An
excerpt from La Nausée by Jean-Paul Sartre. English translation by
Stefi.
(...) Everyone who
had belonged to the cream of Bouville between 1875 and 1910 was
there, men and women, painted scrupulously by Renaudas and Bordurin.
The men built Santa
Cecilia del Mare. In 1882 they founded the Association of
Shipowners and Tradesmen of Bouville “to reunite in a powerful hub
all good intentions, to contribute to the project of national
recovery, and to keep the opposition in check..”. It is them who
made Bouville the French commercial port best equipped for unloading
timber and coal. The expansion of the docks was their work. They gave
the maritime station all the necessary extension and by means of
continuous dredging, they brought the depth of the sea bottom to 10.7
metres at low tide. In twenty years, thanks to them, the tonnage of
the fishing boats, which was 5000 tons in 1869, increased to 18,000.
In order to improve the conditions of the working class, they created
on their own initiative and without letting any sacrifice stop them,
various technical and professional learning centres, which prospered
under their high protection. In 1898 they stopped the famous docks
strike, and in 1914 they gave their sons to the nation.
The women, worthy
companions of these fighters, founded the majority of the social
services organizations, schools and workshops in the city. But most
importantly they were wives and mothers. They raised fine children,
taught them their rights and duties, religion, and the respect for
the traditions that made France.
The general tint of
the portraits was dark brown. For scruple of decency bright colours
had been banned. However, in Renaulds' portraits, who preferred to
paint the elderly, the snow of the hair and of the sideburns
stood out on the black background: he excelled in portraying hands.
In those of Bordurin instead, who was less technical, hands were a
little sacrificed, but the collars shone like white marble.
It was hot and the
custodian was snoring gently. I looked around the walls: I saw eyes
and hands; here and there a spot of light obliterated a face. While I
was headed toward Oliviero Blevigne's portrait, something caught my
eye: from the top of a frame, Pacôme
the businessman, cast a bright gaze on me.
He stood, the head
leaning back slightly, and held the top hat and the gloves in one
hand, against the pearl grey of his pants. I could not help but feel
a certain admiration: I did not see anything mediocre in him, nothing
that could leave room for criticism: small feet, gentle hands, wide
fighter's shoulders, discreet elegance, and a hint of fantasy. He
offered the visitors a perfect face, with no wrinkles. A light smile
fluttered on his lips. But his grey eyes did not smile. He must have
been fifty, but looked young and fresh as if he were thirty. He was
handsome.
I gave up trying to
find a fault in him. But he did not let go. I saw a calm, implacable
judgement in his eyes. I understood then what set us apart: what I
thought of him, did not concern him, it was just psychology, like in
a novel. But his judgement pierced me like a sword and questioned
even my very right to exist. And it was true, I had always realized
it: I didn't have the right to exist. I had appeared by chance, I
existed like a rock, a plant, a microbe. My life, dictated by
caprice, moved in all directions. At times it gave me vague warnings,
other times I heard nothing but a buzz without consequences.
But for that man
with no faults, now dead, for Giovanni Pacôme,
son of Mr. Pacôme
of National Defense, life had been a completely different thing: his
heartbeat and the mute noise of the other organs, reached him as
individual rights, instantaneous and pure. For sixty years, without
interruption, he had exercised his right to exist. Those gorgeous
grey eyes! Not the slightest doubt had ever tarnished
them. He had never been wrong, Pacôme.
He had always fulfilled his duties, all his duties; his duty as a
son, as a husband, as a father, as a leader. And equally he had
claimed his own rights without hesitation: as a son, the right to be
well educated in a proper family, and that of inheriting a good
reputation and a thriving business; as a husband, the right to be
cared for with tender affection; as a father, the right to be
venerated, as a leader, the right to be obeyed without questioning. A
right is nothing but the other aspect of a duty. His extraordinary
success in business (the Pacômes
are up to now the richest family in Bouville) must not have surprised
him. He must have never told himself that he was happy, and when he
allowed himself a pleasure, he would indulge with moderation, saying:
“I am resting”. That way even pleasure, now
a right too,
would lose its aggressive futility.
To the left, just
above his sky grey hair, I noticed some books on a shelf. Beautiful
bindings: surely classics. Without a doubt, in the evening, before
going to bed, Pacôme
would read over a few pages of “his old Montaigne”, or an ode by
Horatio, in the Latin version. Sometimes he probably read a
contemporary novel too, just to keep up with the times. That's how he
had discovered Barrès and Bourget.
He would then put
the book down after a little while and smile. His eyes, losing that
admirable self-confidence, would become dreamy. He would say: “How
simple and difficult it is to do one's duty.”
He had never had
second thoughts: he was a leader.
Other leaders were
hanging on the wall; nothing but leaders. That handsome verdigris old
man sitting in his armchair was a leader too. His white waistcoat
matched exquisitely his silver hair (these portraits, painted mostly
for the purpose of moral formation and with the utmost attention to
exact details, were however not exempt from artistic inclination). He
rested his long fine hand on the head of a little boy; an open book
lay on his knees wrapped in a blanket. But his eyes wandered faraway.
Everything that was invisible to the young, he could see. His name
was written on a golden plate under his portrait: it must have been
Pacôme,
or Parrotin, or Chaigneau. I did not check. For his family, for that
child, and for him, he was just Grandfather; if he had deemed it
appropriate to instruct his grandson about his future duties, he
would have spoken in the third person:
“You must promise
your Grandfather to be good, my dear, and to study hard next year;
your Grandfather may no longer be here next year.” At the sunset of
his life, he lavished indulgent kindness on everyone. Even I would
have received his grace, had he seen me, but I was invisible to his
eyes. He would have thought that I too had grandparents once. He did
not demand anything: one has no more desires at that age. Nothing,
except for people to lower their voice slightly when he entered the
room; except for them to show a hint of affection and respect on
their face when he walked by; nothing except for his granddaughter to
say at times: “Dad is extraordinary, he is the youngest of us all”;
except for being the only one who could calm his grandson's tantrums
and then place his hands on his head and say: “Only Grandfather
knows how to cure these great sorrows”; nothing except for his son
to turn to him for advice on delicate matters several times a year;
nothing else, finally, but to feel serene, peaceful and infinitely
good. The hand of this old gentleman must have rested very lightly on
the boy's head: a blessing almost. What could he be thinking about?
About his honourable past that gave him the right to talk about
anything and to have the last word, always. I had not thought deeply
enough the other day: Experience is a lot more than a defense against
death, it is a right: the right of old men.
(...)
- The
End -
