Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

UNDER THE ARCADES OF THE

ODÉON

19th January.

WAS walking under the arcades of the Odéon. An old poet, a schoolmaster and two students were turning over the leaves of the uncut books. Careless of the cold air at their backs, they read whatever chance and the folding of the pages allowed. As I watched them, I thought of that dream-book of M. Stéphane Mallarmé's, that wonderful story story which would present three distinct superimposed readings, and which would offer an interesting and consecutive story to those that read it without cutting the pages. I imagined my old poet, my poet, my schoolmaster and my two students, moving their cold red noses over such a work, and in my heart I praised the ingenious poet for having, in his goodness, prepared food for the poor readers, who, like the sparrows, live in the open air, and consume their literary nourishment at the booksellers' stalls. But on thinking it over, I doubt whether the pleasure of these gentle vagabonds is not more delicious as they taste it, whether they do not taste a mysterious charm in the sudden suspension of the sense resulting from pages untouched by the paper - knife. These open-air readers must have plenty of imagination. They

will shortly be going along the cold, black streets, finishing the interrupted sentence in a dream. And very likely they will make it more beautiful than the reality. They will carry away with them an illusion, a desire, or at least a curiosity. It is seldom that a book yields us as much when we read it through at leisure.

I should like to imitate them sometimes, and to read certain books without cutting them. But my duty stands in the way. Alas, it is so delightful to dabble among books. I have a friend, a messenger on the Quai Malaquais; this simple fellow is a fine example of the charm of interrupted reading. From time to time he used to bring me a load of books. Our relations permitted of his appraising me, and after two or three visits he came to the conclusion that I was not proud, there being, I may add, little reason for my being so, as I get all my learning out of books. As a matter of fact, he carried more knowledge on his back than I in my head. His confidence increased, and one day, scratching his ear, he asked me:

"Sir, there is something I should like to know. I have asked several people who could not tell me. But you must know. It's been bothering me these last five years.'

66 What?"

[ocr errors]

You don't mind?"

Go

on, my man.'

"Well, sir, I should like to know what happened to the Empress Catherine?"

"The Empress Catherine?"

"Yes, sir, I'd give something to know whether she succeeded?"

"Succeeded?"

"Yes, I stopped at the moment when the conspirators were about to assassinate the Emperor Peter, and they were quite right too! I read the story on a screw of tobacco-paper; you understand, there was no continuation."

[ocr errors]

"Well, my lad, Peter was strangled, and Catherine was proclaimed Empress.' "You are sure? "Perfectly sure."

وو

"Well, so much the better. I am glad of that ! Picking up his porter's strap, he wished me good evening. I sent him to the kitchen to drink a glass of wine to the health of the Empress Catherine. Our friendship dates from that day.

The readers at the Odéon had not stopped, like my messenger, at Princess Daschkoff's conspiracy. But they never turned over anything very new, and I suspect the schoolmaster of having devoured several pages of the Tableau de l'amour conjugal. With his thick fingers he would lift up the leaves enclosed on three sides and intrude his nose like a horse into his manger.

The stall was shabby and dismal; there was none of the good smell of fresh paper. There was no stack of yellow books, with the statement on a band of paper-"Just published."

Society people do not know these stacks. They read the new novels in the Revue des Deux Mondes. They never buy them as volumes. They do not care to, and if they did, they could not. It is not their fault; they simply do not know how. When, by some extraordinary chance, a lady wants to obtain a new book, she sends to the nearest stationer's, which she mistakes for a bookseller's. The stationer, who, during his whole life, has never

seen any works other than those of MM. Ohnet and Montépin, feels very awkward when he is asked for Paul Arène's Chèvre d'or. But he is too adroit to expose his ignorance. Being as happily inspired as the eating-house keeper of the Butte Montmartre, who was asked by my friend Adolphe Racot for the wing of a phoenix, and replied: "We have just served the last one," the cunning stationer declares that "La chèvre d'or is out of print.” This information is conveyed to the pretty reader, who will never read La chèvre d'or, having failed to obtain it. However, this is superlatively just; for true beauty should only be exhibited to the initiated. It cannot be imagined how difficult it is for society people to obtain a little book in -18 jésus at fr. 3.50. I know two or three literary drawing-rooms where every one reads everything that should be read, but where nobody would be capable of obtaining in twenty-four hours a single one of the books which it is the right thing to have read. A copy emanating from the author, or from some railway bookstall, goes the round and does duty for sixty people. It is borrowed like something unique; and, in fact, it is so. The stationer in the Faubourg St. Honoré has already said that there are no more. After having circulated for three months through the most beautiful hands in the world it is indeed a sad sight, tattered, gaping at the back, wonderfully dog's-eared, and like Racine's Hippolyte, without colour or form. It goes on circulating. It gives up the ghost, and, as it expires, it has to satisfy the intellectual curiosity of Baroness N. and Countess M. There are society people who meet M. Paul Hervieu every evening, and are incapable of finding a single one of his

works in the whole of Paris. In the eighteenth century poetical and elegant writings used to circulate in manuscript at assemblies: custom has changed less in this respect than might be expected, and it is not an aristocratic habit to buy a book. A single copy makes the round of the set. This method has its inconveniences. Letters which were written only for two beautiful eyes have gone the round of Parisian society between pp. 126 and 127 of Mensonges. I have been shown a copy of Fort comme la mort which served a very pretty lady as blotting-paper. A line of writing remained printed in reverse. It was considered unreadable, when an inquiring lady, into whose hands the book had fallen, thought of looking at the stained page in a looking-glass. She read therein very clearly: "I send you my heart in a kiss." It was the last line of a letter without a signature. Some years ago M. Gaston Boissier was boasting to some friends the ingenious wit of a lady who, in her letters to the same correspondent, displayed an infinite variety as regards the final formula.

Commandant Rivière, who was listening, appeared surprised, and said :

"I thought that all women finished their letters with the same formula, 'I send you my heart in a kiss." "

One may therefore deduce that Fort comme la mort betrayed nobody. None the less, to lend books is dangerous.

I have given an explanation of this custom which is doubtless sufficient. But if it is with reason, as it is with grace, which, according to the theologians, suffices not when it is sufficient, let us inquire for some other origin of the noble custom of buying

« ПредишнаНапред »