IX
A Dinner and Some Ideas
On the occasion of the national celebration, Monsieur Antoine Perdrix, head of Monsieur Patissot’s bureau, was made Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. He had been in the service thirty years under preceding governments and ten years under the present. His employees, although they murmured a little at being thus rewarded in the person of their chief, judged it proper to offer him a cross adorned with paste diamonds; and the new Chevalier, not wishing to be behind, invited them all to a dinner for the following Sunday at his place at Asnières.
The house, decorated with Moorish ornaments, had the effect of a café concert-hall, but its location gave it great value because the line of the railway, skirting the garden for its whole length, passed within twenty meters of the steps.
Within the circle of incumbent turf stood a basin of Roman cement containing goldfish, and a fountain of water, with a stream not much larger than that of a syringe, at times threw into the air microscopic rainbows at which visitors marveled.
The feeding of this irrigator was the constant occupation of Monsieur Perdrix, who frequently rose at five o’clock in the morning in order to fill the reservoir. In his shirtsleeves, his big stomach protruding, he pumped with desperation, so that on his return from the office he might have the satisfaction of seeing the fountain play, and imagining that a coolness and freshness spread from it over the garden. On the evening of the official dinner, all the guests, one after the other, went into ecstasies over the situation of the domain, and every time they heard a train coming in the distance, Monsieur Perdrix announced its destination to them: Saint-Germain, Havre, Cherbourg, or Dieppe, and they made playful signs to travelers who were looking out of the car-windows.
The entire office staff arrived first. There was Monsieur Capitaine, subchief; Monsieur Patissot, chief clerk: then Messieurs de Sombreterre and Vallin, elegant young employees, who came to the office only at their own hours; finally Monsieur Rade, celebrated throughout the whole ministry for the absurd doctrines he upheld; and the copying clerk, Monsieur Boivin.
Monsieur Rade passed for a type. Some persons treated him as a fanatic or an idealist, others as a revolutionist. All agreed that he was an awkward fellow. Already old, thin and small, with a lively eye and long thin locks, he had all his life professed the most profound contempt for the administrative duties. He was a rummager of books and a great reader, with a nature always revolting against everything, a seeker of truth and despiser of popular prejudices. He had a neat and paradoxical fashion of expressing his opinions which closed the mouths of self-satisfied imbeciles and of those who were discontented without knowing why. People said: “That old fool, Rade,” or perhaps, “That harebrained Rade,” and the slowness of his advancement seemed to bear out the successful mediocrities charged against him. The independence of his speech often made his colleagues tremble, and they sometimes wondered how he had been able to keep his place. As soon as they were at table, Monsieur Perdrix, in a well-turned little speech, thanked his collaborators, promised them his protection, the more efficacious as his power increased, and finished with an emotional peroration in which he thanked and glorified the liberal and just government that knew how to seek merit among the humble.
Monsieur Capitaine, subchief, replied in the name of the bureau, felicitated, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of everybody; and frantic applause followed these two morsels of eloquence. After this the guests applied themselves seriously to eating.
All went well throughout the dinner, the poverty of the conversation not worrying anybody. But at the dessert a discussion arose suddenly, whereupon Monsieur Rade let himself loose, and began to pass the limits of discretion in his speech.
They were speaking of love naturally, and, a breath of chivalry intoxicating this roomful of bureaucrats, they were praising with exaltation the superior beauty of woman, her delicacy of soul, her aptitude for exquisite things, the correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments. Monsieur Rade began to protest energetically, refusing to the so-called fair sex all the qualities attributed to it; and then in the presence of the general indignation, he quoted some authors.
“Schopenhauer, Messieurs, Schopenhauer, a great philosopher whom Germany venerates. This is what he says: ‘The intelligence of man must have been very much obscured by love to make him call beautiful that short-figured sex with narrow shoulders, large hips, and crooked legs. Its whole beauty, really, rests in the instinct of love. Instead of calling it the fair sex, it would have been more correct to call it the unaesthetic sex. Women have neither the sentiment nor the intelligence of music, any more than of poetry or of the plastic arts; among them there is only pure mimicry, pure pretense, pure affectation, cultivated from their desire to please.’ ”
“The man that said that is an imbecile!” declared Monsieur de Sombreterre.
Monsieur Rade, smiling, continued: “And Rousseau, Messieurs? Here is his opinion: ‘Women in general love no art, are skilled in none, and have no genius.’ ”
Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.
“Rousseau is as stupid as the other one, that’s all,” said he.
Monsieur Rade, still smiling, rejoined: “And Lord Byron, who nevertheless loved women, said this: ‘They ought to be well fed and well clad, but they ought not to mingle in society. They should also be instructed in religion, but should be unacquainted with poetry and politics, and read only books of piety and cooking.’ You see, Messieurs,” continued Monsieur Rade, “they all study painting and music, and yet there is not one of them who has painted a good picture, or composed a remarkable opera! Why, Messieurs? Simply because they are the sexus sequior, the second sex in all respects, made to be kept apart, and on the second plane.”
Monsieur Patissot grew angry.
“And Madame Sand, Monsieur?”
“An exception, Monsieur, an exception. I will quote to you still another passage, from the great English philosopher, Herbert Spencer. Here it is: ‘Each sex is capable, under the influence of special stimulants, of manifesting the faculties ordinarily reserved for the other. Thus, to take an extreme case, a special excitation may cause the breasts of men to give milk; in time of famine little children deprived of their mother have been known to be saved in this way. Nevertheless, we shall not place this faculty of giving milk among the attributes of the male. So also, the feminine intelligence, which in certain cases will give superior products, should not be considered in an estimate of the feminine nature as a social factor.’ ”
Monsieur Patissot, wounded in all his natively chivalric instincts, declared:
“You are not a Frenchman, Monsieur. French gallantry is one of the forms of patriotism.”
Monsieur Rade retorted: “I have very little patriotism, Monsieur, the least possible.”
At this a coolness spread throughout the company, but he tranquilly continued:
“Admit with me that war is a monstrous thing; that this custom of official slaughtering of the people constitutes a permanent state of savagery. It is odious, since the only real good is life, to see the government, whose duty it is to protect the existence of its subjects, persistently seeking methods to destroy them. That is so, isn’t it? And, if war is a terrible thing is not patriotism also, since it is the mother idea which supports it? When an assassin kills, he has usually some design, that of robbing; but when a brave man with a bayonet-thrust kills another honest man, the father of a family, or a great artist, perhaps, what thought does he obey?”
Everyone felt deeply hurt.
“When a man thinks of such things he does not often mention them in society,” added Monsieur Rade.
Monsieur Patissot rejoined: “There are nevertheless, Monsieur, certain principles that all honest men recognize.”
“What are they?” asked Monsieur Rade.
“Morality, Monsieur,” solemnly replied Monsieur Patissot.
Monsieur Rade beamed.
“Let me give you a single example,” he said, “one little example, Monsieur. What opinion have you of certain men who live at the expense of women? Well, only a hundred years ago it was considered quite the thing to live at a woman’s expense, and even to devour her whole property. So you see that the principles of morality are not fixed, and thus—”
Monsieur Perdrix, visibly embarrassed, stopped him.
“You would sap the foundation of society, Monsieur Rade. There must always be moral principles as public safeguards. Thus in politics, Monsieur de Sombreterre is Legitimist, Monsieur Vallin, Orléanist, Monsieur Patissot and I are Republicans, we all have very different principles, and yet we get along very well, because we have principles of some kind.”
But Monsieur Rade cried: “I have principles too, Messieurs—very decided ones.”
Monsieur Patissot raised his head and coldly replied:
“I should be happy to hear them, Monsieur.”
Monsieur Rade did not wait to be urged.
“Here they are, Monsieur: First principle—that government by one man is a monstrosity. Second principle—Restricted suffrage is an injustice. Thid principle—Universal suffrage is a piece of stupidity. To deliver up millions of men, choice minds, learned men, geniuses even, to the caprice or will of a being who, in a moment of gaiety, madness, intoxication, or love, will not hesitate to sacrifice everything for his excited fancy, will squander the riches of the country, painfully gathered by all, will cut to pieces thousands of men on battlefields, seems to me, a mere logician, to be a monstrous aberration.
“But, admitting that a country ought to govern itself, to exclude from suffrage, under some always debatable pretext, a part of the citizens, is an injustice so flagrant that it seems to me useless to discuss it further.
“There remains universal suffrage. You will admit with me that men of genius are rare, will you not? To be generous, let us agree that there are five in France today. Let us add, still to be within our estimate, two hundred men of great talent, a thousand others possessing various talents, and two thousand men who are superior in some way. There you have a staff of three thousand two hundred and five minds. After which you have the army of mediocrities, followed by the multitudes of imbeciles. As the mediocrities and the imbeciles always form the immense majority, it is inadmissible that they can erect an intelligent government.
“To be just, I will add that, logically, universal suffrage seems to me the only admissible principle, but I assert that it is inapplicable and I will show you the reason why.
“To make all the living forces of a country cooperate in the government, to represent all interests, and conserve all rights, is an ideal dream, but not practical, because the only force that can be measured is just that which ought to be most neglected—the brute force of numbers. According to your method, unintelligent numbers lead genius, learning, all the acquired knowledge, wealth, and industry. When you are able to give to a member of the Institute ten thousand votes against a ragman’s one vote, a hundred votes to a great landed proprietor, against ten to his farmer, you will have nearly established an equilibrium between the forces and obtained a national representation that will truly represent all the powers of the nation. But I defy you to do it.
“Here are my conclusions: Formerly when a man could not succeed at anything else, he became a photographer; now he becomes a deputy. A power thus composed will always be lamentably incapable, but incapable of doing evil as well as incapable of doing good. A despot, on the contrary, if he is stupid, may do much evil, and if he is intelligent, which very rarely happens, he may accomplish much good.
“Between these forms of government I do not pretend to decide; and I declare myself an anarchist—I mean a partisan of the power the most effaced, the most imperceptible, yet the most liberal, in the widest sense of the word, and revolutionary at the same time; that is to say, revolutionary against its eternal enemy, which can be nothing but absolutely defective, under present conditions.”
Cries of indignation rose about the table, and all the guests—Legitimists, Orléanists, and Republicans—grew red with anger. Monsieur Patissot especially, was choking with rage, and turning toward Monsieur Rade, he said:
“Then, Monsieur, you don’t believe in anything.”
“No, Monsieur,” the other replied, simply.
The anger roused in all the guests at this reply, prevented Monsieur Rade from continuing, and Monsieur Perdrix, reassuming his prerogative as chief, closed the discussion.
“Enough, Messieurs—we each have our opinions and we are not likely to change them,” he said, with dignity.
The first statement was approved, but Monsieur Rade, always in revolt, was determined to have the last word.
“I have a moral principle, nevertheless,” said he. It may be formulated in a phrase: ‘Never do anything to another, which you would not have him do to you.’ I defy you to find fault with that, while in three discussions I will undertake to demolish the most sacred of your principles.”
This time nobody answered. But as they were going home in the evening, two by two, each man said to his companion: “Truly, Monsieur Rade goes much too far. His head certainly is affected. He ought to be appointed chief of the Charenton Asylum!”