THE UNLEAVENED DOUGH
"......"
Vauvenargues
"La beauté c'est la forme que l'amour
donne aux choses."
Ernest Hello.
"Flaubert, pas de sentiment.... S'il l'avait,
cela, il aurait tout."
_Conversations_ de Villiers de l'Isle-Adam.
Smoking, strolling about, making paradoxes--there were a half dozen of
them under the distracted presidency of Fortier, who was correcting
proofs for his first number of the new series.
"Good day, Entragues. You received my note and you are bringing me
some copy. Now that we come out every fortnight, I am going to be very
hungry, I warn you."
"Did you ever see a review lack copy--a review which pays?" Hubert
answered. "Print Constance. You owe it to your subscribers. 'Every
woman would like to read this new study of youthful psychology. The
originality of the thought, the pure relief of the style, together with
the profound knowledge of all the mysteries of the feminine heart,
make it an exquisite masterpiece of the analysis of passion. Please
insert.'"
"He promised me a novel."
"With an alluring title," interrupted a voice.
Entragues turned his head. A young man, with a correct and cold air,
was looking at him. Fortier introduced them to each other. He was a
friend of the countess. They surely must have met at the Marigny Avenue
home? Entragues acquiesced in this insinuation, thinking: Tomorrow, or
the day after, my poor Fortier, the countess and _la Revue spéculative_
will belong to Lucien Renaudeau.
"The title?"
"Alluring," repeated Renaudeau; "it is called: 'Pure as Fire.'"
"This florist of souls quite pleases me," said Jean Chrétien, in a slow
and rich voice. "I am looking over, among his books, 'The Wisdom of
the Nations.' It is full of incontestable truths. One walks here in a
friendly garden: all the aphorisms of Stendhal and Balzac frequently
crop forth. But if we wish to start a seriously symbolistic review, it
is necessary to tempt culture with less familiar animals."
Sylvestre entered with a cloudy air and Renaudeau instantly addressed
him in a harsh tone:
"Now tell us who is that counterfeit of old George Sand who came here
yesterday with your recommendation?"
"With a dog under each arm?"
"A black and a blond one. She offered us copy, patrons, loans, her
experience, romantic souvenirs, the last boots of Alexander Dumas,
cards of the chief of police, the address of a photographer and three
copyists, an interview with Bouvier, the right to reprint the complete
works of her late husband, tickets for the coming Elysée ball and for
women, too, I think, but that was a bit vague."
"Oh!" Sylvestre gently answered, "she is old and poor, she must make a
living."
"I do not see the necessity," Renaudeau said.
"A fine silhouette for a 'Parisian' novel," Fortier said.
"Doubtless, because it would be true?" asked Jean Chrétien, a poet who
professed Buddhism. "Would you become a modernist?"
"A naturalist," said Fortier, laughing, "I want to make money."
"I fancy you will want to a little later," said Entragues. "The
original cavern is empty. Do you take Huysmans for a naturalist? But
his _A Rebours_ is the most insolent mockery of this very school, when
he simply replies to Zola's "_naturiste_" and democratic enthusiasm:
"Nature has had its day!"
"That is a book!"
"A disheartening book," Entragues continued, "one which has confessed
in advance, and for long, our tastes and distastes."
"Yes," Chrétien agreed, "but I am speaking of others, of the naive
souls who believe that because an object moves it must exist. Nature!
but it is the artist who creates nature, and art is only the faculty
of objectifying in an image the individual representation of the world.
"And," Passavant put in, "man himself is only the image of the idea."
"In that case," Chrétien answered, "far from attaining the absolute
truth, as those ninnies boast of doing, art is but a reflected
image--the image of an image. It is no longer the will which acts
directly, but only a will already fixed in the individual, subjected to
intelligence, weakened by division, in short, limited to whims."
"Such writers," Entragues remarked, "are, like the generality of men,
almost the whole humanity, victims of an optical illusion. They imagine
that the external world acts outside of them; this is a transcendental
stupidity, but which is not necessarily produced by their special
esthetics. The world is the idea I have of it, and the special
modulations of my brain determine this idea. They have ugly brains,
that is all. One could make amusing sketches in this way: the world
as seen by a crab, the world as seen by a pig, the world as seen by a
helminth. We describe ourselves, we can describe only that; an artist's
creation is the slow and daily reaction of intelligence and will on a
certain mass of individual cells."
"It would then be necessary," Renaudeau said, "to accept them as they
are! Not quite. One can recreate oneself, cleanse one's low nature,
take it to the Turkish bath, sponge it, rub it until the blood
circulates. You are too indulgent, Monsieur Entragues."
"Entragues," said Calixte Heliot, who just then entered, "loves nothing
but art and interests himself only in style."
"A novelty, indeed!" Entragues replied. "Unfortunately, art is not
sufficient to produce style; a gift is necessary. Without that
thing which Vauvenargues calls heart, Villiers sentiment, Hello
love, literature is an unleavened dough. Look at Flaubert; he is a
peremptory and sovereign artist who congenitally lacked love. Do you
think that Villiers, by the most diligent labor, could have effaced
from his work the stamp of his proud personality! Compare _Bouvard et
Pécuchet_ with the _Contes cruels_; there you have the patient genius
and the spontaneous genius, resigned scorn and indignant scorn, a hurt
intellect and a wounded soul...."
"Are you bringing me your poem, Heliot?" Fortier asked. "Just put it in
the closet with the masterpieces."
"Thank you," Calixte said, simply, as he opened a huge portfolio.
From it he drew his manuscript, where could be read, on the first
page, the author's name, Calixte Heliot, in a very beautiful flowing
handwriting. He was proud of his Christian name. Then he brought out a
small case and slowly untied its strings.
"Here is a masterpiece for you. Eh! What does Van Baël think of it?"
The art critic took the little yellow paper, a delicate etching, and
pronounced:
"Good, very good, a little dark, too deeply bitten. From afar," and he
stretched out his hand, "from afar it turns to aquatint."
"By whom is it? There is an S and an M interlaced at the left-hand
corner."
"S M, S M," repeated Van Baël. "I cannot guess. It is a portrait. I
see more letters after the monogram. Strange, strange ... It reads: S.
M. to S. M. A laconic dedication of the author to himself, or else a
strange coincidence of initials."
Nobody, not even Entragues who studied it intently, could find the key
to the monogram.
Hubert and Calixte were old friends who owed each other valuable
services. Calixte observed Hubert's insistance: a fatidical attraction,
rather than curiosity, fascinated his eyes, keeping them glued to the
engraving.
"You can have it if you wish, my dear Entragues."
"I accept it," Entragues replied, "but with the permission of being
able to return it to you or else to throw it into the fire."