And the others! I do not remember if I have ever spoken to you about certain of my relations, or rather my uncle’s relations. I went to call on them last evening, in part to recover my spirits. I found them all seated around a table, in solemn silence. One glanced occasionally at a newspaper thrown on the table; but not so much at the newspaper as at the advertisements in it. Another was smoking a cigar and staring at his nails; but he was not smoking it so much as occasionally lighting it. A third had his elbows on the table and was doing nothing whatever.
They were silent, or spoke with difficulty of the weather. At the back of their eyes I could see that languor which I have come to recognize. It is not difficult to prophesy that soon they will all have fallen sound asleep.
Meanwhile, this morning a terrified procession of peasants paraded before me, having insisted on seeing me, carrying presents in kind. I was given a confused explanation to the effect that these offerings were always, by tradition, made on this day of the year, and were “for hibernation”—though it is given a different name here. A terrible suspicion crossed my mind: did my uncle hibernate as well? And, in truth, I seem to remember that he used to wait till the spring before answering my winter letters, though he was so precise in all his other dealings. But no! What am I imagining? And yet I recently discovered in the cellar—which I had never visited—an entire store of the horrible bags, and some already full! It seemed to me that I had not seen certain of the servants for some days. But the agent is as lively as ever, and the old butler holds up well, although he is always somewhat dull by nature; and the same may be said of the first housemaid. But the cook has for some time. . . .
But tell me, Solange: do you think it possible that they will all fall asleep? They all tell me—all the survivors, that is—that those who have work to do remain awake. But what advice could you give me in such a matter?
The snow has fallen in profusion and blankets the fields as far as the eye can reach. It is beautiful, but it is a little sad.
What are you doing in Paris? Will you at last make up your mind to write to me? But in Paris, at this very hour, the carriages are beginning to draw up to the Opera; bejewelled beauties cast their glances to left and to right; their lovers approach them closely at the entrance; everything in Paris lives and trembles with movement, the very air trembles.
Ah! Do you think that I ache with nostalgia for all that? You would be mistaken. It is only my nerves playing a treacherous game with me. I must be resolute—I have sworn to be resolute. Farewell.
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Solange:
My Solange, my only friend, listen to me, you must save me now, instantly. The very instant that you receive these lines you must take your traveling carriage; you must run, you must fly to save me. Solange, do you love me? Dear God, I cannot write calmly. I can hear his horse trampling and snorting in the courtyard below me—I mean the hussar’s horse. Yes, they have all fallen asleep, every last one, in the castle, in the village, everywhere, all of them. Even the agent, even the old butler a few hours ago. He was the only one left, and I could find no way of keeping him awake—with brandy or with offers of money; he did his best, but in the end it was stronger than he. I have no time to tell you. I sped outside: the silent desert of the snow. It was like a fairy tale—no, there is always a kindliness about fairy tales; it seemed liked a fearful nightmare . . . but I am wasting precious time, and his horse is trampling ever more loudly. At last, after an infinite time, I saw him far, far away in the snow, a speck of black which swiftly grew larger. It was a handsome young hussar—he whom, for whatever reason, the Lord has sent me. He was galloping madly. He stopped unwillingly. I begged him, I implored him to carry me with him on the saddle. He replied, “I am carrying orders, Mademoiselle.” If you knew what I had to do and to say to induce him to delay for ten minutes, not more than ten minutes (and he took out his watch), just the time to write to you these despairing lines, which he has promised on his honor to have delivered to you by the swiftest means. There are only two minutes left. Understand me well, Solange. I cannot prepare my food, I cannot do anything, there is nothing in the house, I am frightened of the horses, I could not ride them to safety—even if they too are not asleep. I shall die here if you do not save me. Solange, Solange, do you hate me? Yes, you were right after all, but now there is not an instant to lose . . . and if . . . if anything should happen to him on the road? Great heavens, I hear his voice calling me . . . Solange, my soul, what can I say to you? Save your wretched
A
Translated by John Longrigg
Dialogue on the Greater Harmonies
IN THE morning when we rise from bed, although surprised to find ourselves still alive, we are no less amazed that everything is exactly as we had left it the evening before. Thus I happened to be staring in stupid abstraction through my window curtains when my friend Y announced himself with a series of hasty knocks rapped out on the door of my room.
I knew him for a shy and touchy man devoted to strange studies performed in solitude and mystery, like rituals. Thus I was not a little astounded to observe that day that he was gripped by great excitement. As I dressed and we spoke of inconsequential matters, he passed with extraordinary rapidity from the deepest dejection to a gaiety which seemed to me fictitious. It required no great effort on my part to realize that something unusual or terrible must have happened to him. When, at last, I was ready to listen to him, he told me a strange tale which, for simplicity’s sake, I shall report in the first person. He stipulated that, no matter how strange or futile what he was about to say might seem to me, I should not interrupt him—he would be as brief as possible. Stunned and curious, I agreed to his stipulation.
“Well, I must tell you,” Y began, “that years ago I dedicated my time to a patient and minute distillation of the elements which compose the work of art. By this path I reached the precise and incontrovertible conclusion that having at his disposal rich and varied expressive means is, for an artist, anything but a favorable circumstance. For instance, it is in my opinion far preferable to write in an imperfectly known language than in one which is absolutely familiar. Even if I do not wish to retrace the involuted and tortuous path which I followed at that time to attain so simple a discovery, this discovery still seems to me today supported by certain self-evident arguments. Quite obviously, anyone who does not know the right words to indicate objects or feelings, is forced to replace them with circumlocutions, that is with images—with what great advantage to art, I leave it to you to imagine. Thus, when technical terms and clichés are avoided, what else can obstruct the birth of a work of art?”
At this point Y, probably satisfied with his reasoning, stopped a moment to gaze at me through partly closed eyes, forgetting his troubles. But noticing my half stupefied, half questioning expression, he sighed and quickly resumed.
“Having reached the conclusion of which I have told you, I stumbled on a monster—there is no other way to put it—a monster of an English captain. You will soon understand why I call him a monster. Oh Lord, why did you not spare me from this curse? Because now I have forever lost my peace! This person was a flabby looking man. He used to eat in my trattoria and boasted loudly of his innumerable adventures to a large circle of hangers-on who almost constantly surrounded him. He had been in the Orient for any number of years, and knew a great many Oriental languages—at least, that’s what he said. But he boasted particularly of his knowledge of Persian and often shuffled out three or four strange sounds under the nose of the waiter, who stood there blinking his eyes, dumbfounded. It then transpired that he had meant to order a glass of wine or a grilled steak. As you can understand, I loathed this man and yet he managed to get on speaking terms with me and, one sad day, offered to teach me Persian. Eager to test on myself the felicity of my theory, I ended by accepting. My idea, as you’ll already have understood, was to learn that language imperfectly: enough to express myself, but not enough always to call things by their right names. Our
lessons went forward without a hitch . . . but why can’t I resist the temptation to tell you all the noisome details of this story? . . . and I made rapid progress in the new language. According to the captain, one must learn languages by practice: therefore I never laid eyes on a Persian text—besides, it would have been difficult to procure one. To make up for this, during the walks I took with my teacher we spoke only that language and when, tired out, we sat down in some café, the white sheets before us were immediately covered with strange, minute signs. In this manner I spent more than a year: near the end the captain never wearied of praising me highly for the facility with which I had profited from his teaching. One day he announced that he would soon leave, I believe for Scotland, to which place he made off and where, I hope, he has met with the merited desserts for his misdeeds. Since that day I have never seen him.”
My friend Y fell silent again, as though mastering his emotions: the distress of the memory coagulated on his face in a painful grimace. Finally he made an effort and continued:
“But by then I knew enough to take up my experiment and that is what I did with the greatest possible ardor. I made it a rule to write only in Persian, though I confined it to the secret outbursts of my soul, to my poetry! Since that time, until a month ago, I wrote my poetry only in Persian. Fortunately, I am not a very fertile poet and the entire production of this period is limited to three brief compositions which I shall show you. In Persian.”
I could see that the thought of having written in Persian was unbearable to Y, though I did not yet know why.
“In Persian,” Y repeated. “But the moment has come, my poor friend, to explain to you what kind of a language that execrable captain had baptized with the name of Persian. A month ago I was suddenly seized by a desire to read in the original a certain Persian poet—you don’t know him—for in reading a poet there is never the danger of learning a language too well. I prepared for the task by again studying attentively the notes taken with the captain, and I had the definite feeling that I could manage it. After much trouble, I finally succeeded in obtaining the text that I wanted. I remember that I received it carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Full of trepidation over this first encounter, I hastened home, lit my small stove and a cigarette, adjusted the lamp in such a way that it threw a bright light on the precious book, settled in my armchair and unwrapped the package.
“My first supposition was that there had been a mistake: the signs there before my eyes had nothing in common with those which I had learned from the captain and which I knew so well! To cut things short, there had been no mistake. It was really a Persian book. I then hoped that the captain, although having forgotten the characters, had nevertheless taught me the language, even perhaps with an imaginary orthography: but this hope was also frustrated. I’ve turned the world upside down, I’ve leafed through Persian grammars and anthologies, and in the end, in the end . . .” At this point a sob interrupted poor Y’s discourse. “In the end the terrible reality was revealed to me in all its horror: the captain had not taught me Persian! No point in telling you with what great anxiety I tried to discover whether his language might be something else—Jakuto, or Hainanese or Hottentot. I got in touch with the most famous linguists in Europe. Nothing, nothing: such a language did not exist and never had existed! In my desperation I even wrote to the confounded captain—who had given me his address for whatever he might be able to do for me—and this is the reply which I received from him last night.” Y bent his grief-shattered head and handed me a crumpled sheet on which I read:
“Dear Sir: I am in receipt of your letter of . . . etc. A language such as the one you refer to I have never heard mention of, despite my considerable linguistic knowledge.” (The nerve of him! Y commented.) “The expressions which you quote are absolutely unknown to me and seem, believe me, the product of your fervid imagination. As for the bizarre signs which you have noted down, they resemble on the one hand Aramaic, on the other Tibetan characters, though you may rest assured that they are neither the one nor the other. Concerning the episode of our pleasant relationship, to which you allude, I must answer you sincerely: it is possible that, in teaching you Persian, after so much time I might not have remembered well certain rules or certain words, but I do not see in this any reason for alarm and you will certainly have no trouble in rectifying whatever incorrect notions I may possibly have conveyed to you. I look forward to hearing more good news from you . . . etc.”
“Now all is clear,” said Y, gaining hold of himself. “I refuse to imagine that the miserable man just wanted to play a trick on me. I believe, rather, that what he taught me he himself considered to be real Persian. His personal Persian, so to speak—an idiom so crippled and defaced as to have nothing in common with the language that inspired it. I reasoned that, in the splendid mind of that pitiful being, his distorted knowledge did not represent a series of stable values, but amidst the fluctuations of his fugitive notions and perhaps under the illusion of reassembling what he had once known, the wretched man had gradually invented the horrible idiom which he taught me; and, as so often happens to this sort of improviser, afterwards he had utterly forgotten his inventions and was sincerely amazed by them.”
This diagnosis was pronounced with perfect detachment. But immediately after, Y cried: “He has utterly forgotten them—keep this fact in mind, too! You wanted the facts, well, there they are!” Y shouted as a summing up, momentarily directing his vexation against me. “The saddest part,” he said, in a wail, “is that this accursed language, for which I have no name, is very, very beautiful . . . and I love it deeply.”
Only when I saw that he had grown calmer did I feel the moment had come for me to speak up.
“Now let’s look this over, Y,” I began. “What has happened to you is certainly disagreeable. But after all, apart from the wasted effort, is it so serious?”
“That’s precisely how people like you think,” Y retorted bitterly. “But don’t you understand what is serious, what is the dreadful part of this affair? Haven’t you understood what is at issue here? What about my three poems? Three poems,” he added with great emotion, “into which I poured the best that is in me! My three poems—what kind of poetry are they then? Written in a nonexistent language, it’s as if they had not been written in any language! Now come, tell me, what about my three poems?”
All at once I understood what was at stake and in a flash I realized the gravity of the situation. Shaking my head, I admitted: “It is a frightfully original esthetic problem.”
“Esthetic problem, did you say? Esthetic problem . . . well. . . .”
Those were the good old days. We used to get together at night to read the great poets, and a poem had inestimably more importance for us than our bill at the trattoria, which continually increased and was never completely paid up.
The next day Y and I knocked at the door of a local publisher, where we were to have a meeting with a great critic, one of those men for whom esthetics hold no secrets and on whose shoulders peacefully rests the spiritual life of an entire nation, since they know the postulates and problems better than anyone else. It had been far from easy to arrange an appointment with such a man, but Y rested his hopes for inner health on this encounter.
The great critic rose to greet us, smiling politely. He was still young and about his lively eyes he had a constant ironic wrinkle. As he spoke, he played now with a steel paper knife, now with a hand-bound book which he twirled along its edge on the desk; often he sniffed the glue which, in its tarnished container, gave off an odor of bitter almonds and, oftener yet, he traced great slashes in the air with long and glittering editorial scissors or used them to smooth down his mustaches. He smiled with restraint, as if to himself, especially when he felt that his interlocutor believed he had caused him some embarrassment. But when he spoke directly to one of us, his smile was worldly and in everything he affected an exaggerated courtesy. He spoke softly, using sober gestures and polished words, duly interspersed with foreign
expressions.
Having been apprised of the matter at hand, he seemed to remain for an instant perplexed, then smiled to himself and looking distractedly at a point above our heads, he said:1
“But, my dear gentlemen, to write in one language rather than another is perfectly unimportant.” (At portant he lowered his eyes and emitted a worldly smile.) “It is not necessary that a language be very widespread for one to be able to write, let us say, masterpieces in it. This language of yours, Signor Y, is a language spoken by only two persons: that’s all. N’empêche that your poems can be, ahem, first-rate.”
“One moment,” said Y. “Didn’t I tell you that the English captain has completely forgotten his improvisation of two years ago? What’s more, I must confess to you that, seeing the turn taken by the whole affair, I myself burned all my old notes which could have been used to form the grammar or code of the language. So it must therefore be regarded as nonexistent, even for the only two people who spoke it for a few months.”
“I hope that you do not believe,” the great critic replied, “that the attributes of reality of any language cannot be identified outside of the grammar, the syntax, and I’d even go so far as to say, outside the lexicon. You should simply regard your language as a dead language, capable of being reconstructed only on the basis of some documents which have outlived it—in this case, your three poems—and then the so-called problem is solved. As you know,” he added in a conciliating tone, “of some languages we possess only a few inscriptions and thus a very small number of letters, and yet these languages have a great reality. I will say even more: even the languages which are only attested to by the existence of indecipherable, I repeat in-de-ci-pher-able inscriptions, even these languages have a right to our esthetic respect.” And, pleased with his sentence, he fell silent.
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