A Party
Maître Saval, a notary, was considered an artist in Vernon, where he lived. He was passionately fond of music; though still young, he was bald, always carefully shaved, stoutish but not disagreeably so—and wore gold eyeglasses, instead of old-fashioned spectacles. He played the piano a little, also the violin, and gave musical evenings for the performance of new operas.
He even had a thread of a voice, only a very thin thread, but this he managed with such taste that cries of “Bravo!” “Amazing!” “Delightful!” came from all corners as soon as he had sung his last note.
He subscribed to a music library in Paris which supplied him with all the novelties and from time to time he sent out cards of invitation to the leaders of society in the town, which ran as follows:
“M. Saval, notary, requests the pleasure of your company at the first performance of Saïs in Vernon.”
The chorus consisted of some military officers with good voices and there were two or three ladies in the town who sang. The notary himself conducted with such mastery that the bandmaster of the 190th regiment of infantry remarked one day in the Café de l’Europe: “Ah! Monsieur Saval is a master; it is a pity he did not take up the arts as a profession.”
When his name was mentioned in a drawing room, someone was sure to say: “He is not an amateur, he is a real artiste,” and two or three others would repeat with conviction: “Oh, yes, he is a real artiste,” with an emphasis on the word “real.”
Whenever there was a first night at one of the big theatres in Paris, Monsieur Saval went up to town. Therefore a year ago, according to his usual habit, he wanted to go and hear Henry VIII, and took the express that arrives at Paris at half past four, having decided to return home by the twelve-thirty-five that night to avoid sleeping at the hotel. He had put on evening dress before starting, which he hid under his overcoat, and turned up the collar.
As soon as he set foot in the Rue d’Amsterdam his spirits rose and he said to himself: “The air of Paris is like no other air in the world. There is something exhilarating, exciting, intoxicating about it that makes a man want to dash about and do all sorts of things. As soon as I get out of the train I feel as if I had drunk a bottle of champagne. What a jolly life one could have in Paris among the artists, musicians and writers. Happy are the elect, the great men who enjoy fame in such a city. Theirs is really life!”
He made plans for the future; he wanted to meet some famous men so that he could talk about them at Vernon, and spend an occasional evening with them when he came to Paris. Suddenly an idea entered his head. He had heard about the little cafés of the outer Boulevards where well-known painters, literary men and even musicians met, and he began slowly to make his way towards Montmartre.
He had two hours to spare, and wanted to find things out for himself. He wandered past bars full of down-and-out Bohemians, scrutinising them closely, trying to pick out the artistes, until at last he entered the Rat Mort, attracted by the name.
Five or six women sat with their elbows on the marble tables, talking in low voices about their love affairs, Lucie’s quarrels with Hortense, and the caddish behaviour of Octave. They were not young, were either too fat or too thin, and looked tired and worn; you felt that their hair was very thin; and they drank their beer like men.
Monsieur Saval seated himself at some distance from them and waited, as it was nearly time for his absinth. Presently a tall young man came in and sat down beside him, whom the patronne called Monsieur Romantin. The notary gave a start; could it be the Romantin who had received a First at the last Salon?
The newcomer beckoned to the waiter and said: “Bring dinner at once, then take thirty bottles of beer and the ham I ordered this morning round to my new studio, 15, Boulevard de Clichy. We are having a housewarming.”
Monsieur Saval ordered dinner too, and as he took off his overcoat he was seen to be in evening dress. His neighbour had apparently not noticed him, for he took up a newspaper and began to read. Monsieur Saval looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, eager to enter into conversation. Two other young men came in wearing red velvet jackets, and pointed beards à la Henri III, and sat down opposite Romantin.
One of them said: “It is this evening, isn’t it?” Romantin shook hands with him: “Yes, rather, old chap, everyone is coming. Bonnat, Guillemet, Gervex, Béraud, Hébert, Duez, Clairin, Jean-Paul Laurens; it will be a great evening. And the women, you’ll see! Every single actress—of course, I mean those who are not acting tonight.” The cabaret-proprietor, coming up to them, said: “You have a good many housewarmings?” and the painter replied: “That’s right, one every three months, at every quarter-day.”
Monsieur Saval could keep quiet no longer, and said hesitatingly: “Excuse me, sir, but I heard your name, and am very anxious to know whether you are the Romantin whose work I admired so much in the last Salon.” The artist replied: “The very same, sir.” The notary paid him such a neat compliment that it was obvious he was a man of culture; the painter, flattered, responded graciously, and then they started a conversation. Romantin returned to the subject of his housewarming, and described the gorgeousness of the entertainment, and Monsieur Saval asked him about the guests he was expecting. “It would be a wonderful piece of luck,” he added, “for a stranger to meet so many celebrities at once, at the house of so distinguished an artist as yourself.”
Romantin, now completely won over, replied: “If it would give you any pleasure, do come.” Monsieur Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, and insisted on paying both bills in return for his neighbour’s amiability; he also paid for the drinks of the young men in red velvet, and then left the cabaret with the artist.
They stopped before a very long, low house, the first story of which looked like a very long conservatory and was divided into six studies all in a row, which faced the Boulevard.
Romantin led the way upstairs, opened a door, struck a match, and then lighted a candle. They were in a huge room with no furniture except three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches on the floor against the walls. Monsieur Saval, speechless with surprise, remained standing at the door. The painter said: “You see there’s plenty of room, but there’s a lot to be done yet.” Then, examining the bare, lofty room with its ceiling lost in gloom, he continued: “The studio has great possibilities,” and wandered about looking round with a sharp eye and said: “My little woman might have been useful. You can’t beat a woman at arranging draperies! But I sent her to the country today to get rid of her for the evening. It’s not that she worries me, but she has no manners, which is a bore for one’s guests.” He thought the matter over for a second or two, and added: “She’s a good girl, but not easy to get on with. If she knew I was having a party, she would scratch my eyes out.”
Monsieur Saval had not stirred a step; he failed to understand what it was all about. The artist went up to him. “As I have invited you, you will help me, of course”; and the notary replied: “Of course I will: I am entirely at your disposal.”
Romantin took off his jacket. “Well, friend, let’s make a start. First, we must clean the place.” He went behind the easel on which stood a painting of a cat, and produced a very dilapidated broom. “Here you are, sweep up while I attend to the lighting.” Monsieur Saval took the broom, looked at it, and began to sweep the floor awkwardly, raising a cloud of dust. Romantin, very indignant, stopped him: “Heavens above, don’t you know how to sweep? Now, watch me,” and he began to push the heap of greyish dirt along the floor as if he had done nothing else all his life; then he handed the broom back to the notary, who tried to imitate him. In five minutes there was such a cloud of dust in the studio that Romantin called out: “Where are you? I can’t see you.” Monsieur Saval came up to him, coughing, and the painter asked: “How would you set about to make a chandelier?” Quite bewildered, the notary echoed: “A chandelier?” “Yes, a chandelier to light the room, a chandelier to hold candles.” The guest, still completely at sea, replied: “I don’t know,” and the painter, skipping about and snapping his finger like castanets, continued: “Well, my lord, I have had an inspiration,” and then, more soberly: “Do you happen to have five francs on you?” “Certainly.” “Well, then, go and buy five francs’ worth of candles while I go to the cooper’s.” And he pushed the notary into the street in his evening dress. Five minutes later they had returned, the one with his candles and the other with a hoop off a barrel. Romantin dived into a cupboard and brought out twenty empty bottles, which he fastened all round the hoop, then he went downstairs to borrow the steps from the concierge, after explaining that he had won the old lady’s heart by painting her cat, which was on the easel. When he had brought the steps he said to Monsieur Saval: “Are you nimble?” “Why, yes,” replied the notary, innocently. “Then you can go up the steps and fasten the chandelier to the ring in the ceiling; after that you can put candles into all the bottles, and light them. I tell you I have a genius for illumination. But for heaven’s sake, take off your coat, you look like a flunkey.”
The door was flung violently open and a woman blazing with fury stood on the threshold. Romantin looked at her with horror in his eyes. She waited a second or two with folded arms, and then in a shrill voice, full of exasperation, shouted: “Oh, you dirty dog, that’s how you treat me!” Romantin made no reply and she continued: “Oh, you beast. You pretended to be kindness itself in sending me into the country. I’ll show you the kind of party you are going to have. Yes. I’ll receive your guests for you …”; and working herself up: “I’ll fling your candles and your bottles in their faces. …”
Romantin said gently: “Matilda, Matilda,” but she wouldn’t listen, and went on: “Wait a bit, my beauty, wait a bit!” Then Romantin went up to her and tried to get hold of her hands: “Matilda.” But she was fairly launched now; she ran on and on pouring forth a whole volume of abuse, a mountain of reproaches; the words streamed from her lips like a torrent of filth, getting entangled in the struggle for supremacy. She stammered, she stuttered, she jeered, gasped, and then suddenly started again with further insults, fresh oaths. He had seized her hands without attracting her notice, she was so determined to have her say, to relieve her feelings, that she did not even know he was there. At last she began to cry, and tears poured down her cheeks without interrupting her flow of grievances, but her voice grew shrill and strained and very tearful, until it was broken by sobs. She made one or two fresh starts but was choked into silence and collapsed in a flood of tears. Touched by her distress, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair.
“Matilda, my own dear Matilda, listen to me. Be sensible. If I am giving a party, you know it is only to thank these painters for my Salon Medal. I cannot invite women. You ought to be able to understand that. Artists are not like everyday people.”
She sobbed out: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid of vexing you and hurting your feelings. Now listen; I am going to take you home; you are going to be good and cheerful, you are going to wait quietly for me in your little bed, and I will come round as soon as the party is over.”
She muttered: “Very well, but you won’t do it again?”
“Never, I swear.”
Then, turning towards Monsieur Saval, who had just hung up the chandelier, he said: “I’ll be back in five minutes, old chap. If anyone comes while I’m away, you’ll do the honours for me, won’t you?” And he took the still weeping and sniffing Matilda off. Left quite alone, Monsieur Saval finished tidying up, then lighted the candles and waited. Quarter of an hour, half an hour, a whole hour passed by, and no sign of Romantin. Suddenly there was a terrible noise on the stairs: twenty voices all together were bellowing out a song to the accompaniment of the tramp, tramp of feet like a Prussian regiment on the march; the regular tramp of feet shook the whole house. Then the door opened and the crowd made its appearance; a long string of men and women holding each other’s arms and beating time with their heels, filed into the studio like a snake uncoiling itself. They bellowed out:
“Walk in, walk right in, to my parlour. Nurses and Tommies all together!”
Utterly bewildered, Maître Saval, in full dress, remained standing under the chandelier. The procession caught sight of him and roared simultaneously: “A flunkey! A flunkey!” and began to gather round him, enclosing him in a circle of whoops and yells; they then took hands and danced madly round and round the poor notary, who attempted to explain: “Gentlemen … gentlemen … ladies …” but no one would listen, they went on circling and capering round him shouting at the top of their voices. At last the dancing stopped, and Monsieur Saval began: “Gentlemen,” but a tall, fair, heavily bearded young fellow interrupted him: “What is your name, old sport?” The scared notary replied: “I am Maître Saval.” “You mean Baptiste,” shouted one of the party, whereupon one of the women said: “Leave the poor fellow alone, or he will get angry. He is being paid to wait on us and not to have fun poked at him.” Then Monsieur Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own share of the feast—the one a bottle, the other a pie, another some bread, another a ham, and so on. The tall, fair boy thrust an enormous sausage into his hands and said: “Here, arrange the buffet in the corner over there, put the bottles on the left and the eatables on the right.”
Not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, Saval shouted back: “But I am a notary, gentlemen!”
There was a short silence followed by peals of laughter. A suspicious member of the party asked: “How did you get here?” He explained all about his intention of going to the opera, his departure from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and what had happened during the evening. The guests had gathered round to hear the story, which they kept interrupting, and calling him Scheherazade.
There was still no sign of Romantin. More guests arrived, and Maître Saval was promptly introduced so that he might tell them the story. When he refused, the others insisted and tied him to one of the three chairs in the room between two women who kept on filling his glass. He drank, laughed, talked, sang, and tried to dance with his chair but fell down.
From that moment everything was a blank, although he had some vague idea that he was being undressed and put to bed, and that he felt very sick.
It was broad daylight when he woke up in a strange bed at the back of a deep recess.
An old woman with a broom glared at him, in a great rage, then said:
“Dirty beast! dirty beast! To get as drunk as that!”
He sat up in bed, feeling far from happy. “Where am I?” he asked.
“Where are you, you dirty beast? You are drunk. Be off now, one, two, three!”
He wanted to get up but he was lying naked in the bed and his clothes had vanished.
“Madam,” he began, “I … !” Then he remembered what had happened, and didn’t know what to do; he asked: “Has Monsieur Romantin not come back yet?”
The concierge shouted: “Are you going to clear out? Don’t let him find you here, whatever you do.”
At his wit’s end, Maître Saval said: “But I have no clothes, someone has taken them.” So he was obliged to wait, to explain matters, communicate with his friends and borrow money to buy clothes. He did not get away till evening.
And now when music is discussed in his beautiful drawing room at Vernon, he declares emphatically that painting is a very inferior art.