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    Sarrasine
    Sarrasine
    Sarrasine
    Ebook57 pages47 minutes

    Sarrasine

    By Honore de Balzac

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    "Sarrasine" by Honoré de Balzac
    Around midnight during a ball the narrator is sitting at a window, out of sight, admiring the garden. He overhears the conversations of passers-by regarding the origins of the wealth of the mansion's owner, Monsieur de Lanty. When a mystery man sits next to the narrator's guest, Beatrix de Rochefide, she touches him, and the narrator rushes her out of the room. The next evening, the narrator tells Mme de Rochefide about Ernest-Jean Sarrasine, a passionate, artistic boy, who after having trouble in school became a protégé of the sculptor Bouchardon.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateNov 20, 2019
    ISBN4057664159304
    Sarrasine
    Author

    Honore de Balzac

    Honoré de Balzac (geb. 20. Mai 1799 in Tours; gest. 18. August 1850 in Paris) war ein französischer Schriftsteller. In den Literaturgeschichten wird er, obwohl er eigentlich zur Generation der Romantiker zählt, mit dem 17 Jahre älteren Stendhal und dem 22 Jahre jüngeren Flaubert als Dreigestirn der großen Realisten gesehen. Sein Hauptwerk ist der rund 88 Titel umfassende, aber unvollendete Romanzyklus La Comédie humaine (dt.: Die menschliche Komödie), dessen Romane und Erzählungen ein Gesamtbild der Gesellschaft im Frankreich seiner Zeit zu zeichnen versuchen.

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      Book preview

      Sarrasine - Honore de Balzac

      Honoré de Balzac

      Sarrasine

      Published by Good Press, 2022

      goodpress@okpublishing.info

      EAN 4057664159304

      Table of Contents

      Translated by Clara Bell and others

      SARRASINE ADDENDUM

      SARRASINE

      ADDENDUM

      The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.

      Translated by Clara Bell and others

      Table of Contents

      DEDICATION

      To Monsieur Charles Bernard du Grail.

      Table of Contents

      SARRASINE

      ADDENDUM

      Table of Contents

      SARRASINE

      Table of Contents

      I was buried in one of those profound reveries to which everybody, even a frivolous man, is subject in the midst of the most uproarious festivities. The clock on the Elysee-Bourbon had just struck midnight. Seated in a window recess and concealed behind the undulating folds of a curtain of watered silk, I was able to contemplate at my leisure the garden of the mansion at which I was passing the evening. The trees, being partly covered with snow, were outlined indistinctly against the grayish background formed by a cloudy sky, barely whitened by the moon. Seen through the medium of that strange atmosphere, they bore a vague resemblance to spectres carelessly enveloped in their shrouds, a gigantic image of the famous Dance of Death. Then, turning in the other direction, I could gaze admiringly upon the dance of the living! a magnificent salon, with walls of silver and gold, with gleaming chandeliers, and bright with the light of many candles. There the loveliest, the wealthiest women in Paris, bearers of the proudest titles, moved hither and thither, fluttered from room to room in swarms, stately and gorgeous, dazzling with diamonds; flowers on their heads and breasts, in their hair, scattered over their dresses or lying in garlands at their feet. Light quiverings of the body, voluptuous movements, made the laces and gauzes and silks swirl about their graceful figures. Sparkling glances here and there eclipsed the lights and the blaze of the diamonds, and fanned the flame of hearts already burning too brightly. I detected also significant nods of the head for lovers and repellent attitudes for husbands. The exclamation of the card-players at every unexpected coup, the jingle of gold, mingled with music and the murmur of conversation; and to put the finishing touch to the vertigo of that multitude, intoxicated by all the seductions the world can offer, a perfume-laden atmosphere and general exaltation acted upon their over-wrought imaginations. Thus, at my right was the depressing, silent image of death; at my left the decorous bacchanalia of life; on the one side nature, cold and gloomy, and in mourning garb; on the other side, man on pleasure bent. And, standing on the borderland of those two incongruous pictures, which repeated thousands of times in diverse ways, make Paris the most entertaining and most philosophical city in the world, I played a mental macedoine[*], half jesting, half funereal. With my left foot I kept time to the music, and the other felt as if it were in a tomb. My leg was, in fact, frozen by one of those draughts which congeal one half of the body while the other suffers from the intense heat of the salons—a state of things not unusual at balls.

      [*] Macedoine, in the sense in which it is here used, is a

      game, or rather a series of games, of cards, each player,

      when it is his turn to deal, selecting the game to be

      played.

      Monsieur de Lanty has not owned this house very long, has he?

      Oh, yes! It is nearly ten years since the Marechal de Carigliano sold it to him.

      Ah!

      These people must have an enormous fortune.

      They surely must.

      What a magnificent party! It is almost insolent in its splendor.

      Do you imagine they are as rich as Monsieur de Nucingen or Monsieur de Gondreville?

      Why, don’t you know?

      I leaned forward and recognized the two persons who were

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