Drifting a Vau-L'eau (Dedalus European Classics)

by J.-K. Huysmans

  So he had given up walking on Sundays through this profusion of bad taste that had even spread as far as the suburbs. Moreover, strolling around Paris no longer invigorated him as it used to; now he felt punier, smaller, lonelier and more out of place in the midst of these tall houses with their entrance halls covered in marble and their concierge’s lodges ostentatiously decked out like bourgeois drawing rooms.

  Nevertheless, one part of his quarter remained intact, near the mutilated Luxembourg Gardens,45 and to him it retained a benevolent, intimate air: Place Saint-Sulpice.

  Sometimes he would lunch at a wine shop nearby, on the corner of the Rue du Vieux-Colombier and the Rue Bonaparte, and from there, through a window on the mezzanine, he would look down onto the Place and watch those coming out of Mass, the children descending the steps, prayerbooks in hand, a little in front of their mothers and fathers, the whole crowd spreading out around a fountain adorned with bishops seated in niches, and with lions that crouched over the basin.

  By leaning a little over the balustrade, he could see the corner of the Rue Saint-Sulpice, a corner swept by a fearsome wind that came down the Rue Férou, and was likewise occupied by a wine shop with a thirsty clientele of choristers. This part of the Place fascinated him, with its spectacle of passers-by tottering on their feet in the wind, their hands clutching their hats, and the large La Villette omnibuses nearby, their bulky red-brown chassis lined up at the curb in front of the church.

  The Place was coming to life, but soberly, without fuss; cabs dozed at their ranks in front of a public toilet46 and a drink stall;47 huge yellow Batignolles omnibuses furrowed the streets as they trundled along, crisscrossed by small green omnibuses from the Pantheon, and by a pale two-horse carriage from Auteuil; at midday, the seminarists would march past, two by two, heads down, with the mechanical stride of automatons, snaking out from Saint-Sulpice towards the seminary48 in a long black and white strip.

  When the sun shone, the Place looked charming: the unequal towers of the church became whiter, the gilt lettering on shopfronts would glitter all along the line of outlets selling chasubles and holy chalices; the colours on a huge furniture remover’s sign shone brighter and cruder than ever, and on the wrought-iron screen of a urinal an advertisement for a dyer’s – two scarlet hats standing out against a black background – evoked, in this quarter of beadles and bigots,49 the pomp of religion and the lofty dignity of the priesthood.

  However, this spectacle offered nothing new to M. Folantin. How many times in his youth had he tramped across the Place Saint-Sulpice to look at the old wild boar that the Maison Bailly used to keep?50 How many times of an evening had he listened to the mournful song of a street singer near the fountain? How many times had he strolled past the seminary on days when the flower market was on?

  He’d long ago worn out the charm of this peaceful spot; in order to savour it afresh he now had to stagger his visits, and only walk through it at rare intervals.

  So the Place Saint-Sulpice was no help at all to him on Sundays, and he came to prefer the other days of the week, since he was at less of a loose end when he had to go to the office; yes, it was beyond question, Sundays were becoming interminable! On these mornings he would lunch a little later than usual and drag out his meal in order to give the concierge time to clean his room, but it was never tidy when he returned; he would stumble over rolled-up carpets and walk into a cloud of dust stirred up by the broom. In an instant, the concierge would straighten the bed sheets, spread out the carpets and leave, under the pretext that he didn’t wish to disturb ‘Monsieur’.

  M. Folantin would then pick off all the dust from his furniture with his fingers, hang up his clothes that were heaped on an armchair, flick a feather duster here and there, and replenish the ashes in his spittoon; next, he’d check off the linen that the laundrywoman brought back, but such a feeling of disgust would assail him at the sight of the lacerations in his shirts that he would just stuff them, without further examination, into a drawer.

  The afternoon provided richer pickings until four o’clock; he would re-read old letters from relatives and long-dead friends; he would leaf through some of his books and savour a few passages. But by about five o’clock he would begin to suffer, the moment was approaching when he would have to get ready to go out again; the very idea of it took his appetite away and on some Sundays he didn’t budge – or rather if he anticipated he might feel hungry later on, he would go downstairs in his slippers and buy a couple of rolls and a pie, or some sardines. He always had a little chocolate and wine in a cupboard and he would eat, happy to be at home with plenty of elbow room, to be able to spread out and avoid for once the cramped space of a restaurant; except that a bad night would always follow; he’d wake up with a start, shivering with pangs of hunger; sometimes his insomnia lasted an hour and the darkness intensified his unhappy thoughts, he would repeat endlessly the same complaints as during the day and even began to regret not being with a woman.

  ‘But marriage is impossible at my age,’ he would tell himself. ‘Ah, if only I’d had a mistress when I was younger; had I kept her, I could see out my final years with her, I’d come home to find my lamp lit and my meals ready. If I could live my life over again I’d do it all differently, I’d get myself an ally for my old age; as it is, I’ve overestimated my strength, I’m done for!’

  And when morning came, he would get up, his legs stiff, his head listless and in a daze.

  It was, moreover, a tiresome time of year; the winter was harsh and the cold North wind made home seem more enviable and trips to eating houses, with their constantly opening doors, all the more odious. But then out of the blue a great burst of hope knocked M. Folantin for six: one morning, in the Rue de Grenelle, he noticed a new patisserie had opened. The following inscription was emblazoned in shiny letters on the window: “Meals delivered.”

  M. Folantin had a moment of dizziness. Could it be that the dream he had so long cherished, of having dinner brought up to his room, was finally going to be realised? But he remained doubtful, recalling the futile hunting expeditions around his quarter, searching for an establishment that would consent to home deliveries of food.

  ‘It costs nothing to enquire,’ he said to himself finally, and he went in.

  “Why, certainly Monsieur,” replied a young woman, buried behind the counter, her bust surrounded by cream puffs and tarts. “It couldn’t be easier since you live so nearby. And what time would you like it to be brought?”

  “At six o’clock,” said M. Folantin, trembling all over.

  “Absolutely.”

  M. Folantin’s forehead creased in a frown.

  “Now… the thing is,” he resumed, stammering slightly, “I’d like some soup, a meat dish and some vegetables… what would that cost?”

  The woman seemed absorbed in her calculations, her eyes raised to the ceiling, murmuring: “Soup… meat… vegetables… you’re not having wine?”

  “No, I have some at home.”

  “Well then Monsieur, in that case it would be two francs.”

  M. Folantin’s face lit up. “Right,” he said, “that’s settled. When can we start?”

  “Why whenever you please, this evening if you wish.”

  “This very evening then, Madame.” He bowed and was saluted in turn from behind the counter by a curtsey so low the lady’s nose almost gouged the cream puffs and stabbed the tarts.

  Out in the street, M. Folantin stopped after a few steps. ‘It’s done, what a stroke of luck that was,’ he thought; then his joy subsided. ‘As long as the grub isn’t too awful… Pah! I’ve put up with so many appalling meals in my wretched life I’ve no right to be fussy. Besides, she’s nice, that young lady. It’s not that she’s pretty, but she has very expressive eyes; as long as she’s good at her job!’ And, continuing on his way, he wished the pastry cook every success.

  After that, he did all he could to ensure the first evening went smoothly; he ordered six bottles of wine from a grocer’s, the
n, when he arrived at his office, he drew up a list of provisions he was going to buy: jam, cheese, biscuits, salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar, oil.

  ‘I’ll have bread brought up every day by the concierge; oh, good Lord, if this works out, I’m saved!’

  He longed for the day to end; his eagerness to enjoy his food in contentment, all alone, made the slow march of the hours slower still.

  From time to time he would consult his watch.

  His colleague, who was already astounded by M. Folantin’s ecstatic look of anticipation as he daydreamed about his evening, smiled.

  “Admit it,” he said, “she’s waiting for you.”

  “Who’s she?” asked M. Folantin in surprise.

  “Get away, you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Come on, joking apart, is she a blonde or a brunette?”

  “Oh my dear fellow,” replied M. Folantin, “I can assure you I really have other things to think about than women.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s what they all say. Ah, you old dog, so you’ve still got some lead in the pencil!”

  “Here, gentlemen… copy this right away; I must have these two letters ready to sign by this evening,” said the chief clerk who came in and then disappeared again.

  “That’s ridiculous, there’s four closely written pages here,” groaned M. Folantin. “I won’t be able to finish before five… God, it’s so stupid,” he went on, addressing his colleague, who sniggered and said in a low voice, “Well, my dear chap, you can’t expect the Civil Service to worry about such minor details.”

  Somehow or other, cursing all the while, M. Folantin finished his task; then he hurried home by the shortest route, his arms laden with packets, his pockets stuffed with bags; as soon as he got inside he took a deep breath, put his slippers on, ran a tea towel over the few dishes he possessed, and wiped his wineglasses; he could find neither a cutting board nor a sandstone to scour the blades of his knives, so he plunged them into the mud in an old flowerpot and succeeded in making them gleam a little.

  ‘There,’ he said to himself, drawing the table nearer the fire, ‘I’m ready,’ just as six o’clock sounded.

  M. Folantin listened impatiently for the boy from the patisserie, and he felt a little of that feverishness which had prevented him, in his youth, from staying calm whenever a friend dawdled or was late for a meeting.

  Finally, at a quarter past six, the bell rang and an errand boy poked his nose around the door, staggering under the weight of a huge tin container, shaped like a bucket; M. Folantin helped to lift the dishes out onto the table, taking off the lids when he was alone. One contained tapioca soup, one braised veal, and the last cauliflower in white sauce.

  ‘But this isn’t too bad,’ he thought, tasting each of the dishes in turn; he ate his fill, drank a little more than usual, then fell into a pleasant daydream as he contemplated his room.

  For many years he’d had the intention of redecorating it, but he always ended up saying to himself: ‘Pah! what’s the point? I’m not here all the time, if at a later date I can arrange my life a bit differently I’ll sort out the decor.’ But even though he hadn’t actually bought anything, he had already got his eye on a few objects which he’d spotted while browsing along the quays and on the Rue de Rennes.

  The idea of papering the cold bare walls of his room suddenly took hold of him, as he gulped down a final glass of wine.51 His hesitation evaporated; he was determined to spend the few pennies he’d scraped together for this purpose over the years, and he had a delightful evening, planning a new look for his little retreat. ‘I’ll get up early tomorrow,’ he decided, ‘and I’ll do a tour first thing of the drapery shops and bric-à-brac stalls.’

  His sense of purposelessness came to an end now a new interest was taking possession of him; his preoccupation to discover a few engravings and some bits of chinaware, without spending too much money, sustained him during the day, and after leaving the office he would set off in a hurry, feverishly climbing up and down the floors of the Bon Marché52 and the Maison Petit Saint-Thomas,53 rummaging through piles of material, finding them too dark or too light, too narrow or too wide, refusing the offcuts and remnants which the assistants were trying to get rid of, and obliging them to bring out the goods they were holding in reserve. By pestering them, by keeping them running around for hours on end, they finally caved in and showed off some ready-made curtains and carpets that tempted him.

  After these purchases, and after fierce haggling with bric-à-brac dealers and print sellers, he was left without a penny: all his savings were exhausted, but, like a child with a new toy, M. Folantin would pore over his purchases, examining them from every angle. He climbed onto chairs to hang up pictures, and rearranged his books in a different order. ‘There’s no place like home,’ he said to himself; and indeed his apartment had changed beyond recognition. Instead of wallpapered walls scarred with marks left by old nails, the partitions were now hidden under engravings by Ostade, by Teniers,54 by all the painters of real life he was mad about. A collector would certainly have turned his back on these prints with their cropped margins, but M. Folantin was neither a connoisseur, nor rich; for the most part he acquired scenes of ordinary life that attracted him; besides, he didn’t care if these old engravings were genuine or not, provided the colours were clean and bright enough to enliven his walls.

  ‘I should have changed my mahogany furniture as well,’ he thought, looking at his boat-shaped bed, his two armchairs upholstered in brown damask, his cracked marble washstand and his table with its reddish veneer, ‘but that would have been too expensive, and besides the new curtains and rugs have sufficiently rejuvenated these bits of furniture, which, like my old clothes, are adapted to my movements and habits.’

  How eager he was now to come back home, to put all the lights on and bury himself in his armchair! The cold seemed to be penned up outside, kept at bay by the intimacy of this cherished little spot, and the falling snow, which deadened all the noises of the street, added still more to his sense of well-being; dining in the evening silence, with his feet in front of the fire while the plates warmed by the grate and the wine breathed, was delightful, and the tedium of office life, the sadness of a celibate existence, took flight in this tranquillising stillness.

  Inevitably, barely a week had gone by and the service from the patisserie was already beginning to fall off. The invariable tapioca was full of curds, the soup was chemically processed, the meat sauces stank of the bitter Madeira you get in cheap restaurants, and all the dishes had a distinctive taste, an indefinable taste suggestive of slightly musty flour paste and warm stale vinegar. M. Folantin copiously peppered his meat and poulticed his gravy with mustard: ‘Pah! it goes down all the same,’ he thought, ‘it’s just a matter of getting used to the stuff.’

  But even the poor quality of the food couldn’t remain consistent, and little by little it got worse, aggravated still further by the perpetual lateness of the young errand boy. He would arrive at seven o’clock, covered in snow, his plate-warmer extinguished, with two black eyes and scratches all over his cheeks. M. Folantin was convinced the boy was putting his tin down by the kerb and getting into fights with kids his own age. He gently suggested this to him, but the boy snivelled, and raising his arm and spitting on the floor, swore it wasn’t the case and things carried on just as before; so M. Folantin kept quiet, out of pity, not daring to complain to the patissière for fear of harming the boy’s future.

  For a further month he valiantly endured all these disappointments; even so, his heart sank whenever he had to pick out meat from the bottom of the tin, because there were days when a storm seemed to have been raging inside the container, when everything was upside down, the white sauce mixing with the tapioca, which had cinders floating in it.

  Fortunately there was a brief period of respite: the young errand boy was fired, no doubt because of complaints by less indulgent customers. His successor was a tall, lanky youth, who with his pallid complexion and huge red hands had the ai
r of a simpleton. He was punctual at least, arriving at six o’clock on the dot, but his uncleanliness was revolting: he was dressed in kitchen rags stiff with grease and dirt, his cheeks were smeared with flour and soot, and from his unwiped nose two rivulets of green snot streamed around his mouth.

  M. Folantin parried this new blow manfully; he gave up on the sauces and rather than use the greasy plates in the container he transferred the meat onto one of his own plates, scraping it clean before eating it with plenty of salt.

  In spite of his resignation, the moment came when certain dishes made him feel sick; he was subjected now to every botched bit of forcemeat, every piece of pastry that was either burned or spoiled by cinders, and he would have to fish out bits of old meat pie from every dish: emboldened by his forbearance, the patissière had put aside all sense of decency or shame and was simply sending him the scrapings of her kitchen.

  ‘Poisoner!’ M. Folantin would mutter whenever he passed the shop of the patissière, who he no longer judged so kindly, and he would look at her askance, not wishing her any prosperity whatsoever now in her business affairs.

  He resorted to hard-boiled eggs. He would buy them each day, fearing the evening meal would be impossible to eat. And each day he would stuff himself with salad; but the eggs were rotten – the grocer, considering him a man who didn’t know about these things, would sell him the most damaged ones in her shop.

  ‘Let’s try to make it through to the spring,’ M. Folantin would tell himself in order to give himself courage; but from week to week his resolution wavered, at the same time as his body, deplorably malnourished, cried famine. His good mood crumbled, his rooms became drabber again, and a procession of old anxieties encircled his listless existence once more.