The film had finished; the lights came on.
“And that, my dear Master, is the operation that you have undergone, with all the more courage because you did not even perceive it.”
“I had a very different idea of it. Receive my anticipatory thanks, my dear Voronoff, and the testimony of my profound admiration.”
“The interesting point of my discovery is based, above all, on the primordial role played in the ensemble of the economy by the glands whose importance, until now, has not been understood. That role seems, in fact, to be the principal one, since they are the vivifying source from which all our organs draw nourishment. The proof is that the suppression or insufficiency of the thyroid gland causes of idiocy or cerebral decay. Similarly, the suppression of one of those little glands situated in the neck, the function of which, as for the pineal gland, we have not yet specified exactly, leads to death in a short time. From that we can conclude that a more profound knowledge of the role of the glands will lead to the reconstitution of organs in a poor state, as I have done for the vagina gland, and to their complete revivification.”
“Oh, science, science! It is truly the most beautiful of human conquests! It alone is truly making progress. I regret not being a scientist.”
“Each to his profession,” concluded Dr. Fortin, “and yours, my dear Ernest Paris, makes many people envious. Every man fills his career as best he can. We combat physical death. Will we be masters one day of intellectual death?”
XIX. Four Times Twenty Years
As soon as he was in a fit state to travel—it was ten days after his entry to the Voronoff Institute—Ernest Paris set out for Sweden. As the distribution of prizes was not to take place for another fortnight, however, he made a detour to Germany, where, like all those who have become pacifists, or who have even conserved their sympathy for the science and literature of the land beyond the Rhine, he was sure of a good welcome, the intellectual party of the post-war period seeking to have the bellicose manifestations of their elders during the hostilities forgotten.
In Berlin, Ernest Paris met Einstein, and strove to comprehend the great revolutionary of old scientific theories. In spite of his genius, however, and perhaps even because of it, Ernest Paris was no mathematician. He listened with respect and patience, but when the physicist tried to convince him that light was material, he could not understand any more, and escaped politely, his head spinning.
By contrast, he found in Professor Nicolai51 a man after his own heart, not only in scientific terms, but above all from the viewpoint of humanity. Having entered the German army in 1914 as a physician with the rank of general he had emerged as a second-class orderly; he had been brought before a court martial after pacifist demonstrations, and had only escaped military justice by fleeing in an airplane.
“What a beautiful military career!” Ernest Paris said to him. “How I admire you for having so much courage!”
Nicolai showed him around Berlin, which Paris judged rather severely. In fact, that city, where everything was symmetrical and ordered in a disciplinary fashion, was not calculated to please him, a lover of the picturesque and the beautiful.
“Berlin,” Ernest Paris said, “is the triumph of the Potin style!”52
In the German capital, even more than in Paris, cosmopolitanism reigns in 1929. Life is localized, so to speak, in bars and restaurants.
“The folly of expenditure and squandering reigns nowadays over the whole world,” said Ernest Paris to his new friend. “Money has so little value that everyone hesitates to keep it, so it is transformed instead into immediate pleasure. Doubtless they’re right, for tomorrow they might have to pay twice as much. If there’s a comparison to be drawn between our two nations, however, it’s in the manner of squandering money. In Paris our nouveau riches spend a great deal but consume very little; here, I’ve observed that if the Germans spend as much, they waste less; they empty bottles and clean plates. If the intellect loses, the stomach gains. For my part—I’m saying this in my capacity as a foreigner—I don’t like the hotel; there’s a lack of linen; for the purposes of toilette, it’s smaller than my handkerchief; at table, they use paper napkins. In sum, it’s uncomfortable.”
The German smiled, and took him to dinner at his home; Ernest Paris was then obliged to recognize that if public life there lacked certain charms, family life in a well-to-do environment was above reproach.
Stockholm, on the other hand, had his full support. The city pleased him by virtue of its cleanliness and the superb orderliness of its monuments. Having arrived five days before the ceremony he had time to explore the city and admire its different aspects. In the capital of Sweden it was the novelist Rolf Torndisson who was his host and guide. With him, he admired the grandiose aspect of the Biddarholm, seen from Lake Maelar, that of the Royal Palace, seen from the Nanho, a bridge of great width garnished with shops even more picturesque than those of the great boulevards of Paris.
What enchanted the Academician, however, was the popular quarter, which, on another arm of the Maelar, behind the Royal Palace, stacked up its picturesquely winding streets, alleyways and cul-de-sacs. Set on the flanks of a high hill, there was, in fact, nothing more curious than those streets, terminating in an arm of the sea or a wall of granite. Then, there was the southern quarter, whose Medieval profile was reflected in the waters of the gulf. That is the industrial quarter, and in consequence the ne where the popular spirit is easiest to study.
“I only know your French life by way of reading,” said Torndisson. “What a difference there is between our deeply honest and hospitable people and those depicted by your litterateurs! The difference is so great that, in order to reach your level, our writers are obliged to force the character and mentality of the people they describe in order that you might find them interesting. Here, theft is unknown; you can see the proof of it in our trams without fare-collectors. All travelers put their fares in a money-box placed at the front of the vehicle. There is little crime and, which might astonish you, little adultery.
“With that penury of vices, what can we do? Turn to cerebral phenomena, imagine special and unnatural characters? A literature completely out of tune with our habits and our mores, but which, by its false originality, has been able for half a century to take on the impression of yours, which gives it a lugubrious aspect that, in sum, is neither in your character nor ours.”
“I’ve sensed that, in fact. That’s why I’ve always tried to react against the excessively misty and pessimistic tendency of Nordic literature.”
“Our admiration for your work proves that we appreciate you. The literature that you criticize, I do too, since you’re not unaware that I belong to the realist school, not as it’s understood in France but in the true sense. Life in Sweden, in spite of its long winter, isn’t sad, and the character of its inhabitants is rather cheerful. It’s a slow and placid cheerfulness, but which is sometimes as noisy as your southern gaiety.”
“I believe you, my dear friend, and I admire your social organization. One thing only—and it’s the one that, for me, has the greatest importance in life—seems rather obscure. What are women like here?”
Rolf Torndisson started to laugh. “The same as they are everywhere: amorous and coquettish. They only differ from the women of your homeland by virtue of a fundamental frankness and honesty, which even renders depravity estimable. I could cite the example of a young woman who, in accordance with her temperament, has had numerous lovers, and who, not considering herself worthy to found a family, in spite of numerous offers, because she is beautiful, obstinately refused to marry. Another has run away with a lover but has not, ostensibly, deceived her husband. Here, women love amour, but detest adultery. Hence the bizarre character of our heroines, whose mentality we twist, so to speak, in order to inspire the reader’s interest in them. You believe vice to be natural; we know that it is artificial.
“Hmm!” said Ernest Paris. “That’s very inconvenient for foreigners.”
“
What! Are you still thinking about that, then, my dear Master?”
“Am I still thinking about it? But it’s my principal concern. You’ll know it too, in time, my dear friend. In youth, one is profligate; later, one spends with more profit...”
“Well, Master, if you desire to spend in Stockholm, you have enough admirers here.”
“You’re a charming fellow, Rolf; you understand the work and the man.”
“I can see that you want to spread the reputation of the French! I would have thought, however, that as an Academician, you were a fervent apostle of Monsieur de Montyon?”
“In reality, I’m not overly attached to the Academy. Virtue is so tedious, my dear.”
The charm was beginning to take effect, and Ernest often thought about Nora. However, he deemed that he was not bound to conserve the first fruit of the graft for her, and, as Torndisson had told him, admirers were numerous; he was spoiled for choice. And the adventures of Ernest Paris in Stockholm were a pleasant diversion from the distribution of the Nobel Prizes, which was very banal.
This is the description that the French Academician subsequently gave his French friends:
“It’s the simplest ceremony in the world, rather reminiscent of a distribution of school prizes, with the difference that in Sweden, the king, who gives the prizes, is down below, and the laureates are on a stage, whereas here, the masters are on high, and the pupils below. That’s because we’re a democracy! When someone’s name is called, he goes to fetch his prize which is handed over by the king. One goes down a little stairway that resembles a ladder. When I was called, colleagues wanted to support me, but I had no need of it, damn it! I went down the ladder with the agility of an ape—yes, an ape, ha ha!
“It wasn’t the same for the laureate in chemistry, a far German scientist whose enormous belly prevented him from seeing his feet. He missed a step, stumbled, and fell at the king’s feet. There was laughter, almost a scandal! Finally, they picked the professor up and the king handed him his prize: a simple tankard in which there’s a check for two hundred thousand francs. In the course of that scene I couldn’t help observing how little men are able to vary the recompenses they receive. Although it’s permissible for them to vary means of punishment and modify penalties, there’s nothing they can do to vary the form of rewards.”
“And what do you think of our King Gustave V?” a lady asked.
“He’s like his subjects: very benevolent. He invited me to dinner, and we had a long chat. He’s simplicity itself, as those who are born on the steps of a throne know how to be. He’s much more accessible than a President of the Republic, a Poincaré, a Millerand or a Domergue, who judges it indispensable to surround himself with external pomp because he knows that in himself the represents nothing. The king said some very interesting things to me, imprinted with great common sense and a real knowledge of men. ‘The majority of heads of State,’ he declared, ‘are more afraid of words than things. That’s a great error, and is contrary to the truth. It’s necessary to grasp the words and let the things go. Thus, I’ve chosen a socialist minister, Monsieur Branting, and he’s abandoned socialism. It’s necessary to know how to use men against words.’”
“Don’t you do the same in France?” someone asked.
“That’s true—but the former comrades of successful revolutionaries treat them as renegades, and in France, words carry weight. Hence, continual changes of Ministry. The pure have long teeth and are in a hurry to dig them into the butter-dish. Party quarrels are less dangerous under a monarchy. In Sweden, one can say that socialism no longer exists.”
“That can’t be good in your eyes. Aren’t you a socialist?”
“No labels, my friend. I don’t like labels. An opinion is a question of the moment or of interest, and even of environment, since here, I feel like a royalist. In sum, I’m just a poor man who would like humanity to be les stupid and happier.”
“I assume, my dear Master, that the Nobel Prize will be employed for some great social endeavor?”
Ernest Paris adroitly avoided that importunate question, and launched into a grandiose eulogy to Swedish society, its amiability, its honesty and its humanitarian progress.
The Academician was obliged to remain in Sweden for some time to respond to the general enthusiasm and to social invitations in which the celebrated talker did the honors of the drawing rooms. To satisfy the wider public, he was even obliged to give a few lectures. He was unable to quit a country so welcoming, where he had received a large sum of money, without showing himself worthy of that benevolence. Time passed, however, and the desire for Paris was boiling within him when he thought about Nora, the star of the music hall, and the Folies Bergère, a Babel of pleasure.
There was further delay, however: meetings, friendships, and, at the same time, his vanity as a man of letters, and the need to maintain his stardom on the literary stage, obliged him to direct his return via Great Britain, where new triumphs awaited him. It was an epic struggle between amour and pride, a struggle all the more painful because the Academician was visibly rejuvenating. His sprightliness, his sonorous voice, his shining eyes, his casual speech, his firm stride and his precise gestures excited admiration to the point off enthusiasm.
Two months passed in that triumphal march, the echo of which reached Paris, caressing Nora’s ears and maintaining her good impression of the Master.
Finally, however, saturated with glory, Ernest Paris embarked for France, no longer aspiring to anything but amour.
XX. An Orgy of Women
One morning, a few days after Ernest Paris’s departure for Sweden, Marc Vanel and Jean Fortin were both working in their solitary abode, the Red Nest, when Narcisse came into the laboratory.
“Have you decided?” said Dr. Fortin. “It’s not too soon! You know very well that there’s work for you here.”
“Forgive me, Master, but truly, I can’t keep my mind on work at the moment.”
“Leave him alone,” said Vanel, indulgently. “Our friend is going through an amorous crisis—which is understandable, as he’s reached the age of puberty, when the senses command with an indomitable authority. Let him get through this difficult time; he’ll come back to us afterwards, calmer and more intelligent than ever. Have a little patience, my boy! As soon as we’ve had lunch, I’ll take you to see your beauty.”
“Thank you, Master, but I don’t want to go to Nora’s until tonight, at half past midnight. I’ve heard that her friend is traveling, and that she’ll be coming home immediately after the performance—and I desire a beautiful night of love-making.”
“I don’t see any inconvenience in that, my friend,” said Marc Vanel. “On the contrary; I’ll take advantage of it, having taken you to Nora’s, to go to have a joust with a pretty little blonde that I’ve neglected for some time.”
“In that case, I’m content, since everything is for the best, and I’ll put myself entirely at your disposal for the work.”
“Good!” said Dr. Fortin. “In that case, go down and open the boxes that arrived yesterday, and arrange all the chemical products in their respective places.”
As had been agreed, therefore, at about half past midnight, Marc Vanel’s automobile—Homo-Deus was in a state of invisibility—deposited him and Narcisse outside the house where Nora lived. To their great surprise, four limousines were already parked outside the door.
“Bad luck for you, Narcisse. There’s a reception at your beauty’s residence tonight.”
“But Master, you can see that there’s no light indicative of a celebration; the hall is scarcely illuminated.”
At that precise moment, however, another auto drew up outside the gate, Mardruk, on his master’s orders, having pulled away, going to park his vehicle on the other side of the street. Four women got out of the car, wrapped in furs up to the eyes, and masked. They went into the house swiftly, chatting and laughing.
“What is this mystery?” the orangutan asked Marc Vanel. “Why this reception in the
dark?”
Another auto drew up, and the same scene was enacted, but this time, only two women got out. As the high chinchilla collar in which one of the head was buried was turned over slightly, it was easy to see that she too was masked. That detail intrigued Marc Vanel to the highest degree, and he resolved to discover the key to the enigma. Having left Narcisse in the car, he got out, crossed the street and went in behind the mysterious women.
In the hall, they were received by Berthe, and followed her into Nora’s bedroom, transformed into a cloakroom. The large bed, the armchairs and the chairs, were draped with brightly-colored dresses, underskirts that were even shorter, rippling with lace, and sumptuous fur mantles.
“You’re the last, Mesdames,” said the chambermaid. “Will you please remember where you deposit your things, for there are no numbers by which to recognize them.”
“In fact, where shall we put them?” asked the two women, laughing. Are there a lot of people here, Berthe?”
“Twenty guests, exactly. That’s the number fixed by Madame and her friends.”
“The circle of the vanquished.” To her comrade, who looked at her interrogatively, astonished, she added: “Are we not the vanquished of amour? Maud has ideas of a truly disconcerting boldness.”
“I hope that we’re keeping our masks?” said the other.
“Most certainly. There’s no need for these friends of a night to recognize us in broad daylight. Only the President knows who we are.”
While talking, the two women had undressed, aided by Berthe. Naked, they admired themselves in the full-length mirror. They were not absolutely beautiful, but young and desirable even so, silhouettes of the fashion of the day: slim and delicate, with small breasts, little in the way of a rump, and arms and shoulders developed by sports.
Nora, The Ape-Woman Page 17