Crainquebille, Putois, Riquet and other profitable tales/The Necktie
THE NECKTIE
ONSIEUR BERGERET was hammering nails into the wall of his new flat. Becoming aware that he was enjoying the work, he began to wonder why it gave him pleasure to knock nails into the wall. He found the reason and lost the pleasure. For the pleasure had consisted in hammering the nails without thinking of the reason of anything. Then, as he hung his father's portrait in the place of honour in the drawing-room, he meditated on the sorrows of a philosophical mind.
"It tips forward too much," said Zoé.
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it. It looks as if it were going to fall."
Monsieur Bergeret shortened the cord from which the picture hung.
"It isn't straight," said Mademoiselle Bergeret.
"Is it not?"
"No it hangs perceptibly too much to the left."
Monsieur Bergeret carefully readjusted it.
"And now how is it?"
"It hangs too much to the right."
Monsieur Bergeret did his best to bring the picture-frame into line with the horizon, and then drew back three steps in order to inspect his handiwork.
"I think it is right," he said.
"It is all right now ," said Zoé. "It worries me when a picture isn't straight."
"You are not the only one whom it worries, Zoé. There are many who feel like you. Any irregularity in simple matters is irritating because it is so easy to see the difference between what is and what ought to be. Some people cannot bear to see a badly hung wall-paper. The conditions of our humanity are indeed terrible and atrocious when a crooked picture frame upsets us."
"There is nothing extraordinary in that, Lucien. Little things occupy a large place in life. You yourself are constantly interested in trifles."
"All the years that I have been gazing at this potrait I have never remarked before what strikes me at this moment. I have just perceived that this portrait of our father is the portrait of a young man."
"Why, of course, Lucien. When the artist Gosselin, on his return from Rome, painted father, he was not more than thirty."
"True, sister. But when I was a boy the portrait appeared to me that of a man well on in years, and that impression clung to me. Now it has suddenly vanished. The colours of Gosselin's picture have lost their brightness; the flesh has assumed an amber tint under the varnish; the lines have grown vague, merging into shadow of an olive hue. Our father's face seems to retreat further and further into a far-distant background. But that smooth forehead, those large bright eyes, the dear pure line of the delicate cheeks, the black hair thick and shining, belong, I see it now for the first time, to a man in the flower of his youth."
"Certainly," said Zoé.
"His dress and the style of his hair are those of the old days when he was young. He wears his hair ruffled. His bottle-green coat has a high collar, he wears a nankin waistcoat and his broad black silk stock tie is wound three times round his neck."
"Ten years ago old men were still to be seen wearing ties like that," said Zoé.
"Possibly," said Monsieur Bergeret. "But it is certain that Monsieur Malorey never wore any others."
"You mean the Dean of the Faculté des Lettres at Saint-Omer, Lucien.… It is thirty years and more since his death."
"He was over sixty, Zoé, when I was less than twelve—but it was then that I committed a most daring outrage on his tie."
"I think I remember that rather stupid joke," said Zoé.
"No, Zoé, you do not remember my joke. If you did you would not speak of it like that. You know that Monsieur Malorey was very particular about his personal appearance and that he was always very dignified. You remember also that he was extremely decorous. He had an old-fashioned way of speaking, which was delightful. One day when he had invited our parents to dinner for the second time he himself offered a dish of artichokes to our mother, saying: 'Just a little more of the underpart, Madame.' He was speaking according to the best traditions of politeness and of language. For our ancestors never spoke of 'the bottom of an artichoke.' But the term was antiquated and our mother had great difficulty to keep from laughing. I cannot remember, Zoé, how we came to know the artichoke story."
Zoé, who was hemming white curtains, replied: "We heard it because our father related it one day without noticing that we were present."
"And ever afterwards, Zoé, you could never see Monsieur Malorey without wanting to laugh."
"You laughed also."
"No, Zoé, I did not laugh at that. That which amuses other men does not make me laugh, that which amuses me does not make other men laugh. I have often noticed it. I see the ludicrous where no one else perceives it. I am gay and I am sad in the wrong places, and it has often made me look like a fool."
Monsieur Bergeret climbed a ladder in order to hang a view of Mount Vesuvius by night, during an eruption; the picture was a water-colour which he had inherited from a paternal ancestor.
"But I have not told you, sister, what I said to Monsieur Malorey."
"Lucien, while you are on the ladder, please put up the curtain-rods," said Zoé.
"I will," said her brother. "We were then living in a little house in a suburb ot Saint-Omer."
"The curtain-rings are in the nail-box."
"I have them.... A little house with a garden."
"A very pretty garden," said Zoé. "It was full of lilac bushes. On the lawn was a vase in terra cotta, at the end a maze, and a grotto rockery, and on the wall two large blue pots."
"Yes, Zoé, two large blue pots. One morning, one summer morning, Monsieur Malorey came to our house to consult some books, that were not in his own library and which he could not have found in the town library, because it had been destroyed in a fire. My father had placed his study at the Dean's disposal and the offer had been accepted. It was arranged that when he had collated his texts he would stay and lunch with us."
"Just see if the curtains are too long, Lucien."
"I will. …"
"That morning the heat was stifling. Among the still leaves even the birds were silent. Sitting under a tree in the garden, I perceived in the shaded study the back of Monsieur Malorey and his long hair resting on the collar of his frock-coat. Save that his hand was moving over a sheet of paper, he did not stir. There was nothing extraordinary in that. He was writing. But what did appear to me unusual …"
"Well, are they long enough?"
"Not by four inches, my good Zoé."
"What, four inches? Show me Lucien."
"Look. … What did appear to me unusual was to see Monsieur Malorey's tie on the windowsill. Overcome by the heat, the Dean had unwound the black cravat that three times encircled his neck. And the long piece of black silk hung from side to side out of the open window. I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to take it. I crept softly up to the wall of the house, I stretched my arm towards the tie, I pulled it; nothing stirred in the study; I pulled it again; there it was in my hand; I went and hid it in one of the large blue pots in the garden."
"It was not a very brilliant joke, Lucien."
"No. .. I hid it in one of the large blue pots and I took care to cover it with leaves and moss. Monsieur Malorey continued for some time at work in the study. I watched his motionless back and the long white hair flowing over the collar of his frock-coat. Then the servant called me to lunch. As I entered the dining-room the most unexpected sight met my gaze. Between our father and mother I saw Monsieur Malorey grave, calm, but without his necktie. He had all his usual dignity. He was even august. But he was not wearing his tie. This filled me with surprise. I knew he could not be wearing it, since it was in the blue pot. And yet I was prodigiously astonished to see him without it. "I cannot think, Madame," he said softly to our mother.... She interrupted him: "My husband will lend you one, dear sir."
"And I reflected: 'I hid it in jest, he failed to find it in earnest.' But I was astonished."