346). The narrator consistently responds to Julien, but responds inconsistently.

    Stendhal seems to question the very possibility of truth in this novel, presenting characters who tirelessly interpret and reinterpret their own and others' actions—and who are often proved wrong. Reading itself is implicated in this process, as the characters compare events to books they have read, expecting life to imitate art. Julien is an avid reader with quixotic tendencies; in Julien's first scene in the novel, his father knocks his beloved copy of the Memorial of St. Helena, a biography of Napoleon, into the sawmill stream (p. 25). Throughout the novel, the story of Napoleon is central to Julien's idea of himself as a man of merit who can aspire to success despite his low birth. He draws almost all of his ideas, and many of his feelings, from his reading. When offered the position of tutor to the Rênals' sons, his "horror of eating with the servants" is "borrowed...from Rousseau's Confessions" (p. 28). While seducing Mme. de Rênal, he must "fortify himself by studying the inspired book [Memorial of St. Helena] that tempered and re-tempered his soul" (p. 61). In this respect, Mathilde de La Mole is his female counterpart. She takes her ideas of aristocratic grandeur from the family legend of Queen Marguerite, and when she thinks she has fallen in love with Julien, she pages through an internal card catalogue: "She mentally reviewed all the descriptions of passion she had read in Manon Lescaut, La Nouvelle Héloïse, Letters of a Portuguese Nun, etc., etc." (p. 325). The novel's portrayal of such bookishness is complex. The narrator blames it for destroying the "freedom of spirit" necessary for sincere love (p. 89), but he also takes great delight in the absurdities generated when characters are playing parts in separate dramas, declaring that "nothing could be more amusing" (pp. 361-362) than Julien and Mathilde's mutual misunderstanding.

    The novel's most crucial action, Julien's shooting of Mme. de Rênal for writing a letter to M. de La Mole exposing their affair, stems from Julien's idea of himself as an actor in a heroic drama. From his imprisonment until the end of the book, the question is whether Julien will find truth—his true self, his true love—before his execution. For the first time in the novel, the two women he has romanced, Mme. de Rênal and Mathilde de La Mole, are brought together. Mme. de Rênal embodies the simplicity and sincerity associated with the unspoiled aspects of the countryside, while Mathilde partakes of the sophistication and role-playing associated with Paris. Julien must choose between them as he chooses what to say at his trial. At the age of twenty-three, he must make a reckoning of his life and decide how to face death.

    At his trial, Julien declares to the jury that if he is executed it will be in order to "discourage for ever that class of young men who, born into an inferior class...have the good luck to obtain a good education and the audacity to mix in what the arrogance of the rich calls Society" (p. 505). To what extent does Stendhal intend us to accept this, and to what extent does he fault Julien's own arrogance and impulsiveness? As his execution nears, Julien thinks that "I have loved truth...Where is truth?...Everywhere hypocrisy, or at least charlatanism, even among the most virtuous, even among the greatest;...No, man cannot put his trust in man" (pp. 522-523). Yet even here the novel presents multiple ways of understanding his statement. Is Julien a man who finally "sees clearly into his own soul" (p. 525)? Or is he playing yet another part, that of the doomed but heroic young man declaiming against society, as he seems to suggest when he cries out that "two steps away from death, I am still a hypocrite" (p. 524)?

    Beyond the figure of Julien himself, Stendhal's presentation of a social world frequently dominated by lying, cheating, and stealing offers a hint of the author's possible intentions. In the course of the novel it is clear that the provinces, the seminaries, and the city are fundamentally alike in the types of behavior they breed and frequently reward. This multilayered, endlessly intriguing novel ends appropriately with Stendhal's dedication of the novel "To the happy few." We are left to determine the identity of the "few," the source and nature of their happiness, and whether we count Julien—and ourselves—among them.

    ABOUT STENDHAL

    "Stendhal" was the pen name of Henri Marie Beyle, born in Grenoble on January 23, 1783. He came from a solidly middle-class family; his father was a barrister and his mother the daughter of a physician. His mother died when he was seven, and he grew to adore her memory and hate what his father represented to him—bourgeois manners and the pursuit of money. Feeling trapped in his home, the boy developed a vivid imagination and a taste for daydreaming.

    At the age of seventeen, Stendhal went to Paris and soon joined Napoleon's army in Italy. Here, and in Paris after he resigned from the army in 1801, he enjoyed a number of romantic liaisons. He joined Napoleon's Ministry of War and later followed the emperor on campaigns in Germany and Russia. After Napoleon's defeat, Stendhal left for Italy and settled in Milan. He began to write books about art and music, and first used the pseudonym "Stendhal"—taken from a town in Prussia where an art critic he admired had been born—in 1817.

    He returned to Paris in 1821 and frequented its salons and theaters. He wrote a number of books in the next several years, including his first novel, Armance (1827), and Le rouge et le noir (1830). He was appointed Consul to Trieste after the 1830 revolution, and was soon sent to the town of Civitavecchia, outside Rome. Though he did not publish new works during this time, he wrote Souvenirs d' égotisme and began two books he did not complete—Lucien Leuwen, a novel, and Vie de Henri Brulard, an autobiography. All three were published posthumously. In 1836, he returned to Paris due to ill health and there, in 1838, dictated La Chartreuse de Parme (1839), one of the two novels for which he is best known, in just fifty-two days.

    Stendhal's health began to deteriorate sharply in early 1841, when he suffered an attack of apoplexy. He died of a stroke on March 23, 1842. During his lifetime, his fiction was little appreciated. Just before Stendhal's death, Honoré de Balzac published an article in praise of La Chartreuse de Parme, but it was many years before critics recognized Stendhal's works as worthy enough to set beside those of Balzac and Gustave Flaubert.

    DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  • According to the novel, is Mme. de Rênal better off after her affair with Julien (pp. 166-167)?
     
  • Why does Stendhal use military metaphors ("battle," "campaign," etc.) to describe Julien's romantic liaisons?
     
  • Does the narrator consider Julien's sensitive pride a virtue or a fault?
     
  • After one of his conversations with Mathilde de La Mole, Julien asks himself, "Must one steal? must one sell oneself? (p. 312)" What answers does the novel as a whole suggest to these questions?
     
  • Why do anonymous letters play such an important role in the novel?
     
  • At what point, if any, does Mathilde begin to genuinely care for Julien? Does he ever genuinely care for her?
     
  • Why is escaping boredom such a strong motivation for both Julien and Mathilde?
     
  • What distinction does the novel draw between "love generated in the mind" and "true love" (p. 373)?
     
  • Why does Julien shoot Mme. de Rênal (pp. 469-471)? According to the novel, to what extent is he to blame for doing so?
     
  • Why does Julien's love for Mme. de Rênal ultimately prove to be stronger than his love for Mathilde?
     
  • While awaiting his trial, why does Julien derive such pleasure from solitude?
     
  • At his trial, why is Julien able to speak spontaneously for the first time in his life?
     
  • Are we intended to agree when Julien thinks that he is still a hypocrite (p. 524)?
     
  • Why does Mathilde take Julien's head and bury it?
     
  • Who are the "happy few" to which the novel is dedicated (p. 532)?
     
  • For Further Reflection
  • Is it possible to achieve worldly success without sacrificing one's integrity?
     
  • To what extent does romantic love depend on mystery or deception?
     
  • Are the interests of a society and those of an individual necessarily in conflict?
     
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    Handsome and ambitious, Julien Sorel is determined to rise above his humble peasant origins and make something of his life-by adopting the code of hypocrisy by which his society operates. Julien ultimately commits a crime-out of passion, principle, or insanity-that will bring about his downfall. The Red and the Black is a lively, satirical picture of French Restoration society after Waterloo, riddled with corruption, greed, and ennui. The complex, sympathetic portrayal of Julien, the cold exploiter whose Machiavellian campaign is undercut by his own emotions, makes him Stendhal's most brilliant and human creation-and one of the greatest characters in European literature.

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