The Complete Works: Short Stories, Novels, Plays, Poetry, Memoirs and more. Guy de Maupassant
to repeat what he had been saying to those gentlemen of the orchestra over whom he was the conductor.
“Yes, my dear friend, it is finished, finished, finished, the hackneyed style of the old school. The melodists have had their day. This is what people cannot understand. Music is a new art, melody is its first lisping. The ignorant ear loves the burden of a song. It takes a child’s pleasure, a savage’s pleasure in it. I may add that the ears of the people or of the ingenuous public, the simple ears, will always love little songs, airs, in a word. It is an amusement similar to that in which the frequenters of café concerts indulge. I am going to make use of a comparison in order to make myself understood. The eye of the rustic loves crude colors and glaring pictures; the eye of the intelligent representative of the middle class who is not artistic loves shades benevolently pretentious and affecting subjects; but the artistic eye, the refined eye, loves, understands, and distinguishes the imperceptible modulations of a single tone, the mysterious harmonies of light touches invisible to most people.
“It is the same with literature. Doorkeepers like romances of adventure, the middle class like novels which appeal to the feelings; while the real lovers of literature care only for the artistic books which are incomprehensible to the others. When an ordinary citizen talks music to me I feel a longing to kill him. And when it is at the opera, I. ask him: ‘Are you capable of telling me whether the third violin has made a false note in the overture of the third act? No. Then be silent. You have no ear. The man who does not understand, at the same time, the whole and all the instruments separately in an orchestra has no ear, and is no musician. There you are! Good night!”’
He turned round on his heel, and resumed: “For an artist all music is in a chord. Ah! my friend, certain chords madden me, cause a flood of inexpressible happiness to penetrate all my flesh. I have to-day an ear so well exercised, so finished, so matured, that I end by liking even certain false chords, just like a virtuoso whose fully-developed taste amounts to a form of depravity. I am beginning to be a vitiated person who seeks for extreme sensations of hearing. Yes, my friends, certain false notes. What delights! What perverse and profound delights! How this moves, how it shakes the nerves! how it scratches the ear — how it scratches! how it scratches!”
He rubbed his hands together rapturously, and he hummed: “You shall hear my opera — my opera — my opera. You shall hear my opera.”
Gontran said: “You are composing an opera?”
“Yes, I have finished it.” But the commanding voice of Petrus Martel resounded:
“You understand perfectly! A yellow rocket, and off you go!”
He was giving orders for the fireworks. They joined him, and he explained his arrangements by showing with his outstretched arm, as if he were threatening a hostile fleet, stakes of white wood on the mountain above the gorge, on the opposite side of the valley.
“It is over there that they are to be shot out. I told my pyrotechnist to be at his post at half past eight. The very moment the spectacle is over, I will give the signal from here by a yellow rocket, and then he will illuminate the opening piece.”
The Marquis made his appearance: “I am going to drink a glass of water,” he said.
Paul and Gontran accompanied him, and again descended the hill. On reaching the establishment, they saw Père Clovis, who had got there, sustained by the two Oriols, followed by Andermatt and by the doctor, and making, every time he trailed his legs on the ground, contortions suggestive of extreme pain.
“Let us go in,” said Gontran, “this will be funny.”
The paralytic was placed sitting in an armchair. Then Andermatt said to him: “Here is what I propose, old cheat that you are. You are going to be cured immediately by taking two baths a day. And the moment you walk you’ll have two hundred francs.”
The paralytic began to groan: “My legs, they are iron, my good Monchieu!”
Andermatt made him hold his tongue, and went on: “Now, listen! You shall again have two hundred francs every year up to the time of your death —— you understand — up to the time of your death, if you continue to experience the salutary effect of our waters.”
The old fellow was in a state of perplexity. The continuous cure was opposed to his plan of action. He asked in a hesitating tone: “But when — when it is closed up — this box of yours — if this should take hold of me again — I can do nothing then — I —— seeing that it will be shut up — your water— “
Doctor Latonne interrupted him, and, turning toward Andermatt, said: “Excellent! excellent! We’ll cure him every year. This will be even better, and will show the necessity of annual treatment, the indispensability of returning hither. Excellent — this is perfectly clear!”
But the old man repeated afresh: “It will not suit this time, my good Monchieu. My legs, they’re iron, iron in bars.”
A new idea sprang up in the doctor’s mind: “If I got him to try a course of seated walking,” he said, “I might hasten the effect of the waters considerably. It is an experiment worth trying.”
“Excellent idea,” returned Andermatt, adding: “Now, Père Clovis, take yourself off, and don’t forget our agreement.”
The old fellow went away still groaning; and, when evening came on, all the directors of Mont Oriol came back to dine, for the theatrical representation was announced to take place at half past seven.
The great hall of the new Casino was the place where they were to dine. It was capable of holding a thousand persons.
At seven o’clock the visitors who had not numbered seats presented themselves. At half past seven the hall was filled, and the curtain was raised for the performance of a vaudeville in two acts, which preceded Saint Landri’s operetta, interpreted by vocalists from Vichy, who had given their services for the occasion.
Christiane in the front row, between her brother and her husband, suffered a great deal from the heat. Every moment she repeated: “I feel quite exhausted! I feel quite exhausted!”
After the vaudeville, as the operetta was opening, she was becoming ill, and turning round to her husband, said: “My dear Will, I shall have to leave. I am suffocating!”
The banker was annoyed. He was desirous above everything in the world that this fête should be a success, from start to finish, without a single hitch. He replied:
“Make every effort to hold out. I beg of you to do so! Your departure would upset everything. You would have to pass through the entire hall!”
But Gontran, who was sitting along with Paul behind her, had overheard. He leaned toward his sister: “You are too warm?” said he.
“Yes, I am suffocating.”
“Good. Stay! You are going to have a laugh.” There was a window near. He slipped toward it, got upon a chair, and jumped out without attracting hardly any notice. Then he entered the café, which was perfectly empty, stretched his hand out under the bar where he had seen Petrus Martel conceal the signal-rocket, and, having filched it, he ran off to hide himself under a group of trees, and then set it on fire. The swift yellow sheaf flew up toward the clouds, describing a curve, and casting across the sky a long shower of flame-drops. Almost instantaneously a terrible detonation burst forth over the neighboring mountain, and a cluster of stars sent flying sparks through the darkness of the night.
Somebody exclaimed in the hall where the spectators were gathered, and where at the moment Saint Landri’s chords were quivering: “They’re letting off the fireworks!”
The spectators who were nearest to the door abruptly rose to their feet to make sure about it, and went out with light steps. All the rest turned their eyes toward the windows, but saw nothing, for they were looking at the Limagne. People kept asking: “Is it true? Is it true?”
The impatient assembly got excited, hungering above everything for simple amusements. A voice from outside announced: