feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_48_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 19
feat_summary_id: part 2, chapter 19
feat_summary: {"name": "Part 2, Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-19", "summary": "Mathilde finds Julien gross now, although she tries to figure out why she ever would have slept with him to begin with. She keeps trying to think of what a great young man he is, but then she remembers how foolishly he told her he loved her. While sketching one afternoon, Mathilde catches herself drawing a portrait of Julien. She thinks it's a sign, since she had no conscious awareness of what she was drawing. Later that night, Mathilde goes to the opera and hears a song about someone loving so much that it makes them crazy. She goes home and plays the song on the piano over and over, thinking about how glorious it is to be in love. Nonetheless, she feels that the best thing for her ego is to treat Julien like garbage. So that's what she does. Meanwhile, Julien doubts himself more and more. For the first time, he starts to wonder whether he's as great a man as he thinks he is. He even thinks about committing suicide. One night, Julien runs out to garden and uses the ladder to sneak up into Mathilde's room again. Once he's in the room, Mathilde jumps out of bed and runs into his arms. After they've had sex again, Mathilde cuts off a bunch of her hair and gives it to him as a reminder that she is his slave. She asks him to show her the hair if she ever steps out of line in the future. Julien hugs her one last time and scampers away. The next morning, Mathilde styles her hair in a way that hides that massive chunk she's cut off. Again though, she loses interest in him and doesn't give him the time of day.", "analysis": ""}
text: CHAPTER XLIX
  
  THE OPERA BOUFFE
  
  
      How the spring of love resembleth
      The uncertain glory of an April day,
      Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
      And by and by a cloud takes all away.--_Shakespeare_.
  
  
  Engrossed by thoughts of her future and the singular role which
  she hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to miss the dry metaphysical
  conversations which she had often had with Julien. Fatigued by
  these lofty thoughts she would sometimes also miss those moments of
  happiness which she had found by his side; these last memories were not
  unattended by remorse which at certain times even overwhelmed her.
  
  "But one may have a weakness," she said to herself, "a girl like I am
  should only forget herself for a man of real merit; they will not say
  that it is his pretty moustache or his skill in horsemanship which have
  fascinated me, but rather his deep discussions on the future of France
  and his ideas on the analogy between the events which are going to
  burst upon us and the English revolution of 1688."
  
  "I have been seduced," she answered in her remorse. "I am a weak
  woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a doll by exterior
  advantages."
  
  "If there is a revolution why should not Julien Sorel play the role of
  Roland and I the role of Madame Roland? I prefer that part to Madame de
  Stael's; the immorality of my conduct will constitute an obstacle in
  this age of ours. I will certainly not let them reproach me with an act
  of weakness; I should die of shame."
  
  Mathilde's reveries were not all as grave, one must admit, as the
  thoughts which we have just transcribed.
  
  She would look at Julien and find a charming grace in his slightest
  action.
  
  "I have doubtless," she would say, "succeeded in destroying in him the
  very faintest idea he had of any one else's rights."
  
  "The air of unhappiness and deep passion with which the poor boy
  declared his love to me eight days ago proves it; I must own it was
  very extraordinary of me to manifest anger at words in which there
  shone so much respect and so much of passion. Am I not his real wife?
  Those words of his were quite natural, and I must admit, were really
  very nice. Julien still continued to love me, even after those eternal
  conversations in which I had only spoken to him (cruelly enough I
  admit), about those weaknesses of love which the boredom of the life
  I lead had inspired me for those young society men of whom he is so
  jealous. Ah, if he only knew what little danger I have to fear from
  them; how withered and stereotyped they seem to me in comparison with
  him."
  
  While indulging in these reflections Mathilde made a random pencil
  sketch of a profile on a page of her album. One of the profiles she
  had just finished surprised and delighted her. It had a striking
  resemblance to Julien. "It is the voice of heaven. That's one of the
  miracles of love," she cried ecstatically; "Without suspecting it, I
  have drawn his portrait."
  
  She fled to her room, shut herself up in it, and with much application
  made strenuous endeavours to draw Julien's portrait, but she was unable
  to succeed; the profile she had traced at random still remained the
  most like him. Mathilde was delighted with it. She saw in it a palpable
  proof of the grand passion.
  
  She only left her album very late when the marquise had her called to
  go to the Italian Opera. Her one idea was to catch sight of Julien, so
  that she might get her mother to request him to keep them company.
  
  He did not appear, and the ladies had only ordinary vulgar creatures in
  their box. During the first act of the opera, Mathilde dreamt of the
  man she loved with all the ecstasies of the most vivid passion; but a
  love-maxim in the second act sung it must be owned to a melody worthy
  of Cimarosa pierced her heart. The heroine of the opera said "You must
  punish me for the excessive adoration which I feel for him. I love him
  too much."
  
  From the moment that Mathilde heard this sublime song everything in
  the world ceased to exist. She was spoken to, she did not answer; her
  mother reprimanded her, she could scarcely bring herself to look at
  her. Her ecstasy reached a state of exultation and passion analogous
  to the most violent transports which Julien had felt for her for some
  days. The divinely graceful melody to which the maxim, which seemed
  to have such a striking application to her own position, was sung,
  engrossed all the minutes when she was not actually thinking of Julien.
  Thanks to her love for music she was on this particular evening like
  madame de Renal always was, when she thought of Julien. Love of the
  head has doubtless more intelligence than true love, but it only has
  moments of enthusiasm. It knows itself too well, it sits in judgment on
  itself incessantly; far from distracting thought it is made by sheer
  force of thought.
  
  On returning home Mathilde, in spite of madame de la Mole's
  remonstrances, pretended to have a fever and spent a part of the night
  in going over this melody on her piano. She sang the words of the
  celebrated air which had so fascinated her:--
  
       Devo punirmi, devo punirmi.
       Se troppo amai, etc.
  
  As the result of this night of madness, she imagined that she had
  succeeded in triumphing over her love. This page will be prejudicial
  in more than one way to the unfortunate author. Frigid souls will
  accuse him of indecency. But the young ladies who shine in the Paris
  salons have no right to feel insulted at the supposition that one of
  their number might be liable to those transports of madness which have
  been degrading the character of Mathilde. That character is purely
  imaginary, and is even drawn quite differently from that social code
  which will guarantee so distinguished a place in the world's history to
  nineteenth century civilization.
  
  The young girls who have adorned this winter's balls are certainly not
  lacking in prudence.
  
  I do not think either that they can be accused of being unduly scornful
  of a brilliant fortune, horses, fine estates and all the guarantees
  of a pleasant position in society. Far from finding these advantages
  simply equivalent to boredom, they usually concentrate on them their
  most constant desires and and devote to them such passion as their
  hearts possess.
  
  Nor again is it love which is the dominant principle in the career of
  young men who, like Julien, are gifted with some talent; they attach
  themselves with an irresistible grip to some coterie, and when the
  coterie succeeds all the good things of society are rained upon them.
  Woe to the studious man who belongs to no coterie, even his smallest
  and most doubtful successes will constitute a grievance, and lofty
  virtue will rob him and triumph. Yes, monsieur, a novel is a mirror
  which goes out on a highway. Sometimes it reflects the azure of the
  heavens, sometimes the mire of the pools of mud on the way, and the
  man who carries this mirror in his knapsack is forsooth to be accused
  by you of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the
  mirror! Rather accuse the main road where the mud is, or rather the
  inspector of roads who allows the water to accumulate and the mud to
  form.
  
  Now that it is quite understood that Mathilde's character is impossible
  in our own age, which is as discreet as it is virtuous, I am less
  frightened of offence by continuing the history of the follies of this
  charming girl.
  
  During the whole of the following day she looked out for opportunities
  of convincing herself of her triumph over her mad passion. Her great
  aim was to displease Julien in everything; but not one of his movements
  escaped her.
  
  Julien was too unhappy, and above all too agitated to appreciate so
  complicated a stratagem of passion. Still less was he capable of
  seeing how favourable it really was to him. He was duped by it. His
  unhappiness had perhaps never been so extreme. His actions were so
  little controlled by his intellect that if some mournful philosopher
  had said to him, "Think how to exploit as quickly as you can those
  symptoms which promise to be favourable to you. In this kind of
  head-love which is seen at Paris, the same mood cannot last more than
  two days," he would not have understood him. But however ecstatic he
  might feel, Julien was a man of honour. Discretion was his first duty.
  He appreciated it. Asking advice, describing his agony to the first
  man who came along would have constituted a happiness analogous to
  that of the unhappy man who, when traversing a burning desert receives
  from heaven a drop of icy water. He realised the danger, was frightened
  of answering an indiscreet question by a torrent of tears, and shut
  himself up in his own room.
  
  He saw Mathilde walking in the garden for a long time. When she at last
  left it, he went down there and approached the rose bush from which she
  had taken a flower.
  
  The night was dark and he could abandon himself to his unhappiness
  without fear of being seen. It was obvious to him that mademoiselle de
  la Mole loved one of those young officers with whom she had chatted so
  gaily. She had loved him, but she had realised his little merit, "and
  as a matter of fact I had very little," Julien said to himself with
  full conviction. "Taking me all round I am a very dull, vulgar person,
  very boring to others and quite unbearable to myself." He was mortally
  disgusted with all his good qualities, and with all the things which he
  had once loved so enthusiastically; and it was when his imagination was
  in this distorted condition that he undertook to judge life by means of
  its aid. This mistake is typical of a superior man.
  
  The idea of suicide presented itself to him several times; the idea was
  full of charm, and like a delicious rest; because it was the glass of
  iced water offered to the wretch dying of thirst and heat in the desert.
  
  "My death will increase the contempt she has for me," he exclaimed.
  "What a memory I should leave her."
  
  Courage is the only resource of a human being who has fallen into this
  last abyss of unhappiness. Julien did not have sufficient genius to say
  to himself, "I must dare," but as he looked at the window of Mathilde's
  room he saw through the blinds that she was putting out her light. He
  conjured up that charming room which he had seen, alas! once in his
  whole life. His imagination did not go any further.
  
  One o'clock struck. Hearing the stroke of the clock and saying to
  himself, "I will climb up the ladder," scarcely took a moment.
  
  It was the flash of genius, good reasons crowded on his mind. "May I be
  more fortunate than before," he said to himself. He ran to the ladder.
  The gardener had chained it up. With the help of the cock of one of
  his little pistols which he broke, Julien, who for the time being was
  animated by a superhuman force, twisted one of the links of the chain
  which held the ladder. He was master of it in a few minutes, and placed
  it against Mathilde's window.
  
  "She will be angry and riddle me with scornful words! What does it
  matter? I will give her a kiss, one last kiss. I will go up to my room
  and kill myself ... my lips will touch her cheek before I die."
  
  He flew up the ladder and knocked at the blind; Mathilde heard him
  after some minutes and tried to open the blind but the ladder was in
  the way. Julien hung to the iron hook intending to keep the blind open,
  and at the imminent risk of falling down, gave the ladder a violent
  shake which moved it a little. Mathilde was able to open the blind.
  
  He threw himself into the window more dead than alive.
  
  "So it is you, dear," she said as she rushed into his arms.
  
         *       *       *       *       *
  
  The excess of Julien's happiness was indescribable. Mathilde's almost
  equalled his own.
  
  She talked against herself to him and denounced herself.
  
  "Punish me for my awful pride," she said to him, clasping him in her
  arms so tightly as almost to choke him. "You are my master, dear, I
  am your slave. I must ask your pardon on my knees for having tried to
  rebel." She left his arms to fall at his feet. "Yes," she said to him,
  still intoxicated with happiness and with love, "you are my master,
  reign over me for ever. When your slave tries to revolt, punish her
  severely."
  
  In another moment she tore herself from his arms, and lit a candle,
  and it was only by a supreme effort that Julien could prevent her from
  cutting off a whole tress of her hair.
  
  "I want to remind myself," she said to him, "that I am your handmaid.
  If I am ever led astray again by my abominable pride, show me this hair
  and say, 'It is not a question of the emotion which your soul may be
  feeling at present, you have sworn to obey, obey on your honour.'"
  
  But it is wiser to suppress the description of so intense a transport
  of delirious happiness.
  
  Julien's unselfishness was equal to his happiness. "I must go down by
  the ladder," he said to Mathilde, when he saw the dawn of day appear
  from the quarter of the east over the distant chimneys beyond the
  garden. "The sacrifice that I impose on myself is worthy of you. I
  deprive myself of some hours of the most astonishing happiness that a
  human soul can savour, but it is a sacrifice I make for the sake of
  your reputation. If you know my heart you will appreciate how violent
  is the strain to which I am putting myself. Will you always be to me
  what you are now? But honour speaks, it suffices. Let me tell you that
  since our last interview, thieves have not been the only object of
  suspicion. M. de la Mole has set a guard in the garden. M. Croisenois
  is surrounded by spies: they know what he does every night."
  
  Mathilde burst out laughing at this idea. Her mother and a chamber-maid
  were woken up, they suddenly began to speak to her through the door.
  Julien looked at her, she grew pale as she scolded the chamber-maid,
  and she did not deign to speak to her mother. "But suppose they think
  of opening the window, they will see the ladder," Julien said to her.
  
  He clasped her again in his arms, rushed on to the ladder, and slid,
  rather than climbed down; he was on the ground in a moment.
  
  Three seconds after the ladder was in the avenue of pines, and
  Mathilde's honour was saved. Julien returned to his room and found that
  he was bleeding and almost naked. He had wounded himself in sliding
  down in that dare-devil way.
  
  Extreme happiness had made him regain all the energy of his character.
  If twenty men had presented themselves it would have proved at this
  moment only an additional pleasure to have attacked them unaided.
  Happily his military prowess was not put to the proof. He laid the
  ladder in its usual place and replaced the chain which held it. He did
  not forget to efface the mark which the ladder had left on the bed of
  exotic flowers under Mathilde's window.
  
  As he was moving his hand over the soft ground in the darkness and
  satisfying himself that the mark had entirely disappeared, he felt
  something fall down on his hands. It was a whole tress of Mathilde's
  hair which she had cut off and thrown down to him.
  
  She was at the window.
  
  "That's what your servant sends you," she said to him in a fairly loud
  voice, "It is the sign of eternal gratitude. I renounce the exercise of
  my reason, be my master."
  
  Julien was quite overcome and was on the point of going to fetch the
  ladder again and climbing back into her room. Finally reason prevailed.
  
  Getting back into the hotel from the garden was not easy. He succeeded
  in forcing the door of a cellar. Once in the house he was obliged to
  break through the door of his room as silently as possible. In his
  agitation he had left in the little room which he had just abandoned so
  rapidly, the key which was in the pocket of his coat. "I only hope she
  thinks of hiding that fatal trophy," he thought.
  
  Finally fatigue prevailed over happiness, and as the sun was rising he
  fell into a deep sleep.
  
  The breakfast bell only just managed to wake him up. He appeared in the
  dining-room. Shortly afterwards Mathilde came in. Julien's pride felt
  deliciously flattered as he saw the love which shone in the eyes of
  this beautiful creature who was surrounded by so much homage; but soon
  his discretion had occasion to be alarmed.
  
  Making an excuse of the little time that she had had to do her hair,
  Mathilde had arranged it in such a way that Julien could see at the
  first glance the full extent of the sacrifice that she had made for his
  sake, by cutting off her hair on the previous night.
  
  If it had been possible to spoil so beautiful a face by anything
  whatsoever, Mathilde would have succeeded in doing it. A whole tress
  of her beautiful blonde hair was cut off to within half an inch of the
  scalp.
  
  Mathilde's whole manner during breakfast was in keeping with this
  initial imprudence. One might have said that she had made a specific
  point of trying to inform the whole world of her mad passion for
  Julien. Happily on this particular day M. de la Mole and the marquis
  were very much concerned about an approaching bestowal of "blue
  ribbons" which was going to take place, and in which M. de Chaulnes was
  not comprised. Towards the end of the meal, Mathilde, who was talking
  to Julien, happened to call him "My Master." He blushed up to the
  whites of his eyes.
  
  Mathilde was not left alone for an instant that day, whether by chance
  or the deliberate policy of madame de la Mole. In the evening when she
  passed from the dining-room into the salon, however, she managed to say
  to Julien: "You may be thinking I am making an excuse, but mamma has
  just decided that one of her women is to spend the night in my room."
  
  This day passed with lightning rapidity. Julien was at the zenith of
  happiness. At seven o'clock in the morning of the following day he
  installed himself in the library. He hoped the mademoiselle de la Mole
  would deign to appear there; he had written her an interminable letter.
  He only saw her several hours afterwards at breakfast. Her hair was
  done to-day with the very greatest care; a marvellous art had managed
  to hide the place where the hair had been cut. She looked at Julien
  once or twice, but her eyes were polite and calm, and there was no
  question of calling him "My Master."
  
  Julien's astonishment prevented him from breathing--Mathilde was
  reproaching herself for all she had done for him. After mature
  reflection, she had come to the conclusion that he was a person who,
  though not absolutely commonplace, was yet not sufficiently different
  from the common ruck to deserve all the strange follies that she
  had ventured for his sake. To sum up she did not give love a single
  thought; on this particular day she was tired of loving.
  
  As for Julien, his emotions were those of a child of sixteen. He was a
  successive prey to awful doubt, astonishment and despair during this
  breakfast which he thought would never end.
  
  As soon as he could decently get up from the table, he flew rather than
  ran to the stable, saddled his horse himself, and galloped off. "I
  must kill my heart through sheer force of physical fatigue," he said
  to himself as he galloped through the Meudon woods. "What have I done,
  what have I said to deserve a disgrace like this?"
  
  "I must do nothing and say nothing to-day," he thought as he re-entered
  the hotel. "I must be as dead physically as I am morally." Julien saw
  nothing any more, it was only his corpse which kept moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Part 2, Chapter 19
target: Mathilde finds Julien gross now, although she tries to figure out why she ever would have slept with him to begin with. She keeps trying to think of what a great young man he is, but then she remembers how foolishly he told her he loved her. While sketching one afternoon, Mathilde catches herself drawing a portrait of Julien. She thinks it's a sign, since she had no conscious awareness of what she was drawing. Later that night, Mathilde goes to the opera and hears a song about someone loving so much that it makes them crazy. She goes home and plays the song on the piano over and over, thinking about how glorious it is to be in love. Nonetheless, she feels that the best thing for her ego is to treat Julien like garbage. So that's what she does. Meanwhile, Julien doubts himself more and more. For the first time, he starts to wonder whether he's as great a man as he thinks he is. He even thinks about committing suicide. One night, Julien runs out to garden and uses the ladder to sneak up into Mathilde's room again. Once he's in the room, Mathilde jumps out of bed and runs into his arms. After they've had sex again, Mathilde cuts off a bunch of her hair and gives it to him as a reminder that she is his slave. She asks him to show her the hair if she ever steps out of line in the future. Julien hugs her one last time and scampers away. The next morning, Mathilde styles her hair in a way that hides that massive chunk she's cut off. Again though, she loses interest in him and doesn't give him the time of day.