Part 5

"This year," began Tristouse, "the modes are very bizarre and familiar, simple and yet full of fantasy. All material belonging to the different processes of Nature may now enter into the composition of a woman's costume. I have seen a robe made of cork. It was certainly as good as the charming evening gowns of towel which created such a rage at premieres. A great couturier is thinking of launching tailor-made costumes of the backs of old books, bound in calf. Charming! All literary women will want to wear it, and one can approach them and whisper into their ears under the guise of reading the titles of the books. Fish-skeletons are also worn much with hats. You may see delightful young girls, very often, wearing cloaks à la Saint-Jacques de Compostelle; their costume, so it is said, is starred with Saint Jacques shells. Porcelain, stone work and china have suddenly taken an important place in the sartorial art. These materials are worn in belts, on hat-pins, etc.; I have had the good luck to see an adorable reticule all made of the glass eyes that oculists use. Feathers are used not only to decorate hats with, but shoes, gloves, and next year they will even be used with umbrellas. Shoes are being made of Venetian glass and hats out of Bohemian crystal. Not to mention oil-painted gowns, highly colored woolens, and robes bizarrely spotted with ink. In the Spring many will wear dresses made of puffed gold leaf, with pleasant shapes, giving lightness and distinction. Our aviatrices will wear nothing else. For the races there will be the hat made of toy balloons, about twenty at a time being used, giving a luxuriant effect, and very diverting explosions from time to time. The mussel-shell will be worn on slippers. And note that they are beginning to dress with living animals. I met a woman who wore on her hat at least twenty birds; canaries, goldfinches, robins, held by a string tied to their feet, all singing at the top of their voices and flapping their wings. The head-dress of an ambassadress, ever since the last Neuilly fair is made up of a coil of about thirty snakes. 'For whom are those snakes that hiss overhead?' asked the little Romanian attaché with his Dacian accent, who was supposed to be quite a ladies' man. I forgot to tell you that last Wednesday I saw a lady on the boulevards with a ruff having little mirrors laid together and pasted to the material. In the sunlight the effect was sumptuous. One might have thought it a gold mine on a promenade. Later it began to rain and the lady resembled a silver mine. Nutshells make pretty buttons, especially if they are interspersed with filberts. A robe embroidered with coffee grains, cloves, cloves of garlic, onions, and bunches of raisins, is proper to wear when visiting. Fashion is becoming practical and no longer spurns any object, but ennobles all. It does for these things what romanticists do with words."

"Thank you," said Paponat, "you have given me a great deal of information and told it charmingly."

"You are too kind," replied Tristouse.

XIV. ENCOUNTERS

Six months passed. For the last five Tristouse Ballerinette had been the mistress of Croniamantal, whom she loved passionately for eight days. In exchange for this love, the lyrical youth had rendered her glorious and immortal forever by celebrating her in marvellous poems.

"I was unknown," she mused, "and now he has made me illustrious among all the living.

"I was thought ugly because of my thinness, my large mouth, my bad teeth, my irregular features, my crooked nose. Now I am beautiful and all men tell me so. They mocked at my clumsy and jerky gait, at my sharp elbows which, when I walked, moved like the feet of geese.

"What miracles are born of the love of a poet! But how heavily a poet's love weighs! What sorrows accompany it, what silences to endure! Now that the miracle has been accomplished, I am beautiful and renowned. Croniamantal is ugly, he has wasted his property in a short time; he is poor, lacking in elegance, no longer gay; the slightest of his gestures make him a hundred enemies.

"I love him no longer. I need him no longer, my admirers are enough for me. I shall rid me of him gradually. But that is going to be very annoying. Either I must go away, or he must disappear, so that he doesn't bother me, and so that he isn't able to reproach me."

And after eight days, Tristouse became the mistress of Paponat, although still seeing Croniamantal, whom she treated more and more coldly. The less she came to see him, the more desperately he cared for her. When she did not come at all, he spent hours in front of the house she lived in in the hope of seeing her come out, and if by chance she did, he would escape like a thief, fearing that she might accuse him of spying on her.

* * *

It was by running around after Tristouse Bailerinette that Croniamantal continued his literary education.

One day as he was wandering about Paris, he suddenly found himself at the Seine. He crossed a bridge and walked for some time, when suddenly perceiving before him M. François Coppée, Croniamantal regretted that this passerby was dead. But there is nothing against talking with the dead, and the encounter passed off very pleasantly.

"Come," thought Croniamantal, "to a passerby he would appear to be nothing but a passerby, and the very author of the _Passerby._[11] He is a clever and spiritual rhymester, with some feeling for reality. Let us speak to him about rhyme."

The poet of the _Passerby_ was smoking a dark cigarette. He was dressed in black, his visage black; he stood bizarrely on a high stone, and Croniamantal saw quite easily by his pensive air that he was composing verses. He came alongside of him and after having greeted him, said brusquely:

"Dear master, how sombre you seem."

He replied courteously.

"It is because my statue is of bronze. That exposes me constantly to scorn. Thus the other day."

_Passing by one day the negro Sam MacVea Seeing I was the blacker, sat down and muttered: 'Yea.'_

"See how adroit those lines are. Did you notice how well the couplet I just recited for you rhymes for the eye."

"Indeed," said Croniamantal, "for it is pronounced _Sam MacVee_, like _Shakespeer._"

"Well here is something that comes off better," continued the statue:

_Passing by one day the negro Sam MacVea Christened this tablet with a flask of eau-de-vie._

"There is a bit of refinement that ought to appeal to you. It is the _rime riche_, the perfect rhyme to delight the ear."

"You certainly enlighten me on the rhyme," said Croniamantal. "I am very happy, dear master, to have met you in passing by."

"It is my first success," replied the metallic poet. "But I have just composed a little poem bearing the same title: it is about a gentleman who passes by. _The Passerby_, across the corridor of a railroad coach; he perceives a charming lady with whom, instead of going only to Brussels, he stops at the Dutch frontier:

_They passed at least eight days at Rosendael He tasted the ideal, she the real In all things, it chanced, their ways differed, It was from veritable Love they suffered._

"I call your attention to the last two lines, which through rhyming somewhat imperfectly contain a subtle dissonance, which is further emphasized by the fact of their being morbidly feminine rhymes."

"Dear master," exclaimed Croniamantal, "speak to me of vers libre."

"Long live liberty!" cried the bronze statue.

And having saluted him, Croniamantal went his way looking for Tristouse.

* * *

On another day Croniamantal was walking along the boulevards. Tristouse had missed an appointment with him, and he hoped to find her in a tea room where she sometimes went with her friends. He turned the corner of the rue Le Peletier, when a gentleman, dressed in a pearl-grey cape, accosted him, saying:

"Sir, I am going to reform literature. I have found a superb subject: it is about the sensations of a well bred young bachelor who permits an improper sound to escape in an assemblage of ladies and young people of good family."

Croniamantal was properly amazed at the novelty of the subject, but understood at once how much it would take to test the sensibilities of the author.

Croniamantal fled... A lady stepped on his feet. She was also an authoress, and did not neglect to inform him that this incident would furnish him with a subject of fresh and delicate character.

Croniamantal took to his heels and reached the Pont des Saint Pères where three people were disputing over the subject of a novel and begged him to decide who was right; it was about the case of an officer.

"Fine subject," cried Croniamantal.

"Listen," said his neighbor, a bearded man, "I claim that the subject is too new and too unusual for the present day public."

And the third man explained that it was about an officer of a restaurant company, the man who held office, who presided over the soiled dishes...

Croniamantal did not reply to them but made off to visit an old cook who wrote verse, and at whose place he hoped to find Tristouse at tea time. Tristouse was not there, but Croniamantal was hugely entertained by the mistress of the house who declaimed some poems to him.

It was a poetry that was full of profundity, and in which words had a new meaning entirely. Thus _archipel_ was only used in the sense of _papier buvard._[12]

* * *

Some time later, the rich Paponat, proud of being the lover of the renowned Tristouse, and desirous of not losing her, for she did him honor, decided to take his mistress for a trip through Central Europe.

"Fine," said Tristouse, "but we will not travel as lovers, for even though you are nice to me, I don't love you enough, or at least I force myself to the point of not loving you. We shall travel as two friends, and I shall dress up as a young man; my hair is rather short, and I have often been told that I have the air of a handsome young man."

"Very well," said Paponat, "and since we both are in need of repose we shall make our retreat in Moravia in a convent of Brünn where my uncle, the prior of Crepontois, retired after the expulsion of the monks. It is one of the richest and finest convents in the world. I shall present you as one of my friends, and have no fear, we shall be taken for lovers just the same."

"That suits me," said Tristouse, "for I love to pass for that which I am not. We leave tomorrow."

XV. VOYAGE

Croniamantal went perfectly mad upon hearing of the departure of Tristouse. But at this time he began to become famous, and as his poetical repute waxed so did his vogue as a dramatist.

The theatres played his plays and the crowd applauded his name, but at the same moment the enemies of poets and poetry were increasing in number and growing in audacious hatred.

He only became more and more sorrowful, his soul shrinking within his enfeebled body.

When he learned of the departure of Tristouse he did not protest, but simply asked the concierge if she knew the destination of the voyage.

"All that I know," said the woman, "is that she has gone to Central Europe."

"Very well," said Croniamantal, and returning to his quarters he gathered up the several thousand francs he still possessed and took the train for Germany at the Gare du Nord.

On the following day, Christmas eve, the train was engulfed in the enormous terminal of Cologne. Croniamantal, carrying a little valise, descended last from his third-class coach.

On the platform of the opposite track the red cap of the station master, the spiked helmets of policemen, and the silk hats of high functionaries indicated that an important person was awaited by the next train. And to be sure Croniamantal heard a little old man, with quick gestures, explaining to his fat wife who gaped with astonishment at the spiked helmets, the red cap, and the silk hats:

"Krupp... Essen... No orders... Italy."

Croniamantal followed the crowd of passengers who had come in on his train. He walked behind two girls, who must have been pigeon-toed, so much did their gait resemble that of the goose. They kept their hands concealed under short cloaks; the head of the first one was covered with a small black hat, from which there dangled a bouquet of blue roses, as well as some straight, black feathers, with the stem trimmed except at the tip, which trembled as if with cold. The hat of the other girl was of a soft, almost brilliant felt, an enormous knot of satinette shrouding her with ridicule. They were probably two servant maids out of a job, for they were pounced upon at the exit by a group of strait-laced and ugly ladies wearing the ribbon of the Catholic Society for the Protection of Young Girls. The ladies of the Protestant Society for the same purpose stood a little further off. Croniamantal following behind a stout man with a short, hard and russet beard, dressed in green, descended the stairway that led to the vestibule of the station.

Outside he saluted the Dome, solitary in the midst of the irregular square which it filled with its bulk. The station heaped its modern mass close to the huge cathedral. Hotels spread their signs in hybrid languages and appeared to hold their respectful distance from the gothic colossus. Croniamantal sniffed the odour of the town for a long time. He seemed to be disappointed.

"She is not here," he said to himself, "my nose would smell her, my nerves would vibrate, my eyes would see her."

He crossed the town, passed the fortifications on foot as if driven by un unknown force along the main road, downstream, on the right bank of the Rhine. And in truth, Tristouse and Paponat had arrived the night before in Cologne, taken an automobile and continued their journey; they had taken the right bank of the Rhine in the direction of Coblenz, and Croniamantal was following their trail.

Christmas eve came. An old prophet of a rabbi from Dollendorf, just as he was venturing upon the bridge which links Bonn with Buel, was repulsed by a violent gust of wind. The snow fell in a great rage. The sound of the gale drowned all the Christmas songs, but the thousand lights of the trees glittered in each house.

The old Jew swore:

"_Kreuzdonnerwetter..._ I shall never get to _Haenchen..._ Winter, my old friend, thou canst avail nothing against my old and joyous carcass, let me cross without hindrance this old Rhine which is as drunken as thirty-six drunkards. As to myself, I bend my steps toward the noble tavern frequented by the Borussians only to tipple in company with those white bonnets and at their cost, like a good Christian, although I am a Jew."

The sound of the gale doubled in fury, strange voices made themselves heard. The old rabbi shivered and raised his head crying:

"Donnerkeil! Ui jeh, ch, ch, ch. Eh! Say, up there, you ought to go about your business instead of making life miserable for poor happy devils whose fate sends them abroad on such nights... Eh! mothers, are you no longer under the domination of Solomon? ...Ohey! Ohey! Tseilom Kop! Meicabl! Farwaschen Ponim! Beheime! You want to prevent me from drinking the excellent Moselle wines with the students of Borussia who are only too happy to toast with me because of my science and my inimitable lyricism, not to mention all my talents for sorcery and prophecy.

"Accursed spirits! know ye that I might have drunk also Rhine wines, not to mention the wines of France. Nor should I have neglected to polish off some champagne in your honor, my old friends!... At midnight, the hour when the _Christkindchen_ is made, I should have rolled under the table and have slept at least during the brawling... But you unchain the winds, you make an infernal uproar during this saintly night which should have been peaceful... as to being calm, you seem to be twisting his pigtail up there, sweet ladies... To amuse Solomon, no doubt... Lilith! Naama! Aguereth! Mahala! Ah! Solomon, for thy pleasure they are going to kill all the poets on this earth.

"Ah Solomon! Solomon! jovial king whose entertainers are the four nocturnal spectres moving from the Orient to the North, thou desirest my death, for I am also a poet like all the Jewish prophets and a prophet like all the poets.

"Farewell drunkenness for tonight... Old Rhine, I must turn my back to thee. I am going back to prepare me for death and dictate my last and most lyrical prophecies..."

A horrible crash, like a stroke of thunder, burst just then. The old prophet pressed his lips together, lowering his head and looking down; then he bent down and held his ear quite close to the ground. When he straightened up he murmured:

"The earth herself can no longer suffer the unbearable contact with poets."

Then he took his way across the streets of Buel, turning his back on the Rhine. When the rabbi had traversed the railroad track he found himself before a crossing and as he hesitated not knowing which to take, he lifted his head again by chance. He saw before him a young man with a valise coming from Bonn; the old rabbi did not recognize the person and cried to him:

"Are you mad to go out in such weather, sir?"

"I am hurrying to rejoin someone whom I have lost and whose track I am following," replied the stranger.

"What is your profession," cried the Jew.

"I am a poet."

The prophet stamped with his foot and as the young man disappeared he cursed him horribly because of the pity he felt, then lowering his head he went to look at the signposts along the road. Wheezing, he took the road straight ahead of him.

"Happily the wind is fallen... at least one can walk... I had thought at first that he was coming to kill me. But, no, he will probably die even before me, this poet who is not even a Jew. Well, let us go quick and merrily to prepare us a glorious death."

The old rabbi walked faster; with his long cloak he gave the effect of a returned spirit, and some children who were returning from Putzchen after the Christmas Tree party passed him crying with terror, and for a long time they threw stones in the direction in which he had disappeared.

* * *

Croniamantal covered in this way part of Germany and the Austrian Empire; the force that propelled him drew him across Thuringia, Saxony, Bohemia, Moravia, up to Brünn, where he decided to stop.

On the very night of his arrival, he scoured the town. Along the streets surrounding the old palace enormous Swiss guards in breeches and cocked hats, were standing before the doors. They leaned on long canes with crystal heads. Their gold buttons gleamed like the eyes of cats. Croniamantal lost his way; he wandered about for some time in poor streets where shadows passed vividly across drawn blinds. Officers in long blue coats passed by. Croniamantal turned to glance at them, then he walked outside of the town with night coming on, to look at the sombre mass of the Spielberg. While he was looking at the old state prison, he heard the sound of feet dose by and then saw three monks pass gesticulating and talking loudly. Croniamantal ran after them and asked them directions.

"You are French," they said; "come with us."

Croniamantal examined them and noticed that they wore above their frocks little beige cloaks that were very elegant. Each one carried a light cane and wore a melon-shaped hat. On the way one of the monks said to Croniamantal:

"You have wandered far from your hotel, we will show you the way if you wish. But if you care to, you may certainly come to the convent with us: you will be well received because you are a foreigner and you can pass the night there."

Croniamantal accepted joyfully, saying:

"I shall be very glad to come, for aren't you brothers to me, who am a poet."

They began to laugh. The oldest, who wore a gold-framed lorgnon and whose belly puffed out of his fashionable waistcoat, raised his arms and cried:

"A poet! Is it possible!"

And the two others, who were thinner, choked with laughter, bending down and holding their bellies as if they had the colic.

"Let us be serious," said the monk with the lorgnon, "we are going to pass through a street inhabited by the Jews."

In the streets, at every step, old women standing like pines in a forest, called them, making signals.

"Let us flee from this stench," said the fat monk, who was a Czech and who was called Father Karel by his companions.

Croniamantal and the monks stopped at last before a great convent door. At the sound of the bell the porter came to let them in. The two thin monks said good-bye to Croniamantal, who remained alone with Father Karel in a parlor that was richly furnished.

"My child," said Father Karel, "you are in a unique convent. The monks who inhabit it are all very proper people. We have old archdukes, and even former architects, soldiers, scientists, poets, inventors, a few monks expelled from France, and some lay guests of good breeding. All of them are saints. I, myself, such as you see me, with my lorgnon and my pot-belly, am a saint. I shall show you your room, where you may stay until nine o'clock; then you will hear the bell ring and I shall come to look for you."

Father Karel guided Croniamantal through long corridors. Then they went up a stairway of white marble and on the second floor, Father Karel opened a door and said:

"Your room."

He showed him the electric button and left.

The room was round, the bed and the chairs were round; on the chimney piece a skull looked like an old cheese.

Croniamantal stood by the window, under which spread the teeming darkness of a large monastery garden, from which there seemed to rise laughter, sighs, cries of joy, as if a thousand couples were embracing each other. Then a woman's voice in the garden sang a song which Croniamantal had heard before:

_...Croquemitaine Wears the rose and the lilac The King is a-coming --Hello Germaine --Croquemitaine Wilt thou come back again?_

And Croniamantal began to sing the rest:

--_Hello Germaine I come to love among thine arms._

Then he heard the voice of Tristouse continuing the couplet.

And voices of men here and there, sang airs that were strange or grave, while the cracked voice of an old man stuttered:

_Vexilla regis prodeunt..._

At this moment Father Karel entered the room, as a bell rang full force.

"Well, my boy! Listening to the sounds of our fine garden? It is full of memories, this earthly paradise. Tychobrahé made love there with a pretty Jewess who said to him all the time: Chazer,--which means pig in the jargon.[13] I myself, have seen such and such an archduke play with a pretty boy whose behind was shaped like a heart. Let us come to dinner."

They arrived in a vast refectory still empty, and the poet examined at his leisure the frescoes which covered the wall.

One was of Noah, dead-drunk on a couch. His son Cham was uncovering his nakedness, that is to say the root of a vine naively and prettily painted whose branches served as a genealogical tree, or something of the sort, for they had painted the names of all the abbés in red letters on all the leaves.

The marriage of Cana showed a Mannekenpis pissing wine into the casks while the spouse, at least eight months with child, offered her belly to someone who was writing on it in charcoal: TOKAI.

And then again there was a fresco of the soldiers of Gideon relieving themselves of the awful colic caused by the water they had drunk.

The long table that covered the middle of the hall was spread with a rare sumptuousness. The glasses and decanters were of Bohemian cut-glass, and of the finest red crystal. The superb silver pieces glittered on the whiteness of the cloth strewn with violets.