Paris in the Twentieth Century

by Jules Verne

  "Monsieur Quinsonnas is right, " replied Uncle Huguenin, "but let's be a little more specific, Michel; hitherto you have not succeeded in finance. "

  "Which is why I ask no better than to follow my own tastes and my talents. "

  "Your talents!" exclaimed the pianist. "At this moment you present the pathetic spectacle of a poet who is dying of hunger and yet nourishes hope!"

  "This devil of a Quinsonnas, " Michel remarked, "has a nice way of looking at things!"

  "I'm not joking, I'm arguing! You want to be an artist in an age when art is dead!"

  "Oh, dead!"

  "Dead, buried, with an epitaph and a funerary urn. For example: are you a painter? Well, painting no longer exists; there are no more canvases, even in the Louvre; they've been cunningly restored down to the last century—let them turn to dust! Raphael's Holy Families consist of no more than an arm of the Virgin, an eye of Saint John; little enough; The Wedding at Cana presents the eye with an aerial bow playing a flying violin; which is quite inadequate! Titians, Correggios, Giorgiones, Leonardos, Murillos, Rubenses—all have a skin disease which they contracted by contact with their doctors, and they're dying of it; we have no more than elusive shadows, indeterminate lines, blackened colors in splendid frames! We've let the pictures rot, and the painters too; for there hasn't been an exhibition in fifty years. And a good thing too!"

  "A good thing?" inquired Monsieur Huguenin.

  "No doubt, for even in the last century, realism made such strides that we can no longer endure it! I've even heard that a certain Courbet, at one of his last exhibitions, showed himself, face to the wall, in the performance of one of the most hygienic but least elegant actions of life! Enough to scare away Zeuxis's birds!"

  "Dreadful!" breathed Uncle Huguenin.

  "And he was an Auvergnat into the bargain,[63]" Quinsonnas continued. "So in the twentieth century, no more painting, no more painters. Are there sculptors, at least? None whatsoever, ever since they planted the Muse of Industry right in the middle of the Louvre courtyard: a vigorous shrew crouching over some sort of cylinder, holding a viaduct on her knees, pumping with one hand, working a bellows with the other, a necklace of little locomotives around her neck, and a lightning rod in her chignon!"

  "I must have a look at this masterpiece, " murmured Monsieur Huguenin.

  "It's well worth the trouble, " Quinsonnas replied. "So, no more sculptors! Are there musicians? Michel is quite aware of my opinions on that subject! Is literature your field? But who reads novels? Not even those who write them, judging by their style! No, all that's over and done with, finished, dead and gone!"

  "But even so, " Michel protested, "alongside the arts there are professions which maintain some contact with them. "

  "Oh yes, there was a time when you could become a journalist; I grant you that; it could be done when there existed a bourgeoisie who believed in newspapers and went in for politics! But who bothers with politics now? Foreign policy? No, war is no longer possible, and diplomacy is old-fashioned! Domestic policy? Dead calm! There are no parties in France: the royalists are in trade now, and the republicans in industry; there may be a few legitimists attached to the Bourbons of Naples, who support a little gazette to publish their sighs! The government conducts its affairs like a good merchant, and pays its bills regularly enough; they even say it will distribute a dividend this year!

  Elections no longer interest anyone; Député-sons succeed Député-fathers, calmly plying their legislators' trade without making much noise about it, like good children doing their homework in their rooms! You'd really suppose that a candidate came from the word candid! Faced with such a state of affairs, what's journalism good for? Nothing!"

  "All of which is sad but true, " replied Uncle Huguenin. "Journalism has had its day. "

  "Yes, like a discharged soldier from Fontevrault or Melun; and it won't have another. A hundred years ago, we abused our privilege, and we're paying for it now; in those days few enough people read, but everyone wrote; in 1900 the number of periodicals in France, political or otherwise, reached sixty thousand; they were written in every dialect for the instruction of the countryside—in Picard, in Basque, in Breton, in Arabic—yes, gentlemen, there was an Arabic journal, La Sentinelle du Sahara, whom the jokers of the day used to call a journal hebdomadaire! And all that fine frenzy of newspapers soon led to the death of journalism, for the indisputable reason that writers outnumbered readers!"

  "In those days, " Uncle Huguenin put in, "there was also the little local paper in which you rubbed along as best you could. "

  "Doubtless, doubtless, " Quinsonnas returned, "but with all its fine qualities, the same thing was true of it as of Roland's[64] mare; the fellows who wrote it so abused their wits that the well ran dry. No one understood anything anymore, among the few who still read; moreover, those estimable writers ended by more or less killing each other off, for there never was such a consumption of slaps and canings; you had to have a strong back and a good cheek to survive. Excess led to catastrophe, and local journalism joined the grand affair in oblivion. "

  "But wasn't there also criticism, " Michel asked, "and didn't criticism support its personnel?"

  "I believe it did, " Quinsonnas replied. "It had its princes! There were those who had talent and to spare, even spare talents! These Grands Seigneurs had their clientele; some were even willing to set a price on their praises—and such prices were paid! And paid until the moment when an unexpected event radically extinguished the high priests of calumny. "

  "What event?" asked Michel.

  "The application on a grand scale of a certain article of the Civil Code. Any person named in an article was entitled to respond in the same organ with an equal number of lines; the authors of plays, novels, works of philosophy and history began retorting en masse to their critics; each one had the right to so many words, and each one made use of that right! At first, the newspapers tried to resist; they were doomed; then, in order to contend with the protests, they enlarged their format; but the inventors of some machine or other got involved; you couldn't mention anything without provoking a response which had to be printed; and this process was so abused that ultimately criticism was killed on the spot. And with it vanished journalism's last resource. "

  "Then what's to be done?"

  "What's to be done? That's always the question, unless you become a doctor—if you won't have industry, commerce, finance! And even so, devil take me, I think that diseases themselves are wearing out; if the Faculty of Medicine didn't inoculate us with new ones, it would soon have no work to do. I won't even mention the bar—lawyers no longer plead, they compromise; a good transaction is preferred to a good trial; it's faster, and more profitable. "

  "But it seems to me, " said Uncle Huguenin, "that there are still the financial journals. "

  Yes, but would Michel want to become a stock reporter, wear the livery of a Casmodage or a Boutardin, round off unfortunate periods on pork bellies, alfalfa, or three percents, getting caught out every day in inevitable errors, prophesying events with great aplomb, on the principle that if the prediction doesn't come true, the prophet will be forgotten, and if it does, he will pride himself on his perspicacity, overcoming rival companies for some banker's greater profit, which is worse than mopping his office floors! Will Michel ever consent to that?"

  "Of course not! Never!"

  "Then I don't see anything except government jobs, becoming an administrator, an official—there are ten million of them in France; figure the chances of advancement, and take your place in line!"

  "My word, " observed Uncle Huguenin, "maybe that would be the wisest thing. "

  "Wise but desperate, " answered the young man.

  "Well then, Michel?"

  "In your review of the paying professions, " the latter said to Quinsonnas, "you've left one out. "

  "Which is?"

  "That of a dramatist. "

  "Ah! you want to write for the stage?"

  "Why not? Do
esn't the theater give you something to eat, to use your frightful phrase?"

  "All right, Michel, " Quinsonnas replied, "instead of telling you what I think, I'll give you a chance to try it. I'll give you a letter of recommendation to the Editor in Chief of the Entrepôt Dramatique, and you can see for yourself!"

  "When do I start?"

  "No later than tomorrow. "

  "Done?"

  "Done!"

  "Are you serious?" asked Uncle Huguenin.

  "Quite serious, " Quinsonnas replied. "Perhaps he'll succeed; in any case, in six months—just like now— it will be time to become a government official. "

  "Now then, Michel, we'll be keeping an eye on you. But you, Monsieur Quinsonnas, you shared this boy's misfortunes. May I ask what you yourself plan to do?"

  "Oh, Monsieur Huguenin! Don't worry about me. As Michel knows, I have great plans. "

  "Yes, " the young man observed, "he wants to amaze the age. "

  "Amaze the age?"

  "Such is the noble purpose of my life; I believe I have my business in hand, and first of all I plan to try it out abroad! As you surely know, that is where great reputations are established. "

  "You'll be gone?" asked Michel.

  "For a few months, " Quinsonnas replied, "but I'll be back soon. "

  "I wish you good luck, " said Uncle Huguenin, offering his hand to Quinsonnas, who stood up. "And thank you for everything your friendship has done for Michel. "

  "If the child will come with me now, I'll give him his letter of recommendation right away. "

  "Gladly!" said the young man. "Good-bye, dear Uncle. "

  "Good-bye, my boy. "

  "Good-bye, Monsieur Huguenin, " said the pianist.

  "Good-bye, Monsieur Quinsonnas, may fortune smile upon you. "

  "Smile!" exclaimed Quinsonnas. "Better than that, Monsieur Huguenin, I want her to laugh out loud!"

  Chapter XIV: Le Grand Entrepôt Dramatique

  In an age when everything was centralized, thought as well as mechanical power, the creation of a sort of theatrical depository, an Entrepôt Dramatique, was a foregone conclusion; by 1903 a group of practical and enterprising men had obtained the patent for this important company. Within twenty years, however, it passed into government hands and functioned under the orders of a Director General who was a State official.

  The Entrepôt Dramatique furnished the capital's fifty theaters with plays of all sorts; some were composed in advance; others were commissioned, sometimes to the requirements of a certain actor, others to satisfy certain concepts. Censorship, confronted with this new state of affairs, tended to disappear, of course, and its emblematic scissors had grown rusty; moreover, from wear and tear they had become quite dull, but the government avoided the unnecessary expense of having them sharpened.

  The directors of the Parisian and provincial theaters were State officials, appointed, pensioned, retired, and decorated, according to their ages and their services. The performers drew on the budget, though they were not yet government employees; the old prejudices in their regard were weakening day by day; their metier counted among the honorable professions; they were increasingly to be seen in salon comedies in the best circles; they shared their roles with the guests, and had ultimately become part of society; great ladies now gave cues to great tragediennes, and in certain roles were heard to say lines such as "You far surpass me, Madame, virtue shines in your countenance; I am but a wretched courtesan, " and other such courtesies.

  There was even one wealthy Sociétaire of the Comédie-Français who made her own children perform chamber plays in her own home.

  All of which singularly ennobled the acting profession. The creation of the Grand Entrepôt Dramatique did away with the troublesome necessity of authors; the employees received their monthly salaries— extremely high ones, moreover—and the State collected the theaters' receipts.

  Hence the State was in the position of controlling Dramatic Literature. If Le Grand Entrepôt produced no masterpieces, at least it amused docile audiences by harmless works; old authors were no longer performed; occasionally, and as an exception, some work by Moliére was put on at the Palais-Royal, with couplets and lazzi composed by the actors themselves; but Hugo, Dumas, Ponsard[65], Augier[66], Scribe, Sardou, Barriére[67], Meurice[68], Vacquerie[69] were eliminated en masse; they had somewhat abused their talents in the past to carry away the public, but in a well-organized society, it was thought best for the public to walk, not run.

  Hence matters were now arranged in a methodical fashion, as is suitable in a civilized society; the author-officials lived well and did not tire themselves; there were no more Bohemian poets, those erratic geniuses who seemed eternally to protest against the order of things. Who could complain of this organization which extinguished the artists' personality and furnished the public precisely the amount of literature necessary to its needs?

  Occasionally some poor devil, feeling the sacred fire kindled in his breast, attempted to rebel; but the theaters were closed to him by their contracts with Le Grand Entrepôt Dramatique; the misunderstood poet would publish his fine comedy at his own expense, it would remain quite unread and eventually fall prey to those tiny creatures the Entomozoairia, which would ineluctably have been the most learned of their age, had they read all they were given to chew.

  So it was to the Grand Entrepôt, lawfully recognized as an establishment of public utility, that Michel Dufrénoy made his way, a letter of recommendation in his hand.

  The company's offices were located in the Rue Neuve-Palestro and occupied an old, unused barracks. Michel was shown into the Director's office. The Director himself was an extremely serious man, quite imbued with the importance of his functions; he never laughed or even smiled at the liveliest repartee of his vaudevilles; hence he was said to be quite bombproof; his employees reproached him for his somewhat military leadership; but he had so many people to deal with! comic authors, tragic authors, vaudevillians, librettists, not to mention the two hundred workers in the copying office, and the legion of members of the claque.

  For the administration also furnished claques to the theaters, according to the nature of the plays performed; the most learned experts had instructed these carefully disciplined employees in the delicate art of applause, and they had mastered the entire range of its nuances.

  Michel presented Quinsonnas's letter. The Director read it through and said: "Monsieur, I am well acquainted with your protector, and I shall be delighted to do him a favor in this regard; he mentions your literary aptitudes. "

  "Monsieur, " the young man modestly replied, "I have as yet produced nothing. "

  "All the better—in our eyes, that is a virtue. "

  "But I have some new ideas. "

  "Of no use, Monsieur! We are not concerned with novelty here; all personality must be dispensed with; you will have to blend into a vast ensemble, which produces collective works, of an average appeal. You will understand that I cannot, in your case, depart from established rules; you must take an examination in order to qualify for a position. "

  "An examination!"

  "Yes, a written composition. "

  "Very well, Monsieur. I am at your disposition. "

  "Do you think you are ready for the examination today?"

  "Certainly. Right now. "

  The Director gave orders, and soon Michel was installed at a desk with pen, paper, ink, and a composition subject. He was left alone in the room.

  Imagine his astonishment! He had expected to deal with a bit of history, to summarize some product of dramatic art, to analyze a masterpiece of the old repertoire. How childish! His assignment was to imagine a striking effect—a curtain line, say, in a given situation; to compose a song with a witty refrain; and to invent a play on words that would draw a laugh!

  Michel took his courage in both hands and set to work.

  For the most part, his composition was poor and incomplete—he lacked dexterity, what was still, in the Parisian theate
rs, called la patte; his curtain line left a great deal to be desired; his refrain was too poetical for a vaudeville; and his pun quite missed the point. Nonetheless, thanks to his protector, he was given employment at eighteen hundred francs; since his curtain line was the least inadequate part of his examination, he was put in the Comedy Division.

  This remarkable organization, Le Grand Entrepôt Dramatique, consisted of five major Divisions: (1) high and genre comedy; (2) historical and modern drama; (3) vaudeville, strictly speaking; (4) opera and operetta; (5) reviews, pantomimes, and official occasions.

  Tragedy had been eliminated.

  Each Division included specialized employees; their nomenclature will explain the mechanism of this great institution, where everything was foreseen, organized, and operated on schedule. A genre comedy or a Christmas review could be produced within thirty- six hours.

  Michel was therefore installed in an office in the first Division. Here the talented employees were assigned, one to Exposition, one to Denouements, another to Exits, still another to Entrances; one man was assigned to formal rhymes, when verse was insisted upon; another was responsible for occasional rhymes and prose, in cases of simpler dialogue.

  There was also an administration specialty, in which Michel was expected to take part; these highly skilled employees were required to rewrite the plays of previous centuries, either actually copying them or somewhat altering the characters.

  It was in this fashion that the administration had just gained an enormous success at the Théâtre du Gymnase with Le Demi-Monde, ingeniously transformed; the Baroness d'Ange had become a naive and inexperienced young woman who nearly fell into Nanjac's nets; without her friend, Madame de Jalin (the said Nanjac's former mistress), the trick would have been turned; moreover the episode of the apricots, and the description of this world of married men whose wives were never seen, took the house by storm.