France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
I had no plans for the evening. Still I spent more than the usual time
in dressing myself. I did it with the greatest care, and, for the first
time, the knot of my cravat seemed to me a matter of great importance,
and I was very much absorbed in the process of tying it carefully. This
unexpected discovery brought in its train others equally important.
For example, I noticed that my shirt was ill cut, that the shirt front
wrinkled disgracefully at the opening of the vest; that my dress coat
looked very old and curiously out of style. In a word, I thought I
looked very ridiculous and promised myself to change all that in the
future. Without making elegant appearance an exacting and tyrannical
law of my life, it was quite permissible, I thought, to look like
the rest of the people. Simply because one dressed well, one was not
necessarily a fool.
These preoccupations consumed my time till the dinner hour. Usually I
ate at home, but this evening my apartment appeared to me so small, so
dismal; it suffocated me, and I felt the need of space, of noise, of
merriment.
At the restaurant I took an interest in everything: the coming and
going of people, the gilding on the ceiling, the large mirrors which
multiplied to infinity the parlors, waiters, electric globes, the
flowers on ladies hats, the counters on which were spread dressed
meats of all kinds, where pyramids of fruit, red and gold colored,
rose amid salads and sparkling glassware. I watched the women above
all, I studied their somewhat airy manner of eating, the joy in their
eyes, the movement of their ungloved arms encircled by heavy bracelets
of glittering gold, the exposed lines of their necks so delicate and
tender, which gradually receded into the bosom, under the roseate lace
napkin. This fascinated me, it affected me like something altogether
new, like a landscape of some distant country suddenly glimpsed. I was
wonder-struck, like a boy.
Ordinarily, impelled by the brooding disposition of my nature, I would
fasten my attention on the intimate moral life of a human being, that
is to say, I would point out its ugliness or suffering; at this moment,
on the contrary, I abandoned myself to the joy of solely perceiving
its physical charm: I was delighted to observe the magic spell cast
by the women; even in the ugliest one I found some little detail such
as a curve in the back of a neck, a languor in eyes, a suppleness of
hands--always something or other--which made me happy, and I reproached
myself for having until now arranged my life so badly, for having
isolated myself like a barbarian in a dark melancholy chamber, for not
having lived, while all this time Paris was offering me, at every
step, joys so easily attained and so sweet to relish.
"Is Monsieur perhaps waiting for someone?" the waiter asked me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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