Paris in the Twentieth Century (17 page)

"I
see that Monsieur Quinsonnas shares my view. "

"Completely,
Monsieur Huguenin. "

"You
see, Michel, " continued his uncle, "for me, the country, even before
trees, before fields, before streams, is above all fresh air; now, for ten
leagues around Paris, there is no longer any such thing! We envied London's
atmosphere, and, by means of ten thousand factory chimneys, the manufacture of
certain chemical products—of artificial fertilizers, of coal smoke, of
deleterious gases, and industrial miasmas— we have made ourselves an air which
is quite the equal of the United Kingdom's. Unless we were to travel far—too
far for my old legs—there's no hope of breathing something pure! If you'll take
my advice, we'll stay where we are, close our windows tight, and have our meal
right here, as comfortably as we can. "

Matters
turned out as Uncle Huguenin desired; they sat down at the table; they ate;
they chatted about one thing and another; Monsieur Huguenin observed Quinsonnas,
who could not help saying to him, at dessert: "My word, Monsieur Huguenin,
you have a fine countenance! It's a pleasure to look at you, these days of
sinister faces; permit me to shake your hand once again!"

"Monsieur
Quinsonnas, I feel I've known you some time; this boy has spoken of you so
frequently; I know you are one of us, and I thank Michel for your good visit;
he's done well to bring you here. "

"Well
now, Monsieur Huguenin, if you were to say that it was I who brought Michel,
you'd be closer to the truth. "

"What
is it that's happened then, that Michel should be brought here?"

"Monsieur
Huguenin,
brought
is not the word—
dragged
is what
I ought to have said. "

"Oh!"
exclaimed Michel. "Quinsonnas always exaggerates. "

"But
what is it?"

"Monsieur
Huguenin, look at us carefully. "

"I
am looking at you, gentlemen. "

"All
right, Michel, turn around so that your uncle can examine you from every angle.
"

"Am
I to be told the motive for this exhibition?"

"Monsieur
Huguenin, don't you find something about us that resembles men who have lately
been kicked out?"

"Kicked
out?"

"Yes,
kicked out in the worst possible way. "

"You
mean some misfortune has befallen you?"

"Good
fortune!" Michel broke in.

"Child!"
said Quinsonnas, shrugging his shoulders. "Monsieur Huguenin, we are
quite simply out on the street, or better still, on the asphalt of Paris!"

"Can
it be possible?"

"Yes,
Uncle. "

"But
what has happened?"

"It
was like this, Monsieur Huguenin. " Quinsonnas then began the story of
his catastrophe; his way of telling a story and of considering events, and his
own part in them, and his exuberant philosophy drew involuntary smiles from
Uncle Huguenin.

"Yet
there's really nothing to laugh about, " he said.

"Or
to cry about, " said Michel.

"What
will become of you?"

"Don't
concern yourself with me, " said Quinsonnas, "the point is the
child. "

"It
would be best of all, " the young man retorted, "if you talked as if
I weren't here. "

"Here's
the situation, " Quinsonnas continued. "Given a boy who can be neither
a financier nor a businessman nor an industrialist, how will he manage in a
world like ours?"

"That
is certainly the question, " said Uncle Huguenin, "and a singularly
embarrassing one; you have just named, Monsieur, the only three acknowledged professions;
I can think of no others, unless one were to be—"

"A
landowner, " said the pianist.

"Exactly.
"

"A
landowner!" exclaimed Michel, bursting into laughter.

"And
he laughs!" exclaimed Quinsonnas. "He treats with unforgivable
frivolity a profession as lucrative as it is honorable. Wretch! have you never
realized what it is to be a landowner? My boy, it is positively alarming to
think of all that this one word contains. When you consider that a man, a
person like yourself, made of flesh and blood, born of woman, of a mere mortal,
possesses a certain portion of the globe! That this portion of the globe
actually belongs to him, that it is one of his properties, like his own head,
and frequently even more than that! That no one, not even God, can take from
him this portion of the globe which he transmits to his heirs! That he has the
right to dig up this portion of the globe, to cultivate it, to build on it as
he pleases! That the air which surrounds it, the water which irrigates
it—everything is his! That he can burn its trees, drink its streams, and eat
its grass, if he chooses! That each day he tells himself: I own my share of
this land which the Creator created on the first day of the world; this surface
of the hemisphere is mine, all mine, with the six thousand fathoms of
breathable air which rise above it, and fifteen hundred leagues of the earth's
crust which extend below! For after all, this man is a landowner down to the
center of the earth, and is limited only by his co-landowner at the antipodes!
But, deplorable child, you can never have realized such things to laugh as you
do; you've never calculated that a man possessing a simple acre really and
truly owns a plot containing twenty billion cubic meters—his own, all his own,
whatever there is that can be all his own!"

Quinsonnas
was magnificent: gesture, intonation, figure! He became a veritable presence,
created an illusion; there could be no mistake: this was the man who had his
place in the sun—a possessor!

"Ah,
Monsieur Quinsonnas, " exclaimed Uncle Huguenin, "you are splendid!
You make me long to be a landowner to the end of my days!"

"But
isn't it all true, Monsieur Huguenin? And this child sits there and
laughs!"

"Yes,
I'm laughing, " Michel answered, "for I'll never manage to own even a
cubic meter of land! Unless chance—"

"What
do you mean by
chancel"
exclaimed the pianist.
"You use the word without the slightest comprehension. "

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean that
chance
comes from an Arabic word
signifying 'difficult'! Exactly! For in this world there are nothing but
difficulties to overcome! And with perseverance and intelligence, victory can
be yours. "

"Precisely!"
replied Uncle Huguenin. "Now what do you say to that, Michel?"

"Uncle,
I'm not so ambitious, and Quinsonnas's twenty billion mean nothing to me.
"

"But,
" Quinsonnas continued, "one hectare of land produces twenty to
twenty-five hectoliters of wheat, and a hectoliter of wheat can produce
seventy- five kilograms of bread! Half a year's nourishment at a pound per
day!"

"Oh,
food, food!" Michel exclaimed, "always the same old song. "

"Yes,
my son, the song of bread, which is frequently sung to a sad tune. "

"So
what is it, Michel, that you propose to do?" asked Uncle Huguenin.

"If
I were absolutely free, Uncle, " the young man replied, "I'd like to
put into practice that definition of happiness I once read somewhere, and which
involves four conditions. "

"And
what, without being too inquisitive, might they be?" asked Quinsonnas.

"Life
in the open air, " answered Michel, "the love of a woman, detachment
from all ambition, and the creation of a new form of beauty. "

"Well
then!" exclaimed the pianist with a laugh, "Michel's already achieved
half his program. "

"How's
that?" asked Uncle Huguenin.

"Life
in the open air—he's already been thrown onto the street!"

"Right,
" agreed Uncle Huguenin.

"The
love of a woman?"

"Let's
leave that aside, " said Michel, blushing.

"As
you wish, " Monsieur Huguenin teased.

"As
for the other two, " Quinsonnas continued, "it's a little more
difficult. I believe he's ambitious enough not to be utterly detached from all
ambition... "

"But
the creation of a new form of beauty, " Michel exclaimed, leaping up with
enthusiasm.

"The
fellow's quite capable of that, " retorted Quinsonnas.

"Poor
child, " his uncle observed in a rather sad tone of voice.

"Uncle...
"

"You
know nothing about life, yet all your life you must learn how to live, as
Seneca says. I implore you, don't yield to fond hopes—you must realize there
are obstacles to face!"

"Indeed,
" continued the pianist, "nothing happens by itself in this world of
ours; as in mechanics, you must consider the milieu, you must bear in mind contacts!
Contacts with friends, with enemies, with outsiders, with rivals! The milieu
of women, of family, of society! A good engineer has to take everything into
account!"

"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. "