The Counterfeiters

by André Gide

  VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, February 1973

  Copyright 1927, 1951 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  Copyright Renewed 1955 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  The Counterfeiters was published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1927. Originally published in French as Les Faux-Monnayeurs. Copyright 1925 by Librairie Gallimard, Paris. Journal of “The Counterfeiters” was originally published in French as Journal des Faux-Monnayeurs. Copyright 1927 by Librairie Gallimard, Paris.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Gide, André Paul Guillaume, 1869–1951.

  The counterfeiters.

  Reprint of the 1951 ed.

  1. Gide, André Paul Guillaume, 1869–1951. Le journal des Faux-monnayeurs. English. 1973. II. Title. III. Title: Journal of The Counterfeiters.

  [PZ3.G3613C018] [PQ2613.I2] 843′.9′12

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81932-1 72–8064

  C9876543

  v3.1

  I dedicate this, my first novel,

  to ROGER MARTIN DU GARD

  in token of profound friendship A.G.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  FIRST PART: Paris

  I. The Luxembourg Gardens

  II. The Profitendieus

  III. Bernard and Olivier

  IV. Vincent and the Comte de Passavant

  V. Vincent Meets Passavant at Lady Griffith’s

  VI. Bernard Awakens

  VII. Lilian and Vincent

  VIII. Edouard and Laura

  IX. Edouard and Olivier

  X. The Cloak-Room Ticket

  XI. Edouard’s Journal: George Molinier

  XII. Edouard’s Journal: Laura’s Wedding

  XIII. Edouard’s Journal: First Visit to La Pérouse

  XIV. Bernard and Laura

  XV. Olivier Visits the Comte De Passavant

  XVI. Vincent and Lilian

  XVII. The Evening at Rambouillet

  XVIII. Edouards Journal: Second Visit to La Pérouse

  SECOND PART: Saas-Fée

  I. From Bernard to Olivier

  II. Edouard’s Journal: Little Boris

  III. Edouard Explains His Theory of the Novel

  IV. Bernard and Laura

  V. Edouard’s Journal: Conversation with Sophroniska

  VI. From Olivier to Bernard

  VII. The Author Reviews His Characters

  THIRD PART: Paris

  I. Edouard’s Journal: Oscar Molinier

  II. Edouard’s Journal: At the Vedels’

  III. Edouard’s Journal: Third Visit to La Pérouse

  IV. The First Day of the Term

  V. Olivier Meets Bernard

  VI. Edouard’s Journal: Madame Molinier

  VII. Olivier and Armand

  VIII. The Argonauts’ Dinner

  IX. Olivier and Edouard

  X. Olivier’s Convalescence

  XI. Edouard’s Journal: Pauline

  XII. Edouard and Then Strouvilhou Visit Passavant

  XIII. Edouard’s Journal: Douviers’. Profitendieu

  XIV. Bernard and the Angel

  XV. Bernard Visits Edouard

  XVI. Edouard Warns George

  XVII. Armand and Olivier

  XVIII. “The Strong Men”

  XIX. Boris

  XX. Edouard’s Journal

  JOURNAL OF “THE COUNTERFEITERS”

  About the Author

  Part One

  Paris

  I : The Luxembourg Gardens

  “The time has now come for me to hear a step in the passage,” said Bernard to himself. He raised his head and listened. Nothing! His father and elder brother were away at the law-courts; his mother paying visits; his sister at a concert; as for his small brother Caloub—the youngest—he was safely shut up for the whole afternoon in his day-school. Bernard Profitendieu had stayed at home to cram for his “bachot”;1 he had only three more weeks before him. His family respected his solitude—not so the demon! Although Bernard had stripped off his coat, he was stifling. The window that looked on to the street stood open, but it let in nothing but heat. His forehead was streaming. A drop of perspiration came dripping from his nose and fell on to the letter he was holding in his hand.

  “Pretending to be a tear!” thought he. “But it’s better to sweat than to weep.”

  Yes; the date was conclusive. No one could be in question but him, Bernard himself. Impossible to doubt it. The letter was addressed to his mother—a love-letter—seventeen years old, unsigned.

  “What can this initial stand for? A ‘V’? It might just as well be an ‘N.’ … Would it be becoming to question my mother?… We must give her credit for good taste. I’m free to imagine he’s a prince. It wouldn’t advance matters much to know that I was the son of a rapscallion. There’s no better cure for the fear of taking after one’s father, than not to know who he is. The mere fact of enquiry binds one. The only thing to do is to welcome deliverance and not attempt to go any deeper. Besides which, I’ve had sufficient for the day.”

  Bernard folded the letter up again. It was on paper of the same size and shape as the other twelve in the packet. They were tied up with pink ribbon which there had been no need for him to untie, and which he was easily able to slip round the bundle again to keep it tight. He put the bundle back into the casket and the casket back into the drawer of the console-table. The drawer was not open. It had yielded its secret from above. Bernard fitted together the pieces of wood which formed its top, and which were made to support a heavy slab of onyx, re-adjusted the slab carefully and gently, and put back in their places on the top, a pair of glass candelabra and a cumbersome clock, which he had been amusing himself by repairing.

  The clock struck four. He had set it to the right time.

  “His Honour the judge and his learned son the barrister will not be back before six. I shall have time. When His Honour comes in he must find a letter from me on his writing table, informing him in eloquent terms of my departure. But before I write it, I feel that it’s absolutely essential to air my mind a little. I must talk to my dear Olivier, and make certain of a perch—at any rate a temporary one. Olivier, my friend, the time has come for me to put your good-fellowship to the test, and for you to show your mettle. The fine thing about our friendship so far has been that we have never made any use of one another. Pooh! it can’t be unpleasant to ask a favour that’s amusing to grant. The tiresome thing is that Olivier won’t be alone. Never mind! I shall have to take him aside. I want to appal him by my calm. It’s when things are most extraordinary that I feel most at home.”

  The street where Bernard Profitendieu had lived until then was quite close to the Luxembourg Gardens. There, in the path that overlooks the Medici fountains, some of his schoolfellows were in the habit of meeting every Wednesday afternoon, between four and six. The talk was of art, philosophy, sport, politics and literature. Bernard walked to the gardens quickly, but as soon as he caught sight of Olivier Molinier through the railings, he slackened his pace. The gathering that day was more numerous than usual—because of the fine weather, no doubt. Some of the boys who were there were newcomers, whom Bernard had never seen before. Every one of them, as soon as he was in company with the others, lost his naturalness and began to act a part.

  Olivier blushed when he saw Bernard coming up. He left the side of a young woman to whom he had been talking and walked away a little abruptly. Bernard was his most intimate friend, so that he took great pains not to sh
ow that he liked being with him; sometimes he would even pretend not to see him.

  Before joining him, Bernard had to run the gauntlet of several groups and, as he himself affected not to be looking for Olivier, he lingered among the others.

  Four of his schoolfellows were surrounding a little fellow with a beard and a pince-nez, who was perceptibly older than the rest. This was Dhurmer. He was holding a book and addressing one boy in particular, though at the same time he was obviously delighted that the others were listening.

  “I can’t help it,” he was saying, “I’ve got as far as page thirty without coming across a single colour or a single word that makes a picture. He speaks of a woman and I don’t know whether her dress was red or blue. As far as I’m concerned, if there are no colours, it’s useless, I can see nothing.” And feeling that the less he was taken in earnest, the more he must exaggerate, he repeated: “—absolutely nothing!”

  Bernard stopped attending; he thought it would be ill-mannered to walk away too quickly, but he began to listen to some others who were quarrelling behind him and who had been joined by Olivier after he had left the young woman; one of them was sitting on a bench, reading L’Action Française.

  Amongst all these youths how grave Olivier Molinier looks! And yet he was one of the youngest. His face, his expression, which are still almost a child’s, reveal a mind older than his years. He blushes easily. There is something tender about him. But however gracious his manners, some kind of secret reserve, some kind of sensitive delicacy, keeps his schoolfellows at a distance. This is a grief to him. But for Bernard, it would be a greater grief still.

  Molinier, like Bernard, had stayed a minute or two with each of the groups—out of a wish to be agreeable, not that anything he heard interested him. He leant over the reader’s shoulder, and Bernard, without turning round, heard him say:

  “You shouldn’t read the papers—they’ll give you apoplexy.”

  The other replied tartly: “As for you, the very name of Maurras makes you turn green.”

  A third boy asked, deridingly: “Do Maurras’s articles amuse you?”

  And the first answered: “They bore me bloody well stiff, but I think he’s right.”

  Then a fourth, whose voice Bernard didn’t recognize: “Unless a thing bores you, you think there’s no depth in it.”

  “You seem to think that one’s only got to be stupid to be funny.”

  “Come along,” whispered Bernard, suddenly seizing Olivier by the arm and drawing him aside. “Answer quickly. I’m in a hurry. You told me you didn’t sleep on the same floor as your parents?”

  “I’ve shown you the door of my room. It opens straight on to the staircase, half a floor below our flat.”

  “Didn’t you say your brother slept with you?”

  “George. Yes.”

  “Are you two alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can the youngster hold his tongue?”

  “If necessary.”

  “Listen. I’ve left home—or at any rate I’m going to this evening. I don’t know where to go yet. Can you take me in for one night?”

  Olivier turned very pale. His emotion was so great that he was hardly able to look at Bernard.

  “Yes,” said he, “but don’t come before eleven. Mamma comes down to say good-night to us and lock the door every evening.”

  “But then …?”

  Olivier smiled. “I’ve got another key. You must knock softly, so as not to wake George if he’s asleep.”

  “Will the concierge let me in?”

  “I’ll warn him. Oh, I’m on very good terms with him. It’s he who gives me the key. Good-bye! Till to-night!”

  They parted without shaking hands. While Bernard was walking away, reflecting on the letter he meant to write for the magistrate to find when he came in, Olivier, not wishing it to be thought that Bernard was the only person he liked talking to in private, went up to Lucien Bercail, who was sitting by himself as usual, for he was generally left a little out of it by the others. Olivier would be very fond of him, if he didn’t prefer Bernard. Lucien is as timid as Bernard is spirited. He cannot hide his weakness; he seems to live only with his head and his heart. He hardly ever dares to make advances, but when he sees Olivier coming towards him, he is beside himself with joy; Lucien writes poetry—everyone suspects as much; but I am pretty sure that Olivier is the only person to whom Lucien talks of his ideas. They walked together to the edge of the terrace.

  “What I should like,” said Lucien, “would be to tell the story—no, not of a person, but of a place—well, for instance, of a garden path, like this—just tell what happens in it from morning to evening. First of all, come the children’s nurses and the children, and the babies’ nurses with ribbons in their caps.… No, no … first of all, people who are grey all over and ageless and sexless and who come to sweep the path, and water the grass, and change the flowers—in fact, to set the stage and get ready the scenery before the opening of the gates. D’you see? Then the nurses come in … the kids make mud-pies and squabble; the nurses smack them. Then the little boys come out of school; then there are the workgirls; then the poor people who eat their scrap upon a bench, and later people come to meet each other, and others avoid each other, and others go by themselves—dreamers. And then when the band plays and the shops close, there’s the crowd.… Students, like us; in the evening, lovers who embrace—others who cry at parting. And at the end, when the day is over, there’s an old couple … And suddenly the drum beats. Closing time! Everyone goes off. The play is ended. Do you understand? Something which gives the impression of the end of everything—of death … but without mentioning death, of course.”

  “Yes, I see it all perfectly,” said Olivier, who was thinking of Bernard and had not listened to a word.

  “And that’s not all,” went on Lucien, enthusiastically; “I should like to have a kind of epilogue and show the same garden path at night, after everyone has gone, deserted and much more beautiful than in the day-time. In the deep silence; all the natural sounds intensified—the sound of the fountain, and the wind in the trees, and the song of a night-bird. First of all, I thought that I’d bring in some ghosts to wander about—or perhaps some statues—but I think that would be more commonplace. What do you say?”

  “No, no! No statues, no statues!” said Olivier absent-mindedly; and then, seeing the other’s disappointed face: “Well, old fellow, if you bring it off, it’ll be splendid!” he exclaimed warmly.

  1 Schoolboy’s slang for the baccalauréat examination.

  II : The Profitendieus

  There is no trace in Poussin’s letters of any feeling of obligation towards his parents.

  He never in later days showed any regret at having left them; transplanted to Rome of his own free will, he lost all desire to return to his home—and even, it would seem, all recollection of it.

  PAUL DESJARDINS (Poussin).

  Monsieur Profitendieu was in a hurry to get home and wished that his colleague Molinier, who was keeping him company up the Boulevard St. Germain, would walk a little faster. Albéric Profitendieu had just had an unusually heavy day at the law-courts; an uncomfortable sensation in his right side was causing him some uneasiness; fatigue in his case usually went to his liver, which was his weak point. He was thinking of his bath; nothing rested him better after the cares of the day than a good bath—with an eye to which he had taken no tea that afternoon, esteeming it imprudent to get into any sort of water—even warm—with a loaded stomach. Merely a prejudice, perhaps; but prejudices are the props of civilisation. Oscar Molinier walked as quickly as he could and made every effort to keep up with his companion; but he was much shorter than Profitendieu and his crural development was slighter; besides which there was a little fatty accumulation round his heart and he easily became short-winded. Profitendieu, who was still sound at the age of fifty-five, with a well-developed chest and a brisk gait, would have gladly given him the slip; but he was very particular as to the
proprieties; his colleague was older than he and higher up in the career; respect was due to him. And besides, since the death of his wife’s parents, Profitendieu had a very considerable fortune to be forgiven him, whereas Monsieur Molinier, who was Président de chambre, had nothing but his salary—a derisory salary, utterly disproportionate to the high situation he filled with dignity, which was all the more imposing because of the mediocrity it cloaked. Profitendieu concealed his impatience; he turned to Molinier and looked at him mopping himself; for that matter, he was exceedingly interested by what Molinier was saying; but their point of view was not the same and the discussion was beginning to get warm.

  “Have the house watched, by all means,” said Molinier. “Get the reports of the concierge and the sham maid-servant—very good! But mind, if you push the enquiry too far, the affair will be taken out of your hands.… I mean there’s a risk of your being led on much further than you bargained for.”

  “Justice should have no such considerations.”

  “Tut, tut, my dear sir; you and I know very well what justice ought to be and what it is. We’re all agreed that we act for the best, but, however we act, we never get nearer than an approximation. The case before us now is a particularly delicate one. Out of the fifteen accused persons—or persons who at a word from you will be accused to-morrow—nine are minors. And some of these boys, as you know, come of very honourable families. In such circumstances, I consider that to issue a warrant at all would be the greatest mistake. The newspapers will get hold of the affair and you open the door to every sort of blackmail and calumny. In spite of all your efforts you’ll not prevent names from coming out.… It’s no business of mine to give you advice—on the contrary—it’s much more my place to receive it. You’re well aware how highly I’ve always rated your lucidity and your fair-mindedness.… But if I were you, this is what I should do: I should try to put an end to this abominable scandal by laying hold of the four or five instigators.… Yes! I know they’re difficult to catch; but what the deuce, that’s part of our trade. I should have the flat—the scene of the orgies—closed, and I should take steps for the brazen young rascals’ parents to be informed of the affair—quietly and secretly; and merely in order to avoid any repetition of the scandal. Oh! as to the women, collar them by all means. I’m entirely with you there. We seem to be up against a set of creatures of unspeakable perversity, and society should be cleansed of them at all costs. But, let me repeat, leave the boys alone; content yourself with giving them a fright, and then hush the matter up with some vague term like ‘youthful indiscretion’. Their astonishment at having got off so cheaply will last them for a long time to come. Remember that three of them are not fourteen years old and that their parents no doubt consider them angels of purity and innocence. But really, my dear fellow, between ourselves, come now, did we think of women when we were that age?”