“They are both unfortunate,” he told him. “The one cannot console himself for having lost his power, and the other trembles lest he may lose it. And their ambition is yet the more pitiful in that they are both freer and more powerful in a private condition than while in the exercise of power, where they can only maintain themselves by a humble and dishonourable submission to the caprices of the Chambers, the blind passions of the people, and the interests of the financiers. What they are pursuing with such eagerness is nothing but their own pompous abasement. Ah! Quatrefeuilles, rest content with your prickers, your horses and your dogs, but do not aspire to govern men.”
They passed on. Scarcely had they proceeded a few steps when, attracted by bursts of laughter issuing from a clump of trees, they entered the latter, and found, sitting on four chairs in an arbour, a fat man in disordered dress, who, in a mellow, emotional voice, was telling stories to a numerous company, which was hanging on his lips, that were like those of an ancient Satyr, and bending over his more or less than human face, which looked as if it had been smeared with Dionysiac lees. He was the most celebrated and only popular man in the kingdom, Jeronimo. He was speaking profusely, joyously, and richly; throwing off random remarks, and telling stories, some excellent, and others not so good, but all raising a laugh. He told a story of how one day at Athens, the social revolution took place, when all property was shared, and the women made in common. But the old and ugly ones very soon complained of being neglected, and a law was then passed in their favour, compelling the men to take their turn with them before passing on to the young and pretty ones. He described, with robust gaiety, comic espousals, grotesque embraces, and the failing courage of the young men at the appearance of their blear-eyed, snuffling mistresses, who looked capable of cracking nuts between their chins and noses. Then he told lewd tales of German Jews, priests, and peasants, a whole string of diverting stories and merry observations.
Jeronimo was an amazing oratorical instrument. When he spoke his whole person spoke, from his head to his feet: and never in any orator had the play of speech been so absolute. Grave and gay, sublime and ridiculous by turns, he was master of every form of eloquence, and the same man who, under the arbour, was relating, like the consummate comedian that he was, for the diversion of idlers, and his own, every kind of facetious anecdote, had, on the previous day, in the Chamber, raised an outcry and earned applause with his mighty voice, making the ministers tremble and the tribunes quake and stirring the whole country with the echoes of his speech. Dexterous in his violence, calculating in his outbursts of wrath, he had become leader of the Opposition, without falling out with those in power, and, working among the people, he associated with the aristocracy. He was referred to as the man of the period. He was the man of the hour; always his mind accommodated itself to the time and the place. His thoughts were always opportune; his gigantic and commonplace genius was in tune with that of the community; his prodigious mediocrity effaced all the greatness and the pettiness that surrounded him; he alone was to be seen. His health would of itself have assured him of happiness: it was as massive and robust as his soul. A great drinker, a great lover of flesh, whether roasted or alive, he took life joyously, and appropriated a lion’s share of the pleasures of this world. Listening to him as he told his wonderful stories, Quatrefeuilles and Saint-Sylvain laughed like the rest, and, nudging the other’s elbow, each gazed out the corner of his eye at the shirt over which Jeronimo had liberally scattered the sauces and wines of a mirthful feast.
The ambassador of a proud people, which was offering King Christophe, for a price, its interested friendship, was passing at this moment, magnificent and solitary, across the lawn. He went up to the great man, bowing to him slightly.
Immediately Jeronimo was transformed. A serene and gentle gravity, a sovereign calm spread over his countenance, and the restrained sonority, of his voice flattered the ear of the ambassador, with the noblest and most caressing phrases of the language. His whole attitude expressed an understanding of foreign affairs, an atmosphere of congresses and conferences: his very lace scarf, his bulging shirt, and his elephantine trousers appeared miraculously to partake of the dignity of the diplomat and the atmosphere of embassies.
The guests moved away, and the two illustrious personages chatted for a long time in a friendly tone, appearing to be on a footing of intimacy which was widely remarked and commented upon by the politicians and the ladies of “the Service.”
“Jeronimo,” said one, “will be Minister of Foreign Affairs when he wishes.”
“When he is,” said another, “he will keep the King in his pocket.”
The Austrian ambassador, examining him through his eyeglasses said:
“That is an intelligent fellow; he will go far.”
The conversation ended, Jeronimo took a turn round the garden with his faithful Jobelin, a sort of long-legged heron with the head of an owl, who never left him.
The private secretary and the First Equerry followed them.
“His is the shirt we want,” said Quatrefeuilles in a low voice. But will he give it to us? He is a Socialist, and against the King’s Government.”
“Bah!” said Saint-Sylvain. “He is not an ill-natured man, and he is witty. He cannot wish for any change, seeing that he is in opposition. He has no responsibility; his position is excellent; he must wish to retain it. A good member of the Opposition is always a Conservative. Unless I am very much mistaken, this demagogue would be very sorry to harm his King. If we negotiate skilfully we shall get his shirt. Like Mirabeau, he will treat with the Court. But he will have to be assured of secrecy.”
As they were thus talking, Jeronimo was walking to and fro, with his hat over his ear, twirling his cane, diffusing his hilarious humour, jesting, bantering, laughing, exclaiming, playing on words, making obscene and filthy puns, and humming airs. Meanwhile, some fifteen paces ahead of him, the Duc des Aulnes, the arbiter of fashion and the prince of youth, meeting a lady of his acquaintance, saluted her very simply with a brief, slight, but not ungraceful gesture. The tribune observed him with an attentive gaze, and then becoming gloomy and thoughtful, he laid his heavy hand upon the shoulder of his water-fowl.
“Jobelin,” he said, “I would give all my popularity and ten years of my life to wear a coat and speak to women as that young puppy does.”
All his gaiety was gone. He now moved sadly with lowered head, regarding without pleasure the shadow which the ironic moon cast between his legs like a grotesque bluish figure.
“What did he say? Is he joking?” asked Quatrefeuilles uneasily.
“Never in his life was he more serious, more sincere,” replied Saint-Sylvain. “He has shown us the secret sore which devours him. Jeronimo cannot console himself for his lack of birth and elegance. He is not happy, and I would not give twopence for his shirt.”
Time was slipping by, and the search was becoming burdensome. The private secretary and the First Equerry agreed to pursue their quest independently, and arranged to meet at supper in the small yellow salon in order to compare notes as to the result of their search. Quatrefeuilles, for choice, interrogated army officers, the great nobles, and the great landowners, but he did not forget to make inquiry among the women. Saint-Sylvain, of a more penetrating mind, read the eyes of financiers, and patted the backs of diplomatists.
They met at the hour agreed, both weary and with long faces.
“I saw nothing but happy people,” said Quatrefeuilles, “but in every case their happiness was spoilt. The soldiers were consumed with a longing for a decoration, a step in rank or a gratuity. The benefits and honours gained by their rivals were like to give them jaundice. At the news that General de Tintille had been created Duc des Comores they were all as yellow as liquorice-water and as green as lizards. One became positively purple; it was a case of apoplexy. The nobility are dying of boredom and disturbances on their estates: always in litigation with their neighbours, eaten up by the lawyers, and their life of burdensome idlenes
s is full of cares.”
“I have found things no better than you have,” said Saint-Sylvain. “And what strikes me is to find that people suffer from contrary causes, and for opposite reasons. I found the Prince des Estelles wretched because his wife is deceiving him; not that he loves her, but he has some self-respect; the Duc de Mauvert is miserable because his wife is not deceiving him, and is therefore depriving him of the means of restoring his ruined house. One man is worn out by his children, another is in despair because he has none. I met townsfolk who dream of nothing but living in the country, and country-folk who think of nothing but setting up in town. I received the confidences of two men of honour; one was inconsolable because he had killed in a duel the man who had stolen his mistress, and the other was in despair because he had missed his rival.”
“I would never have believed,” sighed Quatrefeuilles, “that it was so difficult to find a happy man.”
“Perhaps we set about it the wrong way,” objected Saint-Sylvain. “We are searching at random, without method; we do not precisely know what we are looking for. We have not defined Happiness. It must be defined.”
“It would be waste of time,” replied Quatrefeuilles.
“I beg your pardon,” answered Saint-Sylvain. “When we shall have defined it, that is to say, limited, determined, and fixed it in its time and place, we shall have better means of finding it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Quatrefeuilles.
Still, they agreed to consult the wisest man in the kingdom on the subject. This was Monsieur Chaudesaigues, the Keeper of the King’s Library.
When they re-entered the Palace the sun had already risen. Christophe V had passed a bad night, and was impatiently demanding the medicinal shirt. They apologized for the delay, and climbed to the third story, where Monsieur Chaudesaigues received them in a vast hall which contained eight hundred thousand printed volumes and manuscripts.
CHAPTER V. THE ROYAL LIBRARY
AFTER requesting them to be seated, the librarian showed the visitors, with a gesture, the multitude of books arranged along the four walls from floor to ceiling.
“Can’t you hear? Can’t you hear the uproar they make? My ears are bursting from it, They all talk at the same time, and in every language. They argue about everything: God, Nature, Man, Time, Space and Numbers, the Knowable and the Unknowable, Good and Evil; they examine and object to everything, affirm and deny everything. They reason; they contradict. There are light books and heavy books; cheerful books and melancholy books; diffuse books and concise books; many speak for the pleasure of saying nothing, counting syllables, arranging sounds in accordance with laws, whose meaning and origin they themselves ignore; they are the most self-satisfied. There are books of another kind, dismal and austere, which speculate only upon subjects which are devoid of any tangible quality, and are carefully divorced from natural contingencies; they argue in the void, restlessly moving through the invisible categories of space: there are rabid disputants, who maintain their entities and their symbols with a sanguinary fury. I will not linger over those that tell the history of their own times, or of former times, for no one believes them. In all, there are eight hundred thousand in this room, and there are not two that think precisely the same on any subject, and those that repeat each other do not agree among themselves. As a rule, they neither know what they themselves are saying nor what others have said.
“Gentlemen, as a result of listening to this universal clatter I shall go mad, as all those have done who dwelt before me in this hall of innumerable voices, unless they were naturally idiots when they came, like my venerable colleague, Monsieur Froidefond, whom you see sitting opposite me, cataloguing with peaceful ardour. Simple he was born, and simple he remains. He was a complete unity, and has not become various. For unity cannot produce diversity, and it is there, I would remind you in passing, gentlemen, that the first difficulty is encountered, when we seek for the origin of things: it being impossible that the cause should be unique, it must be double triple, or multiple, which is difficult to admit. Monsieur Froidefond has a simple mind, and a pure soul. He lives catalogically. He knows the title and the format of every book which adorns these walls, and thus possesses the only exact knowledge which it is possible to acquire in a library. Having never investigated the contents of a single book, he has been saved from the nerveless uncertainty, hydraheaded error, hideous doubt, and horrible uneasiness, monsters which reading engenders in a fertile brain. He is calm, peaceful, and happy.”
“Happy!” simultaneously exclaimed the two seekers after the shirt.
“He is happy,” replied Monsieur Chaudesaigues, “but he does not know it. And it may be that one can be happy only on that condition.”
“Alas,” said Saint-Sylvain, “it is not life to be unaware that one lives; one is not happy if one does not know it.”
But Quatrefeuilles, who mistrusted argument, and believed only in experience in all things, went up to the table where Froidefond was busy cataloguing. He was surrounded by a heap of volumes, bound in calf, sheepskin, morocco, vellum, parchment, pigskin and boards; they smelt of dust and mildew, rats and mice.
“Worthy librarian,” he said, “kindly answer me this question, Are you happy?”
“I know of no book under that title,” replied the old cataloguer.
Quatrefeuilles raised his hands as a token of discouragement, and resumed his place.
“Reflect, gentlemen,” said Chaudesaigues, “that the antique Cybele, bearing Monsieur Froidefond upon her blooming bosom, is causing him to describe an immense curve round the sun, and that the sun is drawing Monsieur Froidefond with the earth, and all its retinue of planets, across the voids of space, toward the constellation of Hercules. Why? Of the eight hundred thousand volumes assembled around us not one can tell us why. We are ignorant of that, and of everything else. Gentlemen, we know nothing. The causes of our ignorance are many, but I am convinced that the most important is the imperfection of language. The torrent of words produces confusion among our ideas. If we took more care to define the terms by means of which we reason our ideas would be clearer and more certain.”
“What did I tell you, Quatrefeuilles?” cried the triumphant Saint-Sylvain. And, turning to the librarian, he said: “Monsieur Chaudesaigues, what you have just said fills me with joy. And I see that in coming to you we have been well advised. We have come to ask you for a definition of Happiness. It is on His Majesty’s service — —”
“I will do the best I can. The definition of a word should be radical and etymological. You ask me what is understood by ‘bonheur’? ‘Bonheur’ or heur bon, is good augury, the favourable omen derived from the flight and the song of birds, in opposition to ‘malheur,’ or ‘mauvais heur,’ which signifies an unfavourable consultation; the word indicates as much.”
“But how,” asked Quatrefeuilles, “can one find out if a man is happy?”
“By the examination of chickens!” answered the librarian. “The word implies it. ‘Heur’ is derived from augurium, which is a corruption of avigurium.”
“The examination of sacred chickens has ceased since the time of the Romans,” objected the First Equerry.
“But,” asked Saint-Sylvain, “is not a happy man one to whom fortune is favourable, and do not certain outward and visible signs of good fortune exist?”
“Fortune,” answered Chaudesaigues, “is that which befalls of good or ill; it is a throw of the dice. If I understand you rightly, gentlemen, you are looking for a happy man, a lucky man, that is to say a man for whom the birds have none but favourable auguries, and whom the dice always befriend. You must search for this rare mortal among men whose life is drawing to a close, and for preference among those already stretched upon their death-bed, who will have no further need to consult the sacred chickens, nor to throw dice. For they alone are in a position to congratulate themselves upon a constant good fortune, and unvarying happiness.
“Did not Sophocles say in his Œdipus Rex, ‘Cal
l no man happy till his hour of death?’”
This advice ill-suited Quatrefeuilles, to whom the idea did not appeal of pursuing happiness in the train of the Holy Sacrament. Neither did the plan of dragging a shirt off a dying man commend itself to Saint-Sylvain; but as he was possessed of some philosophy and curiosity he asked the librarian if he knew of one of these grand old men who have for the last time cast their splendidly cogged dice.
Chaudesaigues nodded his head and rose, went to the window, and drummed on the panes. It was raining; the parade-ground was deserted. At the far end there rose a magnificent palace, whose attics were surmounted by a trophy of arms, and which bore upon its pediment a Bellona, a hydra upon her helmet, clad in a cuirass of scales, and brandishing a Roman sword.
“Go into that palace,” he said at length.
“What?” said Saint-Sylvain, surprised, “to the Marshal de Volmar’s?”
“To be sure. What mortal under the sky is more fortunate than the conqueror of Elbruz and Baskir? Volmar is one of the greatest fighting men that ever lived, and, of all, the most uniformly lucky.”
“The whole world knows that,” said Quatrefeuilles.
“And will never forget it,” resumed the librarian.
Marshal Pilon, Duc de Volmar, coming into the world at a period when popular conflagrations were no longer consuming the whole face of the world simultaneously, was able to correct this ingratitude of fortune by throwing himself with all his energy and genius into any point of the globe where a war was on the point of blazing forth. At the age of twelve he served in Turkey, and went through the Kurdistan campaign. From that time forth he had borne his victorious arms into every portion of the known world; four times he had crossed the Rhine, with such insolent ease that the old reed-crowned river, the divider of peoples, seemed flouted and abashed: he had defended the line of the Lys even more skilfully than Marshal Saxe; he had crossed the Pyrenees, forced the entrance of the Tagus, opened the gates of the Caucasus, and ascended the Dnieper. He had, in turn, faced and fought every nation of Europe, and had three times saved his country.
Complete Works of Anatole France Page 382