But the absolute control over his facial muscles to which M. de
Norpois had attained allowed him to listen without seeming to hear a
word. At last my father became uneasy. "I had thought," he ventured,
after an endless preamble, "of asking the advice of the Commission…"
Then from the face of the noble virtuoso, who had been sitting inert
as a player in an orchestra sits until the moment comes for him to
begin his part, were uttered, with an even delivery, on a sharp note,
and as though they were no more than the completion (but scored for a
different voice) of the phrase that my father had begun, the words:
"of which you will not hesitate, of course, to call a meeting; more
especially as the present members are all known to you personally, and
there may be a change any day." This was not in itself a very
remarkable ending. But the immobility that had preceded it made it
detach itself with the crystal clarity, the almost malicious
unexpectedness of those phrases in which the piano, silent until
then, "takes up", at a given moment, the violoncello to which one has
just been listening, in a Mozart concerto.
"Well, did you enjoy your
matinée
?" asked my father, as we moved to
the dining–room; meaning me to 'shew off,' and with the idea that my
enthusiasm would give M. de Norpois a good opinion of me. "He has just
been to hear Berma. You remember, we were talking about it the other
day," he went on, turning towards the diplomat, in the same tone of
retrospective, technical, mysterious allusiveness as if he had been
referring to a meeting of the Commission.
"You must have been enchanted, especially if you had never heard her
before. Your father was alarmed at the effect that the little jaunt
might have upon your health, which is none too good, I am told, none
too robust. But I soon set his mind at rest. Theatres to–day are not
what they were even twenty years ago. You have more or less
comfortable seats now, and a certain amount of ventilation, although
we have still a long way to go before we come up to Germany or
England, which in that respect as in many others are immeasurably
ahead of us. I have never seen Mme. Berma in
Phèdre
, but I have
always heard that she is excellent in the part. You were charmed with
her, of course?"
M. de Norpois, a man a thousand times more intelligent than myself,
must know that hidden truth which I had failed to extract from Berma's
playing; he knew, and would reveal it to me; in answering his question
I would implore him to let me know in what that truth consisted; and
he would tell me, and so justify me in the longing that I had felt to
see and hear the actress. I had only a moment, I must make what use I
could of it and bring my cross–examination to bear upon the essential
points. But what were they? Fastening my whole attention upon my own
so confused impressions, with no thought of making M. de Norpois
admire me, but only that of learning from him the truth that I had
still to discover, I made no attempt to substitute ready–made phrases
for the words that failed me—I stood there stammering, until finally,
in the hope of provoking him into declaring what there was in Berma
that was admirable, I confessed that I had been disappointed.
"What's that?" cried my father, annoyed at the bad impression which
this admission of my failure to appreciate the performance must make
on M. de Norpois, "What on earth do you mean; you didn't enjoy it?
Why, your grandmother has been telling us that you sat there hanging
on every word that Berma uttered, with your eyes starting out of your
head; that everyone else in the theatre seemed quite bored, beside
you."
"Oh, yes, I was listening as hard as I could, trying to find out what
it was that was supposed to be so wonderful about her. Of course,
she's frightfully good, and all that…"
"If she is 'frightfully good,' what more do you want?"
"One of the things that have undoubtedly contributed to the success of
Mme. Berma," resumed M. de Norpois, turning with elaborate courtesy
towards my mother, so as not to let her be left out of the
conversation, and in conscientious fulfilment of his duty of
politeness to the lady of the house, "is the perfect taste that she
shews in selecting her parts; thus she can always be assured of
success, and success of the right sort. She hardly ever appears in
anything trivial. Look how she has thrown herself into the part of
Phèdre. And then, she brings the same good taste to the choice of her
costumes, and to her acting. In spite of her frequent and lucrative
tours in England and America, the vulgarity—I will not say of John
Bull; that would be unjust, at any rate to the England of the
Victorian era—but of Uncle Sam has not infected her. No loud colours,
no rant. And then that admirable voice, which has been of such service
to her, with which she plays so delightfully—I should almost be
tempted to describe it as a musical instrument!"
My interest in Berma's acting had continued to grow ever since the
fall of the curtain, because it was then no longer compressed within
the limits of reality; but I felt the need to find explanations for
it; moreover it had been fixed with the same intensity, while Berma
was on the stage, upon everything that she offered, in the
indivisibility of a living whole, to my eyes and ears; there was
nothing separate or distinct; it welcomed, accordingly, the discovery
of a reasonable cause in these tributes paid to the simplicity, to the
good taste of the actress, it attracted them to itself by its power of
absorption, seized hold of them, as the optimism of a drunken man
seizes hold of the actions of his neighbour, in each of which he finds
an excuse for emotion. "He is right!" I told myself. "What a charming
voice, what an absence of shrillness, what simple costumes, what
intelligence to have chosen
Phèdre
. No; I have not been disappointed!"
The cold beef, spiced with carrots, made its appearance, couched by
the Michelangelo of our kitchen upon enormous crystals of jelly, like
transparent blocks of quartz.
"You have a chef of the first order, Madame," said M. de Norpois, "and
that is no small matter. I myself, who have had, when abroad, to
maintain a certain style in housekeeping, I know how difficult it
often is to find a perfect master–cook. But this is a positive banquet
that you have set before us!"
And indeed Françoise, in the excitement of her ambition to make a
success, for so distinguished a guest, of a dinner the preparation of
which had been obstructed by difficulties worthy of her powers, had
given herself such trouble as she no longer took when we were alone,
and had recaptured her incomparable Combray manner.
"That is a thing you can't get in a chophouse,—in the best of them, I
mean; a spiced beef in which the jelly does not taste of glue and the
beef has caught the flavour of the carrots; it is admirable! Allow me
to come again," he went on, making a sign to shew that he wanted more
of the jelly. "I should be interested to see how your Vatel managed a
dish of quite a different kind; I should like, for instance, to see
him tackle a
bœuf Stroganoff
."
M. de Norpois, so as to add his own contribution to the gaiety of the
repast, entertained us with a number of the stories with which he was
in the habit of regaling his colleagues in "the career," quoting now
some ludicrous sentence uttered by a politician, an old offender,
whose sentences were always long and packed with incoherent images,
now some monumental epigram of a diplomat, sparkling with attic salt.
But, to tell the truth, the criterion which for him set apart these
two kinds of phrase in no way resembled that which I was in the habit
of applying to literature. Most of the finer shades escaped me; the
words which he repeated with derision seemed to me not to differ very
greatly from those which he found remarkable. He belonged to the class
of men who, had we come to discuss the books that I liked, would have
said: "So you understand that, do you? I must confess that I do not
understand, I am not initiated;" but I could have matched his
attitude, for I did not grasp the wit or folly, the eloquence or
pomposity which he found in a statement or a speech, and the absence
of any perceptible reason for one's being badly and the other's well
expressed made that sort of literature seem more mysterious, more
obscure to me than any other. I could distinguish only that to repeat
what everybody else was thinking was, in politics, the mark not of an
inferior but of a superior mind. When M. de Norpois made use of
certain expressions which were 'common form' in the newspapers, and
uttered them with emphasis, one felt that they became an official
pronouncement by the mere fact of his having employed them, and a
pronouncement which would provoke a string of comment.
My mother was counting greatly upon the pineapple and truffle salad.
But the Ambassador, after fastening for a moment on the confection the
penetrating gaze of a trained observer, ate it with the inscrutable
discretion of a diplomat, and without disclosing to us what he thought
of it. My mother insisted upon his taking some more, which he did, but
saying only, in place of the compliment for which she was hoping: "I
obey, Madame, for I can see that it is, on your part, a positive
ukase!"
"We saw in the 'papers that you had a long talk with King Theodosius,"
my father ventured.
"Why, yes; the King, who has a wonderful memory for faces, was kind
enough to remember, when he noticed me in the stalls, that I had had
the honour to meet him on several occasions at the Court of Bavaria,
at a time when he had never dreamed of his oriental throne—to which,
as you know, he was summoned by a European Congress, and indeed had
grave doubts about accepting the invitation, regarding that particular
sovereignty as unworthy of his race, the noblest, heraldically
speaking, in the whole of Europe. An aide–de–camp came down to bid me
pay my respects to his Majesty, whose command I hastened, naturally,
to obey."
"And I trust, you are satisfied with the results of his visit?"
"Enchanted! One was justified in feeling some apprehension as to the
manner in which a Sovereign who is still so young would handle a
situation requiring tact, particularly at this highly delicate
juncture. For my own part, I reposed entire confidence in the King's
political sense. But I must confess that he far surpassed my
expectations. The speech that he made at the Elysée, which, according
to information that has come to me from a most authoritative source,
was composed, from beginning to end, by himself, was fully deserving
of the interest that it has aroused in all quarters. It was simply
masterly; a trifle daring, I quite admit, but with an audacity which,
after all, has been fully justified by the event. Traditional
diplomacy is all very well in its way, but in practice it has made his
country and ours live in an hermetically sealed atmosphere in which it
was no longer possible to breathe. Very well! There is one method of
letting in fresh air, obviously not one of the methods which one could
officially recommend, but one which King Theodosius might allow
himself to adopt—and that is to break the windows. Which he
accordingly did, with a spontaneous good humour that delighted
everybody, and also with an aptness in his choice of words in which
one could at once detect the race of scholarly princes from whom he is
descended through his mother. There can be no question that when he
spoke of the 'affinities' that bound his country to France, the
expression, rarely as it may occur in the vocabulary of the
Chancellories, was a singularly happy one. You see that literary
ability is no drawback, even in diplomacy, even upon a throne," he
went on, turning for a moment to myself. "The community of interests
had long been apparent, I quite admit, and the relations of the two
Powers were excellent. Still, it needed putting into words. The word
was what we were all waiting for, it was chosen with marvellous
aptitude; you have seen the effect it had. For my part, I must confess
I applauded openly."
"Your friend M. de Vaugoubert will be pleased, after preparing for the
agreement all these years."
"All the more so that his Majesty, who is quite incorrigible, really,
in some ways, had taken care to spring it on him as a surprise. And it
did come as a complete surprise, incidentally, to everyone concerned,
beginning with the Foreign Minister himself, who—I have heard—did
not find it at all to his liking. It appears that someone spoke to him
about it and that he replied, pretty sharply, and loud enough to be
overheard by the people on either side of them: 'I have been neither
consulted nor informed!' indicating clearly by that that he declined
to accept any responsibility for the consequences. I must own that the
incident has given rise to a great deal of comment, and I should not
go so far as to deny," he went on with a malicious smile, "that
certain of my colleagues, for whom the supreme law appears to be that
of inertia, may have been shaken from their habitual repose. As for
Vaugoubert, you are aware that he has been bitterly attacked for his
policy of bringing that country into closer relations with France,
which must have been more than ordinarily painful to him, he is so
sensitive, such an exquisite nature. I can amply testify to that,
since, for all that he is considerably my junior, I have had many
dealings with him, we are friends of long standing and I know him
intimately. Besides, who could help knowing him? His is a heart of
crystal. Indeed, that is the one fault that there is to be found with
him; it is not necessary for the heart of a diplomat to be as
transparent as all that. Still, that does not prevent their talking of
sending him to Rome, which would be a fine rise for him, but a pretty
big plum to swallow. Between ourselves, I fancy that Vaugoubert,
utterly devoid of ambition as he is, would be very well pleased, and
would by no means ask for that cup to pass from him. For all we know,
he may do wonders down there; he is the chosen candidate of the
Consulta, and for my part I can see him very well placed, with his
artistic leanings, in the setting of the Farnese Palace and the
Caracci Gallery. At least you would suppose that it was impossible for
any one to hate him; but there is a whole camarilla collected round
King Theodosius which is more or less held in fief by the
Wilhelmstrasse, whose inspiration its members dutifully absorb, and
these men have done everything in their power to checkmate him. Not
only has Vaugoubert had to face these backstairs intrigues, he has had
to endure also the insults of a gang of hireling pamphleteers who
later on, being like every subsidised journalist the most arrant
cowards, have been the first to cry quits, but in the interval had not
shrunk from hurling at our Representative the most fatuous accusations
that the wit of irresponsible fools could invent. For a month and
more Vaugoubert's enemies had been dancing round him, howling for his
scalp," M. de Norpois detached this word with sharp emphasis. "But
forewarned is forearmed; as for their insults, he spurned them with
his foot!" he went on with even more determination, and with so fierce
a glare in his eye that for a moment we forgot our food. "In the words
of a fine Arab proverb, 'The dogs may bark; the caravan goes on!'"