Chapter 23 1909

The curate of Couverville came to visit poor Marius: he was bedridden for the twelfth week, and typhus was spreading to all his organs; the disease was said by the locals to be "very rude."He thought he was getting better enough to get out of bed, but then he had another phlebitis—he called it "la faiblite." "Very well!" said the curate, "I have an idea. Joan of Arc has just been eulogized; we have not done much for this saint, and have not disturbed her too much; let us read the Novena for her... ..." Poor Marius was very pleased.After reading the nine-day scriptures, the priest of the church came to see him again.He should have recovered that day, but his second leg was also infected! "Hmph! Monsieur curé is a deceit!" wrote the honest man to us.

"You must understand," explained the parish priest, "there are too many saints, each with his own specialties; Joan of Arc, you don't know, you should try, and we found the wrong Lord... Well, we Find something else." A few days later, Juliette Marius met an old peasant woman at the market. "Tell me earlier! You are looking for me on the right way. There is only one who is the best for treating swelling. I have already prayed for my man." "What's his name?" "Saint Idropik." "My child, you must have the wrong master again," said the curate to Juliette. "I'm afraid you didn't catch your girlfriend. Saint Idropik doesn't exist. You probably meant Saint Oterpe. I figured it out. He's the Patron Saint of Couverville." .I am inclined to think that he would be particularly interested in your affairs."

From a letter to Fontaine: Yesterday (morning, we met again at Yvette Guillebert's James Lang meeting) I told you nothing but stupid things about success and how to do it!If I had been more clever, I would have talked about pride, and of course that hidden edge of old Jesusism that has always inspired me to pursue the hardest of things, through masochism and contempt for easy contentment. s things. The question of "temperament". It can also be said that I have no intention of despising glory, but I have also become extremely sensitive to the falsehood that may be mixed with glory.A barres might write that it is often unrefined to seize glory; and I think more painfully that I have never seen a friend succeed, and compelled me to pay him less respect. .There are those who succeed with fidelity: in them a love of the end overshadows a hatred of the means.Jam was successful in a naive, half-conscious state, and it was driven by this state; he always went in his own direction: in other words, he managed his own reputation, and It's the same person who wrote things like "Poohs and their dignity are none of my business."It is for this reason that, writing in memory of Guérin, he can speak of the admirable dignity of the life of Henri de Regnier, and of the same Henri de Regnier, not so long ago, at Ortez. , but expressed deep contempt to me; in the same way, he can also dedicate "The Poet and His Wife" to Jean de Gourmont.To do this, it must be done with simplicity.As for me, I suffer from this surlyness, always grinding and mocking endlessly, but mainly against myself and not others.If I acted in this way knowing that there was no lack of motive, I would very likely poison my life for a long time.Jam does everything casually; I react to everything and it destroys people.I go into a state of alert when I come across something that works for me; I hear that Monfort has sold the novel, and that the publisher, Fayard, has printed ten thousand copies in one edition, really!This immediately gave me the desire to print books for thirty readers.I thought to myself, these thirty are good readers. (You're also on the list.)

This is the most secret, that is, the most insurmountable "reason" for my refusal to hand over the novel to Gundra. (He wanted the book. If he had been more eager, of course, I would have responded differently.) It was these reasons that I had the hardest time coming up with.Aren’t you the same? El mentioned you the day before yesterday and said convincingly: “In life, Fontaine always chooses things that make him suffer.” Can you fully understand me? Nadelmann's exhibition of sculptures at De Rueil opens. (Eli Nadelmann was that Polish Jew, the young sculptor, whom Alexander Nathanson took me to see in his humble abode, as I described in my diary in the winter.)

Not enough was talked about then, though: Nadelman was overshadowed by Nathanson's importance.Temperament is quite tough!Nathanson funded him in order to "push him out" in the future.In return for this patronage, Nadelman made a statue of him.It is these statues that are now unfolding, accompanied by a large number of sketches.Nadelmann painted with compasses, while sculpture stacked rhombuses.He found that every bend in the human body is accompanied by a corresponding curve on the opposite side.The harmony formed by these balances is close to principle.The most amazing thing is that he also sculpts after models.He is still young and has time to make up the lesson of nature.However, I am very afraid of an artist who starts from simplicity, lest what he achieves is not abundance but complexity.

Nadelmann lived through six years of poverty, shut up in a hut, living as if on plaster, probably created by Balzac.When we met again yesterday, he was wearing a little blue suit, which he must have put on the day before, talking to a very ordinary and ugly lady.He introduced me to: Mrs. Alex Nathanson.Mrs. Nathanson pointed to the rhombus-shaped back of a statue and said: "Well, at least it's alive! It's not like their Venus of Milo! Venus is beautiful, what does it matter to me? Well, at least it's a real woman! It's alive!" No more There are even more inappropriate modifiers than this, but Nadelman's art is just a technique, completely rough.There is no doubt that Stein liked it, because these works came without breaking a sweat. ——Stein is an American collector and a big buyer of Matisse.Nadelman has just started the exhibition, and he has already bought two-thirds or three-quarters of the sketches. At what price?unknown.But in the back, I saw such a small scene.Druet took out from under a table a plaster head, at least a rudimentary one, without eyes, mouth, or nose.In short, it is not yet fully formed, just like a chick that has just hatched for three days.

"How much do you want?" "What! You want to exhibit?" (I understand the astonished attitude; even in our time such shapeless things cannot be exhibited.) "No," replied Deruet, "I want to keep it in case I need it." "Well, I don't know... "Say a price. I'll be the auctioneer. . . . Come: one! two! three! . . . " "Two hundred francs!" "Oh! too high! too high!" said Druet, a little annoyed at the way his opponent entered his role too well.Nadelman also said: "Then make an offer. Come! One! Two! Three! . . . "

"One hundred francs! No higher." Druet left with the head. Yesterday, Thursday, Francis Jam and his young wife came to lunch.I met them when the train from Soissons arrived.I saw that after Yam got married, his body became much thicker, like a fat rooster. "Tell me if he is happy that way!" said Genette.Obviously, his position is secure. At his request, I also invited the Lacoste couple, Arthur Fontaine, Bonnaire and Ruyter.Lunch was very enjoyable. After drinking coffee, Yam recited "Bernadette's Prose Poems" for us, part of which had been published in "Le Figaro"; then he read another "Letter to the Consul PC" and sent it to To the New France Magazine.

"This work is all the better for having you in it," he wrote to me a few days ago: He left the others for a while, went upstairs with me to the study, sighed deeply, and said: "You are so lucky to have no disciples! I don't know how you do it?..." "It's that they don't know how to do it." Then, suddenly, he said: "I'm terrified that Paulnard is going to amputate my leg from behind." In order to send, I came to Paris, to Valery's house, to see Jeanne Valery, who was undergoing an operation.Degas had been with her for nearly an hour, and she was exhausted, for he was hard of hearing and her voice was weak.This meeting, I think Degas is old, but always the same, only a little more stubborn, more stubborn, exaggerated his annoyance, always scratching the same part of the head, and the itching is getting more and more Limited.He said: "Hmph! Those who imitate nature! What shameless farcemen. Landscape painters! I always try to ambush them when I meet them in the country. Boom! Boom!" (He raises his stick and closes one eye , aiming at the living room furniture.) "Someone has to keep the order, man this guy." etc.He added: "Art criticism! How stupid! I'm always used to say (I do remember hearing him say exactly the same thing three or four years ago): Muses never talk to each other, each doing his own thing; When they're not working, they're dancing." And he repeated twice: "When they're not working, they're dancing." And he added:

"When you write Intelligence and use a capital letter I, people are finished. There is no general wisdom. People only have the intelligence to do this or that. Intelligence should only be manifested in the things you do." to La Roque.After an hour of talking, I "thank you" de Chounet for finally signing a deed relinquishing the usufruct of the house I foolishly gave him the other day.There is no doubt that De Zhounai's embezzlement of interests is more serious than I can imagine, otherwise he would sit in the dock as if he had collapsed.He was usually so eloquent that he didn't even want to defend himself now.It was clear to me that, face to face with him, my great strength lay in this: he believed in me.Throughout the course of the conversation, I felt more loathing than pity for him.How could I put up with him for so long?

I can't imagine him walking among his "housekeeper" and his daughter, coming home at night... What did he say?What is he talking about?They must be very angry that he signed it so quickly...?oh!How powerless the imagination feels in the face of the fact that it might happen...this could be the best chapter of a novel... George didn't like it, he liked my other books better, so be it.He was wrong, though, to accuse the book at the outset of missing the virtues that gave charm to several others.I tried to make him understand that those qualities are not suitable for this novel, and that the important and difficult thing is precisely not to include them here. "Excellence in everything is difficult and rare." (Conclusion of Ethics.) Right criticism.It is always difficult for them to admit that these different books once existed side by side in my mind and still exist side by side.It is impossible for them to be written at the same time, and they are written on the manuscript paper in order.No matter which book I wrote, I never devoted myself to it completely, and the subjects that most urgently required me to deal with quickly developed into the other extreme of myself. It is not easy for others to trace the trajectory of my thoughts; this arc can only be revealed in my writing style, and it is invisible to ordinary people.If anyone thinks that he has finally captured a character similar to me in my latest work, he is wrong: the most different from me is always my latest product. Letter to Lucien Rormer (stupid article)—his praise, mine to my detriment. "I am obviously delighted to be compared to a crystal! . . . Yet how strange you are to confuse a painter with a model. Does Goethe seem more limited to you when he writes Confessions of a Fair Soul?— If I were merely the author of your praise, I would feel smaller." If you want to describe a thing well, you can't stick your nose tightly to it. Watched “A Game of Backgammon” tonight—conscientious and useless perfection again—and this unbearable feeling usually annoys me every time I turn to Merimee. Not sure: A decent person is cheating.that's enough. —but he won.Forty thousand francs won.The opponent who gambled with him committed suicide.This forces him to feel guilty.But what would the Dutchman do if he didn't kill himself?What would he do if he only won a small amount of money? ——.The rest belongs to social news. What should I do? ...he will start cheating all over again.That scene will be very emotional, because there is no difference between a decent person and a scoundrel.It was both terrible and true that a decent man could be a scoundrel.On the road of "sin", it is only difficult to take the first step.It has been said that it is easier for a woman to have no lover than to have one. This is Lafcadio's story. In "Amateur Conversations" in the November 15th Mercury Magazine, M. de Gourmont returns to one of his three favorite topics: alcoholism, immorality, and depopulation.He proves (at least he tries to prove) that whoever is alert and worried, who does not think in this way, is a fool, and must reason like this: France is still too populous, and the proof is that you can still meet unemployed workers.Besides, "the invasion of foreign enemies may not cause much damage to France. It only needs to survive for a while." He also said below. "The rhetoric must all be tarnished," he wrote in a follow-up issue. "If only the words are tarnished..." Well!I certainly understand what M. de Gourmont is trying to say, and I agree that idolatry should be exposed.I often feel, however, that these rhetoric are covered today with a rather thick smear; and I have often looked for "rhetoric" and only see a defiled M. de Gourmont. As soon as I stopped feeling resentment, I began to grow old. This is the first two issues of a very small and popular magazine.The magazine was called Straightforward and was run by Mr. Naz alone.Who is Mr. Louis Naz?These sixty pages are not enough for me to get to know him well.These articles offered me mainly his views, not his passion, that is, himself.I cannot be interested in a man's opinion until I am interested in him. "Frankness" has become the most difficult word for me to understand.I know many youths who boast of their directness! . . . some are intolerably pretentious; What a confusion between frankness and "presumptuousness"!Straightforward, artistically only arouses my interest when it is difficult to allow.It is only very mediocre people who find, without effort, a straightforward expression of their individuality.It must be understood that a new personality can only be expressed frankly in a new form.The words of our individuality are always particularly difficult, like Ulysses' bow and arrow. Jam's pride. It embarrasses me, like confronting an imbalance, a flaw; only allowing him to do so because he has no idea what is not himself.Figuring out what wasn't himself, he called it: discussion, which he abhorred by nature.One day, Schwobe accidentally told him that he thought "Jean de Noarieu" was more beautiful than "Hermann and Dorothy", and Jaime concluded that he was greater than Goethe.It never crossed his mind that anyone who would make such comparisons regards "Jean de Noarieu" as Jaime's best work.However, in the works of Goethe, what is "Hermann and Douluotai"?No matter how perfect this long poem is, if it is erased, Goethe's works will not show much poverty. "Jean de Noarieu," wrote Jaime, "except that I do not wish to express any philosophy in the poem, which, according to Schwober, and according to me, is in Hermann's And Dou Lvtai." There was a frankness, designed to be as good as possible, that Yam would never understand. "If water bends a stick", his mind will never be able to "straighten it" as La Fontaine said.I am well aware that reason must not be allowed to intervene too quickly in order to hold, and that to adjust judgment is often to distort feeling; but art may aim at maintaining a feeling quite fresh, and let nothing prevent this.What a peculiar configuration of the mind!No one else could accuse him of anything, and there was a distinct feeling that the power of censorship would appease him.He was equally disinterested in himself; besides, if he had any less faith in his genius, he would have a correspondingly less genius. I have been vague about these things.In short: To be a poet, one must believe in one's own genius.To be an artist, you have to.A real strong man will definitely benefit from him.