Scenes of bohemian life, p.15
Scenes of Bohemian Life, page 15
“And in any case, the lady’s virtue is itself a high and solid wall that …”
“Oh yes,” said the cafe owner, permitting himself a proud smile, “my wife was educated at Saint-Denis.”
He was soon completely ensnared in the coils of Colline’s insidious but irresistible eloquence, and everything was settled with the promise that the four friends would stop making their own coffee, that from then on the café would receive The Beaver free of charge, that Phémie would wear her hat, that the backgammon game would be surrendered to the Bosquet Society every Sunday from noon until two and most important of all that there would be no requests for any more credit.
Everything went well for several days.
On Christmas Eve the four friends arrived at the café along with their lovers.
There was Mlle. Mimi, Mlle. Musette, Marcel’s new mistress, an attractive woman whose voice was as loud and clear as the sound of cymbals, and Phémie Teinturière, idolized by Schaunard. On this evening, Phémie Teinturière wore a hat. As for Mme. Colline, who was never to be seen, she remained at home as always, busy with the commas in her husband’s manuscripts. After coffee, which, for this very special evening was accompanied by a whole battalion of drinks in small liqueur glasses, they ordered some punch. Unaccustomed to such fine manners, the waiter made them repeat the order twice. Phémie, who had never been in the café before, seemed delighted and almost overwhelmed at drinking from such fancy glasses. Marcel and Musette were arguing about a new hat she’d acquired somehow and his suspicions regarding its source. Rodolphe and Mimi, still in the honeymoon stage of their love were involved in a silent communion interspersed with peculiar sounds. As for Colline, he was going from one woman to another with his heart on his sleeve, sharing with them all the jewels of gallantry he’d collected from the anthology Almanach des Muses.4
While this happy little company abandoned themselves to games and laughter, a stranger, seated across the room at a table by himself, was watching the lively spectacle going on before him with a peculiar look in his eyes.
He’d been there like that every night for about the last two weeks, the only one of the café’s customers who could put up with the terrible racket the bohemians made. The wildest outbursts seemed to have no effect on him as he sat all evening, smoking his pipe with a mathematical regularity, his eyes fixed on them as though he were guarding a treasure, and his ears open to catch everything being said around him. He also seemed to possess both money and good taste, judging by the watch held captive in his pocket, bound by a gold chain. And one day when Marcel was beside him at the counter, he observed the stranger paying his bill with a gold louis. From that moment on, the four friends referred to him as “the capitalist”.
Suddenly Schaunard, who had an excellent view of the situation, declared that the glasses were empty.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Rodolphe replied, “it’s Christmas Eve and we’re good Christians. We must have another.”
“Heavens yes,” said Marcel. “Let’s order something divine.”
“Colline,” Rodolphe added, “give the bell a little ring to summon the waiter.”
Colline rang with an intensity bordering on frenzy.
Marcel posed the question, “What shall we have?”
Colline bowed so low that he was bent over like an arch as he gestured to the women and said, “It is the ladies’ prerogative to decide both the order and the pace of the refreshments.”
“Well,” said Musette, licking her lips audibly, “I’m not afraid of champagne.”
“Are you crazy?” Marcel exclaimed. “In the first place, champagne isn’t even wine.”
“Too bad. I like it. It makes little noises.”
“And my favourite is Beaune,” Mimi said, embracing Rodolphe with her eyes, “in a little basket.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he inquired.
“No, but I’d like to lose it,” Mimi answered. Beaune had a very particular effect on her and her lover was dumbstruck by her words.
“I would really like some Parfait d’Amour,” said Phémie, bouncing on the springy divan. “It’s good for the stomach.” Schnaunard then said something to her in a nasal voice that caused a startled tremor in response.
“Ah! Why not?” Marcel was the first to speak. “Just for once, let’s spend a hundred thousand francs.”
“And they complain that we don’t spend enough.” Rodolphe added. “This will astonish them!”
“Indeed,” said Colline. “Let us have a splendid feast. And, if I may add, we owe these ladies the most absolute obedience; love thrives on devotion; wine is the liquid essence of pleasure; pleasure is the duty of youth; women are flowers and must be watered. Let us water them! Waiter! Waiter!” Colline again began to ring the bell with a feverish intensity.
The waiter rushed in on them like a gust of wind.
When he heard them talking about champagne, Beaune, and various liqueurs, his face registered a whole range of surprised expressions.
“My empty stomach is growling,” Mimi said. “I’d like some ham.”
“Sardines and butter for me,” Musette chimed in.
“I’ll have radishes,” said Phémie, “with a little meat around …”
“Then why not come right out and say you want supper?” Marcel asked them.
“That would be fine with us,” they answered.
“Waiter, show us what you have for supper,” Colline said in a serious tone of voice.
The waiter’s face turned red, white and blue with surprise.
He made his way slowly to the counter and told the owner about the astonishing order he’d just received.
The owner was convinced that it had to be a joke of some kind, but when the bell rang again he himself went to speak with Colline, for whom he had a degree of respect. Colline explained that they wished to celebrate here, with him, a solemn Christmas Eve and that he expected to be served what he had ordered.
The owner said nothing and retreated from the room, tying knots in his serviette as he did so. For the next fifteen minutes, he talked it over with his wife, who, thanks to the excellent education she’d received at Saint-Denis and her weakness for art and literature, encouraged her husband to serve the meal.
“Alright,” he said, “they might just happen to have the money for once.” And he told the waiter to bring them everything they’d ordered. Then he lost himself in a game of piquet with a longtime customer. It was a fatal mistake!
From ten o’clock until midnight the waiter did nothing but run up and down the stairs. Again and again they ordered more. Musette had herself served in the English style and the plates had to be changed after every bite. Mimi drank all the wines from all the glasses. Schaunard’s throat was a Sahara that could not be sufficiently irrigated. Colline’s eyes shot glances everywhere as he chewed his napkin and squeezed the leg of the table, which he mistook for Phémie’s knee. As for Marcel and Rodolphe, their feet remained in the stirrups of sobriety as they anticipated, with some anxiety, the moment of truth.
The stranger was watching all this with great curiosity. From time to time, his mouth could be seen to open as though he were about to smile. Then there was a sound like a window creaking as it is being closed—it was the stranger and he was trying to contain his laughter.
At a quarter to twelve, the woman at the counter sent them the bill. It had reached the lofty summit of twenty-five francs and seventy-five centimes.
“Look,” Marcel said, “we’ll draw lots to see who’ll go and negotiate with the owner. It’s not going to be easy.”
They got out the dominos and played highest to win. Schaunard, unfortunately for him, became the chief negotiator. Although he was an excellent musical virtuoso, Schaunard was a very poor diplomat. He got to the counter just as the owner was losing the card game with his regular customer. Bent beneath the weight of three defeats, Momus was in a murderous temper and, at the first words from Schaunard, he flew into a violent rage. Schaunard was a fine musician but possessed a deplorable character and he responded with double-barrelled insults. The dispute escalated and the owner went to their room to inform them that no one would leave until the bill was paid. Colline tried to intervene with eloquence and moderation but, when the owner saw the napkin that Colline had shredded, his fury doubled and to hold them, he dared to lay his profane hands on the philosopher’s nut-brown overcoat and on the coats of the ladies.
An intense volley of insults was exchanged between the bohemians and the café owner.
The three women discussed love affairs and clothes.
The stranger began to emerge from his detached composure. Little by little he got up, took one step and then another, then walked like a normal person toward the owner, whom he drew aside and spoke with in a quiet voice. Rodolphe and Marcel followed with their eyes. Finally, the owner returned. “By all means M. Barbemuche,” he said to the stranger. “That’s certainly fine with me. You can arrange things with them.”
M. Barbemuche returned to his table to get his hat, placed it on his head, turned sharply to the right, and in three steps he was next to Rodolphe and Marcel. He lifted his hat, bowed to the men, gestured respectfully to the women, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, and began to speak in a hesitant voice.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, for this indiscretion on my part.” he said. “For a long time now I’ve been most eager to meet you, but I was never able to find the right moment to introduce myself. I hope you will allow me to take this opportunity?”
“But of course,” said Colline, who understood where the stranger was going with this. Rodolphe and Marcel nodded their heads in greeting, but said nothing. All was almost lost, however, due to the exquisite delicacy of Schaunard’s manners.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” he began in a brusque tone, “You have not had the honor of our acquaintance, and it is highly irregular to … Would you be good enough to let me have some tobacco for my pipe? … And, well, I’ll go along with whatever my friends decide.”
“Gentlemen,” Barbemuche began again, “like you, I am a disciple of the fine arts. It’s my understanding from listening to your conversations that we have similar tastes and so I would very much like to join your group and to meet with you here in the evenings. The owner of this café is a brute, but I had a few words with him and you are free to go. I dare to hope you will accept this small favor and allow me to make it possible for us to meet here.”
A flush of indignation colored Schaunard’s face.
“He is speculating about our situation,” he said, “and we can’t possibly accept. He has paid our bill. I challenge him to a game of billiards for the sum of twenty-five francs and I will spot him some points to begin.”
Barbemuche accepted this proposal and had the wisdom to lose, a sign of a good character and one that won him the bohemians’ respect. By the time they left, they’d agreed to meet again the next day.
“This way we owe him nothing,” Schaunard said to Marcel. “And we’ve preserved our dignity.”
“And,” Colline added, “we can almost order another dinner.”
Chapter 12
A Reception in Bohemia
On the evening he’d paid out of his own pocket for the meal consumed at the Café Momus by the bohemians, Carolus arranged things so that he’d accompany Colline as they left. Since he’d begun observing the bohemian meetings at the shabby café where he rescued them from a difficult situation, Carolus had been particularly interested in Colline and felt drawn to this Socrates, whose Plato he would later become. For this reason, he chose Colline to sponsor him to become a member of the bohemian association. Along the way, they found a café that was still open and Barbemuche suggested they stop in. Not only did Colline refuse, but he also quickened his pace as they passed the café and carefully pulled his hyperphysical hat down lower over his eyes.
“Why don’t you want to go in there?” asked Barbemuche insistently but with tactful politeness.
“I have my reasons,” Colline replied. “A woman who works at the bar is very interested in the exact sciences. I wouldn’t be able to avoid having an extremely long discussion with her so I try to stay away from this street at noon or at any other daylight hour. It’s quite simple,” Colline added candidly, “I used to live in this neighborhood with Marcel.”
“Well anyway, I’d very much like to buy you a drink and talk for a while. Do you know any other place around here that you can enter without being delayed by … mathematical problems?” said Barbemuche, who judged that it would be appropriate to say something extremely witty.
Colline reflected for a moment.
“There’s a little place where my presence is less complicated,” he said, and he pointed out a nearby wine merchant.
Barbemuche frowned and seemed to hesitate.
“Is it an agreeable place?”
Seeing this cold and reserved response, his reticence, his discreet smile and, above all, noticing his watch and its ornamented chain, Colline imagined he must work at an embassy and thought he was worried about compromising himself by going into such a place.
“There’s no danger of being seen,” he said. “At this time of day all the diplomatic corps have gone to bed.”
Barbemuche made up his mind to go in, but in his heart he really wished he had a false nose he could put on. For even more security, he asked for a private room and then carefully hung a napkin over the panes of glass in the door. After these precautions, he seemed less nervous and ordered a bowl of punch. Stimulated a little by the warmth of the drink, Barbemuche began to open up and after sharing a few details about himself he became bold enough to speak of the hope he’d conceived, the hope of becoming an official member of the bohemian association. He solicited Colline’s support to help him achieve this lofty goal. Colline replied that for his part, he was completely at Barbemuche’s disposal but even so he couldn’t guarantee anything.
“I promise I’ll speak in your favor,” he said, “but I can’t promise I’ll be able to deliver my friends’ support.”
“But,” Barbemuche asked, “what reasons could they have for refusing to accept me as one of them?”
Colline was in the process of delivering a glass of punch to his mouth but he paused, deposited it back on the table, and with an air of great seriousness he addressed the audacious Carolus.
“Are you a cultivator of the fine arts?” Colline asked him.
“I am but a humble laborer in those noble fields of the mind,” replied Carolus, who felt that he should display the colors of his rhetorical style.
Colline found the sentence to be quite well put together and, leaning toward him, asked: “Are you familiar with music?”
“I’ve played the double bass.”
“A very philosophical instrument. It produces a truly deep sound. Quite profound. Well then, if you’re familiar with music you’ll understand that it’s impossible to introduce a fifth player into a quartet without committing an offense against the laws of harmony. In that case, it ceases to be a quartet.”
“It becomes a quintet,” Carolus responded.
“I beg your pardon?” Colline said.
“Quintet.”
“Exactly. In the same way, if you add another person to the Trinity, that divine Triangle, it will become a square and religion’s most fundamental principle is instantly broken.”
“Excuse me,” said Carolus, whose mind was beginning to stumble amid the brambles of Colline’s reasoning, “I’m don’t see how …”
“Pay attention and follow me,” Colline continued. “Are you familiar with astronomy?”
“A little. I have a bachelor’s degree.”
“There’s a song about that,” Colline replied, ‘Bachelier, dit Lisette,’ but I can’t remember the tune anymore.1 Well anyway, I’m sure you know that there are four cardinal points on the compass? Right then, what if a fifth suddenly emerged? The entire harmony of the natural world would be shattered. It would be what we refer to as a cataclysm. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m waiting for the argument to reach its conclusion.”
“In fact, a conclusion is the end of a discourse, just as death is the end of life and marriage is the end of love. And so, my dear sir, my friends and I are accustomed to living together and we’re afraid to see that shattered by introducing another person into the harmony that prevails in the chorus of our habits, our opinions, our tastes, our personalities. I’ll lay my cards on the table: we’re going to be the cardinal points of modern art one day and we’re quite used to that idea. It would be quite upsetting for us to see a fifth cardinal point.”
“Nevertheless, when you are four, you can just as easily be five,” Carolus ventured to suggest.
“Yes, but we would no longer be four.”
“That’s not a significant argument.”
“Nothing in this world is without significance; everything is connected to everything. Little streams turn into great rivers and little syllables form alexandrine poems. The tallest mountains are made of grains of sand. That’s from The Wisdom of Nations and there’s a copy at a book stall on the quay.”2
“So, in your opinion these gentlemen will object to the idea of granting me the honor of their companionship?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s the main thing—like a horse,” said Colline, who could never resist this joke.3
“I beg your pardon?” Carolus replied with some astonishment.
“Excuse me,” said Colline, “it was just a flash of wit. And now, my dear sir, of all the noble fields of the mind, which furrows have you chosen to plow?”
“The great philosophers and classic writers have been my models. I have sustained myself through studying them. Telemachus was the first to inspire the passion that still devours me.”
“Telemachus … there are lots of copies for sale on the quay.4 You can find it there anytime. I bought it for five sous because it was second-hand. Still, for you I could let it go. Anyway, it’s a good book and quite well-written for its time.”
