As they were leaving the Bank, the Laforcades caught sight of the fat Grünberg, who made a brief appearance in the office of the head cashier.
“Well, where are we with the Central Bank?”
“46,000 shares, in round numbers,” the cashier replied. “I’ve added it up, Monsieur le Baron.”
“In two days! A fine issue!” said Grünberg, rubbing his hands.
“No, not subscriptions—reimbursements, Monsieur le Baron, reimbursements!”
“Am I stupid? I’m confused, losing my mind! Oh, my hounds, my carriages! And the Macedonian Loan? Same thing, isn’t it? Don’t call me Monsieur le Baron any longer—I’m no longer a Baron. O bitterness!—I’m no longer even a prince of finance. My former sons-in-law, the Marquis and the Comte, are no longer speaking to me, and I’ve been expelled from the Jockey Club! Catastrophe of catastrophes!”
“When shall we ever recover? What times, Monsieur le Baron, what times!”
“And I’ve got my six months to serve again, to cap it all!”
CHAPTER XII
The New Era Encounters a Few Malcontents
and Detractors
Backwards, the journal founded by ex-Academician Palluel, had immediately found favor with the public. It expressed so clearly, in its title, an idea and a program that was in everyone’s mind! Its editorial content echoed the sentiment of many men who, enlightened by hardship and long and repetitive experience, took account of the earlier era’s mistakes in the breathless course of false progress, in the dogged forward pursuit of the deceptive chimera of a Golden or Silver Age that was long since past!
Backwards was a success. It was already the most widely-read of all the great organs of opinion, with a bigger circulation than the Presse, which Emile Girardin had re-launched, or the Constitutionnel. People expected to see the Quotidienne again imminently, which would doubtless promulgate very nearly the same ideas, but Palluel’s journal had got in ahead, and its long-term fashionability was assured.
Palluel was in his cluttered office, in which mountains of newspapers and pieces of paper were heaped up in every corner and on all the furniture, seats as well as tables. Younger than ever, brisk and lively, with his blond mane in disorder, he was weaving between the heaps of papers, chatting nervously with Montarcy, who was seated at the table. The famous savant was also radiant with recovered youth, his eyes as bright and piercing as blades, his forehead—the forge of thought, of which the eyes seemed to be the fire—still vast beneath a dense shock of black hair.
“Everyone seems to be in agreement on the matter, my dear Montarcy,” Palluel said. “Yes, you were right; life was badly designed before, in its old form. It was doubtless just a trial, an experiment, and the true form is today’s. Yes, far too often, and to too great an extent, life proceeded from one sorrow to another, finally to end in despair. While the new life…. What advantages there are for everyone in the new life, what general benefits! In spite of a few petty inconveniences, it’s impossible to deny the superiority of the advantages and benefits. Isn’t it much better, as nowadays, to begin everything with its end result?”
“Peace of mind.”
“And modifications of every sort, rendered possible by experience.”
“Let us ameliorate the past! That should be the motto of every thinking man!”
“Yes, so many benefits. One chooses the true friends, formerly so often misunderstood, the sincere hearts that one spurned, alas, through ignorance or disdain, and one casts aside the false and fragile friendships that ring hollow, the affected sentiments. One disposes of harmful ambitions.”
“One disdains futile concerns, as one discards activity without serious purpose; one distinguishes the true joys and pleasures more easily…”
“And the beloved individuals who are reborn! Invalids to begin with, they gradually return to a state of health before the delighted eyes of their nearest and dearest—that is the true convalescence!”
“For the old vanquished by life, my dear Palluel, what revenge! For the poor creatures laid low by storms, who languish wounded and disabled, lamentable wrecks on the sharp rocks, it’s a return to initial hopefulness, to beautiful illusions that send their sufferings to sleep.”
“Everything is definitely better—all is well!”
“All is certainly well,” said a gentleman who had put his head around the half-open door, “but would you care, Monsieur Palluel, to give a hearing to someone I have here.”
“Come in,” said Palluel. “My dear Montarcy, do you know Monsieur Dorigny, the secretary of the editorial board? A former politician, municipal councilor, deputy, revolutionary, convict, ambassador and God knows what else.”
“Former anything and everything,” said Dorigny, “but now returned to his first love, journalism! God, how bored I sometimes was in my high offices, and how I annoyed my fellows! O ambition, what stupid things you make us do! But this isn’t about me—there are people here who are not content. You must take it upon yourself to prove to them that everything is for the best now, in the best of ameliorated worlds.”
“We shall try!” Palluel lowered his voice. “Dorigny was a good fellow, you see, not short of a sou or two, a man of letters, thrust by a freak of chance into politics, for which he wasn’t suited. He was forced to become swell-headed to maintain the role he’d taken on. He had 30 years of restlessness, disillusionments galore, fastidious speeches to write and deliver, shady deeds to carry out, over which he had to fight duels and commit other violent acts, acquiring high situations from whose summits he often found himself rapidly precipitated because he could not hang on to them securely enough, years in prison, etc., etc. He’s beginning to catch his breath since being reborn and returning to his point of departure.”
“Still plagued by all the pebbles on the road,” said Dorigny, coming back into Palluel’s office with a thin, bony man who came forward with his head bowed, wearing an anxious expression, twiddling his long grey beard.
“Monsieur Crozel,” said the editorial secretary. “The famous Crozel—the painter who had so much talent.”
“So much talent!” said Crozel, bitterly. “I’m delighted to hear you say it, but I’ve only just learned of it, and it was noticed a trifle belatedly…”
“Have you returned recently, Monsieur Crozel?” asked Montarcy.
“Scarcely a week ago, and you see me still dazed by the event, and by everything that I’ve learned. At first, I thought it was a joke, when I was told about the incredible fortune of my works.”
“Ever modest, Monsieur Crozel—that did you no good before…”
“Don’t put the blame on me! Anyway, imagine how flabbergasted I was when I was shown volumes of articles of art criticism—gentlemen building chapels or temples, burning buckets of incense in my honor, when they or their predecessors previously did not deign to look at my poor canvases! And when I saw the prices they were fetching! Eh? What? How Much? 80,000… 100,000… sous? Centimes? No! Well, it’s too much.”
“What, you aren’t happy?” cried Dorigny.
“I certainly am not happy! Why, they nearly let me die of starvation in my little garret! For year after year I dragged all the devils in hell by their tails, quite happy to trade one of those paintings occasionally for a slice of bread, which are now selling for their weight in banknotes! Monsieur, I would have painted signs if anyone had cared to commission me to do it! Why, there are gallery owners who gave me 150 francs for my canvases, almost out of charity, when there was no food in the house or when my things were seized—because the bailiffs knew my address very well—who are now selling them on for a cool 500,000! And I should be happy?”
“Personally, I think so,” said Dorigny. “Another thing—did you know that you’re in the Louvre?”
“And they flung me out of the door of Salons, or put me in the corners!”
“And they’ve sold a million copies of your mast…”
“Don’t say another word! They refused to give me 500 francs f
or it, the Pactolus glimpsed in my most venturesome dreams! And then, on top of that, I have to begin my life of hardship, torment and bailiffs all over again? I have to start dying of starvation again? What won’t I have to do? All the pleasure that I might have had in rediscovering my brushes, my canvases, my illusions, my artistic joy, my old hopes—always dashed but always reborn—all that happiness is spoiled for me by what I’ve learned! You speak to me of masterpieces, but it appears that people are going back, as regards painting, to the ideas that people had in my time, and that my reputation will decline, my masterpieces becoming mere trifles once again. And I should be happy? To be hoisted so high by fashion or speculation in art on the Bourse, only to be squashed al over again! To climb to 100,000 francs only to return to 25,50 francs!”
“But we’ll support you!” cried Palluel. “Rely on our journal, founded for the study, and also for the amelioration of the past, with the aim of preserving us from all the errors into which it previously fell!”
Crozel shook his head sadly. “And do you know,” he whispered into Palluel’s ear as the latter showed him out, “among all the paintings that I’ve seen with my name in golden letters on the frame and my signature, there are many that I don’t recognize…”
“Here’s our art critic now,” said Palluel. “I’ll introduce you to him, don’t worry… Monsieur Crozel, dear friend, the great painter; Monsieur Brignol, who vigorously defends the principles of true art in our journal Backwards.”
“Monsieur Crozel?” said the critic, with the air of a man to whom that name did not mean very much.
“Ah!” said Palluel. “Yes, our friend Brignol is a little ahead of his time; he’s from the grande époque, a little before you, Monsieur Crozel…”
“Ah! Very good. Yes, it’s coming back to me now!” said the critic, striking his forehead. “Laudable, certainly, your work, but I can distinguish dangerous tendencies therein… Beware of what follows! That which is excellent engenders that which is less good, you know, and that engenders that which, etc., etc… Delighted to offer you my compliments, however. Actually, art is on a better path; it is reversing unfortunate tendencies. As I was saying to this gentleman, who is a very important collector…”
The painter Crozel looked anxiously at the important collector: a middle-aged gentleman with bleak eyes and pursed lips slumped in an armchair.
“Ex-collector!” sighed the gentleman.
“You have no Crozels in your gallery?”
“I had no Crozels in it; I came along afterwards. I said, or rather, someone said to me: art, always moving, never stationary, proceeds in stages… It’s necessary to look forwards!”
“Shh!” said Palluel. “Don’t pronounce that word here—it’s been making us do stupid things for 5000 or 6000 years.”
“Stupid is the right word! It’s necessary to look forwards, I said to myself; already the modernists…”
“Another dirty word…”
“All right! I’ll go on… Already the modernists, realists, plenarists and others are no longer in the movement; art has entered a new stage. I therefore devoted myself to subtle pointillists, luminists, stainers, splashers, smearers and other impressionists.”
“Pardon?” said the critic. “You mean that you let in the people who make landscapes in confetti, or who serve up color with a trowel, like roughcast plaster, whose works nevertheless imitate true paintings seen from a distance of thirty-five meters…”
“What do you expect? So much was said to me about it. Extreme sensibility, acuity of vision, spectral analysis, prismatic…fluidity…ambiance—oh, ambiance! And the decomposition of light, the vibration of light, the orchestration of light, the waltz of atoms in light, etc., etc… It seemed that there was all of that in their canvases, it was clearly visible art the time—but the time has passed, and nothing is visible there today but dancing landscapes, trees that are little brooms, viscous waters like dissolved sealing-wax, decomposing faces turning green or purple, zigzags of color, gashes of more-or-less ill-judged shades, palette-splashes on slack and indecisive lines… And I’ve laid out for that, Monsieur, thus far, 800,000 francs! Today, with the change… Oh, don’t tell me how much it would fetch at auction! Don’t you find my fate deplorable?”
“Profoundly deplorable! I pity you, Monsieur, we all pity you, but without excusing you, for no one threw you into it by a criminal act—you did it all by yourself…”
“And the worst thing, Monsieur, the very worst, is that in forcing myself to do it, I never succeeded in finding the slightest pleasure in looking at those masterpieces, which cost me my eyes and my head! I racked my brains, I recited passages from books and articles every morning, decreeing that before Messieurs X, Y and Z there had never been any but vulgar daubers and sculptors incapable of cutting up a simple horse-chestnut properly—but nothing worked; in my inmost depths I remained so cold that I castigated myself furiously and almost despised myself! Imagine my state of mind now the decline has come! What can be done? It’s necessary to put an end to it all, though, and I’ve come to ask you to put the following advertisement in your estimable journal:
“HURRY—GREAT OPPORTUNITY—Seek to exchange a collection of ultra-modern paintings—including tachists, sensationists, confettists, vibrists, etc., twelve dozen canvases in total, as new condition, cost 800,000 francs plus—for three landscapes by Bidauld and three by Valenciennes.
“I need to look at works by the most Bidauldian of Bidaulds and Valenciennes, in the fine style.”19
“Of course!” cried the art critic. “But what of expiation, sir? Twelve dozen… The hair is standing up on my head! At whatever risk—malady, contagion, melancholy or delirium—you must keep your twelve dozen!”
“Have pity! I think I might place them with the father of a family… Values are bound to go up, and go up continually, since they’ve been seen at 4,50 francs a meter…”
“Keep your twelve dozen!”
“Not in perpetuity, Monsieur, not in perpetuity! If I don’t find a kind soul to make the exchange, I’ll hang all the canvases in the rooms of our maidservants…”
“Have you a grudge against your maidservants?” asked Palluel, angrily.
The unfortunate collector released a long sigh and got to his feet wearily. Crozel shook his head and headed for the door. They were heard moaning in chorus as they went through the editorial offices, beginning to describe their troubles to one another.
The critic had begun chatting with another editor; his mind boggled at the mere thought of twelve dozen vibrist paintings; he shivered in terror and then became indignant. Only a few snatches of sentences were audible: “We of the bonne époque… We are certainly not academicians… Rather man the pumps, Monsieur… No, never! And Delacroix, did he not vibrate light? In every work of art, I ask to see artistry… Realism? Modernism? Indifference to motif? Never! I’ve heard mention of a little modern invention, photography… Much better than them… They’re rogues! Nature seen with sincerity in impressionist painting, come on!”
The other editor attempted to speak; he tried continually to insert a few words between Brignol’s sentences, but the latter was not listening and maintained the upper hand: “Géricault… Delacroix… Descamps… But then, if those people were in the right, it would be necessary to run off and set fire to the Louvre, Monsieur, and all the museums…. Holland, Italy, Germany, my friend…”
“Yes! Yes!” said the dear friend. “Perfectly… Quite right… Of course! It’s like their literature… Hold on…”
“That’s the editor in charge of literary criticism,” whispered Palluel to Montarcy. “Another one from the bonne époque!”
“Of course!” the man from the bonne époque eventually said, profiting from a moment when his friend paused to drawn breath. “Do you think that literature hasn’t had its maladies too? You can observe the present taste for the excessively sweet, for the insipid, for pure Berquinades.20 Necessity of convalescence, my good friend! There is nothing unctuous enou
gh for our palace, ravaged and corroded by the naturalist and ordurist malady born of social decomposition. The malady has run its full course, and it has left us with weak stomachs and a bitter taste in the mouth. We are reverting to Monsieur Berquin and the tales of Canon Schmid! And modernism! The endless repetition of the same uninteresting adventure! Turn it around! The little gentleman in tall hats write like that; the beautiful ladies do likewise—and always the same! Are we supposed to follow a story for 400 pages that wouldn’t hold our interest for five minutes in real life?
“Modern life? We live it—don’t talk to us about it unless you have something particular to say, something that might be the study and the expression of a class, a county, a profession! Yes, you’re right… There’s a man named Balzac at present—may that one, at least, live long! Of course—let me speak!—Laplanderism… The vogue for foggy and glacial writers, natives of the vicinity of the pole, is another disease of these sick times! They’re all the same, these Icelandic or Siberian writers, and so gloomy! These Northern men of genius always have the attitude of grumpy old men! When some genial Laplander sets out to recycle all the old ideas that we’ve been recycling ourselves for 3000 years, on the imperfection of life, the impacts of destiny, the imperfection of everything and anything newly discovered, they’re served up as great novelties, with meditations, inductions and deductions on top, around and on the side—especially on the side—cut into four and 14, all the color of the winter sky, and with the most perfect ill humor…
“Am I boring you with my literary maladies? I’ve listened patiently to your maladies of the palette. We have our epidemics too… Oh, pity the poor readers of this literary period! What a sad festival the unfortunates have had, as the artistic religion has erected the cult of the ugly, the dirty and the mournful! Endlessly repeating the same banalities, exhaustively detailing ignominies and perversities, gorging on the same base deeds, saturated with the same miseries carefully collected by modernists and realists, sadists and naturalists! Naturalism, eh? Under the pretext of sincere study, all classes of society, all communities shown in the same and most complete state of moral putrescence, all vices generalized, every class with its uniquely distinctive and violent stink…brrr! What effect must such intellectual nourishment have on the social organism? Its literary stomach ulcerated, its brain permanently contaminated! I need to start a new regime, my friend, in order to see with a critical consciousness… I can only recover by reading The Three Musketeers—which will soon be coming out—14 times over.”
The Clock of the Centuries Page 15
