“For the very reason that I like things that disgust me … to start with my own delightful—or disgusting—self. And then, in reality, Cob-Lafleur suffers from shyness; he wouldn’t have said any of all that if he hadn’t felt ill at ease.”
“Oh! come now!”
“Certainly. He was ill at ease, and he was furious at being made to feel ill at ease by someone he really despises. It was to conceal his shyness that he bluffed.”
“I call it stupid.”
“My dear fellow, everyone can’t be as intelligent as you are.”
“You said that last time, too.”
“What a memory!”
Olivier was determined to hold his ground.
“I try,” said he, “to forget your jokes. But last time you did at last talk to me seriously. You said things I can’t forget.”
Armand’s eyes grew troubled. He went off into a forced laugh.
“Oh, old fellow, last time I talked to you as you wanted to be talked to. You called for something in a minor key, so, in order to please you, I played my lament, with a soul like a corkscrew and anguish à la Pascal. … It can’t be helped, you know. I’m only sincere when I’m cracking jokes.”
“You’ll never make me believe that you weren’t sincere when you talked to me as you did that day. It’s now that you are playing a part.”
“Oh, simplicity! What a pure angelic soul you possess! As if we weren’t all playing parts more or less sincerely and consciously. Life, my dear fellow, is nothing but a comedy. But the difference between you and me is that I know I am playing a part, whilst. …”
“Whilst …” repeated Olivier aggressively.
“Whilst my father, for instance, not to speak of you, is completely taken in when he plays at being a pastor. Whatever I say or do, there’s always one part of myself which stays behind, and watches the other part compromise itself, which laughs at and hisses it, or applauds it. When one is divided in that way, how is it possible to be sincere? I have got to the point of ceasing to understand what the word means. It can’t be helped; when I’m sad, I seem so grotesque to myself that it makes me laugh; when I’m cheerful, I make such idiotic jokes that I feel inclined to cry.”
“You make me feel inclined to cry too, my dear boy. I didn’t think you were in such a bad way.”
Armand shrugged his shoulders and went on in a totally different tone of voice:
“To console you, should you like to know the contents of our first number? Well, there’s my Nocturnal Vase; four songs by Cob-Lafleur; a dialogue by Jarry; some prose poems by young Ghéridanisol, one of our boarders; and then The Flat Iron, a vast essay in general criticism, in which the tendencies of the review will be more or less definitely laid down. Several of us have combined together to produce this chef d’oeuvre.”
Olivier, not knowing what to say, objected clumsily:
“No chef d’oeuvre was ever produced by several people together.”
Armand burst out laughing:
“But, my dear fellow, I said it was a chef d’oeuvre as a joke. It isn’t a chef d’oeuvre; it isn’t anything at all. And, for that matter, what does one mean by chef d’oeuvre? That’s just what The Flat Iron tries to get to the bottom of. There are heaps of works one admires on faith, just because everyone else does, and because no one so far has thought of saying—or dared to say—that they were stupid. For instance, on the first page of this number, we are going to give a reproduction of the Mona Lisa, with a pair of moustaches stuck on to her face. You’ll see! The effect is simply staggering.”
“Does that mean you consider the Mona Lisa a stupidity?”
“Not at all, my dear fellow. (Though I don’t think it as marvellous as all that.) You don’t understand me. The thing that’s stupid is people’s admiration for it. It’s the habit they have got of speaking of what are called ‘chefs-d’oeuvre’ with bated breath. The object of The Flat Iron (it’s to be the name of the review too) is to make this reverence appear grotesque—to discredit it. … Another good plan is to hold up to the reader’s admiration something absolutely idiotic (my Nocturnal Vase for instance) by an author who is absolutely senseless.”
“Does Passavant approve of all this?”
“He’s very much amused by it.”
“I see I did well to retire.”
“Retire! … Sooner or later, old man, willy-nilly, one always has to end by retiring. This wise reflection naturally leads me to take my leave.”
“Stop a moment, you old clown. … What made you say just now that your father played the part of pastor? Don’t you think he is in earnest?”
“My revered father has so arranged his life that he hasn’t the right now—or even the power—not to be in earnest. Yes, it’s his profession to be in earnest. He’s a professor of earnestness. He inculcates faith; it’s his raison d’être; it’s the role he has chosen and he must go through with it to the very end. But as for knowing what goes on in what he calls his ‘inner consciousness’ … it would be indiscreet to enquire. And I don’t think he ever enquires himself. He manages in such a way that he never has time to. He has crammed his life full of a lot of obligations which would lose all meaning if his conviction failed; so that in a manner they necessitate his conviction and at the same time keep it going. He imagines he believes, because he continues to act as if he did. If his faith failed, my dear fellow, why, it would be a catastrophic collapse! And reflect, that at the same time my family would cease to have
