Salamis.
They did not really find him very exceptional, indeed this superior tone of the man of forty who has seen it all made them quite cross. Every now and then, Régnier would stand up and walk round them.
â François, stop that, said the young women finally. Youâre making us seasick . . .
â Simone, he replied, give me my plaid. Itâs perishing in this house.
He threw a Scottish plaid over his shoulders and did not sit down. He asked the young men questions about themselves, about their ideas on love and politics. They replied evasively â what business was it of his? He quoted things famous people had said, he seemed to know all Paris:
â Herriot was saying to me only last week, he began, âMy dear Régnier . . .â
Or:
â Philippe Berthelot was telling me that the day the BriandâKellogg Pact was signed . . .
The name of Plato launched him into a brilliant variation on the theme of painting, about which as a matter of fact Berthelot had never understood a thing: however, these specialists fresh from their Sophist and Politicus judged it fallacious. Bloyé explained this to him with a certain insolent severity. They were not sorry to catch out in error such odious fluency, and to show Régnier that, even if he knew Berthelot, Herriot and Léon Blum, he was at any rate ignorant of Plato.
â Itâs quite possible, he replied, laughing in a careless manner, baring his teeth. What a time it has been since I construed the Republic at the Sorbonne, before the war! That isnât the least bit important, in any case. When youâre my age, you wonât give a fig for textual fidelity.
He went on explaining painting to them, which in those years played the role that the theatre had filled twenty years earlier, and since he was mentioning the names of painters they did not know, they found him vulgar.
A little later, he asked them:
â How old are you all?
â Twenty-two.
â Twenty-three.
â Twenty-three.
â Rosenthal I know, said Régnier.
â And you? asked Laforgue.
â Thirty-eight, he said. How young they are!
Régnier began to laugh once again with his disagreeable laugh.
At around half past five, they left. It was quite dark; beneath a ceiling of clouds, a vast jumble of winking lights stretched to the ends of the earth, far beyond Paris. As soon as Rosenthal accelerated, under the rotting trees in the forest of Saint-Germain, the cold cut into their cheeks. The wind smelled of moss, fungus and mould.
â What do you think of him? asked Rosenthal. How did you find Régnier?
â Not bad, said Bloyé weakly.
â Extraordinarily boring, said Laforgue.
â He wasnât on form, said Rosenthal. One shouldnât catch him on a working day, Iâm afraid we may have disturbed him a bit, then he says any old thing, just banalities. But I wanted you to make his acquaintance, for later. Now itâs done, youâll have other opportunities to know him better . . .
â Donât apologize, said Laforgue. The weather might have been even filthier.
Rosenthal was upset and fell silent. But near Bougival he suddenly said, in a defiant tone of voice:
â Régnierâs the most intelligent man I know, all the same.
â Why not? said Laforgue. Perhaps heâs keeping his cards close to his chest . . .
VII
BERNARD ROSENTHAL TO PHILIPPE LAFORGUE
Paris, 26 March 1929
Dear Philippe,
It is time I finally put you in the picture about the project you have all no doubt suspected me of having â I am writing to Bloyé and Jurien as well. Letâs say nothing for the time being to Pluvinage.
We have opted for Revolution as our reason for living. A reason for living is not just an element of spiritual comfort to use at night in order to fall asleep in the obscene embrace of good conscience. We must reflect deeply upon the consequences which this reason entails:
They did not really find him very exceptional, indeed this superior tone of the man of forty who has seen it all made them quite cross. Every now and then, Régnier would stand up and walk round them.
â François, stop that, said the young women finally. Youâre making us seasick . . .
â Simone, he replied, give me my plaid. Itâs perishing in this house.
He threw a Scottish plaid over his shoulders and did not sit down. He asked the young men questions about themselves, about their ideas on love and politics. They replied evasively â what business was it of his? He quoted things famous people had said, he seemed to know all Paris:
â Herriot was saying to me only last week, he began, âMy dear Régnier . . .â
Or:
â Philippe Berthelot was telling me that the day the BriandâKellogg Pact was signed . . .
The name of Plato launched him into a brilliant variation on the theme of painting, about which as a matter of fact Berthelot had never understood a thing: however, these specialists fresh from their Sophist and Politicus judged it fallacious. Bloyé explained this to him with a certain insolent severity. They were not sorry to catch out in error such odious fluency, and to show Régnier that, even if he knew Berthelot, Herriot and Léon Blum, he was at any rate ignorant of Plato.
â Itâs quite possible, he replied, laughing in a careless manner, baring his teeth. What a time it has been since I construed the Republic at the Sorbonne, before the war! That isnât the least bit important, in any case. When youâre my age, you wonât give a fig for textual fidelity.
He went on explaining painting to them, which in those years played the role that the theatre had filled twenty years earlier, and since he was mentioning the names of painters they did not know, they found him vulgar.
A little later, he asked them:
â How old are you all?
â Twenty-two.
â Twenty-three.
â Twenty-three.
â Rosenthal I know, said Régnier.
â And you? asked Laforgue.
â Thirty-eight, he said. How young they are!
Régnier began to laugh once again with his disagreeable laugh.
At around half past five, they left. It was quite dark; beneath a ceiling of clouds, a vast jumble of winking lights stretched to the ends of the earth, far beyond Paris. As soon as Rosenthal accelerated, under the rotting trees in the forest of Saint-Germain, the cold cut into their cheeks. The wind smelled of moss, fungus and mould.
â What do you think of him? asked Rosenthal. How did you find Régnier?
â Not bad, said Bloyé weakly.
â Extraordinarily boring, said Laforgue.
â He wasnât on form, said Rosenthal. One shouldnât catch him on a working day, Iâm afraid we may have disturbed him a bit, then he says any old thing, just banalities. But I wanted you to make his acquaintance, for later. Now itâs done, youâll have other opportunities to know him better . . .
â Donât apologize, said Laforgue. The weather might have been even filthier.
Rosenthal was upset and fell silent. But near Bougival he suddenly said, in a defiant tone of voice:
â Régnierâs the most intelligent man I know, all the same.
â Why not? said Laforgue. Perhaps heâs keeping his cards close to his chest . . .
VII
BERNARD ROSENTHAL TO PHILIPPE LAFORGUE
Paris, 26 March 1929
Dear Philippe,
It is time I finally put you in the picture about the project you have all no doubt suspected me of having â I am writing to Bloyé and Jurien as well. Letâs say nothing for the time being to Pluvinage.
We have opted for Revolution as our reason for living. A reason for living is not just an element of spiritual comfort to use at night in order to fall asleep in the obscene embrace of good conscience. We must reflect deeply upon the consequences which this reason entails:
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