The Wild Ass's Skin (Oxford World's Classics)

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘You are the one we choose to lead this macaronic and burlesque empire, so we are taking you off to a dinner given by the founder of the aforesaid journal, a retired banker who, not knowing what to do with his money, wants to convert it into wit. You will be received there like a brother, we shall proclaim you king of those rebellious souls who fear nothing, whose perspicacity finds out the intentions of Austria, England, or Russia, before Russia, England, or Austria have formed any intentions! Yes, we will crown you king of all the powerful brains who make up the Mirabeaus, the Talleyrands, the Pitts, the Metternichs of the world—in fact all the daring Crispins* who between them gamble with the fates of empires, just as the common man plays dominoes for a glass of kirsch. We have given you out to be the most intrepid companion who has ever wrestled with Debauchery, that admirable monster with whom all doughty intellects want to do battle; we have even affirmed that it has not yet conquered you. I trust you will not let us down. Taillefer,* our Amphitryon, has promised us he will surpass the petty saturnalias of our small-minded modern Luculluses.* He is rich enough to invest small things with nobility, vice with elegance and grace. Do you hear, Raphael?’ asked the speaker, breaking off.

  ‘Yes,’ said the young man, less astonished at the fulfilment of his wishes than surprised by the natural manner in which events were unfolding. Although it was impossible for him to believe in a magical intervention, he wondered at the twists of human destiny.

  ‘But you are saying yes as if you were thinking of the death of your grandfather,’ replied one of his neighbours.

  ‘Oh,’ went on Raphael, naively, which made these writers, the rising hope of France, laugh at him. ‘I was thinking, my friends, that we were on the point of becoming very great rogues! Until now we have been impious between two glasses of wine, we have weighed up life in our cups, we have reflected upon men and matters as we digested our dinner. Innocent of the deed, we have been bold in the word; but marked now by the burning brand of politics, we shall enter this great prison and lose our illusions. Even if you believe in nothing except the devil, you are still allowed to regret the paradise of youth, the time of innocence where in our devotions we extended our tongues to a priest, to receive the sacred body of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Oh, my dear friends, if we took so much pleasure in committing our first sins, it was because we had our remorse to embellish them and give them spice and savour; whereas now …’

  ‘Oh now,’ went on the first speaker, ‘there remains …’

  ‘What?’ said another.

  ‘Crime …’

  ‘That’s a word that is as high as the gallows and as deep as the Seine,’ replied Raphael.

  ‘Oh, you don’t understand. I’m talking about political crimes. Since this morning I have only wanted one life—the life of the conspirator. I don’t know if my fancy will still be the same tomorrow; but tonight, our colourless civilization, tedious as the rails of a railway line, makes my stomach heave! My soul is ablaze with the horror of the retreat from Moscow, the emotions of the Red Rover,* and the life of a smuggler. Since the Chartreux monasteries no longer exist in France, I should like a Botany Bay* at least, a kind of infirmary destined for little Lord Byrons who, after crumpling up their lives like a napkin after dinner, can do nothing but set fire to their country, blow out their brains, conspire to establish a republic, or call for war …’

  ‘Émile,’ said Raphael’s neighbour heatedly to the speaker, ‘on my word, had it not been for the July Revolution, I was going to become a priest and go off to vegetate in the back of beyond and …’

  ‘And would you have read your prayer-book every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How stupid!’

  ‘We read the newspapers.’

  ‘Well, not bad for a journalist. But watch what you say, masses of people read the newspapers these days. Journalism, you see, is the religion of modern society, and we are making progress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Their high priests don’t have to believe what they say, nor the people either …’

  Conversing thus, like good fellows who had been familiar with their De Viris Illustribus* for many a year, they arrived at a mansion on the Rue Joubert.

  Émile was a journalist who had attained more glory for doing nothing than others had achieved by pursuing a successful career. A bold critic, full of verve and biting wit, he possessed all the qualities of his defects. Open and mocking, he would make a host of cutting remarks to someone’s face and yet stand up for him with courage and loyalty when he was not there. He made fun of everything, even his own future. Always short of money, he remained, like all men of some intelligence, profoundly lazy, summing up a whole book in one incisive phrase for people who couldn’t write a single one in their own. Prodigal with promises that he never kept, he had made of his fortune and his glory a cushion to sleep on, running the risk thereby of waking up to find he was an old man in a hospice. Moreover, a friend to the death, boastful and cynical, and uncomplicated as a child, he only worked by fits and starts or when he was obliged to.

  ‘We are going to enjoy, as Master Alcofribas* said, a famous slice of good cheer,’ said he to Raphael pointing to the vases of flowers scenting and making verdant the staircase.

  ‘I love entrances that are well heated and richly carpeted,’ replied Raphael. ‘Luxury as soon as you step inside the front door is a rare thing in France. This makes me feel like a new man.’

  ‘And upstairs we shall drink and make merry once more, my poor Raphael. Oh yes,’ he went on, ‘I hope we shall triumph, and walk all over the people in that room.’

  And as they entered the salon resplendent with gold decorations and lights, with a deprecating wave of the hand he pointed out all the guests before being welcomed by the most remarkable young men in Paris. One had just revealed a new talent, and with his first painting rivalled the glories of the imperial past. The next had, the day before, launched a major new book full of a sort of literary disdain, that was opening up new pathways for the modern school. Farther on, a sculptor whose rugged face gave some indication of his lively genius was chatting with one of those cool satirists who at times are unwilling to recognize excellence anywhere, and at others discern it wherever they go. Here, the wittiest of our cartoonists, with crafty eye and a sharp tongue, was on the lookout for witticisms to transcribe into pencil sketches. There, that daring young writer, who could distil the quintessence of political thought better than anyone, and condense the wit of a prolific author without any effort, was conversing with a poet whose writings would put all modern works of art in the shade, had his talent been as potent as his bile. Both were endeavouring not to tell the truth nor yet to tell lies, while addressing sweetly flattering remarks to one another. A famous musician was sardonically sympathizing in a minor key with a young politician who had recently fallen off the podium without hurting himself in the slightest. Young authors without style stood next to young authors without ideas, prose writers full of poetry near prosaic poets. Seeing these incomplete characters, a poor Saint-Simonian,* naive enough to believe in his own doctrine, coupled them together charitably, wishing no doubt to transform them into devotees of his own order. Finally there were two or three learned people certain to make the conversation weightier, and several writers of vaudeville who were ready to throw in some of those ephemeral sparks which like sparkling diamonds give neither warmth nor light.

  Some who, inclined to paradox, laughing up their sleeves at people who are married to their admiration or distaste for men and objects, were already adopting the double-edged policy of conniving against everything and not taking sides at all. The critic who is surprised by nothing and blows his nose in the middle of a cavatina* at the Bouffons, cries out ‘Bravo’ before anyone else, and contradicts those who presume to anticipate his taste, was also there, looking for the opportunity to attribute to himself the witticisms of the clever.

  Among these guests, five had a fine future, ten would obtain some passing glo
ry; as to the rest, they might do well, like all mediocrities, to have in mind the famous lie of Louis XVIII: ‘Unite and forget.’* Their host had the cheerfulness tempered by anxiety which befits a man spending two thousand crowns. From time to time his eyes turned impatiently towards the door of the salon, as though in expectation of the arrival of a tardy guest. Soon a stout little man appeared, greeted by a flattering murmur; it was the lawyer who that very morning had finished work on the legal formalities of the journal. A footman dressed in black came and opened the doors of a vast dining-room, and everyone went unceremoniously to find his place at a huge table. Before leaving the salons, Raphael glanced at them for a last time. His wish had certainly been completely fulfilled. The apartments were lined with silk and gold. Rich candelabra holding innumerable candles made every detail on the gilded frieze, the delicate bronze carvings, and the sumptuous colours of the furnishings shine brightly. Sweet scents breathed forth from rare flowers in jardinières artistically fashioned out of bamboo. Everything, even the draperies, spoke of an elegance without pretension; there was in the whole scene an indefinable poetic grace whose glamour could not help but impress itself upon the imagination of a man who was penniless.

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds a year are a fine commentary on the catechism, and are a marvellous help in putting a valuation on morality!’ he said, with a sigh. ‘No, virtue never goes on foot as far as I’m concerned. For me vice is an attic room, a scuffed suit, a grey hat in winter, and debts to the concierge. I’d love to live in luxury like this for a year, six months, what does it matter! And then die. I should then have exhausted, known, devoured a thousand lives.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Émile, who was listening, ‘so you suppose that owning a stockbroker’s carriage equals happiness? Come now, you would soon tire of wealth when you saw that it would deprive you of the chance to be a genius. Between the poverty of riches and the riches of poverty, has the artist ever hesitated? Do we artists not always have to struggle? So prepare your stomach, gird up your loins, and behold this,’ said he, showing him with a heroic gesture the majestic, three times blessed and reassuring sight of the ingratiating capitalist’s dining-hall.

  ‘That man’, he went on, ‘has gone to the trouble of making money solely for our benefit. Is he not a species of unclassified sponge in the order of polyps? All we have to do is squeeze him gently, before we let him be sucked dry by his heirs. Don’t you think the bas-reliefs decorating the walls are stylish? And the lighting and the pictures, what luxury and what taste! If we must believe the envious and those who insist on probing the motives of people’s actions, this man killed a German during the Revolution, and a few other people besides, including, so they say, his best friend and his friend’s mother. Can you imagine there to be anything criminal beneath the greying hair of this venerable Taillefer? He looks like a really decent man. So see how the silver sparkles; now would you imagine that each glint represents a thrust of his sword? … Come now! One might as well believe in Mahomet. If the public are right, these are thirty good men and true making ready to eat the entrails and drink the blood of a family. And we two, honest and enthusiastic young men, we should be accomplices of the infamy! I have a mind to ask our capitalist if he is an honest man …’

  ‘No, not now!’ cried Raphael. ‘Wait till he is roaring drunk and we have dined.’

  The two friends seated themselves, laughing. First, and with a glance swifter than words, all the guests paid an admiring tribute to the sumptuous spectacle offered by a long table, white as freshly fallen snow, on which were symmetrical pyramids of table napkins with light brown rolls on top. The crystal glasses gave back the colours of the rainbow in their spangled reflections, the candles set infinite little cross-lights dancing, the dishes placed under the domes of silver sharpened both the appetite and the curiosity. Conversation was sparse. Neighbours eyed each other. The madeira did the rounds. Then the first course appeared in all its glory; it would have done honour to the late Cambacérès, and Brillat-Savarin* would have commended it. The wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, white and red, were served in royal profusion. This first part of the feast was comparable in every respect to the opening scenes of a classical drama. The second act became rather loquacious. Each guest had drunk moderately, changing vintage according to his fancy, so when the remains of this magnificent course were being cleared, stormy discussions had got under way; several pale brows were reddening, several noses were starting to turn a purplish colour, rather a lot of faces were flushed, eyes sparkled. During this dawning of inebriation the talk did not go beyond the bounds of propriety; but little by little banter and bons mots passed everyone’s lips; then slander unobtrusively raised its small serpent’s head and spoke in fluting tones; here and there a few crafty guests listened carefully, hoping not to lose their judgement. The second course found everyone very excited. Everyone was eating as he spoke, speaking as he ate, downing the wine carelessly, so fine was its bouquet and so drinkable, and so contagious the example set. Taillefer took pride in ensuring the conviviality of his guests, as he passed round the fiery wines of the Rhône, the warm Tokay, the heady vintage of the Roussillon. Like coach-horses unleashed from their staging post, these men, whipped on by the sparkling champagne which had been eagerly awaited before being poured in abundance, allowed their wits to gallop away with them, in empty arguments nobody heeded, and began to recount stories that nobody listened to, breaking in with questions over and over again which remained unanswered. Only the roar of the orgy could be heard, the collective voice composed of a hundred different noises increasing in volume like the crescendos of Rossini. Then the treacherous toasts arrived, the boasts, the challenges. Everyone gave up singing their own praises and instead praised the barrels, the tuns, and the casks. They all seemed to be speaking with two voices. There came a moment when the masters all spoke at once and the footmen smiled. But this jumble of words in which paradoxes of doubtful lucidity, truths grotesquely dressed, clashed with one another across the shouting, the voiced opinions, the sovereign judgements and foolish assertions, just as in the middle of a battle cannonballs, bullets, and grapeshot whizz back and forth—this confusion would no doubt have interested some philosopher by its singularity of thought or surprised a politician by the strangeness of its ideas. It was both a book and a picture at one and the same time.

  Philosophies, religions, morals, so different from one latitude to another, governments, in short all the noble acts of human intelligence were felled by a scythe as long as that of Time, and you might have had trouble deciding if it were being wielded by a god of wisdom the worse for drink or by a god of drunkenness grown sober and farsighted. Carried off in a kind of tempest, like waves crashing against the cliffs, these minds seemed intent on upsetting all the laws by which civilizations float along, thus unwittingly satisfying the will of God, who leaves good and evil in nature, keeping only for Himself the secret of this interminable struggle. Both furious and farcical, their discussion had something of a witches’ sabbath of intelligent minds. Between the sad jokes made by these children of the Revolution at the birth of a newspaper and the remarks made by joyful drinkers at the birth of Gargantua,* there yawned the great abyss that separates the nineteenth century from the sixteenth. The latter was preparing destruction while it mocked; ours was laughing in the midst of its ruins.

  ‘What’s the name of that young man over there?’ asked the notary, pointing to Raphael. ‘I thought I heard someone call him Valentin.’

  ‘Did you say “Valentin”—just “Valentin”?’ said Émile with a laugh. ‘Raphael de Valentin, if you please! We bear a sable, golden eagle, crowned argent, beaked and taloned gules, with a fine motto: Non cecidit animus!* We are not a foundling, but the descendant of the emperor Valens, scion of the Valentinois, founder of the towns of Valence in Spain and France, legitimate heir to the empire of the Orient. If we permit Mahmoud* to reign in Constantinople it is through goodwill and lack of money or soldiers.’