—What does that mean?
—Damfino. Just a bit of legal language I picked up somewhere.
—You are the sunshine of my life.
—Toys toys I want more toys.
—Yes, I should think you would.
—That wallow in certainty called the love affair.
—The fading gray velvet of the sofa. He clowned with my panties in his teeth. Walked around that way for half an hour.
—What’s this gunk here in this bucket?
—Naw it was just another of those dumb ideas we had we thought would keep us together.
—Bone ignorance.
—Saw him once more, he was at a meeting I was at, had developed an annoying habit of coughing into his coat collar whenever he—
—Coughed.
—Yes he’d lift his coat collar and cough into it odd mannerism very annoying.
—Then the candles going out one by one—
—The last candle hidden behind the altar—
—The tabernacle door ajar—
—The clapping shut of the book.
—I got ready for the great day. The great day came, several times in fact.
—Each time with memories of the last time.
—No. These do not in fact intrude. Maybe as a slight shimmer of the over-and-done-with. Each great day is itself, with its own war machines, rattles, and green lords. There is the hesitation that the particular day won’t be what it is meant to be. Mostly it is. That’s peculiar.
—He told me terrible things in the evening of that day as we sat side by side waiting for the rain to wash his watercolor paper clean. Waiting for the rain to wash the watercolors from his watercolor paper.
—What do the children say?
—There’s a thing the children say.
—What do the children say?
—They say: Will you always love me?
—Always.
—Will you always remember me?
—Always.
—Will you remember me a year from now?
—Yes, I will.
—Will you remember me two years from now?
—Yes, I will.
—Will you remember me five years from now?
—Yes, I will.
—Knock knock.
—Who’s there?
—You see?
FROM
SIXTY STORIES
Eugénie Grandet
BALZAC’S NOVEL Eugénie Grandet was published in 1833. Grandet, a rich miser, has an only child, Eugénie. She falls in love with her young cousin, Charles. When she learns he is financially ruined, she lends him her savings. Charles goes to the West Indies, secretly engaged to marry Eugénie on his return. Years go by. Grandet dies and Eugénie becomes an heiress. But Charles, ignorant of her wealth, writes to ask her for his freedom: he wants to marry a rich girl. Eugénie releases him, pays his father’s debts, and marries without love an old friend of the family, Judge de Bonfons.
—The Thesaurus of Book Digests
“Oh, oh, where’s Old Grandet going so early in the morning, running as though his house were on fire?”
“He’ll end up by buying the whole town of Saumur!”
“He doesn’t even notice the cold, his mind is always on his business!”
“Everything he does is significant!”
“He knows the secrets and mysteries of the life and death of money!”
•
“It looks as though I’m going to be quite successful here in Saumur,” thought Charles, unbuttoning his coat.
•
A great many people are interested in the question: Who will obtain Eugénie Grandet’s hand?
•
Eugénie Grandet’s hand:
•
Judge de Bonfons arrives carrying flowers.
•
“Mother, have you noticed that this society we’re in tends to be a little . . . repressive?”
“What does that mean, Eugénie? What does that mean, that strange new word, ‘repressive,’ that I have never heard before?”
“It means . . . it’s like when you decide to do something, and you get up out of your chair to do it, and you take a step, and then become aware of frosty glances being directed at you from every side.”
“Frosty glances?”
“Your desires are stifled.”
“What desires are you talking about?”
“Just desires in general. Any desires. It’s a whole . . . I guess atmosphere is the word . . . a tendency on the part of the society . . .”
“You’d better sew some more pillow cases, Eugénie.”
•
Part of a letter:
. . . And now he’s ruined a
friends will desert him, and
humiliation. Oh, I wish I ha
straight to heaven, where his
but this is madness . . . I re
that of Charles.
I have sent him to you so
news of my death to him and
in store for him. Be a father to
not tear him away from his
would kiss him. I beg him on m
which, as his mother’s heir, he
But this is a superfluous ple
will realize that he must not
Persuade him to give up all his
time comes. Reveal to him th
which he must live from now
still has any love for me, tell
not lost for him. Yes, work, wh
give him back the fortune I ha
And if he is willing to listen
who for his sake would like to
•
“Please allow me to retire,” Charles said. “I must begin a long and sad correspondence.”
“Certainly, nephew.”
•
“The painter is here from Paris!”
“Good day, painter. What is your name?”
“My name, sir, is John Graham!”
“John Graham! That is not a French name!”
“No, sir. I am an American. My dates are 1881–1961.”
“Well, you have an air of competence. Is that your equipment there, on the stagecoach platform?”
“Yes. That is my equipment. That is my easel, my palette, and my paint box containing tins of paints as well as the finest camel’s-hair brushes. In this bag, here, are a few changes of clothes, for I anticipate that this portrait will take several days.”
“Well, that is fine. How do you like our country?”
“It appears to be a very fine country. I imagine a lot of painting could get done in this country.”
“Yes, we have some pretty good painters of our own. That is why I am surprised to find that they sent an American painter, rather than a French one, to do Mlle. Eugénie’s portrait. But I’m sure you will do a first-class job. We’re paying you enough.”
“Yes, the fee is quite satisfactory.”
“Have you brought any examples of your work, so we can see what kind of thing you do?”
“Well, in this album here . . . this is a portrait of Ellen West . . . this one is Mrs. Margot Heap . . . that’s an Indian chief . . . that’s Patsy Porker . . .”
“Why are they all cross-eyed?”
“Well, that’s just the way I do it. I don’t see anything wrong with that. It often occurs in nature.”
“But every one is . . .”
“Well, what’s so peculiar about that? I just like . . . that’s just the way I do it. I like . . .”
•
“In my opinion, Eugénie wasn’t fondled enough as a child.”
“Adolphe des Grassins wasn’t fondled enough either!”
“And Ju
dge de Bonfons?”
“Who could bring himself to fondle Judge de Bonfons!”
“And Charles Grandet?”
“His history in this regard is not known. But it has been observed that he is forever patting himself, pat pat pat, on the hair, on the kneecap, pat pat pat pat pat pat. This implies—”
“These children need fondling!”
“The state should fondle these poor children!”
“Balzac himself wasn’t fondled enough!”
“Men are fools!”
•
Eugénie Grandet with ball:
•
Charles and Eugénie understand each other.
They speak only with their eyes.
The poor ruined dandy withdraws into a corner and remains there in calm, proud silence.
But from time to time his cousin’s gentle, caressing glance
•
“No more butter, Eugénie. You’ve already used up a whole half pound this month.”
“But, Father . . . the butter for Charles’s éclair!”
•
Butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter butter
•
Eugénie Grandet decides to kill her father.
•
Charles decides to try his luck in the Indies—that deadliest of climates.
•
Here, Charles, take this money of mine. This money that my father gave me. This money that if he finds out I gave it to you, all hell will break loose. I want you to have it, to finance your operations in the Indies—that deadliest of climates.”
“No, Eugénie, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t take your money. No, I won’t do it. No.”
“No, I mean it, Charles. Take the money and use it for worthy purposes. Please. See, here is a ducat, minted in 1756 and still bright as day. And here are some doubloons, worth two escudos each. And here are some shiny quadroons, of inestimable value. And here in this bag are thalers and bobs, and silver quids and copper bawbees. Altogether, nearly six thousand francs. Take it, it’s yours.”
“No, Eugénie, I can’t take your money. I can’t do it.”
“No, Charles, take my money. My little hoard.”
“OK.”
•
In order not to interrupt the course of events which took place within the Grandet family, we must now glance ahead at the operations which the old man carried out in Paris by means of the des Grassins. A month after the banker’s departure, Grandet was in possession of enough government stock, purchased at eighty francs a share, to yield him an income of a hundred thousand francs a year. The information given after his death by the inventory of his property never threw the slightest light on the means by which his wary mind conceived to exchange the price of the certificate for the certificate itself. Monsieur Cruchot believed that Nanon had unwittingly been the trusty instrument by which the money was delivered. It was at about that time that she went away for five days on the pretext of putting something in order at Froidfond, as though the old man were capable of leaving anything in disorder!
With regard to the affairs of the house of Guillaume Grandet, all the old man’s expectations were realized. As is well known, the Bank of France has precise information on all the large fortunes of Paris and the provinces. The names of des Grassins and Félix Grandet of Saumur were well known there and enjoyed the respect granted to all noted financial figures whose wealth is based on enormous holdings of unmortgaged land. The arrival of the banker from Saumur, who was said to be under orders to liquidate, for the sake of honor, the house of Grandet in Paris, was therefore enough to spare the deceased merchant’s memory the shame of protested notes. The seals were broken in the presence of the creditors, who
•
“Here’s a million and a half francs, Judge,” Eugénie said, drawing from her bosom a certificate for a hundred shares in the Bank of France.
•
Charles in the Indies. He sold:
Chinese
Negroes
swallows’ nests
children
artists
Photograph of Charles in the Indies:
•
The letter:
Dear Cousin,
I have decided to marry a Mlle. d’Aubrion, and not you. Her nose turns red, under certain circumstances: but I have contrived a way of not looking at her, at those times—all will be well. If my children are to get into the École Normale, the marriage is essential; and we have to live for the children, don’t we? A brilliant life awaits me, is what I am trying to say to you, if I don’t marry you, and that is why I am marrying this other girl, who is hideously ugly but possessed of a notable, if decayed, position in the aristocracy. Therefore those binding promises we exchanged, on the bench, are, to all intents and purposes, mooted. If I have smothered your hopes at the same time, what can I do? We get the destiny we deserve, and I have done so many evil things, in the Indies, that I am no longer worthy of you, probably. Knowing chuckles will doubtless greet this news, the news of my poor performance, in Saumur—I ask you to endure them, for the sake of
Your formerly loving,
Charles
•
“I have decided to give everything to the Church.”
“An income of eight hundred thousand a year!”
“Yes.”
“It will kill your father.”
“You think it will kill him if I give everything to the Church?”
“I certainly do.”
“Run and fetch the curé this instant.”
•
Old Grandet clutches his chest, and capitulates. Eight hundred thousand a year! He gasps. A death by gasping.
•
Adolphe des Grassins, an unsuccessful suitor of Eugénie Grandet, follows his father to Paris. He becomes a worthless scoundrel there.
Nothing: A Preliminary Account
IT’S NOT the yellow curtains. Nor curtain rings. Nor is it bran in a bucket, not bran, nor is it the large, reddish farm animal eating the bran from the bucket, the man who placed the bran in the bucket, his wife, or the raisin-faced banker who’s about to foreclose on the farm. None of these is nothing. A damselfish is not nothing, it’s a fish, a Pomacentrus, it likes warm water, coral reefs—perhaps even itself, for all we know. Nothing is not a nightshirt or a ninnyhammer, ninety-two, or Nineveh. It is not a small jungle in which, near a river, a stone table has been covered with fruit. It is not the handsome Indian woman standing next to the stone table holding the blond, kidnapped child. Neither is it the proposition esse est percipi, nor is it any of the refutations of that proposition. Nor is it snuff. Hurry. There is not much time, and we must complete, or at least attempt to complete, the list. Nothing is not a tongue depressor; splendid, hurry on. Not a tongue depressor on which a distinguished artist has painted part of a nose, part of a mouth, a serious, unsmiling eye. Good, we got that in. Hurry on. We are persuaded that nothing is not the yellow panties. The yellow panties edged with white on the floor under the black chair. And it’s not the floor or the black chair or the two naked lovers standing up in the white-sheeted bed having a pillow fight during the course of which the male partner will, unseen by his beloved, load his pillowcase with a copy of Webster’s Third International. We are nervous. There is not much time. Nothing is not a Gregorian chant or indeed a c
hant of any kind unless it be the howl of the null muted to inaudibility by the laws of language strictly construed. It’s not an “O” or an asterisk or what Richard is thinking or that thing we can’t name at the moment but which we use to clip papers together. It’s not the ice cubes disappearing in the warmth of our whiskey nor is it the town in Scotland where the whiskey is manufactured nor is it the workers who, while reading the Bible and the local newspaper and Rilke, are sentiently sipping the product through eighteen-foot-long, almost invisible nylon straws.
And it’s not a motor hotel in Dib (where the mudmen live) and it’s not pain or pain or the mustard we spread on the pain or the mustard plaster we spread on the pain, fee simple, the roar of fireflies mating, or meat. Nor is it lobster protected from its natural enemies by its high price or true grit or false grit or thirst. It’s not the yellow curtains, we have determined that, and it’s not what is behind the yellow curtains which we cannot mention out of respect for the King’s rage and the Queen’s reputation. Hurry. Not much time. Nothing is not a telephone number or any number whatsoever including zero. It’s not science and in particular it’s not black-hole physics, which is not nothing but physics. And it’s not (quickly now, quickly) Benjamin Franklin trying to seduce, by mail, the widow of the French thinker Claude Adrien Helvétius, and it is not the nihilism of Gorgias, who asserts that nothing exists and even if something did exist it could not be known and even if it could be known that knowledge could not be communicated, no, it’s not that although the tune is quite a pretty one. I am sorry to say that it is not Athos, Porthos, or Aramis, or anything that ever happened to them or anything that may yet happen to them if, for example, an Exxon tank truck exceeding the speed limit outside of Yuma, Arizona, runs over a gila monster which is then reincarnated as Dumas père. It’s not weather of any kind, fair, foul, or undecided, and it’s not mental weather of any kind, fair, foul, or partly cloudy, and it’s neither my psychiatrist nor your psychiatrist or either of their psychiatrists, let us hurry on. And it is not what is under the bed because even if you tell us “There is nothing under the bed” and we think, At last! Finally! Pinned to the specimen board! still you are only informing us of a local, only temporarily stable situation, you have not delivered nothing itself. Only the list can present us with nothing itself, pinned, finally, at last, let us press on. We are aware of the difficulties of proving a negative, such as the statement “There is not a hipphilosamus in my living room,” and that even if you show us a photograph of your living room with no hipphilosamus in it, and adduce as well a tape recording on which no hipphilosamus tread is discernible, how can we be sure that the photograph has not been retouched, the tape cunningly altered, or that both do not either pre- or postdate the arrival of the hipphilosamus? That large, verbivorous animal which is able to think underwater for long periods of time? And while we are mentioning verbs, can we ask the question, of nothing, what does nothing do?
Donald Barthelme Page 66