VII.
She did not find any.
She went to a pharmacist.
“Two grams of pure water, Monsieur,” she begged.
“Do you have a prescription?” demanded the disciple of Galen.
The desperate widow visited every pharmacist in the capital, offering them pieces of gold.
All of them were unshakable.
Then, crazed, she quit Paris and started roaming the countryside.
“Ah, rain!” she said to herself. “That’s pure water! I’ll wait until it rains!”
Having considered the sky attentively, however, she saw—as she had suspected, alas—that as a public safety measure, the State had installed a kind of glass roof over the countryside, in order that the water of the heavens should never fall upon human mucus.
“A river!” she said, then. “A stream! A spring!”
But there were no longer any springs, streams or rivers in France. Sagely, the State had captured all the pure watercourses, for fear that the inhabitants of rural areas might poison themselves, and only the Seine flowed in the open, triumphantly, because of its wealth of microbes, which were so large and so invariably prosperous, that one could fish for them with a line all the way from Paris to Le Havre.
VIII.
And after a week of vain running around, the poor widow collapsed, exhausted, in a desert plain. Heartbroken to be unable to die like her husband, she awaited death with resignation.
But then the Creator took pity on her.
The zenith suddenly darkened, and, at the moment when the disconsolate widow stammered the name of her spouse, she expired gloriously, poisoned as her husband had been.
With enormous hailstones, Heaven had smashed the bell-jar under which the French were ripening, and, mercifully, having perceiving that the widow had an upturned nose, had deigned to rain inside.
Jean Rameau: Future Art
(1887)
I.
In those days, Raphael Larifla, a young painter of great talent who had the fantastic ambition of living on the produce of his work, presented himself at the establishment of an art dealer at the same time as a heavy truck carrying a pictorial masterpiece of 84 square meters (seven by twelve).
“Monsieur,” he said to the dealer, “I offer you Vercingetorix Before Caesar, a painting that attracted a great deal of attention at the Chicago Exposition last year, where it prevented the air currents from getting into the Hall of Fine Arts.
And Raphael had his work unwrapped.
“Monsieur,” the painter went on, “I know the taste of buyers, so I have taken my precautions to ensure the painting’s sale. Notice that one would only have to stick a newspaper on the head of my Vercingetorix for the celebrated Gaul to resemble Monsieur Ohnet, and that Caesar, rigorously speaking, could pass for Monsieur Paulus.”51
The art dealer seemed cold.
“Remark in addition, Monsieur,” Larifla continued, “that my paining is conceived in accordance with the principles of the new school; that my Vercingetorix is sufficiently imprecise for one to be able to see, by blinking one’s eyes, entire scholarly battalions filing past; by turning the frame upside down, a steamship or something approximating thereto; by leaning to the left, Monsieur de Lesseps and his family; by leaning to the right, a unset over Constantinople, or perhaps an equestrian portrait of Sarah Bernhard—look for Damala.”52
The merchant made a gesture of impatience.
“Well, Monsieur, if it’s necessary to tell you everything,” Raphael sighed, desperately, “the canvas is impermeable, and I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to place it with a packer who…”
“Monsieur,” said the dealer, “I like your painting very much, but unfortunately, America sends us articles wrapped in gutta-percha...”
“Raphael did not wait to hear any more. He went out like a gust of wind.
“Bourgeois!” he shouted. “Make works of art yourself, then!”
And he broke his brushes.
II.
Ten years later, Larifla, still an artist and still fantastically ambitious, went into the establishment of another dealer.
Disgusted with painting, he had taken up sculpture and had come to offer a group: Vercingetorix Before Caesar (again!), which Pugin would not have disavowed.
“Monsieur,” said Raphael, “I’ll let you have this work of art at a good prince: sixty francs. Notice, I beg you, that Vercingetorix has, around the waist, twenty-four rings for umbrellas, and that on Caesar’s head, I’ve stuck a few pegs on which hats and overcoats can be hung. I hope, therefore, that for a vestibule...”
“All my regrets, Monsieur,” the dealer interrupted. “For nineteen francs ninety-five I already have one far more advantageous, sculpted by the celebrated Balaruc himself.”
And he showed Raphael a superb Apollo, metamorphosing successively, into a billiard cue, a telescope, a rod for angling and bootjacks, which had won the medal of honor at the previous Salon.
Larifla went away, tearing out his hair.
III.
Fifteen years later, the impenitent artist, who called himself Raphael, went into a publisher’s office. Seeing that he had not been able to achieve anything with painting and sculpture, he had devoted himself to poetry.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I’ve brought you Vercingetorix Before Caesar, an epic in verse, which I shall have printed at my own expense. I only ask you to put the name of your house on the cover.”
The editor started.
“Oh, have no fear,” said Raphael, “it’s poetry written in the modern fashion. I say that two and two make five at the beginning of every chapter, I mention a young mother who eats her baby with asparagus tips and, half the time, I write things I can’t even comprehend myself. So...”
“Monsieur...”
“That’s not all. The work will be printed on emery paper, so that the buyers of my books can always use it for scouring their saucepans.”
“Monsieur,” replied the editor, with dignity, “here, we only publish works in verse whose paper can serve as fly-paper.”
Raphael became livid, put his hands to his neck, and vanished.
IV.
What became of him? No one knows. Friends found him in a hospital a few weeks later. Then, well-informed people affirmed that Raphael was living locked away in his studio with his three masterpieces, at which he gazed successively, while making broad gestures madly, and anointing them with bizarre drugs.
V.
Fifteen years later, the dealers in paintings, statues and books of verse saw a thin old man arrive who presented himself to them under the appearance of an escapee from a lunatic asylum.
It was Raphael Larifla.
“I’ve found it, you know!” he cried. “I’ve found it!”
“What?”
“The means of disposing of my works. Do you want to see?”
They went to see.
On the way, Larifla picked up art critics, reporters, grocers and all the luminaries of the artistic world.
“You’ll see! You’ll see!” Raphael was still shouting—and his voice had vibrations of triumph..
“There they are!” he said, taking his hat off before his works.
They saw the immense painting, the immense group and the immense poem.
“Is anyone here bald?” asked Raphael.
They looked at one another in bewilderment.
“Does anyone here have a headache?”
He had decidedly become an idiot.
“Is anyone here hungry?”
More than an idiot, a madman.
“Here, appreciate this work of art for me,” said Larifla, cutting the hand off his Vercingetorix and offering it to the critics.
A shiver ran through the audience. They threw themselves upon the group, upon the poem, upon the painting...
“Long live Larifla!” the cried, in formidable unison.
And Larifla fell down, stone dead, killed by the unexpected but legitimate triumph.
/> In fact:
His group was made of spiced bread.
His poem was written on mustard-plaster paper.
And his painting, exceptionally fatty and divisible into little pieces, was a sovereign remedy against hair loss.
VI.
There was a rush to acquire the Master’s works.
It was the city of Paris, let us say in his honor, that put in the highest bids.
The Vercingetorix (group in the manner of the Foire du Trône) was erected in the courtyard of a communal school.
The Vercingetorix (poem imitative of Rigollot)53 was placed in the Salpêtrière.
And finally, the Vercingetorix (painting for the hairy scalp) was placed worthily in a hospice for the aged blind.
Everything comes to he who waits.
Jean Rameau: The Mannequin-Man
(1887)
I.
That day—one day next year, no doubt—was the birthday of the great, the illustrious, the enormously popular Cabalistras.
Since the morning, delegations of all sorts—musical societies, hairdressing academies, orthopedic institutes—had filed under the windows of the Master, who, intent on nurturing his celebrity, was obliged to appear on his balcony three hundred and forty-seven times and kiss queues of young women clad in white, who offered him tricolor bouquets.
II.
“Oof! I’m exhausted!” cried the great man, at about three o’clock in the afternoon.
And, his spine exhausted by little bows, his head disequilibrated by accolades, and his hands swollen by applauding fanfares, he collapsed on a sofa.
“Master!” cried one of the most fervent disciples of Cabalistras, at that moment. “Here comes the delegation of Colossal Women; it’s indispensable that you appear and address a few heartfelt words to the crowd.”
“Send for the mannequin,” sighed the great man. “I can’t do any more.”
And, in accordance with his orders, they sent for the mannequin.
III.
The mannequin was a Cabalistras in wax, articulated and able to talk, which the real Cabalistras, who liked to see his name in print in the newspapers as often as possible, sent in his stead to premières, inaugurations of statues and various official solemnities in which it was sufficient to put in an appearance, when he did not have time to go there himself. A fine invention, that mannequin.
The Cabalistras in wax, moreover, represented the Cabalistras of flesh and blood very worthily, and the reporters never had to point out anything that was incorrect in his behavior.
Two of the Master’s disciples, therefore, opened a cupboard and brought out a gentleman in a black suit, loaded a roll into his belly—the accolades and ovations roll—switched on a mechanism hidden in the back…vroom! vroom! vroom!...and shoved the mannequin toward the balcony.
“Long live Cabalistras!” cried ten thousand throats.
The mannequin bowed, and in a perfectly imitated voice, said “Flattered. Very flattered…!”
Then, at brief intervals, while bouquets, palms and crowns were thrown to him: “Thank…you! Thank…you! This great day…ineradicable memory in my heart…Thank…you… Very flattered!”
And finally, as the choir-master of the Midwives of Montmartre intoned a “Hymn to Cabalistras” composed for the occasion:
“Bra-vo! Bra-vo! Bra-vo!” said the mannequin, applauding with his hands, correctly.
And he went back in, saying several times to the delirious crowd:
“Bless you! Bless you”
IV.
Now Cabalistras—the real one—who, in order to be better shielded from importunity, had retired to the apartment reserved for his wife, was sleeping peaceful on a sofa when he was woken up with a start by the sound of resounding kisses, coming from the next room.
“Can’t they go and kiss one another further away?” he muttered.
Intrigued, he took a few silent steps in order to see where the unusual noise was coming from.
He suddenly recoiled.
“Heavens! My wife with one of my admirers!” he exclaimed.
After reflecting for a second, he added: “As long as they don’t know that I’ve seen them!”
And he went away discreetly, on tiptoe.
V.
He went into another room, and then into a second, and then a third—but by a sinister fatality, his wife and his admirer came in after him.
“Oh! No other way out!” he observed, with terror, on arriving in his wife’s bedroom.
He tried to hide behind the door, but a mirror betrayed his presence. He tried to slide behind a sideboard, but rheumatism prevented him from doing so.
“Damn! They’re going to catch me!” said Cabalistras to himself, shivering. “Oh, it’s terrible! Doomed! Dishonored! Obliged to fight a duel! Criminal that I am! That’ll teach me!”
And, his legs trembling, he stopped.
VI.
“Heavens! My husband!” said Madame Cabalistras, with a stifled scream.
“Where?” asked the Master’s admirer.
“There, in that corner! We’re doomed!”
And they remained nailed to the pot.
But Cabalistras also remained motionless...
And a sudden burst of laughter suddenly resounded.
“He’s not moving! It’s his mannequin!” the lovers said to one another.
And they entered without fear.
My mannequin! reflected the illustrious husband. What an idea! Yes, everything’s saved! Thank you, God!
VII.
“Flatt-ered! Very flatt-ered!” said Cabalistras, bowing to the two lovers.
There laughter was redoubled.
“Ah! Good—it’s the accolades and ovations roll. This will be funny.”
And they locked the door.
“Oh, my angel!” exclaimed the admirer. “Oh, my Suzanne…!”
“Very flatt-ered, Thank...you!” the husband continued, his fists clenched.
And he gazed imperturbably at his disciple, who kissed Madame Cabalistras on both cheeks.
“Wait! He’s no longer talking!” said Suzanne, suddenly, blushing slightly. “Is it...”
Cabalistras rolled his eyes ferociously.
“This fine day... Thank…you! Thank...you!” he said, clicking his teeth.
“What if we put him in a cupboard?” risked the admirer.
“Oh, no, André! It’s too amusing. Listen to him!”
And she put her arms around her lover’s neck.
Cabalistras thought he was going to explode with rage. What an ordeal, Lord!
“I’ll go and wind him up,” said his wife. “The roll must have run out.”
She offered her neck for a kiss.
“Bra-vo! Bra-vo! Bra-vo!” roared Cabalistras, whose eyes took on a gleam of madness.
And that was said in a voice so forceful, so desperate and so strange that the two lovers looked at one another, bewildered, and started to tremble...
VIII.
Several seconds passed like that, perhaps several minutes, during which no one moved, no one spoke, and everyone’s teeth were chattering. A tragic situation.
And the mannequin’s hair was seen to stand up on his head.
They drew nearer.
“He’s sweating huge drops!” exclaimed Suzanne. “If that isn’t...”
The lovers drew nearer, coming to look the mannequin in the face.
“I bless you! I bless you!” gasped Cabalistras.
And, to their great amazement, he ran for the door.
“God!” cried the guilty pair, chilled by fear.
And they fainted.
IX.
And Cabalistras continued fleeing, recklessly, along corridors, along galleries, up and down staircases
“Long live Cabalistras!” he suddenly heard.
It was the crowd, a hundred thousand admirers acclaiming him.
He stopped, and looked around fearfully.
“Eh? What! I’m…but yes, the mannequin
! Flatt-ered! Very flatt-ered!” he declaimed.
And, no longer knowing whether he was a man or a mannequin, he ran to the balcony.
“Long live Cabalistras!” shouted the crowd.
Cabalistras took a revolver from his pocket.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three detonations rang out. And the mannequin, who was saluting the crowd, fell to the ground, its cardboard head traversed by three bullets.
“Well, what?” howled Cabalistras—the real one. “He’s dishonored, that man! He has a right to kill himself!”
And imagining that he had killed himself, he fell down on the parquet, insane.”
X.
“Damn! Damn!” exclaimed the director of the lunatic asylum to whom Cabalistras was handed over, a short while later. “Here’s one who must have passed through terrible anguish!”
And it was remarked, in fact, that the eminent husband’s hair had turned instantaneously white—with a hint of yellow.54
Horrible!
Jean Rameau: Electric Life
(1887)
This story will happen before long.
I.
One morning, a child came into the world.
“What shall we call him?” said the father.
“To,” replied the mother.
“Right! To: a short name. We won’t waste as much time pronouncing it.”
And the child was called To.
II.
The day after his birth. To was placed by his parents in an apparatus for maturing babies. It was a recent invention: an apparatus that, in seven months, rendered an infant seven years old, physically and intellectually—which made a saving of six years.
The Mirror of Present Events Page 8
